Chapter 39: Lost

Monday is my day off, and I find myself sleeping, happily exhausted and falling down into it, but I’m awakened by a phone call shortly after nine.

"Hello," I say, blinking the stickiness of sleep away. It’s the hospital’s nursing director. “Can you come in please, there are some developments you need to know about,” she says in her clipped voice, and anxiety bleeds through my belly. I quickly wash up and rush to the ER.

I pass Brittany in the hall and she gives me a strange, sad smile. What the fuck is going on? They can’t fire me because I’m gay. I haven’t done anything wrong. This job is my life. My integrity and my nursing license are paramount to me and I could never do anything to fuck that up.

At the nurses’ station I find my boss’s boss’s boss. Her name is Ramona Washburn, she’s about fifty, dark hair shot through with gray, dark freckles on her mocha skin. She is very tall, looking down at me through her shallow glasses.

She nods at me, and there is nothing good in her nod. “Come with me, please,” she says, and my heart begins to pound. I haven’t felt like this since I was in fifth grade, getting sent to the Principal’s office.

She leads me into an unused treatment room. They can’t fire me because I’m gay, I think. God, I wish Shane was here.

Is this somehow about Shane? About the breach of protocol involved when I stayed by her bedside all that time? About what was technically my breaking of confidentiality, calling Alice and Jenny? That seems like ages ago. The image of Shane's hand, dove-white, lost amid her blood. But it hasn't even been two months.

Or is she going to tell me that Shane was sent back, DOA, this time directly to the morgue. Oh god, Steve Jaffee could have hired a hit...

I suddenly can’t breathe.

“What’s wrong,” I croak, dizzy.

“Jeanette Lee is dead, Darah.”

The sentence I'd feared, but with a different subject. “What! Jeanette?” I think of my sweet boss, her disarming sunny smile and hair. She’s young. A mother. Healthy as a horse.

She nods, and I suddenly don’t feel threatened by her anymore. I can see the sadness in the lines of her face. I can feel it contorting my own. This doesn’t make sense. “How?”

Ramona Washburn’s lips pull tightly together, and I recall hearing that she was a military nurse for over twenty years. I get the image of her being steel inside, hard underneath her skin.

“I’m sorry. The police think she was murdered. They’ll be here throughout the shift to question everybody.”

“Murdered?” No way. There cannot be this much drama. First Shane is shot, then this.

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh my god. Her husband... her kids?”

“We’re taking up a collection. Louise is handling it, if you want to contribute.”

“Sure, yeah, of course. Oh my god.”

“I know, it’s terribly shocking.”

“It’s just impossible. Of all the people...”

“I know.”

I fiddle with the strings of my scrubs, scowling at them as if they hold the secrets of the universe.

“Darah?”

I look back up at her. Even though she said it calmly, I get the image of a drill sergeant.

“I know this is awkward but someone has to take her place. We would like it if you took over as evening supervisor. Do you think you’d be up to it?”

I nod dumbly.

“You’ll start tomorrow.” But I barely hear her. I try to imagine Jeanette, murdered.

.

That evening I’m on the internet, searching for everything I can find on the murder of the young wife and mother from Whittier. The photo they have is of her at the beach, hair catching in the sun.

Jeanette was about my age, thirty six, but we had nothing in common. She had a husband who she married just out of high school, and three children. It hurts me to think about those little girls. The thought of them, only a few years apart, running like little uprooted blonde daffodils through the hospital to meet their mother after her shift, hurts me.

I barely knew Jeanette, but I sit in the dark without bothering to turn on a light, monitor of my laptop casting a small circle of light around me, tears rolling down my face.

Where the hell is Shane? I suddenly need her so bad. I think of her at four without a father. I think of Jeanette’s kids, now motherless. How old are they now? The oldest can’t be any older than six. Shane must have felt this, a million times over. I need to hold her. Need her.

My cell phone vibrates, and I pick it up. Please let it be Shane answering my text message. ON MY WAY, it says. Relief is like liquid.

Shane’s never comforted me through any crisis before, except that one time I was sick. I crave her like something chemical. I wonder how she’ll handle it. Will she be able to give me what I need? It’s not much, just her arms around me.

The phone rings. I only get it because the cordless is within arm's reach, sitting right there on the end table. “Hello?”

"Darah. It's Tonya." A silent pause over the phone, as if she’s waiting for my reaction. I get the image of girls making prank calls at a slumber party, hands covering giggling mouths until it is safe to scream with laughter.

“Tonya? Um, hi.”

"Listen, I just think you should know that Shane was making out with another girl last night at Milk."

"What?" My voice sounds flat, inhuman. Something disgusting is slowly exploding in my gut.

"Yeah, I'm sorry, they were going at it hot and-"

"Tonya!"

"I'm sorry, I just would want someone to tell me, you know, if the situation were reversed."

"Thank you," I say, swallowing. Hollowed out. I press the END button on the phone, because I can’t bear to hear another word from her mouth. I sit there, staring at the phone until my eyes unfocus.

Instead I hear Shane's key in the door. Hear her come in, softly shut the door, even hear the click as the lock slides automatically into place. Hear footsteps as she walks into the room. I don’t want to look at her. She flicks on the overhead light and I wince.

She looks so beautiful, that light in her eyes, lean legs leaning to one side, body in that exquisite slouch. The sage color of her hoodie makes her eyes glow green from across the room, as if she can photosynthesize, draw her sustenance from the sun alone. She is wearing a darker lipstick, and the contrast with her pale skin is excruciating.

Making out with some girl... hot and heavy...

She smiles at me, that smile just for me that usually makes me high.

I turn around and run for the bathroom, and puke up the contents of my stomach.

She comes into the bathroom. I hear her but don't look up, hear her filling a cup full of water. She kneels right down on the tile with me and hands me the cup. I can't look at her. I flush down the nasty mess in the toilet with a shaking hand, embarassed.

I feel her hand on my hair and it hurts, god, it feels so sweet and it hurts. Five minutes ago I needed her so much. Now I have to breathe deep and slow to stave off more nausea.

I'm shaking, and I can't tell her why. "I can't go out tonight."

"Who was on the phone?"

I shake my head. She is kneeling down next to me, looking at me through her bangs. Those eyes. Oh god. Hurts.

“D? What’s going on?”

"I don't want to talk about it now."

"You don't want to tell me what's wrong?"

"Not now!" Hot tears are stinging my eyes. My abdominal muscles feel shaky from puking and I lean back into the corner, retreating from her. I make the mistake of glancing up at her, and see the most loving, tender regard I've ever seen from anyone. So beautiful. Everything I ever wanted.

The tears well up, unstoppable. I'm fucking sick of crying. All I do is fucking cry. I press my face into my knees and try to breathe.

She insinuates herself right into the corner with me, puts her arm around me, and waits. She's the perfect girlfriend now, and all I can think is, who was she last night?

Oh god, please don't let it be Carmen. I should have thought to ask Tonya who it was, what she looked like.

"D, you're freaking me out," she says quietly.

Anger burns up the length of my spine, filling my chest. Welcome to my fucking world, Shane. That's all she's done is freak me out. Wish I'd never met her.

Wish I could actually mean that.

"Is it your family? Your mom and Navi, are they okay?" She looks concerned, but deep down she knows. Humiliation floods my face with heat.

I nod anyway, play this game with her because if I don't do something I'm going to hurl again.

“Honey, I don’t get it. You text messaged me saying you needed me, now you want me to go?” Her voice is gentle. Too gentle. Hurts. I swallow my nausea, stay silent.

"You heard something about me, didn't you?"

Something? Is she trying to hide it? I never demanded monogamy of her, just honesty.

I need her gone, now, because I need time and space to cry and throw things and process the fact that she never promised me what I want, but yet I still feel betrayal profoundly deep in my heart and gut and soul.

"Shane..."

"Don't shut me out, D. Please."

I just stare at her, suddenly uncaring that my face is a red and teary mess. Don't shut her out?

"Leave."

"I don't want to leave you alone when you're like this."

"Go home!”

“Why are you yelling at me?” Her eyes are patient and her voice, calm. That calmness ignites my fury. I need her gone, else I’ll kill her.

“This is extremely bad timing and one of my co-workers was murdered and I just need a few hours... Please leave me alone."

Silence. I see guilt there in her eyes. "Okay," she says finally, a harsh whisper. I just sit there, waiting for her to go.

"D?"

"What?"

"Look at me." I take a second too long, I suppose, because she is holding my face, making me look at her. And her eyes are intense and worried and wild. She holds my gaze for one long second, then another, and another.

"I love you," she says forcefully.

"I know." I'm saying it, but there is no sound coming out with the air.

"I'm coming back in one hour, all right?"

Good enough, whatever. I just close my eyes and wait until I hear her leave.

Shane doesn't come back in one hour, or two. Given the deadly serious look in her eyes, I start to worry. Then when I'm playing a mindless game of Tetris for the fiftieth time, I hear her come in.

I've cried until I felt light and hollow, and there will be no hiding that for sure. I've finally formulated my thoughts. I won't hide from her how it hurts me, I'll tell her straight up how I feel, but after that there's nothing else to say. She has the right to see who she wants.

"I was worried," I say, when she crosses the threshold into the living room. I set the laptop aside, turn off the TV.

"I'm sorry. I think you had the right idea, because I realized I needed some time to think too."

Oh god. She's gonna break up with me.

She sits on the couch, opposite me, somewhat gingerly, wide eyes. She has such power to hurt me and in this moment I think I feel that more acutely than ever before.

"That was fucking Tonya on the phone," I whisper.

"Jesus," she closes her eyes. She knows.

"I know you never promised me anything and I don't have any right to be mad."

"Are you mad?"

"No! Yes. I'm mad that you weren't gonna tell me."

"I was. Just not while you were puking your guts up."

Okay, that is plausible. I stare into the tie-dye pattern of my pajama bottoms. "Who was it?"

"Her name's Chloe. You don't know her."

I hate her.

"Do you like her?"

"D, I was drunk."

"So you wouldn't have kissed her if you were sober?"

She shrugs, but on her it is an act of tension. She’s silent for a moment, muscles near her mouth twitching as she tries to respond.

"Why does that matter?"

"It doesn't matter, but I'm wondering what else you might do when you're drunk or high or whatever. I’m just trying to get an idea of what to expect.”

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Not a thing, other than what I said. I mean it literally."

"I thought you said you weren't mad."

"I'm not mad. I'm hurt! I'm afraid!"

"Why don't you just call me a fucking junkie, Darah? Cause i think that's what you're trying to say!"

What the fuck? I can feel the outraged flare of my nostrils.

"Actually, I wasn't trying to say it. If I said it, you'd know, because you’d hear me calling you a fucking junkie!"

She stands there, slouched over, muscles in her jaw pulled tight, fingering a CD left on the end table. Then she turns to look at me, slowly. She has the nerve to be angry.

"Fuck you.” She says it evenly, calmly. “You know what, I was coming here to tell you that I would never touch another woman again because I love you and I can't stand that hurt look in your eyes, but you... that's just fucking great, D."

"I never called you a fucking junkie!" I yell, so loud the neighbors probably can hear. "But you look me in the eye and tell me that you don't make a habit of numbing your pain or whatever with sex, or blow, or alcohol."

"I never said I didn't!" She is leaning forward, shouting it. "I never said I had all my shit together, okay? This is fucking scary for me, all right?" She’s never yelled at me like this.

It’s scary for her? What does she think I’ve been feeling?

"It's scary for me too," I say very quietly. "You’re not the only one with feelings. At least I don’t self-medicate to get rid of mine!"

"You know what?” She says quietly, standing up straight for the first time tonight, a strangely erect stance that conveys her anger. “Fuck you." And then she's gone. She slams the door so hard the house shakes.

.

I'm dead asleep, lost in a labyrinthine dreamworld, when I feel her. She comes into my room, and I hear the studs on her belt clink as she undoes it. She gingerly slips between the covers, and I feel her hand touch my naked back.

She curls up to me like a child. She smells of cigarettes, but not alcohol. I don't roll over, but I sort of relax back into her. Just a little.

"D?"

I don't know if I can talk anymore tonight. Finally, I answer. "Yeah?"

"I love you."

"I love you too." My chest feels tight and doesn’t want to spare the words.

“I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what to say to that. My instinct is to say that I’m sorry too, but I don’t believe I did anything wrong.

“Never again, D. It’s you. I’ll never touch anyone else again.” Her lips hover on my curled spine, pressing the words to my skin so they come out muffled. They make a shiver run up and down that path, even though I don't dare believe them.

I melt, relax, turn around to face her. I touch her face softly. She looks like she might have been crying too, face red in the dim night light.

"Do we love each other enough to work through this?" She says, sounding lost, like she really doesn't know.

"I know that I do," I say gently. "I can't speak for you."

"I do. So totally much. I don't know how to do this, D. I'm bad at it."

"You can't scrap the whole thing when things get rough."

"All I know is that if I mess this up, I'm fucked, 'cause you are it for me.” Her voice is thick, and she sniffles.

“Oh.”

Her eyes are on mine, a question hanging there. I pull her hand into mine, nuzzle my cheek against the backs of her fingers. Kiss there lightly.

“I love you so much,” I whisper, tears falling. She wipes them away. I can feel the wetness of my tears, the texture of her thumbprint.

“So do I,” she whispers. “I’m sorry I yelled. You were right.”

“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. I’m exhausted. I can’t talk about this any more tonight.”

“Okay.”

“Sleep with me? Please?”

“You got it.” She tangles her fingers in my hair. Our legs tangle. I fall, with the rise and fall of her breath warming my ear. And when I wake, she’s gone.