Charles Bock - Alice & Oliver

And soon enough the eyes of the medical establishment would turn their attention onto Alice, for now it was her blood levels that needed to be checked, her vital statistics that again had to be measured, her IV bags rehung with new antibiotics, platelets, and steroids, her pills confirmed as having been ingested, and more than one of those catheters coming due for a change. Another urine sample was needed, and the morning nurse would have to rouse her again in six hours for another one after that, every six hours was the rule — although, before that happened, an assistant would come in, measure the exiting urine levels, change the toilet pans.

Throughout this night, Alice tried to be conscious and inhabit her best self. The smaller assistant — showing weak, gray teeth — asked if Alice had had a urine sample yet. The tall one made sure that the pitcher and plastic cup were filled with fresh water. Alice took care in lowering her head to the drinking straw. She asked each woman, separately, to say her name, then made comic guesses as to the origin countries of their accents. They listened to her inquiries about how long they had been on the night shift, her voice so worn that she might have been slurring.

Lon, the late-night nurse, the hard-faced woman with the gray teeth, told Alice she was doing great. All her signs suggested she’d be an early recoverer. She’d be out of here soon.

Her words might have been something all nurses said, something they knew that patients wanted to hear, and that would make the patients more compliant — would make following instructions that much easier. Still Alice thanked her.

It would be a while before she was entirely alone, in that darkened room, listening to the rhythms of that breathing tube, long in, wheeze out . By then Alice was exhausted. She had no strength to make sense of the events of the day. Instead she watched the night thin in the windows across the room, the impenetrable black lightening into slate gray. Thick waves of snow were coming down now, blankets of flakes. On Roosevelt Island, Alice could make out the fossil of an old factory — its three smokestacks sending white cotton plumes into the sky. The first colors of dawn were spreading in the far distance, yawning pink and orange, seeping at the edges, creeping over undefined, shabby warehouses. She watched the miniature trails of headlights from slow-moving freeway traffic, drivers getting a jump on the morning commute.

As the room lightened, she could pick out the pages and pictures of her wall collage: the superhumanly perfect limbs of Alvin Ailey dancers; Audrey Hepburn standing in front of Tiffany’s, one cheek a little puffy from the donut she was chewing. How much time Alice spent staring at the rest of the wall collage she did not know, but the oncoming morning helped, and the gray shades kept thinning through the room, so that more pages and pictures became identifiable: the elephant head of the Hindu lord of beginnings, remover of obstacles; another goddess standing on a lotus flower, reborn from the swirling milky ocean. Slick magazine pages with gorgeous women in blouses Alice had helped create. Pages on which she’d written song lyrics. Inspiring aphorisms. Her eyeballs throbbed from so much concentration, but she wouldn’t shut her eyes, for of this Alice Culvert was certain: if she fell asleep, she wouldn’t wake up.

ON THE SECOND Tuesday of March, winter finally blinked. Temperatures rose into the mid-fifties, territory that had become as mythical as a Knicks championship. Along the western end of Chelsea, it was as if a universal switch had been flicked, some mammalian, a priori urge activated. People actually wanted to be outside, free from their supremely ugly parachute jackets, the dragging weight of shearling or leather, coats whose linings were suffused with months of body sweat and smelled like cow carcass.

In the shadow of a brick housing project drab enough to be Soviet, along a courtyard of thawing mud, abuelas pushed wire carts packed with groceries and stuffed laundry sacks. Old men, sporty in panama hats and panama shirts, had busted out their lawn chairs and checkerboards and domino sets. For once no one was wearing gloves (so pesky and impossible to keep in pairs for more than a week at a time) or scarves (their annoying ends filthy with sauces and stains). Rather, as an unseen boom box blasted hip-hop jams, the fuzzy curls of hirsute chests were exposed by wifebeaters; teenagers talked shit and acted teenage crazy. One boy dribbled a basketball; his friend tried to steal it away; what they lacked in skill, they more than made up for in enthusiasm.

The town car containing the ragtag little family eased beyond the housing project and turned down a side street, passing a rumored crack house, a verifiable one, then a series of burnt-out cars, and a barren lot where the homeless congregated (for once, it was bereft of trash fires). Now a small triangular plot — one of the neighborhood’s volunteer gardens. Flashes of brilliant yellow showed through its taut link fence. Spring’s early arrivals. Admittedly gorgeous, but also oblivious, unaware of the concept of false spring, the irony that by opening their cups, these daffodils had doomed themselves. Nonetheless, instinct urged them: Onward. Bloom. Live.

Entering the Meatpacking District, the car slowed to a crawl, and pulled up in front of one of the block’s slaughterhouses. When the rear driver’s side door opened, Oliver emerged with a cleanly shaved head. Leaving his door open, he hurried around to the passenger side. He brought Alice out of the car, she was leaning into him — her pink wool winter cap had a puffball on top and long side flaps, and seemed far too large, nearly swallowing her head. Her silhouette was dwarfed inside her clothes. She had been frail, but this was something else — the effect of a second consolidation.

Presently her mother emerged from the passenger side. Holding a bundle close, she made mewling sounds, bounced the baby to her chest. Alice half-turned, thanked her mother, voice weak. A door slammed, the driver removing a series of travel suitcases from the trunk.

Once Alice and her mom and the baby were safely inside the warehouse, Oliver settled with the driver, and was halfway around the car, putting his wallet back in his pants, when he unclipped a small black block from his belt. He walked to a predetermined spot, a few steps off the sidewalk, and punched at that little device thing. Then he stopped. His body went alert, his head cocked. Concentration honed. Beneath the rusted elevated train tracks, he saw a homeless guy wrapped in a sleeping bag. But, beyond him, folded into the shadows, toward the back of the raised wooden platform that acted as a loading dock, something else. Someone. Leaning against the storefront’s metal rolling gate.

—

Peekaboo, I see you. Alice hid her face, popped away the doors of her hands. She could not help but smile, and as she beamed, a prominent Y of veins split down the middle of her forehead. Home again, thank Goddess, still in remission. Yet even a glance showed that her skull had shrunken further, turned flat and boxy, with giant veins on each side of her temples forming squarish parameters, and her cheeks sweeping down into her jawline. All of her accursed extra baby weight had been shed, and then some. Indeed, for the first time since her teen years, hip bones were visible. Which would have been lovely, except her body had been sapped of its elasticity, her arms and legs robbed of their admittedly meager muscle tone.

None of it mattered to Doe, her little mouth open, chirping out birdie peeps of delight. “Are you happy to be with Mommy? What a gorgeous little gumdrop.” Alice tickled the fat corners under Doe’s arms, basked in her daughter’s warmth, felt spent, leaned back — into her favorite chair, a seventies vintage recliner made by Scandinavian artisans.