Michael Christie - The Beggar's Garden

It hurts everywhere, I said, then hung up because I was bored of talking and needed to prepare for my paramedic without some voice I didn’t even know ordering me around.

Vitals are fine, the old guy said. Blood pressure one-twenty-two over eighty.

All this staring into the light on the ceiling made me feel like I was talking to god even though I’ve never been able to believe in him.

Are you new? I said to Sideburns. What do you mean? To the job — I don’t know you. I know what I’m doing, ma’am.

No, I don’t mean — just why haven’t I seen you before?

Oh, I’m new to this district.

I thought so. What’s your name?

He glanced to the old one, who shrugged while ripping velcro. What’s more important right now, ma’am, is how you’re feeling. Is there any pain or tightness here? he said, planting his palm dead centre on my chest, not on my breasts, because I was on my back and they hung at my sides because I am no spring chicken. Like a satellite bouncing important signals back to earth, his hand made it so I could feel the beats. My heart was good and dependable and I felt negligent for not offering it thanks or considering it more often. I desperately hoped it didn’t feel like the rowing slave in the galleon of my body, but I knew I’d forget it again soon, so I told it I was sorry in advance. I think I feel better, I said.

Have you had difficulties with your heart before? Oh yes, I said, many.

When?

In the past, but it’s gone away now, thanks, I said, hoping they’d just leave so I could commence the project of storing up enough courage to call another ambulance.

Well, the old one said, we’re still going to take you to hospital to check you out, do a cardiogram, keep you in for observation.

I don’t want to go anymore, I’m better, I said, then rose, retying my housecoat.

Your call, said Sideburns.

You are not my paramedic, I said, but only to myself. Sideburns’ cool, uncaring nature only proved how special and one-of-a-kind my paramedic really was. He would have taken as long as he needed to convince me of the importance of precaution, of regular checkups and expensive tests just to be sure. He’d have maybe even given me a hug while, of course, being careful it didn’t sail uncontrollably from the shores of compassionate to those of passionate in the way we all know hugs often do.

But if Sideburns left and I called again, they might not send another. They’d smell something fishy because it would be my fourth this month and I knew someone somewhere must keep track. I was already surprised this one had come.

Sideburns reached into his bag and produced a metal clipboard that flipped back. He handed me a pen.

Sign here to deny service, he said, putting his rubber-gloved finger to an X.

My paramedic was working tonight, of this I was sure. I’d counted the days more times than my own toes and had even bought him a greeting card at the dollar store. The prospect of waiting a minute longer was insufferable. All ambulances must eventually go to the hospital — it was the only place I could be sure he’d end up. And how suspicious it would seem if I went there on my own and just waited around.

I looked out the window. A red-bearded man was picking through the dumpster behind my building, a rack of grey cloud over everything. For that moment, I felt a hundred feet tall. Then I shrunk back to my normal size, which is maybe a little heavy but not too shabby.

I think I might want to kill myself, I said.

The other paramedic stopped writing with rubber gloves on in his clipboard and shot his eyes my way. Suddenly the thought of writing anything rubber-gloved depressed me unfathomably. I shut my eyes to appear as depressed as possible and found myself emitting a long, defeated breath like a punctured tire. I decided to keep eyeing the window, approximating a moody philosopher contemplating existence.

Sideburns came closer, plucked the clipboard from my hands.

Let me get this right, he said. You’ve just had a heart attack which you miraculously survived without any apparent complications, not any you’re worried about at least, but now that you are fine you’ve decided you want to kill yourself?

I felt real tears come but not quite enough to make whole drops. They teetered on the edges of my lids as cars do on cliffs in movies. I whipped myself with the thought of never seeing my paramedic again while blinking furiously in order to show Sideburns I meant business, but the drops disappeared like my eyes just drank them.

Yes, that’s right, I said.

Well, do you have a plan?

I paused because pausing means deep consideration. No, I said.

He turned and shot his hands in the air then slapped his thighs. The old guy grabbed the bridge of his nose and wrestled it.

No … actually, yes. I do.

He turned back. Okay. May I ask what it is?

I stuck my hand to my chin like that thinking statue and searched my mind while focusing on my paramedic, realizing I wasn’t even completely lying, I could want to die if I never saw him again and was unable to give him his card. Sideburns was still waiting so I indexed all the suicides I knew of — falling from a bridge, bleeding, eating pills, hanging, rat poison, gun in the mouth — and they each seemed equally terrifying and brave.

I’m going to make myself stop breathing? I said.

And how are you going to do that?

With my mind?

O-kay, he said, and approached his partner for a bit of whispering.

I knew what they were saying, not the words but the general idea. There are laws for this, for what I said. They were serious words, ones they couldn’t ignore. Whether Sideburns liked it or not this was a blood pact we’d made: my saying it, his hearing it. And when he strolled back to me, I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew, going to infinity. He flipped to a fresh sheet in his clipboard and started writing.

How long have you felt like harming yourself, he said, as if reading from a book he detested. Oh sorry, I know the answer to that one — let’s just do this on the way, shall we?

I need to clean up first, I said, and went carting some crumby plates to the sink. Nothing is more depressing — here I mean actually depressing — than returning from hospital to a messy place, but I didn’t say this because I figured from that point the less I spoke, the better for everyone. I rushed to my room to pack. I whipped my interesting nightgown off over my head and wadded it with two others, stuffing the wad with three underwear, a magazine, a hairbrush and medications into a bag. I only needed enough time to find my paramedic, but I liked to be prepared because I spent some time in a hospital as a kid and know the comfort of having your own stuff. People say in hospital the same way they say in love, because you really are different when you’re there, that is, if they keep you, which means they think you need help, which is nice of them to care about you that much.

I put on the fancy purple jogging suit I never have reason to wear, then removed it to change my underwear and put it back on. I brushed my hair twenty times on each side. I pulled his greeting card from under my pillow, closed it in a book then placed it in my bag.

Greeting cards have messages that say what you really want to say but don’t want to write yourself because that would mean you had to really mean it. If someone hates what a card says, or doesn’t feel the same way, then you can just say: Sorry! I picked the card at random! Or if they really did like it, and you can tell, then you say: I spent hours reading cards until I found the perfect one just for you! And they know how you really feel about them. Really, they’re a win-win situation.

After hours of reading at the dollar store, I picked one that said Love is in the air! inside, with a picture of two teddy bears on the front riding in a biplane with hearts painted on its wings. But I wanted to really express myself this time, so inside I wrote more: