J. Wachowski - In Plain View

“I don’t know! You had a sample pack of meds in your gym bag. The stuff for your back, remember? Where did you get those?”

“From my doctor. That’s the only place you can get them.” Her voice dropped. “Oh Lord, did Jenny think she was taking something for pain?”

“That would be my bet.”

Tonya was paralyzed by the thought of contributing to Jenny’s condition. Her voice was a monotone. “I’d never forgive myself-”

“It’s not-” your fault, I started to say.

“Of course it is! Yours and mine-this child has no one else.”

“ That I am fully aware of,” I said. Loudly.

We both turned and looked at Jenny. She kept right on sleeping.

“I do not understand you.” Tonya’s voice dropped to a steamy whisper. “Why do you prefer living in hell?”

How did she do that? Stick me where I never expect, and bleed a wound I didn’t even realize was open. I clapped my mouth shut and started counting to one hundred, while gesturing in large useless motions.

Tonya went into nurse-mode, fluffing pillows with double-fisted punches, snapping the sheets smooth and tucking them under the mattress with a kung-fu chop. Normally, she was the kind of person who flowed in motion, never looked off-balance or clumsy. At that moment, she looked like dry sticks animated. I didn’t get up from the bed. I made her work around me. As she jerked the blanket into position, I nearly fell off the edge.

“You have a life, a beautiful, precious girl-child put in your hands. Something other people would die for.” She waved at Jenny, laid out like an effigy. I knew she was speaking of herself. Tonya would have gladly accepted Jenny into her life. Through me, she already had.

“What else am I supposed to do, T? I don’t know how to be the mom.”

“There are only two requirements,” she said with all the patience of someone explaining the how-to of bar soap. “You commit to the long haul. And you consider her needs first. She won’t always get top priority, but she always gets first consideration.”

“I’m committed.”

“You haven’t even moved out of your apartment yet! How committed is that?” Tonya’s voice amplified with every word.

My eyes kept drifting toward the television screen. It was impossible to turn away from the flash and comfort of those familiar images-the smiling faces and sugary landscapes, figments of our collective, mass-consuming unconscious. Even knowing all that I know, doing all that I do, I sighed. Little House had shimmered before me in childhood reruns, like the mirage of heaven hammered into me on Sunday mornings. There was the wise, kind father, the patient, loving mother, and the sisters who all lived together in a land where truth was known, justice was served and love begat love, never suffering.

Behind me, Tonya spat, “If you don’t stop looking at that God- damned television and pay attention to me!” She whipped the plastic cup from Jenny’s bedside tray at my head. It clipped me, took a high bounce and smacked the bottom of the set. Must have caught the power button. The picture popped off; the screen a sudden darkling glass.

Empty.

Everything went out of me in the breath that followed. Busted, sucking comfort from a little house on the prairie. I swung my legs around to the side of the bed. The vent was blowing hospital AC right in my face. The cold burned the wet lines on my cheeks.

Tonya moved toward me, looking like she regretted every step.

“Careful,” I told her. “I stink.”

“Yeah, you do.” She put her arms around me anyway. I felt her shaking her head, her cheek pressed to my scalp.

Again, it was impossible to turn away.

Jenny woke up around lunchtime. There was a bit of bedlam at first-thrashing, tubes coming undone, machines beeping like crazy, but it didn’t last long.

The nurse said we got off easy. “Usually we see some projectile vomiting when they come around.”

Possible sign my life was on the rebound?

Hold that thought.

We had a visit from the doctor making rounds. Tonya sat in while we heard that they would probably keep her one more night “to see what happened with the seizures.” Jenny accepted it all with big eyes and nodding; she didn’t start to cry until the woman got to the part about the social worker who would be visiting before Jenny could check out of the hospital.

“Why did you leave school yesterday?” the nice-lady doctor asked.

Jenny shot me a worried look and shrugged.

“Where did you get the medicine?”

“Found it.”

“Where?”

“Mommy’s medicine box?” Jenny’s eyes filled with tears.

My sister was spinning in her grave. I could feel the breeze.

“Tell me about why you took it, honey.”

“I just…” Jenny started off strong, as if there was a way she could explain, but her voice faded, “…thought they’d make me feel better. That’s all. Really,” she added for my benefit.

“This is very serious, Jenny,” the doctor said. “Everyone here is worried about you. That’s why we’re going to have the social worker come talk to you. We all need to understand what happened so we can make sure it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t. I swear,” Jenny pleaded.

“Don’t panic, kid.” I squeezed her hand. “You don’t have to go alone if you don’t want to. I’ll go with you.”

“You will?” Jenny’s voice sounded awful. She was choked up and the tubes had scratched her throat pretty good.

“If you want.”

“I think we ought to meet this social worker before there is any talking,” Tonya said, casting serious doubt on the title social worker. “All of us.”

“Certainly,” the nice-lady doctor replied.

“Good thinking,” I said.

Tonya gave a tight-lipped nod. Everybody was in agreement.

The rest of the day was busy. Tonya yelled at me about changing channels too much, while we took turns playing cards and reading to Jenny. I pretended to nap but couldn’t stop myself from checking out the competition’s news magazine shows.

I tried not to think about work. It was impossible. Employed or unemployed, the story rattled through my head.

A long time ago, I learned that truth isn’t relative. It’s quantum. The closer you get, the smaller and infinitely more complex the related elements become. The modern world lives in smaller and smaller segments. There’s Coke, Diet Coke, Caffeine Free, and Cherry. We added to G, PG, PG-13, R, NR and NC-17 with Gens X, Y and Z on the way. Television isn’t so different from life. It’s built from bits and pieces, strung together over time, and repeated on the endless reruns of the mind.

Except for the part about things making sense by the end.

Part of my problem is that I’ve gotten too good at seeing parts. Finding a way to tell the story without exploiting Rachel, without using Nicky Curzon’s off-the-record explanation for Tom’s arrest, without relying on a little salacious conjecture about all those porn magazines…it seemed impossible. Not to mention the fact that any story I produced might become fodder against Curzon’s re-election for sheriff, which would never stop me from reporting on the story, but might qualify as a speed bump.

Editing a story together is similar to taking a photo. Shadows determine form; the light source determines the shadows. I couldn’t figure out where to shine the light on this.

“Maybe I’ll go and see about some caffeine.”

“Bring me something.” Tonya waved at the breakfast tray.

“Me too,” Jenny agreed. Her mushy fruit sat abandoned, a spoon poking out from under a paper napkin shroud.

“Caffeine and ‘somethings’ all around. I’ll be back.”