Out there, p.9
Out There, page 9
“Come on,” Tim whines.
“Please,” Bradley adds.
Olivia clears her throat and begins singing “Amazing Grace.” My eyes tear with embarrassment for her—how cliché. But the men are rapt. Her voice is surprisingly rich and powerful, incongruous with her tiny frame. When she finishes, they applaud.
“We’ll call her Starling,” Frankie says.
“Our little songbird,” Rick agrees.
* * *
—
It’s clear that Olivia is sicker than any of us were when we came to the ward. Her slim fingers are arthritic, their joints bulbous. She walks with a careful limp. At dinner, her face is tense. She doesn’t speak. I feel terrible for her; she must be in extraordinary pain.
“You should eat something, Starling,” Frankie says.
Olivia shakes her head. “It’s okay,” she says. “I’m not feeling well.”
“The food is calibrated to our bodies’ needs,” Bradley says, like a Boy Scout reciting survival tips. “It’ll do you good.”
Tim spreads marrow on Olivia’s bread and offers it to her. Olivia looks like she’ll cry. She raises the bread to her mouth and takes a tiny bite. Her face pales. She gags, a milky spittle pushing past her lips. She tries to gather it all in a napkin.
Bradley calls for help. Lily runs over; Greg brings the wheelchair. They lower Olivia’s rubbery body into the chair. I am astonished. Her bone loss has started already, and it’s not even 6:00 p.m. We watch her skeleton melt with alarming speed. Greg touches her upper arm and his glove comes away sticky with calcium sap, a by-product of bone dissolution. Her face sags into a leering putty mask. Her head droops on the wilting stem of her spine. I avert my eyes, feeling nauseous.
Olivia is wheeled off to the Iron Skeleton. We sit in an abashed silence, as if we’ve accidentally witnessed something private.
“Jeez,” Tim says. “That was nuts.”
“Poor girl,” Rick says, shaking his head.
“I wouldn’t wish the Iron Skeleton on my worst enemy,” Bradley says.
After dinner, Bradley and I huddle on the bench in the courtyard, surrounded by spindly trees and the planters of wildflowers that we take turns plucking weeds from. Before succumbing to TNBL, Bradley was principal cellist in the Chicago Symphony. Today, he received another get-well card from members of his section. Bradley hasn’t seen any of them since last summer’s concert, from which he was removed on a stretcher. The cellos were playing their solo in the Largo movement of Dvoˇrák’s New World Symphony when the fingers of Bradley’s left hand crumpled, his bow belching a granular, open-stringed C before clattering to the floor. The concert was halted. The audience watched, horrified, as Bradley’s body melted, arms splaying, head rolling back, mouth gaping up at the stage lights.
“They never tell me anything real,” Bradley says. “It’s always like, ‘We’re thinking of you and can’t wait to have you back.’ That’s bullshit. I’m sure they’re well into auditioning for a new principal by now.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “But if they do end up replacing you, you’ll find something else. Any orchestra would be lucky to have you.”
“Yeah, but a principal position in a major symphony isn’t something you land every day,” Bradley says, unwilling to be comforted.
It was Bradley who proposed the ward play music while our bones dissolve. He arranged a soothing mix of Bach, Debussy, Chopin. Over the past three months, Bradley has taught me to love classical music. At night we listen to Stravinsky and Tchaikovsky and Beethoven on a battered CD player. A few times, I’ve tried reading to him from the two books of poetry I brought with me, Neruda and Dickinson, but as soon as I began a poem, Bradley’s eyes would glaze, and I knew I was boring him.
“Olivia seems nice,” I say, to change the subject.
“Yeah,” Bradley says. “Poor thing.”
“I remember how disoriented I was when I first got here,” I say. I’d been sent to the ward suddenly, after dismissing my worsening symptoms for months, attributing them variously to hangovers, seasonal flus, a proliferation of candida in my gut. Some days I walked with a limp; others, I had to tease my hair to conceal a dent in my skull. Finally, on a Saturday night in December, I brought a man home from a bar in Murray Hill. He worked in finance, a cherubic, pale-eyed blond. In the morning I woke in a pool of fluid that I mistook for urine. I now know it was the excretion of bone loss. The banker was sitting at the end of the bed, staring at me. He asked what was wrong with my face. I had slept on my stomach, my face pressed into the mattress. I raised my fingers to find my nose flattened against my cheeks. My left shoulder had been wrenched from its socket, arm dangling outward. My left hand was gnarled from where it had been crushed under the weight of my hip during reconstitution. The fingers jutted at wild angles, like the arms of a Joshua tree. In the emergency room, a bewildered young doctor called the CDC, and by evening I was on a flight to Billings, bound for the Bone Ward.
I’ve withheld this story from Bradley, worrying he’ll be turned off by the part about me fucking a man I’d met at a bar the same night. I want to tell him now, though; he’s made himself vulnerable, telling me about his fears of being replaced, and I have the urge to reciprocate.
But Bradley preempts me. “I can’t wait to get out of this fucking place,” he says. “Dr. Will says it should only be a few more months.”
“That’s great,” I say, forcing the words around the ache in my throat. I feel betrayed whenever Bradley talks about leaving. “What do you think you’ll do next?”
Bradley stares across the courtyard. I can tell he’s choosing his words carefully.
“Who knows what’ll happen,” he says. “Maybe I’ll get a job in New York.”
It is the closest he’s gotten to suggesting a life together outside of the ward. “That would be great,” I say, aiming for a breezy tone.
Bradley chucks me on the arm. “Come on, Gumdrop,” he says. “I owe you an orgasm.”
We bring the CD player into an exam room and Bradley puts on Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto no. 2. Amid the moody interplay of piano and strings, Bradley uses his mouth and fingers to make me come. I then help him climb into his pod. I position the ventilator over his face, strap on his cuirass, and watch as the tubes raise the wall of his chest. His green eyes gaze up at me in the moment before I lower the lid, sealing him in for the night.
I climb into my own pod, though it will be hours before my bones soften. Dr. Will told me I don’t need to use the ventilator anymore. I sometimes miss the sensation of total bone loss, its own kind of orgasm. A forced surrender, a sudden lack—like a floor dropping out, air and light rushing into a room.
* * *
—
For three days, Olivia is confined to the Skeleton. On the third afternoon, we’re sitting in the TV room watching Judge Joe Brown when a wheelchair squeaks behind us. Greg wheels Olivia over and parks her next to me.
“Thank you, Greg,” Olivia says. Greg grins awkwardly and slinks away.
Olivia turns to me. “How are you feeling today?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I say, both charmed and irritated by her kindness.
“How are you feeling?” Tim asks Olivia.
“Oh, I’ve been worse,” Olivia said. “You all know how it is.”
Once again, Olivia’s presence seems to have displaced the air in the room. I catch Bradley sneaking looks at her. He keeps a few inches of distance between us on the couch.
Lily walks back into the TV room. “I forgot to tell you, dear,” she says, to Olivia. “You’ve received some packages.”
“My guitar?” Olivia says, perking up.
“Among other things. You’re a popular lady.”
My skin prickles with envy. In my time here, I’ve received only one item, a postcard from my friend Emily, sent from Sicily, where she and her new husband were honeymooning. Emily insisted on having my new address, when I told her I would be unable to attend her wedding due to a sudden medical issue. I was vague with people back home regarding my departure. A few emails from coworkers, received within my first weeks on the ward, suggested they thought I’d been sent to drug rehab. I told my mother I was suffering from an acute form of osteoporosis—not true, but an analogue I knew she would accept and not panic over. I text her once a week, to let her know I’m alive, but she doesn’t seem worried. She’s busy with my stepdad and their teenage son, who’s already been kicked out of the two best private high schools in their Connecticut town.
Olivia shrugs, self-effacingly. “They’re probably all from people in my dad’s congregation,” she says. “I’ve asked him a million times to keep me out of his sermons, but he can’t help himself. Especially now, I’m sure.”
Lily nods. “Well, they’re stacked in the entryway, whenever you want to take a look.”
“Should we go get them, Starling?” Frankie says, after Lily leaves.
“Not right now, I don’t think,” Olivia says. “I’m pretty exhausted.”
“You play guitar?” Bradley asks.
“I did,” Olivia says. “I don’t think I’ll be able to anymore, though. Not for a while.”
“Will you teach me?” Bradley asks. His tone is playful, but I know he’s serious.
“Sure,” Olivia says, beaming. “I’d love to.”
* * *
—
It’s my night to cook dinner. I prepare a meal from Dr. Will’s binder of recipes. I scramble eggs, grind the shells with a pestle, and sprinkle the powder into sautéed spinach. I assemble a spread of white cheddar, flaxseed crackers, marrow, and sardines in olive oil. I fill our mugs with warm bone broth, selecting an unmarked mug from the cabinet for Olivia. I consider writing her name on it, but decide not to. I know she would lavish me with gratitude for such a gesture, and the prospect embarrasses me. If she wants to claim a mug, she can ask.
I ferry the food from kitchen to table. The men coo in a parody of appreciation, and for a moment I’m reassured that nothing has changed.
“Your hair looks nice that way, Gumdrop,” Tim says. Before cooking, I had pulled my hair into a bun.
“Like a ballerina,” Rick adds.
“Very pretty,” Olivia agrees, and I blush; her praise carries more weight than the men’s, her tone so earnest.
We eat.
“The spinach is good tonight, Gumdrop,” Frankie says. “Lots of lemon. Just how I like it.”
“She’s a good cook,” Bradley says, and I blush again.
“She’d be prettier if she smiled, though,” Frankie teases, as he does every night. In response I roll my eyes and make a point of frowning.
“What about you, Starling?” Rick says, his face softening as he looks at Olivia. “Will you give us a smile?”
It’s a joke, because Olivia is already grinning. “You’re all too much,” she says with a laugh. “Leave us poor girls alone.”
She trains her smile at me, and I force myself to smile back. I want to like Olivia. I’m aware of the ugliness of women who are not interested in friendships with other women; women who claim they only get along with men. Yet when I look at Olivia, my blood seethes. I hate her for how she could ruin my life, without malice, simply by being herself. She could take Bradley from me. She wouldn’t even have to try.
The night is warm, and Tim proposes shooting hoops in the courtyard before dark. It’s Bradley’s night to do dishes, but I see that he wants to go. I tell him I’ll take his shift.
“Are you sure?” Bradley says.
“Yep,” I say.
“I’ll pick up your Thursday shift,” he says, and I nod, already knowing that he’ll forget, and that I won’t remind him.
When the others leave, Olivia and Rick remain seated. They seem to have fallen into an intense conversation, and I give them privacy. As I ferry plates to the kitchen, I hear Rick tell Olivia about his wife, who left him after the onset of TNBL. Rick’s wife was repulsed by his illness, the acrid smell released by the dissolution of bone, the fluid pooled under him when he woke. She believed these were symptoms of a sexually transmitted disease, which gave her a pretext to leave him.
I’ve avoided Rick as if his gloom were a contagion, but Olivia sits with him long after dinner, asking questions, encouraging him to confide in her. I stand near the door, keeping the water at a low pitch so I can hear Olivia’s softly reassuring voice.
“That’s so unfair,” she tells Rick. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all that.” I feel guilty now, for never taking the time to listen to Rick. I have been wholly focused on Bradley, and I wonder if the other men have resented me for it.
I clear Rick’s and Olivia’s plates from the table last, not wanting to interrupt.
“Thank you,” Olivia says, when I take her plate. Her face tilts up at me like a sunflower. I curve my lips in a toothless smile. I scrub pots until the joints of my fingers burn.
* * *
—
The next day, Olivia is well enough to sit with us in the TV room. Maury is showing another paternity episode: Amy’s back for a third round. The man she’s brought today is younger than the others. He’s skinny, with buzzed hair and crusts of healing acne in the hollows of his cheeks. His face rests in a sneer.
Olivia and I sit on the loveseat, the men perched on folding chairs in a semicircle around us. “Tyler,” Maury intones, “you are not the father.” Tyler jumps up from his chair and does a touchdown dance on the stage. The crowd erupts. In the TV room, the men snicker, as usual. Tim and Frankie high-five, as if a part of this hateful victory belongs to them.
“This show is disgusting,” Olivia says softly. She leaves the room. The men fall silent, chastened. I’ve thought the same thing many times about Maury, but kept this opinion to myself, because I enjoyed our collective indulgence in trashy TV shows. We continue watching, but the mood has soured. At the next commercial break, Bradley gets up and leaves without a word. I assume he’s gone to the bathroom, but when he doesn’t come back after twenty minutes, I go looking. Through the hall window, I see him sitting with Olivia on the bench in the courtyard. I stand by the window, listening to her sing a jazzy version of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” Bradley keeps the beat with finger snaps.
* * *
—
The next afternoon, Bradley forgoes TV again in order to sit with Olivia in the courtyard. During quiet parts of the shows, we can hear him picking out melodies on Olivia’s guitar. Every note nips at my skin. I turn up the volume on the TV until Rick complains.
This pattern persists all week. Bradley and I continue having sex most mornings. He still greets me affectionately, and sits next to me during meals. But he spends more and more of his free time with Olivia. Sometimes when I pass by the window, I see Bradley holding the guitar awkwardly while Olivia coaxes his cello-calloused fingers into the proper configurations. Other times, she’s singing while Bradley jots notes in his Moleskine. But often, they are simply sitting and talking, as Bradley and I used to.
One night at dinner, Bradley and Olivia announce that they’ve begun collaborating on a music project. They’re both excited, aglow with creative adrenaline; my chest aches with jealousy, though I pretend to be happy for them.
I stop Bradley as he exits the dining room.
“We never spend time together anymore,” I say, wincing at how I sound—like a nagging, needy girlfriend.
Bradley sighs, as if he’s known he would have to submit to this conversation at some point. He explains that it’s the first time in months that he’s felt artistically fulfilled; that it’s the most fundamental part of his identity, and only now does he realize how depressed he’s been without making music.
“I’m glad you’re feeling inspired,” I say. I can’t quite rid my voice of hurt, but he doesn’t seem to register it.
“Thanks,” he says, beaming at me. “I think you’re really going to dig what we’re working on. It’s a lot more innovative than I’m used to. Obviously.” He laughs.
“Edgier than Mozart,” I say.
“Something like that.”
I am trying not to cry. Bradley finally notices I’m upset. “Aw, come on, Gumdrop,” he says, drawing me in for a hug. “We’ve gotta work again tonight, but I’ll swing by later and see what you’re up to.”
Bradley joins me and Tim in the TV room around 9:00 p.m., presumably after strapping Olivia into her pod. We’re watching an old John Cusack movie from the ward’s DVD collection. Bradley sits beside me on the couch. He slings his arm around my shoulder, but his posture is stiff, his leg tapping with restless energy. I have rarely felt a person’s absence so acutely.
* * *
—
Another week passes. At breakfast one morning, I realize Bradley and I haven’t had sex in five days. Later, while he’s washing dishes, I take his hand and pull him into the bathroom attached to the kitchen. We have sex quickly, impersonally, while standing. After he comes, Bradley will barely look at me. He wipes his cock on a paper towel, then pulls up his scrubs and goes to the sink to wash his hands, erasing all trace of me.
“What’s wrong?” I say.
“Nothing,” Bradley says, turning suddenly, as if he’d forgotten I’m here. “What do you mean?”
“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” I say impulsively.
Bradley gives me a look he’s never given me before—a side-glance of contempt I remember from previous boyfriends, which would inevitably mark the start of a long unraveling.
“We’ve been over this,” Bradley says. “Nothing has changed. I’ve just been focused on this project. I’m really excited about it. I hoped you’d be happy for me.”
“I am,” I say. “Of course. But what about me, Bradley?”
