d all the bills.” He visits her in the hospital the day before an operation. She’s in her room waiting for him in a wheelchair. He says “What would you like to do?” and she says “I don’t care — anything,” and he says “Mind if I wheel you around and explore the place a little?” and she hunches her shoulders or gives him a face and he wheels her around the halls into the waiting rooms and the solarium and to the little closet that’s a library and then toward the children’s playroom. “Did you have lunch yet?” he says while they wheel and she says “Look at your watch; use your brains.” “Is the food good here — better than at the last hospital?” and she says “That’s one of the dumbest questions I’ve ever heard, even from you.” “Is the girl you share the room with nice?” and she says “Your questions are getting so dumb I’m not even going to let you know I’ve heard them anymore.” “What do you want me to ask or say then?” and she stares straight ahead, and he says “Come on, you’re not being fair, I came here to see you, so answer what I asked,” and she says “Don’t ask, don’t say, use the time to think what you’ve been saying for a change — and you’re supposed to be one of the smarter ones in the family?” “Listen, I know what you’re going through and I feel lousy about it, the whole world does, so what am I asking or doing or anything that’s so wrong?” and she says “Now I’m serious about ignoring you, you dumb dope, so you’ll only be talking to yourself from now on.” Lots of things in the room to play with, a volunteer lady who gives out juice and cookies and pieces of fruit to the children who can drink and eat them, another volunteer walking around holding up cups and cookies to several childrens’ lips. Some are completely bald. He’s never seen that except during the ringworm epidemic at school this year when lots of boys and girls came with their heads shaved, but they kept hats and scarves on all day except when someone knocked or pulled them off. He tries not to look at them, doesn’t want to make them feel bad. Same with the ones who sit and groan or who drag the upside down bottles and tubes attached to them on what look like wheeled coat stands. Some are sleeping and a few are so skinny and sick looking they seem dead or close to it, while others you wouldn’t know were sick except for their hospital gowns. His mother told him to be cheerful. “You have a tendency to get depressed over things like this, but for Vera’s sake make believe everything’s hunky-dory. Otherwise, do me the favor and don’t go.” “So this is the playroom,” he says. “Mom told me about it. It’s beautiful, very nice. Like a snack? Any of the games interest you? I’ll gladly play.” “It’s ugly here. The games and toys are for morons, which most of us here are going to become if we’re not already are.” “You said you weren’t going to answer me anymore, but I’m glad you did. It’s nice talking. Better than just staring or standing or sitting still. But tell me, why do you say it’s ugly? Look at the walls. My favorite shade of blue. Bright but not blinding. Peaceful, cheerful, and it seems recently painted. And the pictures hanging up seem interesting and nice. Not just your regular kids’ stuff. What do you think that one’s of? Maybe just a design.” “It’s of nothing. And the blue’s awful on the walls. If vomit was blue that’s what shade it’d be. The whole room’s awful. It stinks from medicine and disinfectant and diaper rash and shit and pee. That’s because most of them can’t control themselves anymore. You must have a nose cold.” “I don’t and I don’t smell anything funny. Maybe only soap.” “Then get the holes in your nose unclogged. But yesterday a boy younger than me, even, died right in this room.” “Oh come on, nobody dies in a playroom. Unless he falls off something and breaks his skull. But they don’t have anything that high here — I’m sure just to prevent that. And probably because we’re in a hospital, and the part of it just for children, the dying from the fall couldn’t happen anyway even if someone climbed to the top of the curtain there and dived off and landed flat on his head. Too many nurses and doctors to help right away.” “He died in his wheelchair fast asleep. I was here but not near him. He was dying anyway. Anyone could see it when they wheeled him in. Mouth open, stuff running out, and more tubes than the usual. But his mother thought his being around not-as-bad-off kids would help him. All of a sudden they shooed us out or wheeled the ones in chairs like me and later we found he died, though the nurses and aides won’t say so. But is he around? Because he was way too sick to be sent home. I know what room he was in and that bed was empty today and the card with his name’s off the door. Sometimes, I heard, they put kids in the very last room down the hall when they’re dying or only have a few days left to live. But that one’s taken by someone else we’ve never seen, since the door’s always closed and the window on it’s got paper over it.” “I don’t believe it. If this boy who you say died was that bad off, then as you said he wouldn’t have been in a regular room like yours for everyone to see.” “You’re wrong. Sometimes they die here all of a sudden. That’s happened in almost all my hospital stays. A nurse even got in big trouble this time because of it. She’s not supposed to listen to what mothers want on things like that. If you’re dying you’re supposed to do it in that last room or your own room if that’s all they have, with the door closed and the curtains around you and no other patients or your family in it. You do some asking around here about it and you’ll find out. But that’s why I don’t like it when the nurses pull the curtains around me.” “No, I didn’t know you didn’t.” “You’ve seen my face when they do. I’m afraid I won’t come out. That they can do something, decide my time is up and the bed’s needed for someone else — I’ve heard that too — and put their hands over my nose and mouth or use a pillow or something or just stick a death dose in my veins and good-bye. But they curtain me all the time when I have to go kaka and pee and can’t get to the bathroom myself, which now is always.” “Let’s try talking about something else, Vera. This has to be disturbing you.” “Like what? There’s nothing else. My operation tomorrow? That I’m feeling ‘oh great I’m going to get sliced up again’? Can you get me out of this thing into a normal chair? I’ve got cramps shooting up my back that are starting to make me scream.” He gets a nurse and aide who lift her into a soft chair. He should try changing the subject again. He’s not doing a good job here. His mother will come and Vera will say he made her feel even worse. He should be taking her mind off things, cheering her up. “By the way, your friend Kitty sends her regards.” “So what?” “She’s your old friend. I’m just saying I bumped into her on the street.” “She’s lost.” “Maybe you’d like her to call you. She could still do it today.” “I don’t want to speak to anyone.” “Almost all our relatives have called and want to see you, but we say you’d rather not till you’re feeling better.” “Till they learn I’m not dead.” “No, till a couple of days after the operation, or whenever you want. We’re doing the right thing by saying that for you and keeping them away, right?” “What are you talking about? When could they come? Today? Yesterday when I’m in tests all day? Tomorrow when I’m operated on? Make sense.” “I meant the day after you came in, for instance.” “What do I care? Have them sleep under my bed here, for all it means to me.” He says maybe she’d like him to read to her. He could get something from that library closet. He thinks he knows what she’d like, unless she wants to be wheeled there to choose one. Or maybe she just wants to read something herself. If she did, he’d sit beside her, read a book he brought with him. It’s OK by him. “What you can do is turn my chair around and pull it up to the window so I can look out. That way I won’t have to see anybody but their reflections. And you’re strong. You lift weights and do millions of push-ups a day. So pulling the chair’s what you can use it for, and then let me look in peace.” “You’re saying you want me to go home?” “You want to go home, do it.” “I don’t. I’ll stay as long as you like, and certainly till Mom comes.” “If you change your mind and go before then, make sure you tell someone at the nurses’ station so they know you’re not coming back to wheel me to my room.” “I told you, nobody’s going.” He pulls her chair to the window, takes the bed pillow off the wheelchair seat and fixes it behind her, sits beside her, takes her hand because he thinks maybe that’ll comfort her a little, she looks at their hands together and then stares out the window at the river, boats and barges passing, Long Island or Brooklyn across it, maybe the reflections of people in the room, and falls asleep. He looks out the window a while. He’d like to go to her room and get the book he brought with him, but taking his hand away may wake her. After about a half-hour he signals one of the volunteers to come over and asks if it’s possible for her to go to his sister’s room and look in his left- or right-side coat pocket for a book and bring it to him. “She’s sleeping so peacefully and needs to, I don’t want to disturb her.” The woman says there’s been a number of petty thefts and one major one in the patients’ rooms the last few weeks, night and day, but probably not on the children’s floor, so she’d rather not be seen going through anyone’s pockets. He says if she can get the pen and pad or just the pad out of his right back pants pocket, since he’s sure she has a pencil or pen, he’ll write a note with his left hand giving her permission. She says “I’m really not supposed to leave the children unless for something like going to the ladies’ room or when someone relieves me, but I’ll get a nurse’s aide if you think it’s that important and perhaps he’ll do it.” He says “Don’t bother, she should be up pretty soon.” He stays like that for another hour till his mother comes. He’s slept the night in the visitor’s lounge, washes his face and brushes his teeth with his finger in the men’s room, goes to her room and knocks in case a nurse or doctor’s inside. No answer, so he lets himself in saying “Vera, it’s me, I’m coming in, okay?” She’s in the same position he last saw her in late last night, on her back, tubes for this and that, monitors on, blip-blip sounds from one of them, face sweaty or glazed, one side of her mouth dropped and agape, eyes half open if that. She could be asleep or awake or maybe she’s gone into a coma. He says from the foot of the bed, while moving a few inches from side to side to see if he can catch her eye, “Vera? Hi. Good morning.” Her eyes go to him and he stays still. “How are you? It’s still very early. I slept the night in the lounge. On a chair. Someone was already asleep on the couch when I decided to turn in but not when I woke up, and the other lounge was locked. My back aches,” stretching, “but nothing bad. I should have asked a nurse to open the other lounge — the one at the end of the other hall — but I didn’t think of it. Maybe that’s where a doctor or two sleep, if they’ve been on duty all night, and they wanted it locked. But minor stuff, right, so why am I bothering you with it?” She just looks at him, lids still half-closed. Drugged look, but she seems to be hearing him. Part of one side of her head’s shaved, he just notices, but he doesn’t know what for, since there are no plans to operate on her this time. “This will very likely be the last time you’ll be taking her here or to any hospital,” the doctor said. “Why?” They hadn’t asked why but he said it anyway. “Because I don’t see how she can pull through this time, plain and simple. She’s been a lucky girl to have gone home the last two times. So to speak, lucky.” “Vera? Can you hear me? It’s Howard. Your brother. That was some sleep I had. I couldn’t find a place to stretch out, so I had to sleep mostly sitting up. Remember I spoke about it? The other man on the couch? And it was cold. A nurse offered me a blanket but I said no thanks, I’ll use my coat, but it wasn’t enough. I was freezing. What do they do in those lounges after ten o’clock, shut the heat off?