This One Is Mine: A Novel (38 page)

“Thank you,” he said, then turned and walked off the stage.

Dan Marino stepped up to the mike. “And people say there’s no difference between typicals and spectrum disorders!”

Nora thwacked Dan Marino with a program.

“Hey!” Dan Marino said. “I can joke. The guy picked twelve-and-two against the spread yesterday.”

Nora shoved Dan Marino, who sheepishly spoke in to the mike. “You’re cool, Jeremy?” he asked. “Right? You can take a joke.”

“Yes,” Jeremy said, off stage. Everyone applauded. Sally covered her face with her hands, smiling and shaking her head. The next presenter took the stage.

“I have to pee,” Violet told David. “Don’t let them take my food.” Violet passed the staging area where a regiment of caterers loaded coffee onto silver trays.

She stopped. Pascal was one of the waiters, his dreads tied back with a black ribbon. He saw Violet and smiled as if it were yesterday. She bounded over. “
Pascal, bonsoir. Ça va bien?”
She kissed him on both cheeks.

“Oui, Violet,”
he said. “
Et vous?”

“Ça va bien, merci.”

“Avez vous entendu qui est arrivé à Teddy?”
he said.

“No!” Violet froze. “What happened?”

Sally appeared, grabbed Violet’s arm, and hung from it. “I’m freaking out,” Sally said. “Jeremy was so adorable. I want to go say hi. Will you come with me?”

“Sally —” Violet shook her arm loose.

“I’m sorry.” Sally stepped back with a frown.

“Did something happen?” Violet studied Pascal. He hesitated and threw a glance toward Sally. Violet said, “She’s okay.”

“It happened a couple of days ago,” Pascal said. “He was on the bus and started vomiting blood. An ambulance took him to the hospital.”

“Why?” Violet said. “What was wrong?”

“He went out.”

“Where did he go?”

“He got high, got drunk,” Sally volunteered. “That’s what they say. Who are you talking about?”

“My friend Teddy, the one with hep C.” It had been of great comfort to Sally when Violet first mentioned she had a friend who was infected and living a full life. Violet had marveled at the coincidence that
two
people she knew could have the virus. It made her especially grateful that her own test was negative. Sally had questioned Violet on and off about this infected friend, but out of respect for David, Violet kept it vague.

“First he shot drugs,” Pascal said. “Then he started drinking. And now he’s in LA County.”

“LA County?” Violet’s chest froze. “He hates LA County. He says people die there.”

“That’s what happens if you drink with hep C,” Sally said. “It’s a real no-no.”

“It was because of me.” Violet gulped. “Because of what I said at the wedding. Oh God, I should have apologized. It’s my fault.”

“He started shooting drugs for one reason,” Pascal said.

“Because of me,” Violet said.

“Because he had the cash.”

“What?” Violet asked.

“He had three thousand dollars cash in his junkie hands, and he went out and got high. It’s as simple as that.”

“I have to go,” Violet said.

“Violet, don’t,” Pascal said.

“I need to do this.” Violet took Sally’s hand. “I have to get David and I have to go.” She started off, then stopped. “Pascal?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

S
ALLY
watched Violet hustle off and stood there with the French waiter. . . .

Violet’s mysterious friend with hep C.

He was shooting drugs.

He was at Sally’s wedding.

The frightening man who emerged from the bathroom.

The syringe in the wastebasket.

It had no cap on it.

That’s how Sally had contracted hep C.

He used my needle to get high at my wedding
.

The waiter looked at Sally, as if waiting for her to speak. There was nothing to say. This guy — Teddy was his name — the one responsible for infecting Sally. He was now at LA County Hospital.

V
IOLET
ran-walked-ran down the hall of the ICU, reading the patients’ names off the doors. The nurse had told her Teddy’s room number less than a minute ago, but she’d already forgotten.

FLORES
,
L
.

This is all my fault. Before you met me, you were playing jazz, golf, going to AA meetings. I shouldn’t have given you the money. I meant well, but I didn’t know. You were right; there’s a lot I’m not very smart about.

IDELSON
,
E
.

This was my fault. I won’t stop until you’re sober and healthy again. I promise.

TOLL
,
J
.

David can help your career. You can audition for one of his bands. Or, if touring would be too hard on you, you could be a session musician. That pays great.

REYES
,
T
.

Violet stopped.

She’d gone back to the table to tell David the news. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. He didn’t press her for details. He didn’t get angry. He didn’t point out that in a marriage, you take care of the marriage, not the people outside the marriage. “I want to go,” she said. David put down his napkin and stood up. “I’m going with you.”

Teddy was on a respirator, a tube sloppily taped to his mouth with too much tape, in a too-big X. Both arms were tucked under a thin blanket. A bag of brown liquid hung from the bed rail. He was awake and staring at the ceiling. Several clear bags of drugs hung from an IV drip, their contents landing in his vein. Was one of them morphine? She hoped so; she knew how fond he was of the opiates. At Kate Mantilini, Violet had studied the whites of his eyes to see if she could detect jaundice. Now they were a solid yellow. Yellow and green, Green Bay Packer colors . . .

Teddy slowly turned his head in her direction, just like the first day they met, when she had run to his parked car. He had known it was her then; he had known that she would come. As he did now. And just like then, he nodded.

“Oh, fuck you,” Violet said with a laugh. With that laugh, Teddy’s laugh, warmth filled her body. She sprang closer to the bed. Pieces of his hair were braided with colorful beads. “
There’s
your look,” she said. “It took you a while, but you finally found it.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t try to speak. He studied her face. On the TV, Jay Mohr told Conan an unremarkable story about being given the wrong hotel room in Vegas. Violet let Teddy’s eyes wash over her, savoring what felt like his touch.

“You paged me?” A sandy-haired doctor breezed in.

“Hi,” Violet said, startling. “Yeah. Could you tell me what happened?”

The doctor looked at Teddy, then back at Violet. “I can only discuss a patient’s care with immediate family.”

“I’m his aunt,” Violet said.

The doctor frowned and turned to Teddy. “Do I have your consent to discuss your case with this woman?”

Teddy nodded.

“Is he going to be okay, Dr. —” Violet looked at the doctor’s name tag. “Dr. Molester?”

The doctor quickly corrected, “
Moleester.”

Violet didn’t dare look at Teddy for fear they’d both erupt in laughter.

Dr. Molester unhooked Teddy’s chart from the foot of the bed and gave it a cursory look. “He was brought in two days ago with acute esophageal variceal hemorrhage, caused by alcoholic hepatitis.”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to dumb it down.”

“Mr. Reyes’s liver was already compromised from hepatitis C. Excessive alcohol consumption caused the liver to enlarge and block certain veins from draining. Pressure built up in the esophagus to the point where his esophageal veins popped, causing a massive bleed. He’s lucky he didn’t bleed to death.”

Teddy stared at the ceiling, a majestic beast, caged, yet not deigning to make eye contact with his captor.

“Why is he on a respirator?” Violet asked.

“We inserted a Blakemore tube in his esophagus to put pressure on the varices to stop the bleeding. It’s coming out tomorrow.”

“So it’s not a permanent condition? He’ll be off the respirator and able to talk?”

“That’s correct.”

She grabbed Teddy’s foot and gave it a shake. “I guess it’s premature to break out the cigarettes and ‘Send in the Clowns.’”

The doctor scowled.

“What, no Sondheim fans?” asked Violet.

“There’s not a lot to joke about,” he said. “A biopsy indicated his liver is severely cirrhotic.”

“Oh God.” Cirrhotic livers, this was her father’s bailiwick. “How bad is it?”

“The liver is a regenerative organ. Sometimes it can recover from the injury of alcohol. Unfortunately, the scarring is permanent, so it remains vulnerable to any alcohol and infections.”

“But if he doesn’t drink, he’ll be fine,” Violet said.

“If he doesn’t drink, he might get better. We don’t know yet. If he drinks again, he’ll probably die.”

“That’s easy enough.” She looked at Teddy. “Right? You can stop drinking.”

Teddy raised his eyebrows skeptically.

“Oh, come on. That’s the easy part. I can get you one of those minders David hires to go on tour with his bands.” She turned to the doctor. “Can I sign him up for a liver transplant?”

“They don’t put active alcoholics on the transplant list.” He looked Violet up and down with disapproving eyes. “As you know, livers are hard to come by. You have to show that you want to live enough to not drink.”

“But if he stays sober, he can get on the list.”

“I’m not sure.” The doctor clanked the chart back onto the rail. “There’s a screening process that I’m not completely familiar with.”

“So tomorrow I’ll talk to someone and get you on the list,” she told Teddy. “I know the best hepatologist in the city. Dr. Beyrer. We’ll have her take over your case.”

“If you really want to help?” said the doctor.

“Yes,” said Violet eagerly.

“I suggest you donate blood. When Mr. Reyes came in, his liver was unable to manufacture the compounds required for clotting, so he required a massive blood transfusion. The hospital is always in need of blood.”

“Oh,” Violet said, deflated by the meagerness of the request.

“Unless, of course . . .” he said.

“What?” she asked, brightening.

“You’re infected, too.”

Violet felt a stab of humiliation. “No,” she said. “Of course I’m not infected.”

“Good. Then you can give blood on the fourth floor. They’re open all night. Is that all?”

“When will he be released?” Violet asked.

“He’s on a strong regimen of somatostatin to lower the pressure within the portal system. Also, his abdomen was showing preliminary signs of ascites, which caused an infection to develop. We’ve got him on diuretics and broad-spectrum antibiotics.”

“Well, whatever. The important thing is he won’t drink again and we’ll get him a new liver.”

The doctor raised his eyebrows. “Excuse me, but we’re short staffed here.”

“Of course. Thank you, Dr. Mol-
eester
.”

The doctor departed. Teddy laughed, and coughed so hard he was thrust upright. The respirator tube snared him back like a fish on a hook.

“Jesus! I’m sorry!” Violet frantically pushed her fingertips into the milky tape to keep the breathing tube affixed. She placed one hand on Teddy’s chest to push him back down, and left it there. He closed his eyes.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “The Baroness von Beeswax is in the house. I’m going to make sure you stay clean and get you a new liver.” Violet quoted Shakespeare, “Come, let’s away to prison; We two alone will sing like birds in the cage.” Teddy opened his eyes. “You do know where that quote is from,” she said. “It’s what Shirley Jones sang to Shamu in your favorite
Partridge Family
episode.”

Teddy laughed again and started coughing.

“Stop it, stop it,” she said.

And then: in traipsed Coco.

On a chair and table were a mangy rabbit-fur coat, cans of Red Bull, and a
Vogue
. They’d been there the whole time; Violet just hadn’t noticed.

Coco was dressed the part, in all black. Laced into her black bob were braids with colorful bangles. Also on the table was a Ziploc bag of beads. Coco must have woven them into his hair. Her doll.

“Who are you?” Coco’s voice was breathy and her words choppy. Her eyes, evacuated. There wasn’t even the slightest attempt at affability. Violet stared into the face of crazy. Not good-crazy. Mean, hard, mentally ill crazy. Violet looked to Teddy. His eyes were closed.

“I’m his aunt,” Violet said, the words getting stuck in her throat.

“No, you’re not.” Coco sat down on the bed. She took a swig from a can of apricot juice, then tore open some Oreos. “That lady in the blood place was a real bitch,” she told Teddy. “She wouldn’t let me give blood because of the hep C. But I stole some cookies and juice.” She seemed to have completely lost interest in Violet.

Teddy opened his eyes but stared at the ceiling. He wouldn’t look at Violet. The fucking coward.

Coco was a crazy liar who didn’t love Teddy, yet he kept coming back for more.

Teddy was a crazy liar who didn’t love Violet, yet she kept coming back for more.

So who was Violet, other than a crazy liar . . . who kept David coming back for more?

But Violet could change that. She would make herself worthy of David. It might be the only thing of note she would do for the rest of her life.

It would have to be enough.

She hoped it would be enough.

“Turn it up,” Coco said to no one in particular. “I love this commercial.”

Violet looked at Teddy one last time, his eyes still closed. She turned and walked out of his room and down the corridor.

She thought about the zucchini in the garden. Winter weather hadn’t yet arrived, so the summer vegetables were still thriving in December. Tomorrow, she’d pick some and make David that pasta he liked, the Marcella Hazan recipe with the mint and garlic and red wine vinegar. She picked up her pace; she couldn’t wait to tell David about the dinner she was going to make. She’d fry green tomatoes, too, with herb aioli. Because of the heat, the dill and cilantro Violet had planted last month were beginning to bolt and needed to be picked. Dot could help Violet. She loved helping her mama in the garden.