The Gargoyle

XIII.

"So what did the song mean?”

“How strange that you no longer remember your mother tongue,” Marianne Engel mused. “You are mine, I am yours: you may be sure of this. You’ve been locked inside my heart, the key has been thrown away; within it, you must always stay. It’s a traditional love ballad.”

“Why that one?” I asked.

“You were a warrior, not a singer. Maybe it was the only song you knew.”

We spoke more-mostly she talked, explaining the tradition of the Minnelieder-medieval love songs-to me, until it came time for her to leave. After gathering her belongings, she asked me to close my eyes.

When I did, she slipped over my head a thin strand of leather, with a hanging coin as its pendant. “The proper name for that is an ‘angel.’ They were issued in England in the sixteenth century. Please allow me to make a gift of it to you.”

On one side of the coin was the image of someone killing a dragon; Marianne Engel explained its history. “It’s the Archangel Michael, from Revelation. ‘And there was war in Heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon… And the great dragon was cast out.’”

“Thank you,” I said.

“When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with that coin.”

Such comments from Marianne Engel, nonsensical at worst and cryptic at best, were so common that I had stopped asking what they meant. Trying to get her to explain herself in these matters usually brought our conversations to a halt and, ultimately, she never really explained anyway.

Marianne Engel informed me that she’d not be able to return until after the New Year because she had a basement full of neglected grotesques. As she headed towards the door, she patted the briefcase containing the two hundred grand. “Don’t forget, you’re coming to live with me.”

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:

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:

“Only wear short-sleeved white cotton shirts,” Dr. Edwards said, “and run them through the laundry cycle a few extra times with only water. Soap residue is horrible for healing skin.”

I was scheduled to leave the hospital; I had made such good progress that I was being released in mid-February, almost two months earlier than expected. Nan pointed towards the thick book of rehabilitation instructions in Marianne Engel’s hands. “The tub needs to be sterilized before every bath, and chemicals added to the water. The list of chemicals is in the book. We’ll give you enough for the first week, but then you’ll have to buy your own. There’s also a list of appropriate soaps. Don’t forget to apply the salves after bathing, and then apply new bandages. Your pressure garments will be ready in about a month, but until then it’s still bandages. Oh, and if you used cologne or deodorant before the accident, they’re absolutely forbidden now.”

“Anything else?” asked Marianne Engel.

Nan thought for a moment. “Be careful of insects. A sting can result in a nasty infection. There aren’t any insects in your house, are there?”

“Of course not,” Marianne Engel said, before adding, “but one of my friends was stung by a wasp once and was mistaken for dead. It was horrible.”

There was a pause in the conversation as both Dr. Edwards and I tried to figure out what Marianne Engel was talking about. We looked at each other and came to an unspoken agreement that to ask would be futile, so Nan simply commented that anaphylactic shock is certainly common in such cases and continued her instructions on my care. She reminded me to pay as much attention to hidden damage as to that which was readily apparent. Skin is the organ that regulates body temperature, releasing excess heat through sweat on a hot day or during exercise, and my body had lost much of that ability. Because of the damage to my sweat glands and pores, my brain would face severe challenges in managing the nervous and endocrine controls. Theoretically, my body could revolt and fry itself from the inside out; if I didn’t take care, I might become my own spontaneous human combustion.

“We’ve kept things at a good temperature for you here in your room,” Dr. Edwards said, “but you’ll probably have to play with the air conditioning to find what works. You do have air conditioning, don’t you, Marianne?”

“I’ll get it installed as soon as possible.”

“Good. Any final questions?”

I asked how much morphine they would provide. (I was certain that the bitchsnake wouldn’t slither out of my spine as I exited the hospital.)

“A month’s worth,” Nan answered, “but be careful. A little pain now is better than going through life as an addict. Do I make myself understood?”

“Of course,” I said. But I was THIRSTY thinking about my next delicious dose.

Now that the treatment instructions were completed, I was placed into a wheelchair, in keeping with hospital policy, and Nan pushed me to the front door. Marianne Engel didn’t even protest that she should be the one pushing; perhaps she thought that Dr. Edwards needed to do it for her patients, as a ritual to let them go.

At the front entrance, I stood up while Nan gave a final warning. “People think that when a burn patient goes home, the worst part’s over. Really, what happens is that you lose the hospital’s everyday support system. But we’re still here, so don’t hesitate to call if you need anything at all.”

Unlike Howard, I did not have a contingent of friends, family, and ex-fiancйes to see me off. But I could hardly complain; unlike Thйrиse, I was leaving alive. The hospital staff and Marianne Engel gathered around for a hearty exchange of “Thank you”s and “Good luck”s. Connie gave me a hug, Beth gave me a strong handshake, and while Maddy was not there, I’m sure that if she had been, she would have shaken her ass. Sayuri promised to come over soon to continue my gait training, and apologized for Gregor’s absence at my farewell. An emergency with one of his patients, she explained.

I expected Nan to extend her hand, but she did not. She hugged Marianne Engel, telling her to look after me. Then she kissed me on my cheek and told me to look after Marianne Engel as well.

They let schizophrenics drive? Apparently so. Marianne Engel owned a ’70s muscle car, which was the last vehicle I would have imagined for her; therefore, it was perfect. She bragged that it had once belonged to the winner of the Medicine Hat Beauty Pageant, 1967.

YOU CAN’T EVEN BE IN A CAR WITH HER…

During the last moments before I was committed to the hospital, I was being extracted from a smoldering car wreck. Now here I was, first thing upon discharge, getting into a vehicle. I knew I couldn’t walk but I wished there was another way to go.

… WITHOUT WONDERING IF SHE SHOULD BE DRIVING.

The engine turned over like a grouchy bear yawning his way out of hibernation. The ancient eight-track was busted and so, to keep herself amused as she drove, Marianne Engel sang. At first, Edith Piaf flew out of her mouth like a beautifully wrecked little sparrow; after this, she sang herself “so long” in the Leonard Cohen song.

At a traffic light, we pulled up alongside a couple in an old Ford truck. The woman in the passenger seat saw me-I was still in bandages, and would be until the pressure garments were ready-and she bleated out a little scream before swiveling her head back to the road in an effort to pretend that her reaction had never happened.

The woman had looked at us and thought Marianne Engel was the normal one.

NEITHER OF YOU IS NORMAL.

This was what it was going to be like, and I guess I should have been prepared. But I wasn’t.