The Queen of Hearts(77)
Our old house, usually so cheerful on sunny days like this one, felt oppressive. The bright pillows and posters, and the dozens of framed photographs, were a silent rebuke: where are the people who belong here? It was creepy, like an empty home in an apocalyptic film, the now-useless possessions outlasting the human occupants. Suddenly I could not bear to be alone another second. I grabbed my handbag and ran out.
I had seen Graham every day for months. He was more than a friend to me; he was like a benevolent brother. Shouldn’t I have noticed something terrible was happening to him? How much pain did it take to decide ending your life was the better option? And now that he was gone, Emma must have been feeling everything I was, only on a magnified scale. People should not have to deal with the horror of death when they are in their twenties, a sentiment I knew all too well. Death should be reserved for the very old.
By the time I neared Bardstown Road, I was regretting the decision to walk, since I was still in my funeral dress and a pair of seldom-worn heels. I limped along, forlorn. The sunshine faded: the molting trees loomed with bereft spikiness along the side roads, their branches rattling a little in a blast of cooler wind. My earlier agony had subsided, now superseded by more banal concerns—chiefly, an intense hunger and an absolutely killer blister on my left big toe. I decided to go to Wick’s.
Inside, I slid into a seat and ordered, slipping off my stupid shoes. Ahhh. Better. I was going to have to rustle up a ride, because there was no way my battered feet were trudging all the way back home. It was an Immutable Law of the Universe that I could not go out to eat without running into at least one person I knew, generally a disgruntled former boyfriend on a hot date, or someone to whom I owed money. Still. As long as they owned a car.
My food arrived—yes!—and I dove in with piggish abandon. It was certainly possible I looked like a total loser, ensconced solo at a large table eating as fast and as much as possible, but this was kind of liberating in a way. I did not require social validation for every little thing, and furthermore I was able to comfort myself on a horrific day without going to pieces again just because I was unexpectedly alone. I was self-reliant! The sort of person who could find solace in her own company when things were bad! The sort of person who— Oh, thank heavens, there was Rolfe.
He slid into the booth next to me and gave me a hug. “How you holding up?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. Rolfe nodded. I seemed to be having little respites, where I would forget for a moment or two, and then I’d remember, like a sucker punch to the gut. Through waves of disbelief, I’d feel myself adjusting, again: Graham is gone. Then I would forget for a moment or so, and the cycle would repeat.
“Have you seen Emma?” I asked.
Rolfe nodded. “She’s in Cherokee Park,” he said. “With Baxter, Graham’s dog.”
“She’s in the park?” I was surprised. “How do you know?”
“Landley saw her there, early this morning. She’s sitting on a blanket, on Dog Hill. He and I went by again, before I dropped him off, and she was still there. We tried to get her to leave with us, but she wouldn’t budge. She wouldn’t talk, either, except for saying it was because of her.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, feeling my stomach tighten.
Rolfe met my eyes. “What Graham did. She said it was her fault.”
Chapter Thirty-three
AVOID THE PATIENTS AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE
Late Autumn, 1999: Louisville, Kentucky
I glanced across the room at Emma, who was staring straight ahead, her features expressionless. Even at a casual glance, it was apparent she did not look good. She’d lost at least ten pounds in the three weeks since Graham’s death, and though both of us were slender, I was also curvaceous; Emma’s angular form did not have ten pounds to spare. She’d always liked to run, but now she ran obsessively, sometimes for hours. Her face was gaunt, with shadowy hollows beneath her sharp cheekbones; her look had edged from modelesque to heroin chic to cancerous. She steadfastly refused to talk with me about what had happened between her and Graham, and since she was working nights and I was working days, I hardly ever saw her.
The topic of this morning’s ER lecture was acid-base disorders, a subject that might not enthrall the average listener, but it aroused great ardor in Dr. Elsdon, who raged with evangelical zeal around the room.
“Henderson-Hasselbalch equation! Go!” he shouted, whirling around and pointing at James, who gaped helplessly.
“Aaah . . .”
“Nothing? You’ve got nothing? Let’s back up a little.” He spun around again with his index finger outstretched, this time landing on Cameron Dooley, a full-on dud who was known for remaining virtually mute during the first two years of school. Perhaps he suffered from a debilitating social phobia. In any case, he was now cowering in a seat in the back, Dr. Elsdon clearly representing his absolute worst nightmare.
“Give me five causes of normal gap acidosis!”
“. . .”
“What? What? Has nobody had their coffee this morning? HARDUP? MUDPILES? Ring any bells?”
Tonelessly, Emma came to the rescue. “HARDUP. Hyperventilation, Addison’s disease, renal tubular acidosis, diarrhea, ureteral diversion/ureterosigmoidostomy, pancreatic fistula.”