The Emerald Lie

Early next morning, I was awakened by the nurse and two porters. In hospital, everything happens early, especially death. I said to her,

“Kicking me out, I hope.”

She gave me that Irish look that translates simply as

“Ah, shut up.”

She said,

“You’re being moved.”

Get this—

To a private room.

Yeah, fuck.

When people are being left on trolleys for days on end, and there is barely standing room for most, a private room is unbelievable. They got me up there and when I was settled in the bed, the nurse said, not in admiration but with malice,

“You must have powerful friends.”

I said, half meaning it,

“I’ll give it to somebody who really needs it.”

She considered that, then,

“You might just do that but this hospital runs on paper, administration, and once it’s written down, bad or stupid, it gets done.”

I asked,

“Would it help if I feel undeserving?”

She nearly smiled, said,

“We agree on that, the undeserving bit.”

As I surveyed the spacious room she turned to go, paused, then,

“You know, I’d say, in your day, you were a fine thing.”

Okay.

Not wanting to fuck with that, I very nearly shut it, but...

But

I asked,

“And now?”

“Now, you know, you’re just like old.”

Come noon, high or otherwise, a young doctor appeared with the ubiquitous chart. He looked all of sixteen, said,

“Mr. Taylor.”

Had that Dublin 4 accent that spoke of privilege and confidence, spoke like Bono and, Christ, who wants that? I said,

“I thought all the young guns had emigrated.”

He didn’t smile. No, a serious young man with a serious agenda. He said,

“Actually I have a position in Dubai and will be taking that up soon.”

Of course.

He read through my chart, said,

“This is not my first rodeo.”

Now I smiled, countered,

“Justified.”

He knew the show but went with,

“You have been, mmm... in many incidents, mutilated fingers, broken nose, ribs, injured leg, and, oh, Lord, a hearing aid. Please tell me you work in a library.”

“I used to be a cop.”

Even now, it hurts, the past tense. I added,

“I’m working on a quieter life.”

A hint of a smile. He said,

“Not sure that is working out for you.”

Then read some more:

“A problem with alcohol and prescription drugs.”

He looked at the morphine button by my side and I went,

“No, don’t even think about it.”

He said,

“Just don’t... abuse it.”

Yeah.

Morphined hours later, I woke from a fluff dream where I was... happy. Jesus, that dope is mighty. And sitting at the end of my bed was Madonna.

Emily, in Madonna gear, circa 2005, the workout gloves and the wife-beater shirt. She certainly was glowing, if not from exercise, something very fine. She asked,

“How are you liking the room?”

Took me a minute to focus, get some water for my dry mouth, then,

“You got this?”

She held out a bunch of grapes, said,

“Know how many hotshots I had to blow?”

Phew.

I said,

“Thank you, and for the grapes.”

She moved closer, did the air kiss, mocking herself as she did so. Said,

“Ain’t no free lunch, right?”

I relaxed back in the bed, almost as ready as you can be for whatever insanity would follow. I said,

“Not a whole lot I can achieve from here.”

Shrugged that off with,

“Doctors say you are good to go in a few days.”

“How come they told you? I mean, bit early for a blow job.”

She took a grape, threw it in the air, and bingo, caught it expertly in her mouth, said,

“I’m your daughter.”

God forbid.

It was hard to say if she was even pretty. She had the necessary details to add up to that but they’d been arranged just off center. Yet, she had this life force, a sheer constant burst of light, tinged with the darkness, of course, but you were drawn in. I asked,

“So, what am I going to have to do, to, um, earn my keep?”

She gave me a long calculated look, as if she were getting the measurements for a body bag and, in her case, never rule out the crazy, and said,

“There’s a guy running round offing folks for bad grammar.”

As usual she blended, mixed, and cajoled a number of accents and slang, all of which kept you, if not on edge, at least on your toes. I asked,

“You know this how?”

“A Guard told me.”

Sometimes, if the effect was right, she just went with the bald truth. I suddenly wanted a cigarette, no idea why one particular addiction raises its needy head. They just do. I tried,

“Seriously, a guy is killing people for that?”

She gave a mock frown, said,

“Dude has a point. Civilization begins its slide when the language is fucked.”

She might well have believed that. Wouldn’t be the worst of her notions. I asked,

“This concerns you and now it seems me, how?”

She did a little skip across the floor. Why? God knows. Said,

“I’m a little bored, you know, need a challenge, and you, my sleuth friend, are going to assist me.”

I shook my head, said,

“Even the doctor thinks I need to, um, ease off on... my active life.”

She looked as if she might be considering a headstand as she gauged the distance near my bed, asked,

“Don’t you want to know the second favor?”

I didn’t.

She said,

“I want to see my mother, and I want you to come with me.”

Whoa.

“But you hate your mother.”

“Why I want you to come with me so I don’t kill her.”

I didn’t have a whole argument to run here as I had loathed my own mother. She’d been dead a time now but her poison still filtered through most of my existence. She had made my beloved father’s life a living hell and when I turned out to be pretty much a total fuckup, she was as delighted as if I’d become a priest. Of course I could have become a priest and killed two birds with one prayer but those are the breaks. She’d done that gig that was popular in the country when we had no economy, fucked or otherwise: she’d gotten herself a tame priest who tagged along and lapped up her pious bullshit.

I had met Emily’s mother in the last game and she was a pitiful drunk. One drink from the abyss.

Emily said,

“She got sober.”

“Seriously?”

A flash of anger in those lovely eyes, and you got a peek at the steel that she hid behind all the play personas. Emily gathered up her stuff, said,

“Bitch, just when I thought it could only be a matter of weeks until she choked on her own vile vomit, she goes and gets sober; really, really fucking annoying.”

I decided to let that dog bark on its own, no gain in my pithy comments further. She paused at the door, said,

“Heal fast, Jack-o. We have a shitload of work to do.”

A thought struck her. She asked,

“You still watching Justified?”

“Religiously.”