Sandman (6 page)

The doctor opened the stopcock again. Ben was aware of his heart now, and he saw that with each triphammering beat a fresh spurt of blood shot out of the tiny porthole in his wrist.

The doctor replaced Ben’s arm by his side. “This is what happens to fuck-ups,” he said with a cool matter-of-factness that made Ben’s skin break out in gooseflesh. “Think you can remember that, Ben?”

Ben tried to lift his head. He wanted to see if that stopcock was still open. He was a fuck-up, God, yes, he was the worst
kind
of fuck-up, he was ready to admit that before God and all the saints. But he had to see if that stopcock was still open.

Ben’s head wouldn’t budge. His muscles had come unstrung.

And his heart was
pounding...

He rolled his eyes all the way down, squinting past the blurry knob of his nose, and saw the jetting blood, just the top of its arc, its diminishing crimson arc.

I’m sorry.
Please.
Turn the fucking thing
off
.

Ben tried to lift his arm. It came up about an inch, then plopped back to the mattress.

Please...

The doctor closed Ben’s eyes and Ben flung them open. He tried to roll off the bed, scream, do anything.

But the life was squirting out of him. He could feel his heart pumping away in his chest, propelling his life’s blood toward that tiny manhole in his wrist.

Ben looked up at the doctor and the doctor closed Ben’s eyes again and this time Ben didn’t have the strength left to open them.

LYING IN BED THAT NIGHT, Kim listened to the rhythmic squeak of her parents’ bed in their room down the hall. She listened to the sharp little cries her mother sometimes made and to the utter silence of her father. Normally these sounds infuriated her in some inexpressible way, and she ended up grinding her teeth so hard her jaws ached.

But not tonight. Tonight her father had touched her in a loving way. She could still feel his fingers on her chin, warm and strong. And tomorrow they were going out together, just the two of them. Her mind raced at the possibilities, imagining what they might do. It didn’t matter, really. What they did. It was just the thought of having his full attention for
hours
.

The bitter voice of past disappointments spoke up in Kim’s mind, bracing her, but she choked it off. He meant it this time, she could tell—

Her mother let out another shrill cry. To Kim it sounded like a cry of pain.

She knew what they were doing in there. Tracy had shown her some films. Her father kept them locked in a safe in his den, but Tracy found the combination inked onto a piece of masking tape stuck to the underside of his desk. At first the films made Kim feel sick, puking sick, and she looked away. But then Tracy said she’d done some of the things in the films, not with one boy but with several, and that it was totally delicious. It didn’t look delicious. It looked rude and painful and...well, disgusting.

Kim thought:
Nobody’s ever gonna want to do that stuff with me
. The thought opened a hole inside her, but before she could fall in she heard her father’s voice...

Your choice, my treat.

She flipped onto her side, facing the wall, and pulled the comforter over her head, blocking out the sounds. In her cocoon, Kim thought about going out with her dad.

It was a long time before she fell asleep.

* * *

Fifteen miles away, in the sister city of Orleans, Will Armstrong took a last look at the contents of Nina’s night table drawer and ran it closed. In spite of the air conditioning he was sweating heavily. He looked at his watch for the tenth time in as many minutes.

Twenty minutes late.

From outside came the crisp sound of tires crunching gravel. Will dashed to the window and saw a van pulling into a driveway across the street. An old man clutching an untrimmed terrier climbed out. Will turned from the window in a fury.

He picked up his scotch and drained it, pacing around the room, glaring every few seconds at his watch. The buzz in his head was maddening. Where
was
she?

Out for a walk with Beth
, the note on the counter had said.
Twins at Tommy’s
. Will found it when he got back from doing his pre-op visits.
Back by eight
. But it was almost eight-thirty. Why couldn’t she call if she was going to be late? She could be maimed or dead in the road for all he knew.

Or polishing some fucker’s knob. That’s what she’s doing.

Will brought his fist down on the thick glass top of Nina’s vanity, starring it. Then he jerked open a drawer and began rummaging through it, no longer trying to keep things in order. Suddenly his wife’s orderliness stoked his rage to the point of detonation—he got a crystal image of Nina folding her lover’s pants over a chair-back before sinking to her haunches in front of him—and he started pitching things out of the drawer. He had no idea what he was looking for, all he knew was that she was hiding
some
thing.

A jar of cold cream struck the wall and shattered, sending clots of goo everywhere. A satchel of makeup and assorted nail polishes spilled its contents onto the bed. A thick Fotomat envelope spewed prints of Nina and the twins every which way.

Sweat stung his eyes. He grabbed an unopened package of pantyhose and the telephone rang. Breathing hard, he picked up the receiver and said hello. It was Nina.

“Hi, it’s me. Beth and I got talking and I lost track of the time. I’m heading out now. I’ll pick up the boys on my way.”

Will bit his lip.
Wipe your chin,
he wanted to tell her.
Brush your teeth good. Because if I smell cum on your breath I’ll beat you to within an inch of your life.

In the background Will heard Beth Simpson order her youngest son, Wesley, up to bed. He felt his face flush with shame.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he said, looking at their trashed bedroom. He felt like a guilty child. “Take your time. I was just doing some laps on the Life Cycle.”

“I wondered why you were puffing.”

“Yeah. Gotta get rid of this spare tire.”

Nina chuckled.

“Hon, listen,” he said. He wanted another drink. Wanted it bad. “I’m sorry about this weekend. I’m, there’s pressure at work and, I’m sorry. I can’t believe I hit you. It’ll never happen again, I swear. Take your time coming home.”

“We won’t be long.”

“Okay.”

Will hung up and got busy cleaning the room.

Nina’s car pulled into the driveway twenty minutes later. Will was humming in the shower when she poked her head in to say hello.

“OKAY, JEN, I WANT YOU to relax...”

Jenny closed her eyes and tried to comply, but it was damned hard to relax with your legs up in stirrups and your privates hanging out for all the world to see, never mind that ice cold speculum.

“Jesus, Craig,” she said as the doctor inserted the instrument’s lubricated bill. “Where do you keep that thing? The freezer?”

The obstetrician chuckled. It was a grievance he heard at least a dozen times a day. “You should see the one I use on the complainers.” He advanced the speculum slowly. “A little pressure now...”

Jenny sucked air into her lungs, but managed to relax herself where it mattered. She’d put up with this trespass every Monday morning for the past three months, and although she understood its necessity, she loathed every jabbing moment of it. It was like being raped by a robot.

She held her breath and waited, praying the device wouldn’t slip and harm her unborn child.

“There,” the doctor said, withdrawing the instrument; he clunked it into a basin and the nurse whisked it away. Now he stood, smiling over the sheet across Jenny’s knees. “Everything looks fine, Jen,” he said. “Why don’t you get dressed and I’ll see you in my office.”

“Okay,” Jenny said. She’d known Craig Walsh for years, liked and trusted him, but she still felt ashamed every time he grinned at her from between her spread legs. It was only her fear of losing this baby that made her abide it.

The doctor went out, nurse in tow. Jenny climbed off the table, wiped away the excess lubricant with a handful of tissue and retrieved her clothes. Once dressed, she let herself into Craig’s office and sat in the chair facing his desk. She’d missed some of the lubricant with the tissue and now she could feel it oozing into the crease of her buttocks.

“Well,” Craig said, “everything looks fine. You’ve sailed past the danger zone with room to spare. Your baby’s growing nicely and your cervix is healthy and snug.” He smiled. “So, for the time being at least, no more tests, no more embarrassing examinations. And no more worry. I want you to go home and get on with the job of being a normal mother with a normal pregnancy. Barring any problems—and I don’t foresee any—I won’t expect you back in this office until the first week of July.”

“July...Craig, you must be joking. That’s three
weeks
away. I mean, what if...”

The doctor leaned forward in his chair. “You must stop worrying, Jen. The worry will only make you ill. And if you make yourself ill, that
will
be bad for the baby.” He stood. “So. You’re outta here. I’ve got a waiting room full of fat scratchy women, and they’re starting to sound like a lynch mob.”

“I can call you if anything comes up?”

“Anytime. You know that, Jen.”

Craig led her to his office door. Suddenly, almost desperately, Jenny clutched his arm.

“One other thing, Craig. Can...lovemaking harm the baby?”

“Nature has allowed for that. Now go. And stop—”

“Worrying,” Jenny said. “Stop worrying.”

* * *

“Take a deep breath,” Jack said to the teenage boy on the OR table. The kid was about to have his wisdom teeth removed and he was terrified. “Slow, deep breath...”

Jack injected a bolus of Propofol into the boy’s IV, chasing it with a measured dose of succinylcholine. The latter drug was fast-acting and would paralyze the kid’s muscles long enough for Jack to intubate him and begin to ventilate his lungs with a mixture of anesthetic gases.

He replaced the used syringes on the drug cart and bagged the kid with oxygen for a couple of breaths. When the saturation monitor read 100%, he removed the mask and began working a foot-long, heat-softened endotracheal tube into the boy’s right nostril. The tube made a crinkling sound as it squeezed past the nasal turbinates—the sound of a potato chip bag being crumpled in the hands—then it slipped into the oral cavity. At this point Jack inserted a laryngoscope—a fiberoptic device with a curved blade which allowed him to visualize the vocal cords—and advanced the E-tube into the airway. After removing the scope, he attached the tube to the ventilator and turned on the gas. Three minutes later the oral surgeon took over.

While Jack was doing his charting, Karli Warner, the circulating nurse from the neuro suite, came in and whispered in his ear.

“Can I speak to you a moment, Doctor Fallon? In private?”

“Can it wait?”

Karli was blushing. “It’s kind of urgent.”

Jack sighed. He thought he knew what the trouble was. Will was in neuro today. He followed Karli to the outer corridor.

“What is it, Karli?”

“It’s Doctor Armstrong,” the nurse said. “Doctor Shamji’s trying to clip an aneurysm in there and Doctor Armstrong is hardly ever in the room. He’s out on the phone all the time, and a couple of minutes ago the patient lifted his arm. I turned the gas up a notch, but I’m not supposed to...”

“I know,” Jack said. As department head it was his job to police his members. “You did the right thing coming to me. I’ll talk to him, okay?”

“Thanks, Doctor Fallon.”

Shaking his head, Jack returned to his room.

* * *

Kim sat hunched over a work table at the back of the grade nine science room. The science room itself was abandoned. It was lunch time and everyone had scattered to lounges, the cafeteria or the sunny front campus.

Kim was alone.

But if someone were to ask her if she felt alone, if the intrusion of such a question somehow failed to send her into a timorous silence, Kim would have replied emphatically in the negative. She was not alone, nor did she feel that way. She had her sketch pad and her pencils, and the marvel she’d waited three long weeks to witness was about to unfold inside the Mason jar on the desk in front of her. The cocoon was about to open, and Kim meant to capture each stage of the process on paper. The transforming pupa had been active for days now, brisk, fitful spasms that made her wonder if the strange creature dreamed, and she’d lived with the nettling fear that she’d miss the moment when it came.

But here it was, about to happen.

She aimed an extension lamp at the jar’s interior, angling the beam so the quivering cocoon was partially transilluminated. If she concentrated, she could just make out the moth’s tiny mouth parts furiously laboring, gnawing at the fragile walls that had both sheltered and concealed it from inquiring eyes.

Now a spiky black foreleg poked free and swept the air, as if scenting it for danger. Kim gasped softly. The secret lives of the Order
Lepidoptera
had been her quiet passion since the age of eight, when she first plucked a pupal carapace off a branch and felt it wriggle with life against her palm. Fascinated by the torpedo-shaped object, she stuffed it into her pocket and later, placed it on the windowsill in her bedroom at home. When she awoke the next morning the cocoon was empty and a gorgeous swallowtail butterfly was perched beside it in the sunlight, drying its untried wings. Kim began her studies then, with a thin Golden Guide book called
Butterflies and Moths
, and the fascination never ended. A repulsive, segmented larva weaving a magical shawl, then slipping into an enchanted sleep of change...

Sometimes, in the dark of her bedroom when sleep refused to come, Kim cocooned herself in her comforter, head and all, and if she focused her mind, really concentrated, a dream would come. In the dream she stood naked before a faded mirror, stooped with disgust at the short, lumpy mass of herself; the bloated fruit of her breasts; the dimpled thickness of her thighs; the grotesque black bush of her pubis...