In Sight of Stars(11)

I know it shouldn’t, but it makes me laugh, thinking of that night with Cleto and Dan again. I toss it back in the drawer, missing my cell phone, feeling glad, at least, that I’m not that kind of a fuck-up.

Then again, maybe that would be better than this.

I sit back heavily on the bed, wondering when I might feel like I can breathe again.

All I do lately is suck wind, and fight back tears.

Some Revenant I am.

Cleto would have my head.

*

A nurse stands at the door to my room. Nurse Carole with the blond hair and the too-bright smile. She holds a cup of water in one hand and the little paper cup with my pills in the other.

“Good morning, Mr. Alden. We need to get going. You meet with Dr. Alvarez now. You don’t want to keep her waiting.”

I take the pills and follow her. When we reach the corridor with the hideous fish mural, Nurse Carole places a hand on the small of my back, veering me through the waiting area to a section of chairs across from Dr. Alvarez’s closed door.

“She’ll be out in a minute. There’s help over there if you need any.” She nods at the nurses’ station across the hall, where one woman sits with her head bowed and an orderly is mopping the floor. “You good here for the time being?” I nod. I’m happy not to have her wait with me. “Okay. Holler if you need anything. Otherwise, I’ll see you after.”

I sit and try not to think about anything. I’m feeling off balance again.

I thumb through magazines until I find an old Highlights, then flip through until I find the dumb old Hidden Pictures game. It’s still there, just like when I was a kid. I scan the scene, a family of pigs outside a barn, and search for the objects without bothering to look at the crappy illustrations in the key. The objects are always the same, anyway: a pencil, a toothbrush, a hockey stick, ridiculous likenesses, at best. I find a teacup and saucer, a spoon, and a thing that doesn’t really look like anything but I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a tree limb, before I hear a click and the door behind me opening.

“Oh, good, you’re here, Klee! You’re my first on Wednesdays, so from now on just knock and come on in.”

She pronounces my name the right way, which is promising, but I’m stuck on the fact that she says “Wednesdays,” plural, as if there are many more weeks that I’ll be here. I close the magazine and walk toward her, my legs feeling unsteady.

In her office, I sit quickly and focus on the print of Daubigny’s Garden. It was one of Van Gogh’s last paintings, painted at Auvers, the home and garden of a painter he admired.

There are actually a few versions floating around. The original was done on a tea cloth because Van Gogh had run out of canvas. This print isn’t from the original because in that one a black cat scampers across the foreground.

“So, I take it you like it?” Dr. Alvarez follows my gaze to the print, but she doesn’t wait for an answer. “How are you feeling this morning?”

The crow swoops in, lands in the grass, and the man with the straw hat appears among the flowers …

I shake my head to make them scatter, disappear. Dr. Alvarez waits patiently, but my mouth feels dry and my words stick heavy and unformed in my throat. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. About anything.

“That good, huh? Well, I did speak with Dr. Ram, and he said your vitals are good. He says to be patient, another day or two, and your body will start to adjust to the medication. It can take the body longer with this particular one, but they’ve been seeing good, long-term results. If you’re still feeling groggy tomorrow, we can talk again.”

Groggy. That is the word I’ve been looking for.

“Okay,” I say.

“All right. Good. We’re making some progress, here.” She smiles warmly, slips her shoes off under the table, and crosses her bare feet at the ankles. Her ankles are thick; her toenails are polished bright red.

My eyes go to her face. It isn’t young or model-like or anything, but it’s pleasant and kind. She looks Spanish or something, but maybe I just think that because of her name. My eyes dart to her feet. She straightens up and slips them back into her shoes.

“So, tell me, how was the rest of yesterday? Are you getting settled here?”

Am I supposed to get settled?

I stare at the spot where Van Gogh’s cat should be and try to remember how yesterday was. I watched TV. Dr. Ram came in. Someone delivered trays of barely edible food. A nurse repeatedly took my blood pressure and listened to my heart, then told me to check out the dining hall and game room. Like the Ape Can is a freaking resort.

“Mostly a blur, I guess,” I say. “I slept a lot. My dreams were really weird.”

And, in the middle of the night, Sister Agnes Something left me a note and some Yodels.

I leave that last part out. I’m not even sure it was real.

I leave this out, too: I can’t stop thinking about Sarah.

“Quiet,” I say instead. “It’s so quiet here. Not just in here, but in all of Northhollow. I miss the city. I miss the noise. The noise blocks out all the other crap in your head.”

“That it does,” she says. “I get that completely. So, tell me more about the city.”

I swallow, and scratch at the bandage, and try to cement the order of things. The city and Dad, counting backward. Northhollow. My life before and after he died. Me, here, now. And more recently, I sort days. Yesterday was Tuesday. Monday was the day Dr. Alvarez says my mother was here. So, Sunday I was still in the hospital. Or maybe that was the night they brought me here.