Sing

CHAPTER 17.

JONATHAN

I’d already tried to take the fucking little tubes out of my fucking nose. The room lit up like Griffith Park at Christmas and it was Jingle Bells all over again. In my life, I’d be okay if I never get defibrillated again. Odds were not in my favor.

I had a hard time staying awake for long. Exhaustion from lack of oxygen and a body worn out working for nothing, pumping blood that went down a tube, sucking up more blood from a bag. There was medicine too. Bags of it, going into my hand. And a bag of blood that kept getting replaced like a pot of coffee.

I remember one of them saying was that I was a lucky man. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I thought it didn’t have a damn thing to do with my health. He was blond. Nordic looking, and I asked him what he meant, but he just went on with another battery of questions that seemed like every other battery of questions every other white lab coat had asked either me, or the person next to them. If I had a dime for every doctor that walked in and talked about me like I wasn’t there, I could buy and sell myself. The non-entity of me. The skin bag of pain and discomfort. I didn’t feel like I owned my own body any more. I felt like a piece of meat being kept alive until some day when something happened. Some miracle. Or some news.

“I’m not here to make you upset,” I felt lucid when Margie said that, my brain snapping to attention at the thought that there was something I should, but shouldn’t be, upset about.

“Oh, good. You’re here to tap dance.”

“I love that you have the energy to joke, but not give a shit about your condition.”

“I give a shit.” The effort it took to speak was monumental, but contact with someone wearing real clothes and not wielding a needle was too welcome to not answer in full. “Guy just came and told me I’m in a world of trouble. There’s just nothing I can do about it.”

“They called us into a meeting. This must be what it’s about. What did they say?”

“Let them do their jobs. I can’t...” I drifted off. I couldn’t repeat what the guy with the silver hair had said. Dr. Emerson. Like the poet.

As if understanding she put her hand on my shoulder.

“There’s something I took care of while you were down,” she said. “It’s going to create drama.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you have no problem with it?”

“Okay, tell me what it is.”

“Monica’s broke. She hasn’t been going to work because she’s been hanging around Sequoia Hospital like she works here.”

“Fuck.” My life spinning out of control was bad enough, but I was taking Monica with me.

“I’m giving her money and saying it’s from you. You’re going to back me up.”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“Margie?” I raised my hand a little and she took it, coming closer to me so she could hear.

“What?”

“You’re my new favorite. Thank you.”

“I’m keeping tabs on every dime, because you’re going to get better, you little fuck. I don’t know how, but this isn’t how it ends. Do you understand me? It’s not ending like this.”