The Last Time I Died (16 page)

—Stripped of my medical license for practicing advanced experimental psychiatric research outside of government regulation. And some other stuff.

All of the degrees bear the name, Cordoba. First name, Isabel. I wish I didn’t know that. She’s becoming a person to me. I liked her better as an ideal.

—And now?

She indicates to the operating theater around us. We’re in the back room of her loft. More machines. Monitors. Video cameras. The gleaming white of sterile surfaces. The doors on the refrigerators in this room have keypad locks on them. There’s a gun on the counter.

—And now I don’t have the patience to wait for modern medicine to catch up to my ideas. So I’m moving forward on my own.

I nod. The philosophical rationalization of dangerous medicine. Okay. Fine.

—Everything here is state of the art. Some of it is so cutting edge hospitals and research centers don’t even have it yet.

—They can’t afford it?

—They don’t know about it. I made it myself.

Uh huh. She might be more arrogant than I am. Harry would have referred to that as a fatal flaw. I like to think of it as a valuable tool. Armor.

—Have you done this before?

—Yes.

—Seriously?

—Let’s call it a hobby.

Let’s.

—With who?

—There are people who will let you do anything to them if you pay them enough.

—How much is enough?

—Usually twenty dollars and some meth.

Ah.

—Before we get started, any medical conditions I should know about? Allergies? Conditions? Diseases?

—No allergies. No conditions. I had some minor STDs in college. But who didn’t?

She nods and makes a note as she answers.

—Me. Anything else?

—No.

I’m shirtless. Lying on the table. The IV feeders inserted into the pronounced veins that line the gristle of my arms await syringes. My chest is riddled with patches connected to wires leading to monitors. The machines beep behind us. I feel like there should be a nurse or technician helping out here. Is she really going to do this whole thing herself? What if something goes wrong? What if she has a heart attack in the middle of the procedure? What if no one knows I’m here and I die and that’s it? We’d both be powdered bones before anyone would think to look for us. There is no safety net.

Why is that exciting?

She pulls a restraint up and starts strapping me in. Right wrist first. This, I didn’t expect.

—Ahh . . .

My hesitation is clear, but she doesn’t pause in the slightest. If anything, she speeds up.

—You may have some spasms.

—How exactly does this work?

She yanks the restraint tight. I may never get out.

—It’s basically an overdose. But with a time-released, counteracting antidote. A toxic screener slash blood cleaner.

Ah. The old toxic screener slash blood cleaner trick.

—So, no surgery?

I eyeball the scalpels. Maybe I care a little bit.

—Not for what you want. I take you down. I bring you up. It’s all needles.

She straps in my left wrist. I’m helpless.

—And we may have to use the paddles and some adrenaline.

—An overdose on what?

She straps in my right ankle. She pulls it tighter than it should be but I say nothing. How many times have I hurt myself and blown it off with the phrase ‘I’ll live’? I’m tempted to use that here but I know it might not be true.

—Synthetic heroine.

—Is that the ‘other stuff’ that you got in trouble for?

She straps in my left ankle.

—No.

She fastens a strap snugly across my waist and pats my chest.

—So, ready to die?

I nod. Yes. I’m ready to die.

I am ready to die.

Cordoba looks over her arrangement of needles. A spark of intensity in her eyes. This is the good part. She practically drools.

She picks a syringe up and taps the air out of it.

—We’ll start fairly slow and then escalate.

She inserts the needle into one of my IV feeders. Gently guides the plunger in.

I’ve never done heroin. Not once. I was always more of a cocaine guy. Lisa told me she tried heroin once in college. Thought it was coke and snorted a rail. She liked, but didn’t love. It was probably shitty heroin.

—How do you feel?

—Fine.

She waits.

Holy shit.

My eyes suddenly droop.

—I . . . whoa.

—How about now?

My lips move, but I can’t speak. I can see the doctor and I love her more than anything in the world. Maybe I am a heroin guy.

—Christian. Focus.

I can see what barely registers as excitement in the good doctor’s eyes as she taps the air out of a second syringe and inserts it in the other IV feeder.

Yes. More please.

She waits a beat and then slides the plunger down.

—Christian?

My eyes are still open, but I can’t respond.

The heart monitor’s beeping slows.

She’s so fucking excited she can barely take her eyes off of my face to check it.

She grabs a third needle, taps the air out, and inserts it.

This time she watches my face as she plunges the third syringe.

The monitors slow even further. Warning alarms blare from at least two of the machines.

She slides her hand down her skirt.

Oh.

She’s masturbating.

I know something’s off here but I’m losing touch so fast I can’t form a clear thought beyond that one.

I’m fading into somewhere.

Unconsciousness.

Heaven.

Myself.

With her free hand she inserts a fourth syringe and jams the plunger in quickly. Much faster than the other three.

My eyes loll around my head independently of each other. As my right eye swirls I see her check the monitors. I can hear them quickly slow to almost nothing.

Perfect.

She leans in and tongue kisses me.

I flatline.

Black.

White.

Silence.

I’m naked and formless and completely aware that I’m in The White.

I am content.

Waiting.

If nothing happened, I’d be okay with that too. I have no worries here. No mortgage, no job, I don’t even have to shower. No pain, no happiness, no hope, no despair. I’m even. So even I never want to leave.

And then I hear the whoosh. Maybe I do want something to happen. I know the memories are coming and I have to force myself out of the comfort zone The White floods me with. Get ready. You only have so long. Concentrate. It’s worth it.

Memories fly by. Zillions of them in an angry flurry. To my side. Below me. Above. How the fuck am I supposed to find anything in this place?

I strain to slow them down. Work to focus on what I’m seeing.

There goes an awkward office party. That asshat Brennan mouthing off about his bonus when he’s the laziest bastard we ever hired. Me typing a brief on that awful old computer. Buying lunch across the street from my office.

There I am haggling with a car salesman before walking out.

There I am brushing my teeth.

Doing laundry.

Washing the dishes.

Waiting for the subway.

Calling a client.

Taking notes.

Painting a wall.

Yelling for Warren Haynes to play
Soulshine
.

Finding a parking ticket.

Unlocking a door.

Rolling up a sleeping bag.

Walking through a mall.

Running. Fixing a faucet. Tipping a sommelier.

This is crazy.

Organizing my e-mails.

Pledging that dumb frat.

Punching a doorman.

Downloading Carolla.

Ordering lamb chops.

Downloading music.

Working out with a trainer.

Checking my voicemail.

Plumbing my drain. Shaving. Shifting into third.

This is a waste.

No. It’s not.

There. A memory from my ninth year.

I will it closer. Am I flying toward it or is it flying toward me?

The memory hits me square in the face and I’m there.

Brooklyn.

My home.

I’m eight.

My stupid little eight-year-old brain is on fire.

Yelling. My father and mother are screaming at each other in the kitchen. I’m in the next room watching. From the feel of it, they’ve been fighting for weeks. The tension. My god. I’m feeling the persistent taut uneasiness that used to live with us every day. It’s right there with me. Saturating the room. I’m not shocked or surprised at what I’m seeing. I’m used to it. My father is furious. My mother is scared. I’ve never seen her like this. Or maybe I have. But only lately. Things have been getting worse. He’s so much louder than her.

—I’ve had enough of your shit!

—Stop trying to control me!

My mother’s white knuckled fingers are locked onto her purse. I want them to stop, but I know they won’t. I want to run and hide but I don’t. I’m frozen with fear and what I now understand to be fascination. How can people treat each other like this? Is this the way things are supposed to be? This what adults do? Is this happening in our neighbors’ houses? Will I be this angry when I’m bigger? About what?

I’m trembling.

My father grabs the purse and fights to pull it out of her hands. He may be more intense than she is. I know this is the first time their fights have gotten this physical. I know my mother won’t talk to me tonight. I know I’ll put myself to bed. I know I will lie awake most of the night listening to her wail and cry. I know that soon my father will disappear for days. I know I’ll wonder if this is my fault.

My father shouts.

—I want that money!

—No!

My sister is behind me. I look at her face. She’s terrified. Quiet tears run down her cheeks. She wants me to hold her and make it go away. I’m older and sometimes I tell her I’ll take care of her. I know it makes her feel better so I tell her this when we’re alone in my bedroom or hiding in the basement. She crying so hard she’s shaking but she won’t make a sound because we both know that will make things much worse. I don’t say anything to her or hold her. I can’t. If I do I’ll collapse. I stare at her and do nothing. I’m eight. She’s three.

I turn back to my fighting parents.

—I am done fucking around! Give it to me!

My father smacks her hard across the face and yanks the purse out of her hands, knocking my mother down in the process. She’s bleeding from her mouth. Her eye is already swelling. She crawls after him, trying to grab it back. Struggling. Savage.

—NOOOO!

My father shoves her away, yanks out her wallet, and takes all the cash and credit cards. He drops the purse and heads for the back door.

She collapses.

—What about my medicine?!

She curls up in the corner and howls. I turn to see that Ella has run to her room to do the same.

I’m eight. She’s three.

I try to suck all this in and more. Every emotion. Every physical detail. Every word spoken. The setting. The time. The wallet. My father’s voice. My mother’s tears. This room. What does it smell like? What’s on the counters? Where did he go? I want to know it all but the scene is fading fast. The colors are washing out faster than I can absorb them.

I see the ghost of my father turn toward me and open his mouth to speak. But the sound in the memory was the first thing to go so I can’t hear what he’s saying and soon it doesn’t matter because the color is gone and I’m left with nothing.

Black.

(And there he is.)

The old boy, lying there unconscious as if he hadn’t a care in the world. Tucked into a hospital-grade patient bed, mere hours past his latest, carefully choreographed, near-death experience, he has slipped back into the sound, if medically assisted, slumber of a newborn baby. A propofol nap. Had we not already thoroughly acquainted ourselves with him, it might be tempting to refer to his as the sleep of the innocent. But, that would be an unnecessary injection of ironic hilarity in an otherwise serious situation.

While by no means innocent, our man is decidedly unaware of the machinations of the good doctor who is performing mere inches from his practically lifeless body.

She’s quite busy proving herself to be the talented and dedicated physician the old boy believed her to be, providing service far and above what one might find in a traditional hospital. She’s patient and caring and a careful note taker. She’s observant, anticipatory, and methodical. In short she is precisely what he needed. Not that our man deserves it. But, what luck indeed.

Monitors are checked. Responses are measured. Meters are watched. Lady Cordoba remains patiently at his side until she has established our man is recovered enough for the second stage of her plan.

Ah ha.

It would appear that she is not only a skilled emergency doctor and a brazen, if ethically barren, medical researcher, but also a gifted surgeon willing to act unabashedly alone where others would insist on a team of medical experts as a matter of support. Unprofessional? Without a doubt. Adept and impressive? Indubitably.

And on top of all of this, she is a brilliant businesswoman.

Observe her haggling tooth and nail, even as she works, with the Asian gentleman who has recently joined us. He is without question a shark, and, while my Korean is a tad spotty, it’s clear to see the good doctor is not readily amenable to lowering her substantial fee. The Korean inveigles and cajoles and whines and threatens, but she remains the unemotional counterpart to his screaming attempts at chicanery, palaver, and intimidation, a masterful strategy on her part. Inevitably, the Korean overplays his gambit, and when both parties understand he is without leverage beyond financial resources, he buckles and agrees to her original asking price. After forcibly regaining his composure, the Korean leaves Cordoba to administer her patient care as if he had never been there.

Hours later, the Korean returns with an elegant attaché. When he presents its contents, Cordoba deigns to look only as long as is necessary to confirm that he has proffered a small velvet bag of diamonds, as promised. Curt nods are exchanged, the case left on a counter, and the Korean is instructed to wait in the front room. Cordoba continues her bloody, bloody work.