A pair of doors swing open and Ken is wheeled out through them pushed by a group of people in scrubs. He’ s wired and tubed and unconscious. Debbie stands up and follows the entourage to a room where Ken is parked and hooked to drips and monitors.
“ How is he?” Debbie asks a tall and young doctor.
“ His occipital has a small crack and his brain had swelled too much so we did surgery to relieve the pressure.” He smiles. “ He should come out of this with a good headache only. We don’ t see any brain damage.”
“ Thanks doc.”
The doctor smiles and in a swift second all the people who had been working on Ken are gone leaving her alone with him. Debbie wonders what she is supposed to do now. She flops herself on a chair next to Ken. Her haggard eyes look at his bandaged head. His breathing is soft and steady. He will probably be out of it at least until the anesthesia wears off. When he wakes up, then what? Will he look around with crossed eyes, see her and then ask, “ who are you?” Will he say, “ it’ s all your damned fault?”
Debbie sees and hear cops talking to the doctor just outside the room but she is too tired to try to eavesdrop on their conversation. If they want to talk to her or haul her ass to the station, they know where to find her. There are curtain partitions on each side of her and Ken. Feet shuffle, people sob, the overhead speakers in the lobby call names, paramedics, nurses, doctors, orderlies and cops move through the halls, trying to patch a wounded city, trying to understand why these people are here. But they leave her and Ken alone. There is nothing else they can do for now.
Who is this man next to her? This Ken Somethingouski. She remembers him telling her he was a Pole. What’ s next? She thinks that she should get up and leave, leave for good. This Ken doesn’ t deserve more of her and her troubles, and that is what she is, trouble. This is the second time she ends up shooting somebody to save him, but somehow she feels is all her fault that Ken gets in the middle of her messes. He would have never been in that parking lot if it hasn’ t been for her. And the Atlanta thing, it had been her who had brought the Hillbilly from Hell to meet Ken.
Her eyes close and the sound of waves lapping on the sand comes to her. The surf swirls around her whole legs, both of them, and her toes sink into the sand to fight the undertow. Ken stands next to her watching airplanes fly overhead, towing banners that flap in the breeze. Their shoulders touch and there is happiness in that feeble touch, in that stupid accidental and meaningless rubbing of skins. She would never be able to explain the peace and satisfaction she feels to a person with a clipboard. Maybe there is nothing to explain because there is nothing there; nobody can see it, can measure it. Yet, why can’ t she shake such memory off, why can she for sake such feeling?
A few minutes later Debbie sleeps on the chair and her breathing pace matches Ken’ s.
Family Awakening
A hand squeezing her shoulder awakes Debbie from her sleep. She opens her eyes and has a difficult time focusing on the person standing in from of her. She rubs the sleep off her eyes and now she can see a rather plump woman looking down on her. She has a face like a bulldog and friendliness is nowhere on her features; rather, she stares at Debbie with a decisive hatefulness.
"Who are you?" barks bulldog face.
"Debbie. And who are you?"
There are two more people behind the woman, all looking as if they had just gotten out of bed, which they probably did, guesses Debbie.
"I' m Helen," says the woman and then points to Ken who is still asleep under the influence of sedatives. "I' m his wife."
Debbie remains seated. Her missing leg itches even though there is no limb where the itching seems to be coming from. So this is what Ken is running from? Debbie tells herself. No wonder. Debbie knows that Ken' s marriage is none of her business and that dreams of beaches and happiness are just that, tenuous dreams that fall apart when touched by reality, like tissue paper trying to soak a water stream.
With a sluggish effort Debbie gets up, using Ken' s bed to propher self on her one leg and one prosthesis.
"Good," says Debbie now standing. "Now I can go home."She starts to walk away from her chair but Helen blocks her exit. Helen breaths with difficulty, her sinuses making a wheezing noise as angry air expels out of her lungs.
"You stay away from my husband!" yells Helen. "You…You whore!"
Debbie is paralyzed neither by fear nor by anger but by confusion. Whore had been her profession for many years, and a junkie, and a drug mule, and a killer, thrice now, but until now those things had been her problems, her life, and nobody had given a damn about it. Now this woman is shouting whore at her face and Debbie is disoriented, not knowing if the insult fits like a glove – thus it is not an insult but the truth – or if she is supposed to raise in anger and protest. Helen keeps on heaping insults on Debbie and faces in the E.R. are now pointed in her direction, amused by the raucous Helen is creating.
"Bitches like you just want to steal my husband and his money!"Helen' s spit falls on Debbie' s face. Skinny Debbie is not a match for corpulent Helen if the shouting turns into shoving. Debbie sees a by now familiar cop watching from across the hallway, slowly making his way towards them. Debbie knows better than getting physical at this point. Let Helen touch her first so it would be Helen who gets charged with assault.
"Stay away from him! Stay away from him or…!"
Debbie looks straight into Helen' s eyes and Helen' s furor falters at the coldness' s of Debbie' s stare.
"Or what? whispers Debbie. "I just shot a man three times and killed him. Get out my face." Debbie takes advantage of Helen' s hesitation to step around her and head out. With her back to Helen and looking at the cop standing by the entrance to the ward, Helen lets out a grunt akin to something coming out of a feral animal. Helen grabs Debbie' s pony tail and yanks on it hard with her meaty arm. Debbie let' s out a short cry and falls back a step. Debbie tries to turn around on her heels but Helen' s grip on her pony tail stops her from finishing the turn. Before Debbie has time to stabilize her body on her prosthesis and use it as a pivot point to kick Helen with her good leg, the cop jumps in.
"Break it up! Now!" He jumps between both women and grabs Helen' s arm. "Let it go ma' am or I' m gonna arrest you for assault."
Helen let' s go but her mouth starts going again.
"That whore got my husband almost killed!" Helen bawls more insults while the cop and the two people that had come with her try to calm her down. The cop steps back and comes to Debbie' s side.
"Are you OK?" he asks Debbie. His lips are hidden under his cowboy mustache and Debbie cannot see them move but the words come out alright. Debbie nods.
"I better get going," says Debbie. "I don' t need to be here." This time it is the cop who nods.
Debbie steps out of the ward and all the eyes from people in the hallway, other rooms and behind desks fasten on her. Debbie who has walked streets almost naked offering herself for sale, who has flashed men just to snare a john, who has snorted coke and done drugs in public, that same Debbie now feels her face burning with shame because a fat woman called her names, covered her with misdirected insults. That' s the rub though, Debbie thinks, were they really misdirected?
With hurried steps Debbie reaches the ambulance unloading area and steps out through the wide doors where a cold night air greets her. She has no idea where to go. Her car is at the bar and it is a long walk to it and also to her motel. Ernie must be starving by now. To hell with the five cigarettes at day. Debbie lights her sixth and then realizes that now is tomorrow so she is having her first cigarette of a new day. She smokes and a mixture of fatigue, anger and confusion whirls inside her.