Nothing Peggy says makes sense anymore. For instance, at the picnic, we’re all there in the park, the blanket, we’ve got coolers and tote bags. The blanket is coming up in the wind. Peggy has a couple of small bags, just enough not to attract notice about how little she’s carrying. But I notice. She sees the corners coming up on the blanket, and I swear what she says is
“Someone ought to do something about that.”
Now, Peg, last I checked, you’re someone, and in this case the only one not packed to the back like a mule. Not to mention the kids. She’s the only one left without one, that’s official, as of July with whats her name, Merrett’s kid. June.
Whatever, that’s just a small thing, anyone can lapse, but when I tell you Peggy is on one.
So here I am, trying to be a good friend, I’m going to visit her mother today in the hospital. Peggy’s mom, not someone I’ve kept in touch with, but she was nice to me in high school, and it’s been warm the couple of times I’ve seen her since, so I’m gonna say hi today.
This is no fun, being stuck on the bus. My car is in the shop, and Terry’s right, he needs the other one more than I do. Thankfully, he was able to take Whisper for the afternoon, for once, so I could do this visit.
The bus, woof. There’s an old lady on here, you would not believe the stink lines coming off this one.
“Should we get a table?” That was another one. Me and Peggy, a few weeks ago, just the two of us, getting dinner. No, Peg, I was thinking we could eat on the floor like a rat. Maybe they have some milk crates in the alley. We can eat like the dogs in movie with dogs who date.
It’s hard for me to take anyone seriously anymore since getting laid off.
Peggy’s mom is the kind of lady who will spend twenty minutes asking about you even though she’s the one in the hospital bed. I’m not at the hospital yet, I’m just saying.
The driver talks a lot but you can’t understand her words. I told her let me know when it’s my stop. She said I’ll be able to see the hospital from the bus.
“Ok,” I said. “But let me know when it’s my stop.”
I brought Kirkland trailmix because I know I’m gonna get hungry, and guess what, I’ve eaten it all already. That was return trip trailmix. I’m gonna have to eat hospital food.
Nothing, these days, is good enough for people. There’s a teen on her phone complaining about lifeguards. Not on the phone with anyone you understand, just talking into the phone looking at herself. No judgements, who doesn’t do that, but I mean the lifeguard stuff is putting me to sleep. Imagine how her friends feel, if she’s got them.
There it is, the hospital. The driver was right. I wait to stand up to see if she’ll say anything to me, but she doesn’t. She just yells “HOSPITAL” loudly and louder than the other stops and I can actually understand what she’s saying for once. That’s good enough, I guess. Just like me, scraping by.
After my last interview, Terry asked if I was toning it down for them. The guy has worked at the same job for fourteen years — what does he know about interviewing?
It’s a long walk to the entrance. You have to walk across the entire parking lot. The bus is the “cheap seats” any way you cut it.
They’ve got this big horseshoe entrance like we’re checking in at The Palms Resort instead of a death factory. Bile and blood and piss and shit, but look at this fancy entrance.
No line at check-in but, fuck me, did I forget to bring ID? I’ll grab a surgeons scalpel and slit my throat and wrists if I did. The bus is bad enough without not even getting in.
No, I’ve got my ID.
“Do you take Visa?”
This is the joke I make every time I’m checking in to a place. Good for a smile at least. If they think I’m corny, so what? I’ll take one on the chin to brighten someone’s day. No, I’m not a saint, but there’s no denying the ways I am saint-like.
The elevator takes long enough. Hospitals are often a million stories high, but I only get invited to the first twelve — figure that one out.
Floor six, Oncology. And boy does Mrs. Rakefield have a big one. You can see it, right as you walk in. What were they thinking, a big thing like that on her collarbone and nobody’s treating it until it’s that bad? Tumors aren’t Chia Pets, they take a while to get like that.
From Peggy, I’d expect it. But Mrs. Rakefield I thought was more with it. Apple doesn’t fall far, I guess. One point “nature.”
How wrong was I though? All she wants to talk about is the pain and the bordom. Ok, fair enough, we’re on her hospital time.
Boy, is she thankful I’m here though, good old Mrs. Rakefield. To think, she used to look so old to me when she was younger than I am, and now I’m older than she was. No, wait, that’s not right. But almost!
“Well, you know Peggy…” I say so something she said, I don’t remember what, just she mentioned Peggy and I wanted to change the subject.
“How do you mean?” she says. Now we’re playing twenty questions.
“She’s kind of a spectator,” I say. “Not in a bad way. Just she doesn’t always jump in.”
Mrs. Rakefield has to sit with this truth bomb for a while, but the bigger truth is she knows it and I know it.
Then guess who walks in — Peggy herself, holding some kind of donut pillow. I think it’s for the toilet, but it goes right behind her mother’s head.
“How are you holding up?” Peggy asks me.
Like she wants to know.