The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

12

I don’t like hospitals. They give me the creeps, in much the same way that zoos give me the creeps. If I ruled the world, there’d be no zoos, there’d just be this thing called the Internet. If people wanted to see what a lion looked like, they could get on the Internet and call up as many pictures and videos of lions as their little hearts desired. That way, the lions and tigers and hippos and all the other animals in the zoo could live happily ever after in their own natural habitats.

Don’t get me wrong. When I was little, I loved zoos with a passion. I still remember visiting the monkey house and being completely enchanted with how real it all looked with the monkeys swinging through their fake trees and vines overhead. Afterward, though, my mother had asked how I’d feel if somebody came and snatched me out of my house, put me in a concrete cell fixed up to look like my bedroom, and tossed in a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some apple juice every once in a while.

Well, I knew the answer right away. I’d feel sad. In my heart, I knew that’s how all those animals felt, too. Now zoos give me an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Plus, there’s something about making money off the misfortune of living, breathing creatures that just makes me a little queasy.

I was thinking about that as I signed in with the guard at the front desk of Sarasota Memorial. Other than in a display case at the zoo, the hospital was about the last place on earth I felt like being—but when a man is lying in bed clinging to life and asking for you, wife or not, you have to go.

The guard handed me a little sticker with a blue border and my name written on it in blue ink and instructed me to wear it at all times inside the hospital. Instead of putting it on my chest the way people usually do, I stuck it on my hip. The guard gave me a look like he thought that was a little odd, but whenever I see a woman with a name tag on her chest, it always makes me think she’s named one of her breasts. If you ask me, that’s odd.

Even though I was technically visiting a guy who’d almost gotten me killed, it didn’t seem right to show up empty-handed, so I bought a little bouquet of slightly wilted daisies in the gift shop for twenty-one dollars. Then I made my way through all the stairs and wings and elevators of the hospital, feeling a little like a lab rat in a maze.

Meanwhile I’d figured out why Baldy was asking for me. When I’d first gotten to his car, when he was sitting there in the passenger seat covered in blood, the first thing I said to him was “My name is Dixie.” I remember he looked me right in the eye. There’s no telling what must have been going through his head at that moment. He’d just hit a two-ton truck head-on, he’d taken a massive bonk on the head, and then suddenly there I am out of nowhere. With all that white smoke pouring from under the car, he must have thought I was some kind of angel sent down to escort him to the Pearly Gates.

My name just got stuck in his head, that’s all. He wouldn’t talk, and he didn’t have any ID, and when they heard him asking for me, somebody, probably Deputy Morgan, had given the EMTs my number. He probably thought Baldy wanted to thank me for saving him.

Now, as to why the whole hospital staff seemed to think I was Baldy’s wife, I had no clue, but one thing I did know, I kind of liked the idea that somebody thought I was an angel on earth. It was too bad I’d have to disabuse him of that notion.

When I finally made it to Mr. Vladim’s room, the door was closed. I smoothed my hair back and was just about to knock when the door pulled open and a nurse stepped out. She was about five feet tall and just as wide, with a blue nurse’s smock printed all over with different-colored giraffes and crispy curls of blond hair piled on top of her head. She looked happy to see me.

“Are you Dixie?”

“Yes, are you the one that called me?”

“No, but thank God you’re here.”

She pulled the door closed and continued in a stage whisper, “Now, he’s doing much better, but don’t be alarmed. He’s on a pretty good cocktail of pain meds right now, so he may not know who you are at first.”

I shook my head. “I’m not—”

“We haven’t been able to get anything out of him except his name. He won’t talk to anybody, just asks for you over and over again. I’ll let the supervisor know you’ve arrived. He’s got a lot of questions for you.”

Before I could say anything more she took my arm and pushed into the room. It was dark except for a small lamp on a rolling table next to a raised hospital bed. There were curtains behind the bed to divide the room in two, but they were partially open, and I could see the other bed on the far side was vacant.

Baldy, or I guess I should say Mr. Vladim, was lying on his back, propped up on two square pillows with his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. I’d only seen him covered in blood, but now that he was cleaned up I could tell he was in his mid- to late thirties. His face was long and thin, with high pronounced cheekbones, sparse blond eyebrows, and a long patrician nose that lent him an air of gravity. I winced a little when I saw the number of IV tubes and drip lines tangled all around him. There was one coming from his nose and another from his mouth, both held in place with strips of white surgical tape. Other tubes were taped to both his arms, all leading to a collection of clear, liquid-filled plastic bags hanging on hooks behind him.

In a loud, singsong voice normally reserved for five-year-olds, the nurse said, “Mr. Vladim? Your wife is here. Do you want to say hello?”

I raised one finger in the air, like a professor about to make a very important point, but I could barely get a word in edgewise with this woman.

“I was just about to give him his bath, but perhaps you’d rather do it?”

I shrieked, “No!”

She nearly jumped out of her nursing shoes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout, but—”

“Oh, I understand. This is difficult for you.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not his wife.”

Without missing a beat she nodded and took the daisies from me. “Oh, what beautiful flowers. I’ll put them in a vase and leave you two alone.” She paused at the door. “So you don’t want to give him his bath?”

I sighed. “No. I do not.”

I could tell she was full of questions, but she’d probably decided it was none of her business. She nodded politely and closed the door behind her.

I stepped up to the bed, but there were so many cords and lines everywhere I was afraid to get too close for fear I’d knock one of them loose. A white sheet was pulled up almost to Mr. Vladim’s shoulders, but I could see that underneath it his entire chest was wrapped in gauze and tape. The skin on his neck was bruised, and his face had a sallow, porcine cast to it. A bulging bandage covered his left ear, but there was nothing on the rest of his head, which surprised me considering how bloody he’d been at the accident. I figured he was lucky he wasn’t in a full body cast.

He murmured something that I’m pretty sure was my name, and then his eyelids started to flutter a bit. I was trying to think of something to say, or some way to gently wake him up, when suddenly his eyes shot open and he looked around the room.

“Hi, Mr. Vladim. How are you feeling?”

He just stared at me, his narrow eyes dilating slightly.

“I’m Dixie. Do you remember me?”

He managed a smile. His lips were dry and crusted around the edges. “Dixie.”

I said, “How are you doing? Do you remember who I am?”

He nodded slowly. “You are wife.”

“Um, no…” I said, a little hesitantly.

His eyes widened, and he turned his head toward me. “Yes. You are wife.”

Well, at least now I knew why everyone thought I was his wife. “No, I helped you after the accident. I’m one of the people that helped you out of your car.”

He shook his head. “Is good.”

I couldn’t quite place his accent, not that I’m good at that sort of thing, but it sounded Eastern European, perhaps Russian. He looked me up and down, like a high-class modeling agent appraising a prospective client. “Is good. You are hot wife.”

“No, I’m sorry, Mr. Vladim, I am definitely not your wife.”

He frowned. “You safe me. You are mistress?”

Wow. I hoped that nurse was right about the drugs, because otherwise this poor guy had suffered some very serious brain trauma.

“No, I’m not your mistress either. You don’t know me. You were in an accident on Ocean Boulevard. You crashed into a truck, and I helped you until the ambulance came. You never met me before.”

He closed his eyes. “I do good thing. I am boss now. You will see. I am good now.”

A small tear formed in the corner of his eye and made its way slowly down his cheek. I patted his hand gently and said, “Okay, Mr. Vladim, I think I should go.”

“You stay.”

“No, I’ll come back and see you again. You need your rest now.”

His eyes still closed, he said, “You have…”

It was the drugs talking. His mouth fell open slightly, and his breathing grew a little deeper. I tiptoed to the door, and just before it closed behind me, he mumbled something in his sleep.

He said, “Don’t eat.”

I stood in the hallway outside his door and sighed. There was no telling what drug-induced dreams were playing in his head. I hoped for his sake they didn’t include a hairy old man dancing around half naked with a megaphone.

Making my way back through the maze of stairwells and halls to the main lobby, I wondered if he would even remember I had been there. Next to the gift shop was a sad-sack food bar with foam bowls of crusted Jell-O and soggy sandwiches embalmed in tight plastic wrap. Damn right, Baldy, I thought to myself. Don’t eat.

I was just about to go through the big glass revolving doors to the outside world when one of the hospital supervisors stopped me, a big man in a tan business suit and a wide yellow tie. He was full of questions, but I’m afraid I wasn’t much help. When I told him I wasn’t Mr. Vladim’s wife and didn’t know a thing about him, his shoulders fell in a slump. I got the distinct impression he was mostly worried about who would be paying for all that top-notch treatment Baldy was getting.

At Tom Hale’s, I took Billy Elliot out for his second spin of the day, and he dragged me around the parking lot as if it were the first time he’d been out in years. It felt good. Just getting my lungs pumping with oxygen helped clear the smog that had banked up in my head. When we got back, Billy went bounding down the hall and Tom called me from the back office. He’d been badgering me to sign some papers for days, but I lied and said I was in a hurry and would have to sign them later.

I was tired. It had been a long day. Maybe I was fighting off a cold. Or maybe I was thinking about Todd and Christy. I just wanted to get home.

I rushed through my afternoon calls and purposely took the long way around the village so I wouldn’t drive by the bookstore. By now they’d probably pulled out and taken down the police tape, but I still didn’t want to see it.

When I got home, I dropped my keys on the bar in the kitchen, pointedly ignoring the letter from Guidry still sitting in its little basket, and wandered into my walk-in closet. I sat at the desk for a while and went through some of the bills that were piling up, and that kept my mind busy for about half an hour. Then I put a load of laundry in the washer. As it gurgled and churned away, I sat down on the couch and stared at the wall.

I toyed with the idea of calling Michael at the fire station, but I knew he’d be busy and probably wouldn’t feel like listening to his little sister complain about her day. Then I wondered where Paco was, but there was no way to know and I certainly couldn’t call him, so I got up and dragged myself back into the office and laid my hand on the desk phone.

Ethan.

I could call Ethan. If anybody could make me feel better it was him, except I knew as soon as he found out what kind of mood I was in he’d race right over, and I think I wanted to be alone.

Just then the phone rang, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Usually when I’m in a funk, there’s no way I’ll answer the phone, but to my utter horror I realized I’d grabbed the receiver as I jumped away. It was cradled in my right hand, and a woman’s voice was saying, “Helloooo?”

I put the phone to my ear. “Yes, sorry, Dixie Hemingway, how can I help you?”

She cleared her throat. “9500 Blind Pass Road, please.”

It was an older woman, with a note to her voice that was either British or rich.

I said, “Excuse me?”

“Hello? Who is this?”

I frowned. “This is Dixie Hemingway. Who is this?”

“Are you or are you not a cat sitter?”

“Um. Yes, I’m a cat sitter. How can I help you?”

“Very good. I need you to come to 9500 Blind Pass Road immediately. And I can assure you you’ll be handsomely paid.”

I blinked. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry, but it’s a little late. Can it wait until tomorrow?”

There was a slight pause and then an exasperated sigh. “A little late, indeed. Well I suppose there’s bugger all you can do about it tonight anyway. Tomorrow morning then, seven sharp.”

I said, “Oh, no. I can’t possibly meet you that early. I have appointments all morning.”

She clucked. “Pity. Then we’ll meet for tea at two. Does that suit your complicated schedule?”

“Um, yes, that works, but … I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“Yes. 9500 Blind Pass Road. I’ll be waiting.”

She hung up. I stood there staring at the receiver and shaking my head. Sometimes I think if they put my life in a movie no one would believe it for a second.

I wandered back into the living room, where I resumed my position on the couch and stared at the wall a little more. Normally a call like that would get my wheels spinning and I’d spend hours concocting all kinds of fancy, complicated scenarios in my head about who it was and why she was so mysterious, but I was pooped. My brain couldn’t take any more thinking.

After a while I dragged myself into the kitchen, zapped a Party Time Deluxe frozen pizza in the microwave, and carried it out to the hammock on the deck. It tasted like warm, salty cardboard, but with the consistency of a wad of used chewing gum. I didn’t mind, though. Michael and Paco have served me so many gourmet meals. A cheap frozen pizza every once in a while just reminds me how lucky I am.

I fell asleep in the hammock, gently swaying from side to side and listening to the crickets and the droning rhythm of the waves rolling in down below. I had established only one rule for the night: No old men in bikinis.