The Gargoyle (31 page)

DO YOU THINK SHE WILL EMPTY YOUR CATHETER’S DRAINAGE BAG?

I concentrated on the emptiness of the room. I would not allow my serpentine tormentor to succeed in her efforts.

I WONDER IF SHE WILL BRING HOME MEN WITH PENISES?

The most useful function of my old drug habit was the ability to write off entire days. I longed for the whiteout that cocaine and booze could always provide.

WOMEN HAVE NEEDS WHICH YOU CANNOT FULFILL.

Dr. Edwards entered, wearing a bright red sweater for the holidays. I’d never seen her in anything other than her lab coat. “I hear the party was a good time.”

I was pleased to see Nan, because her appearance meant the snake would disappear for a while. The snake liked to confront me when we were alone. “It’s too bad you weren’t there.”

She checked my medical chart. “Maybe next year.”

“Did you have anything to do with it?” I asked. “I mean, there must have been a lot of forms to fill out. Legal documents, disclaimers, that sort of thing.”

“The hospital did have to consider its position,” Nan admitted, “and demand legal indemnity on a lot of issues. What if someone got food poisoning?”

“I can’t imagine Marianne navigated the paperwork by herself.”

“I acted as a liaison between her and the board,” Nan said, “but only because I thought it would be good for all the patients. Not just you.”

“Thank you. I know you don’t like her very much.”

Dr. Edwards’ back straightened, slightly. “I think she is a fine person.”

“It’s only as a caregiver that you have doubts.”

“It doesn’t matter much what I think.”

“Of course it does,” I said. “I like your sweater. Are you going out?”

She looked down as if she had forgotten that she was wearing it, but it was bad pantomime. “I’d prefer to keep my personal life personal.”

“Fair enough,” I said. “Why did you become a doctor?”

“That’s a personal question.”

“No,” I corrected, “it’s about your profession.”

She tilted her head to one side. “For the same reason anyone does, I guess. To help people.”

“And I thought some doctors did it for the money,” I said. “Why the burn ward? There are easier places to work.”

“I like it here.”

“Why?”

“When people leave here, there’s a…” Nan paused, thinking about the best choice of words. “When I was a resident, they taught me to consider everyone who came here to be already dead. It’s a trick, you know, because so many burn patients die in the first few days. But if you consider the patient to be dead when he arrives, and then he manages to somehow make it…”

“It’s a way to think you only save people and never lose them,” I said. “Does it work?”

“Sometimes I hate it here.”

“Me, too.” I wanted to reach out to take her hand, but I knew better. So instead I said, “I think you’re an excellent doctor.”

“I’m selfish. I just want that feeling I get every time a patient walks out of here.” She looked up from her feet and back into my eyes. “Did anyone ever tell you that your heart stopped twice during your emergency surgeries?”

“No. I guess it’s safe to assume it started again.”

“They don’t always.”

“I am going to live with Marianne.”

“I just don’t want you to make a mistake after you’ve come this far.”

“If I don’t go to her, I have no idea why you saved my life.”

Nan thought about this statement, taking a few moments before speaking again. “I can’t save anyone’s life. The very best I can do is help a few not die before their time, and I can’t even do that very often.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m still here.”

“Yes, you are.” She reached down and took my hand in hers, but only for a moment. She then turned to leave the room but at the door spun around and added, almost impulsively, “I’m meeting my ex-husband for a glass of brandy. That’s why I’m wearing the sweater.”

“I didn’t know you’d been married.”

“I was, and I’m not now.” She fidgeted with the door handle, turning it a couple of times. “My husband is a good person but we were a bad match. It happens.”

After New Year’s, Marianne Engel stepped up her participation in my physical therapy sessions. I was being trained in the arts of brushing my teeth, buttoning shirts, and using utensils, practicing these ADLs—activities of daily living—for the time that I would be released. Each time I used my good hand to manage these tasks, Sayuri rebuked me. While it would be easier in the short term, she argued, it would give my damaged hand license to wither. Even such simple activities were “exercise.”

I was scheduled for a tutorial on bathing, one more thing that I would have to learn all over again, and I had a great deal of discomfort with the idea of Marianne Engel’s attendance at this lesson. Though she had been helping with most aspects of my rehabilitation, she had not yet been present when my bandages were fully removed. She knew that my penis was gone; she simply had not
not
seen it yet. When I moved into her house, she would be the one to help me bathe, and obviously that would be impossible with my clothing on. Still, I was not ready for her to witness this specific lack in my physique.

A compromise was reached. Even though Sayuri thought it would be best if Marianne Engel were involved in the practice from the start, we would do the first few baths without her, while I was given more time to adjust to the idea.

Gregor was ecstatic about his evening with Akira Kurosawa and Sayuri Mizumoto.

He regaled me with stories about what they had bought at the concession stand (popcorn + licorice twists); how Sayuri did not like licorice (apparently a cultural thing, as most Japanese people think it tastes like bad Chinese medicine); how their fingers had accidentally touched while they were reaching for popcorn at the same time; how they held hands after the popcorn was gone; how all he could think about was the buttery residue on his fingers; how he was praying she didn’t think the butter grease was sweat; how he wiped his fingers on his pants so as not to offend her with his greasy hands; how for the remainder of the evening there were four greasy finger streaks on his pants; how he was certain that she would find the streaks a disgusting indication of his poor hygiene; and so forth. It was all very cute. Gregor told me everything except the name of the movie, which I suppose was the least important aspect of the event.

At the end of their evening, Sayuri agreed to eat dinner with Gregor at Rasputin’s on the following weekend.

Marianne Engel pushed my wheelchair into a room where a large group of interns was waiting. Sayuri introduced me to everyone and then asked a seemingly innocent question: “What is my job?”

The interns looked to each other, sensing a trick. A young man in the back suggested, obviously, that Sayuri was a physical therapist. Her ever-wide smile spread ever wider as she shook her head. “Today I’m a tailor. These measurements are extremely important, because the suit we’re making will be worn twenty-four hours a day, for a year.”

She pulled out a tape measure and asked who wanted to help. Two interns stepped forward and were soon laying out scraps of fabric, the kind used to make pressure garments, along the contours of my body. The work took longer than I expected, mostly because they were so unsure of themselves. Sayuri patiently dealt with all their questions and it was obvious that not only was she a good teacher, she enjoyed it as well. When the measurements were finished, she was glowing as she exclaimed that what came next—making the first impression for the plexiglass mask I’d need to wear—was far more challenging.

“Most of his head surgeries have already been performed and the swelling in his face has subsided, so the primary function of the mask is to minimize scarring. What do we do first?”

“We make a negative impression of the face,” answered one of the students.

“Nope,” Sayuri said, holding up a camera. “We take photographs for reference when we’re preparing the inside of the mask. How would you like to wear a mask for a year if it didn’t fit properly?”

Sayuri took the pictures herself, shooting from all angles to capture every nuance of my face. I hated that she was making a permanent record of how I looked. When she put the camera down, she said, “
Now
it’s time for the impression. What do we do first?”

At least one student had read the correct chapter in the book. “We pour GelTrate over the face, and then we lay on plaster strips.”

“Excellent. You come help.” Sayuri pulled a white sheet off a nearby table; underneath were all the materials necessary for the job. Little circles of cloth were placed over my eyes, and small tubes were put into my nostrils so that I could breathe. The students applied the first squirts of GelTrate into their hands and began spreading it around my face. “This is the same material that’s used to take dental impressions. It’s good to remember that, because no one likes that stuff. Be gentle when applying it.”

The intern’s fingers were tentative, compared with Sayuri’s, but she praised him anyway, and then she asked a few others to “step forward and give it a go.” The feeling of so many hands touching me was overwhelming. Sayuri kept explaining as they worked, “It’s important that we get the natural shape of the head, the cheekbones, around the eyes…. Remember to be gentle….”

After the GelTrate came a neck splint to hold me steady as the interns laid the strips of plaster into place. Sayuri instructed them on the proper angles, occasionally smoothing out a mistake but mostly just reminding them to take care. “This is not only skin, it’s burnt skin. Remember that.”

When the plaster was finally in place, we had to wait for it to harden. Sayuri used this time to answer questions on my recovery; with my head covered in plaster, I was unable to add anything to the conversation. In a whisper, so as not to disturb the students, Marianne Engel suggested that she could read me the final canto of
Inferno.
The offer pleased me greatly; I wanted to hear her voice in the darkness.

She began:

“On march the banners of the King of Hell,”
my Master said. “Toward us. Look straight ahead:
can you make him out at the core of the frozen shell?”

Satan, the King of Hell, trapped in a frozen shell in the very bowels of the
Inferno
: how fitting an image, I mused, as I lay wrapped in my own shell of plaster. Dante’s master was Virgil, leading him ever forwards, while my guide was Marianne Engel. She slipped twice into the Italian, catching herself and laughing before reverting to English. In the background were the muffled voices of the interns, still learning about the tribulations of burn treatment. When Sayuri decided it was time to remove the mask, I could feel her fingers peeling away the plaster. Just as I was reintroduced to the room’s light, Marianne Engel read Dante’s final line softly into my better ear:

…And we walked out once more beneath the Stars.