And what about Kym? Was she really sick? Had Michelle seen the movie Safe? Kyle wanted to know. Was their other mother really physically ill or was she profoundly depressed, mentally ill, or, even worse, was she simply a lazy bitch? The options were all so terrible to consider. They found themselves oddly hoping that their mom was in fact struck down by a diabolical, new environmental illness.
Everyone hung up their phones upset and grim. Everyone’s hearts were clogged with love for one other — inexpressible, jammed-up love, love that leached like a toxin into the bloodstream, one it would take a surgery to release. This was a family.
Sometimes Michelle tripped out on her deep and painful love for her mothers. If they weren’t related, Wendy would just be one of those trashy lesbians she couldn’t relate to. Kym would be one of those people you see on the bus, sick and stoned. It seemed everything had gone wrong for these people — if there was a social injustice it had happened to them, if there was a malaise they suffered from it, if there was bad luck they’d been stroked by it. Michelle felt repelled by these people, as if their condition, the whole of it, was contagious. She felt bad about this but it was true. And her own mother was one of them. Sickly and paranoid, a drain on those around her. Michelle loved her with a love that had nowhere to go, a bird flying into a window.
Michelle couldn’t save her mothers and that was all her love was meant to do. And so the love was useless and exhausting. It turned to rage inside Michelle and so she also hated them. Why was she supposed to help them? Michelle could barely help herself. She lived below the poverty level in a city rapidly filling with rich people. At least Wendy had a career. She could go back to school and better her earning power, she could stop smoking. Kym had gone to community college, she could stop smoking pot, go to therapy, get on an antidepressant, leave the house, make some friends, maybe teach a fucking class or something. Why did Michelle feel like she had to do such things for these women, register Wendy for classes or find a homeopath for Kym?
Michelle felt responsible for her moms’ happiness. She felt she owed them something, something big. The families that had disowned them were full of older women whose go-getter daughters had married up or gotten into antiques and took their mothers gambling in Atlantic City or on Caribbean cruises. Was that what Michelle was supposed to do? Was that what her moms were waiting for? Another perk that their lesbianism had robbed them of.
And so it was in this dark space that Michelle entered the hospital on the hill, a bag of needles in her hand, thinking that by saving a hypothetical sanitation worker she was somehow helping her moms. Deep in the throes of her emotional bender, Michelle was oblivious to her appearance. She looked like a wild drug addict, face bloated and splotchy, hair a blue tangle, malnourished in her skinny jeans, braless in her thin shirt, the twin pyramids of her tits poking around, her nipples staring out from the worn rattlesnake fabric. The secretary showed alarm at the bag of needles in her hand. Can I help you?
My Van Was Stolen And Whoever Did It Left These—rattle, rattle—In The Back Seat. They’re Clean But Maybe You Have A Biohazard Container I Can Leave These In?
The woman’s face twitched. You can’t bring those in here.
You Don’t Have A Biohazard Container? I Don’t Think They’re Dirty But—
You can’t just bring a bunch of needles into a hospital trying to dump them. There are laws, we can’t even—
I’m Not Just Bringing Them, My Van Was Stolen And They Dumped It Outside And Left These — Michelle cut herself off as the reality of her appearance dawned on her. She felt embarrassed, then mad at her embarrassment. She was telling the truth! She was the victim of a crime! Though perhaps she was what the woman thought she was, those weren’t her fucking needles. Fine, she spat, I Was Just Trying To Make Sure Some Poor Sanitation Worker Didn’t Get Stuck, But I’ll Go Throw Them In The Trash Out Front Then.
You can’t, the woman said nervously. You can’t just leave them in a public trash can. And you can’t leave them on our property. The two stared each other down. What was one supposed to do with a bag of fucking needles then? Oh, hold on, the woman’s annoyance broke and she punched some numbers into her phone. Eventually a man showed up, a doctor looking harried and a little nervous, possibly scared of Michelle.
Can I help you? he asked at a distance. Rattle, rattle. Michelle shook the bag.
I’m Just Looking To Get Rid Of These. They’re Not Mine. I Found Them. If I Was Shooting Drugs Why Would I Be Throwing Away A Perfectly Good Bag Of Needles?
The phrase a perfectly good bag of needles rang in Michelle’s head. Why was she throwing them away? The dealers on her corner sold rigs as well as drugs, they whispered outfits, outfits under their breath at passersby. Maybe she could have gotten her new friend Quinn to barter with them, trade the needles for some balloons. Too late now. The doctor moved toward Michelle to receive the bag. A clear plastic bag jumbled with clear plastic syringes, clear plastic syringes with bright orange caps.
Thanks, Michelle said. She’d been ready to fight the doctor and now had to readjust herself internally. The doctor seemed kind. He had white hair and white clothes and clear spectacles on his eyes.
Are you okay? he asked her. Do you need anything? His voice was heavy with subtext but Michelle didn’t want to know what he was getting at. She hated how shifty she must’ve seemed, hungover, talking about a stolen van, wielding a bag of drug needles.
No, she said, her voice extra cheery like she was interviewing for a job. Just Happy To Have My Van Back! Never Had To Handle A Bag Of Needles Before, Didn’t Really Know What To Do With Them! She laughed a big laugh and shook her head at how crazy life was. She was an average citizen having a really weird day. She waved goodbye at the doctor, at the receptionist who still wasn’t convinced Michelle was not a drug fiend, that she hadn’t stolen her own van, if there even was a van at all. She left the hospital. The light was so bright it rammed into her eyes and shot up her brain. Michelle couldn’t wear sunglasses. She was so blind she’d have to get prescription sunglasses and those were really expensive, so in the sun she just squinted a lot and held her hand to her forehead.
The doctor’s kindness had left her shaken. Why couldn’t her mother work for a nice guy like that? Maybe Michelle should start to look for nursing positions on the Internet, print them out, and send them to her mother, maybe her mothers would have a better quality of life in San Francisco. Wasn’t San Francisco full of sick lesbians, too? They had art shows and gatherings, Kym could be part of a vibrant sick community rather than wasting away on the couch. Why did some people get excellent lives while other people’s lives were so shitty? She couldn’t bear the thought that her mothers’ lives sucked. It filled Michelle with heartbreak and panic. By the time she got back to Quinn she was in tears.