Joseph Caldwell - Lazarus Rising

By now Daphne the receptionist, Anne the nurse, and Doctor Norstar herself had crowded around and were repeating over and over again what was apparently the child’s name, Joey. A stout woman who had been reading a magazine let the magazine rest on her lap and was taking in the scene with complete indifference. Johnny held the boy out away from him as if afraid he might pee on him. A gaunt young man with short-cropped hair crossed his arms over his lap and was resting his head. He brought one shoulder up, trying to cover an ear and shut out the noise. Dempsey herself was trying to extricate the tiger from the tangled yarn without letting any stitches slip from the needles.

“Here. I’ll take him.” Doctor Norstar reached out to Joey and placed her hands just below Johnny’s, firmly taking hold at the waist. As the doctor drew the child to herself, the boy began to cry. “What are you crying about?” the doctor asked. “You weren’t hurt. And why were you doing—doing that to Miss Coates?”

Doctor Norstar lowered Joey to the floor and the wail diminished to a whimper. “Daphne,” the doctor said, her voice finding, even in the confusion, the tone of concerned authority that Johnny considered one of her greater gifts, “Take him into my office. I’ll be right there.” She then turned to the child. “Run along with Daphne, unless you want to apologize first to Miss Coates for being so naughty.”

Joey turned toward Dempsey. He watched the tiger being freed from the yarn. “Coats?” the boy said. “Like raincoats?” He moved closer to Dempsey so he could observe the phenomenon at closer range.

Dempsey could only stare. Daphne took the child’s hand and was easing him toward the hall that led to Doctor Norstar’s office. Dempsey tried to smooth the sweater out over her lap, then examined the needles for dropped stitches.

“She resents you because you’re the one getting all her mother’s attention,” Johnny said.

Dempsey stared down at her knitting. Her face was still. “I know. But I was so scared. I thought it was my little boy—grown to that age, come to get even with me for giving him AIDS. But it wasn’t him.” She paused, then added softly, “If only it had been.”

Before Johnny could say anything, she resumed knitting, a plea that Johnny say nothing—at least for now. But he had to do something—offer some comfort—make some gesture of understanding, state his own exasperated plea that he be allowed to take up some share of her hauntings. Before he could sort out his options and arrive at any particular insistence, Doctor Norstar came over and sat down on the chair just on the other side of the end table.

Slowly she lowered herself, with utmost control, as if worried that she might collapse into the seat. “I’ll take the blame for that one,” she said. “I had to bring him with me. A pipe burst at Day Care, I couldn’t get hold of Inez, and her father’s got a case in court. Sorry.” She was speaking through the philodendron on the table, making some of the leaves stir. Johnny’s plea would have to wait. Dempsey turned toward Doctor Norstar. A leaf touched her nose. She shifted her body closer to Johnny. “It’s all right,” Dempsey said quickly. “I’m fine.” She took a deep breath and let it out, raising and lowering her entire torso to reinforce the effort. She looked down at the sweater bunched on her lap. “I understand,” she whispered.

“Thanks.” Doctor Norstar held out a hand toward the knitting needles. “But if you could hold off for just a minute. The needles going like that make me talk too fast.” She shoved the plant back farther on the table so she could have a better view of her patient.

Dempsey turned to look at the doctor, no longer shielded by the leaves. She lowered the needles onto her lap. To Johnny the doctor’s smile seemed now not an indulgent benevolence bestowed on an intractable patient, but a determined effort to conceal a weariness, an attempt to contradict an obvious truth: Doctor Norstar, uninfected, free of any virus that might inflict itself on her sturdy young body, was nonetheless being consumed by the pestilence that surrounded her. Untouched by actual contagion, she was still not immune to the depletions, the wasting, and the brave hypocrisies that plagued her patients. She, too, it seemed to Johnny, had experienced the denials and anger and had come at last to this sad acceptance that—if one was lucky—marked the final phase of the illness. She, too, was being consumed; she, too, had experienced the rack, the rage, the drained energy seeping away, the need to lie down with only one final plea—that she be excused from having to rise again, ever.

Slowly Dempsey’s hand rose from her lap. She was reaching toward Doctor Norstar’s face but stopped just after it had begun the curve that would bring the hand to the doctor’s cheek. Johnny could see Dempsey in profile, still turned toward the doctor. Maybe it was because some color had come into her cheeks, or her terror, still there, had drawn the flesh smoothly back to show the fine high cheekbone, the slightly swollen lips, the curved line that flowed from her chin, along her neck, to her throat. Her ear, glimpsed through her hair, seemed heartbreaking because it was so unaware of itself. Dempsey, as always, was transcendently beautiful.

Now, even with the doctor there, was surely the time to ask her to marry him. He couldn’t help it. He had to ask her now, in this moment of her unbearable perfection. But again he waited one moment too long. “Can’t we go now?” Dempsey said.

“Yes, of course.” Doctor Norstar pulled the philodendron back into position. The session was over. She smoothed her starched white smock and shifted her feet out from under her chair. She was getting ready to stand up. Dempsey was shoving her unfinished sweater, yarn, and needles down into the sailcloth bag. The words “Guggenheim Museum Downtown” were stenciled on its side. It was the tote she lugged with her just about everywhere—including the bathroom—when she was worried that she might be kept waiting. She stood up.

“No. Wait,” Doctor Norstar said. She was laughing. “What are we doing? You have an appointment. I haven’t seen you yet.”

Johnny and Dempsey, too, and for a moment, Doctor Norstar, had forgotten. The doctor headed down the hall to her office. Johnny and Dempsey followed. Daphne, Joey in tow, came out. Joey backed against the wall, his arms flat against it. “Go on, Joey, go on,” Daphne said, but Joey didn’t move. When Dempsey and Johnny passed him, Johnny heard Joey say, “Her name is Coats. Like raincoats.”

The elevator moved down slowly. Perhaps this was in deference to those who should be spared anything that might rattle or jar. Or it could be that the prolonged ride was provided as a special courtesy, a mercy for those who needed a suspended state where adjustment, assimilations, could be made, where preparations could be formulated and decisions made. In this intervening time, fate could be embraced or refused, or simply stared in the face. Reprieves could be given, stunned acknowledgments made, the foot made firm, the eyes hardened, and the heart prepared.

The elevator stopped at the fourth floor and two chatty and cheerful women got on. Dempsey let out an aggrieved sigh and pulled her tote bag closer to her stomach. Doctor Norstar had told them to return—yet again—to the third floor of St. Vincent’s clinic for yet another round of blood work. The lab had—yet again—confused the tests. The results sent over in Dempsey’s name were obviously not hers.

“But why can’t they be my tests?” Dempsey had asked.

“Not possible.” The doctor had shaken her head.

“But my T-cells have gone up and down, up and down from the beginning.”