Still Here (28 page)

Vica got very angry at Christine back then. She had just started working there and she wanted to think of herself as part of a team concerned with saving lives, helping people, rather than making money off their pain. But the longer she worked at Bing Ruskin, the more she saw the truth of Christine's words. In a couple of years, Vica started to see the hospital as a huge chemical processing plant, where the patients were treated like the chemical matter to be processed, as quickly and efficiently as possible.

What a relief it was to finally exit the hospital at her lunch break. Vica never ate her lunch in the hospital's cafeteria; it was important for her to leave the place even if only for fifteen minutes or so. To go out onto the street, even if their block was always teeming with ambulances, people on stretchers, people in wheelchairs. This time there was an unusual commotion by the ER wing. There was a lineup of news vans and a small crowd by the entrance. She saw Tolik sitting on the stoop of his van and walked up to him. He was drinking coffee from a paper cup and munching on a meat pie. “Want a pie, little nurse?” he asked Vica. “Still warm. I got them in Brighton Beach on my last run to Brooklyn.”

“What's all that about?” she asked, pointing to the ER wing.

“You didn't hear? Some famous actor died this morning. It's all over the news.”

“Who?” Vica cried.

“Ivan Grail,” Tolik said. “I think that's his name.”

“Ethan!”

Vica took out her phone and checked her news feeds. There was the obituary.

Ethan Grail, the former TV actor who made his breakthrough in the
Legends of the Dorm
series and who evolved into the richly nuanced, award-winning
film
star, infusing his performances with deep empathy, staggering emotional power, and brilliant wit, died this morning in the emergency room of the Bing Ruskin Cancer Center, following a heroic battle with a non-small-cell lung cancer. He was thirty-two.

Vica's hands started to shake so hard that she couldn't finish reading. She'd seen Ethan only last week. He'd said to her “See you soon.” The doctors had given him a year and that was just a few months ago. He wasn't ready! This wasn't fair!

“Did you know him?” Tolik asked.

Vica nodded, unable to speak.

“I'm not a big fan of the movies myself,” Tolik said. “Natasha and the kids love that shit, but I just fall asleep right in the middle.”

Vica nodded again and started to walk away.

“Take your pie!” Tolik said.

Vica took a pie and hurried away from the hospital to the nearest coffee place. She ordered a hot tea and sat down at a corner table.

All her social media was abuzz with the news of Ethan's death. Twitter and Facebook were bursting with stills and movie clips all featuring a handsome, lively Ethan, even as his ravaged, exhausted body was lying in the depths of Bing Ruskin's morgue.

Vica found it insulting. But what she really hated was the speed with which some of Ethan's fans appropriated his death. Fellow actors shared news of upcoming films featuring Ethan and themselves. Journalists jumped at the opportunity to rehash their old profiles on Ethan. Ordinary individuals dug up and posted their selfies with him. Those who didn't have a photo to share just described their devastating sadness, all-consuming grief, and shattering despair. Come on! Vica thought. He was just an actor you saw a couple of times a year on a screen—you can't be despairing! I actually knew him! Still, the worst was a huge portrait of a sad German shepherd with the byline: “Ethan's costar Brunhilde mourns his death.” She wondered who had broken the news to Brunhilde. And how. Did they show her a photo of Ethan Grail and then tear it to pieces? Or did they use sign language? Vica heard that some monkeys knew how to sign, but she wasn't so sure about dogs. If they did, they must have signed: “Guess, what, Brunhilde, your old pal Ethan just kicked the bucket.” And the dog signed back: “Fuck. This makes me sad.”

Vica felt that this absurd public outpouring stole her grief from her, cheapened it somehow, cheapened the memory of someone she might have considered a friend. She had a momentary urge to share this with Sergey. He would've been just as appalled at she was.

She really had to stop thinking about Sergey! He was gone. Gone, gone, gone!

Perhaps she could share this with Franc.

Vica looked at her watch—it was time to go back. She finished her meat pie, threw away her empty cup, and rushed back to Bing Ruskin.

In the elevator, everybody was discussing Ethan Grail. “Have you heard?” “Right here in the hospital!” “In this hospital? I might have seen him?” “What a loss!” “Such a talent!” “Such a handsome man!”

On the radiology floor, all the staff was talking about Ethan as well. Vica saw Santiago and Liliana by the coffee machine, both staring at their phones. Sharing the news with each other that their friends had shared on Facebook. Vica rushed past them to her room.

Eric texted her just as she was finishing with the last patient. His fat friend Gavin, whom Sergey used to call Sir Eatalot, invited him for a sleepover. Their homework was very light and there was no school the next day. “Okay,” Vica texted back, “but no junk food.” “Sure, Mom,” Eric wrote, “we'll have a carrots 'n' broccoli night.” She couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. Her evening was suddenly free. She could spend some time with Franc. Maybe even have dinner in one of those East Village cafés near where he lived? She dialed his number. He wasn't picking up. Perhaps he couldn't hear the ring because of his hearing problem. She texted him. Waited for the reply. None came. She finished up at the office. Changed back into her street clothes. Poured herself some tepid coffee. Texted Franc again to see if he'd gotten her previous text. Franc hated spontaneity. He liked to arrange their dates well in advance, which made Vica a little suspicious. Made her wonder if he was seeing other women as well. Or if he wasn't as available as he claimed to be.

Christine peeked into Vica's room and said that Sam, a nurse from the endocrine cancers floor, was inviting everybody to her place for a makeshift Ethan Grail party. “We'll just drink beer and watch Ethan's comedies on Netflix.”

Getting drunk and laughing at Ethan's antics on the very day he died?

Vica said that she had to rush home.

Soon everybody from her shift had left, but there was still no word from Franc. Vica checked her phone again. Nothing. It was stupid to hang out in the hospital waiting for him. Vica exited the building and walked toward her bus stop. The X5 bus arrived within minutes. A thin line of people formed for boarding. But what if Franc called when she was on the bus? She wouldn't be able to get off. Vica decided to walk toward the East Village. It would take her half an hour or so. If Franc called, she would meet him; if he didn't, she would just take the X1 bus to Staten Island, the one that stopped downtown. It was unfair that Vica worked in the city but so rarely got to enjoy it. The light had changed to that deep golden color that only came up an hour before sunset on a very bright day. The buildings were lit up as if by an invisible lamp. She had forgotten how much she loved New York, what a pleasure it was just to walk down the street, looking up, savoring the sights.

Vica got to the East Village in no time, but there was still no reply from Franc. Now she was in the midst of all those cafés with outside tables and chairs that seemed too small for the happy people occupying them. This was one of the first days of the season when it was warm enough to sit outside. The waiters hurried with their trays of steaming food. Vica was overwhelmed by all the different aromas coming at her from different directions: basil pasta, French fries, roasted meat. But it wasn't just the smell of the food, there was also the sense of fullfillment and well-being that was emanating from the restaurants. Her stomach rumbled and she remembered that she hadn't eaten anything today except for Tolik's pie. Vica checked her phone again, saw that there were no messages, and decided that she didn't need Franc to have a nice dinner in the East Village. She walked up to the hostess of the place that had the most delicious smell and asked if there was an available table. The place was crowded, so Vica expected to be turned down, but the hostess said, “Just you? I think I can squeeze you in.” Vica thought she caught the warmth of single-woman camaraderie in her expression. There was a tiny row of tables facing the sidewalk, each meant for one person. One of them was empty, and the waiter led Vica right to it, saying, “We're having a sangria special tonight. A glass of sangria and two tapas for twenty dollars.” Vica asked for a white sangria, baked shrimp, and croquettes with ham. The waiter put a tiny plate with olives in front of her, but no bread. She ate the olives right away, then dipped her finger into the dish and licked the oil off it. Then the sangria arrived. The first sip made Vica feel fantastic. A man passing on the sidewalk smiled at her. She thought that she must have made a pretty picture right then. A young, beautiful woman enjoying a glass of sangria in this elegant, lively place. Vica pulled out her phone and took a couple of selfies, making sure to smile and get rid of that tense critical expression she so often wore. She picked the best photo and posted it on Facebook with the caption: “Enjoying sangria in the East Village. Could be worse
.” Let both Franc and Sergey know that she didn't need their company. She paused, thinking of the people from Bing Ruskin. Would they get mad that she had blown them off to hang out by herself? Should she delete the post? Vica weighed the risk of pissing off her colleagues against the pleasure of showing the world how great her life was. She decided to let the post stay.

Vica leaned back in her chair and looked out on the street as if it were TV. She had forgotten how much fun it was to people watch. There walked an old man with a mane of white hair reaching to his waist. There walked a young woman in a bright pink leather coat. There walked a woman with a double stroller with two kids who were feeding each other their toys. There was a woman in her forties standing next to a pet store across the street struggling with her cat. She had it in her arms wrapped in a sweater. The cat was wet, shivering, and trying to escape, but as soon as it was about to slip out of her grasp, the woman would push its wiggly butt up. Vica laughed so hard that she splashed her sangria. Then a man came out from the pet store, took the cat, and secured it in his arms. The man looked like Sergey. Vica sighed—she'd thought she was past mistaking strange men for Sergey. Still, she couldn't help but look again. Could it be? Yes, it actually was Sergey. There was Sergey, and he was with a woman, and they had a cat. After the first shock of recognition, Vica felt numb. She was aware of two things though: that she shouldn't let Sergey see her no matter what and that she should capture every detail about him and the woman so that she could come up with a clinical picture of their relationship. Vica hid her face behind the umbrella stand near her table and peered at them. Sergey was talking to the cat. Vica couldn't hear what he was saying, but his expression was similar to the one he always wore when he reprimanded Eric. The woman was laughing while patting Sergey's back with one hand and stroking the cat with the other. She was a tanned, husky blonde with wide shoulders and thick legs. She had long frizzy hair. She was wearing leggings and Uggs. She was taller than Sergey. She was older than Vica. She was unmistakably American. Too comfortable in her own skin, in her hideous Uggs, to be Russian. Did they live together? They must live together. They had a cat together! Did Vadik know about this? Then she remembered that Vadik and Sergey weren't speaking. The woman looked happy. And Sergey? What about Sergey? He appeared to be perfectly at ease with her. He said something with that ironic smile on his face, and the woman laughed and kissed him on the cheek. The pain of seeing that was so great that Vica thought she might lose consciousness. She closed her eyes and grabbed onto the edge of the table to steady herself. When she opened her eyes in what seemed like a second later, Sergey and the woman were gone. She thought that maybe this had been a hallucination, but she knew that it wasn't. The smiling waiter brought her food, but the smell of garlic made her want to vomit.