brow. It is damp and hot to the touch. I see blood on my fingers.
I go to the restroom and my reflection forces me back a step, from shock. My face is milk white and my eyes are red slits sunk in sallow hollows beneath filthy, coagulated hair. The Band-Aid I bought at the Kansas City airport is soaked through with blood. I didn’t even realize I was cut until I had driven halfway back to Kansas City and a trickle of blood dripped into my eye. I don’t remember being hit—I only remember the blinding light.
I had washed up at the airport in Kansas City the best I could, then wrapped some ice in a napkin and held it there until the bleeding stopped, but I guess it started again. I peel the blood-soaked Band-Aid off, wincing when I see the deep, open split in my brow. I may need stitches but not here, not now. My flight to Burlington connects in an hour and I will stop at the ER at the university hospital on the way home.
I wash up and dab the cut clean and put a towel against the wound until the bleeding stops and then I take the small packet of Band-Aids from my pocket and apply two fresh ones and go find my gate and sit there and think.
What in the name of God is happening?
I take out my phone and dial my voicemail. Four messages: “Jack? It’s Nicki. Call me right away, please.” The next one, again from Nicki: “Jack, where are you? It’s very important that you call me immediately. I’m at the office but here’s my cell…” A similar message from Joel, and one from Arnie.
Now what?
I sit there, wondering what to do. Everything in me resists the idea of calling them. I am certain it is bad news.
They call boarding time for my flight and I get up and I am the first in line to get on the flight to Burlington and get the hell out of here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I drive away from Burlington International Airport in my truck and head for the University of Vermont hospital. I reach it in a few minutes and pull into the parking lot beside the ER.
I go inside and give my information to the registry nurse and she gives me a chemical ice pack for my head and I sit in the waiting room. I take out my phone and look at Nicki’s number. I don’t want to hear what she has to tell me, but how long can I put it off? I snap the phone shut and put it in my pocket and distract myself with the television hanging from the ceiling in a corner of the waiting area. The TV is tuned to a daytime talk show featuring the show’s hosts, all women, interviewing transsexuals about their difficulties maintaining meaningful long-term relationships. I take out my phone again and look at Nicki’s number. I try to gather my scattered thoughts and, in my dizzy, light-headed state, I find those thoughts focusing on Nicki. But not as my attorney. As a woman. I don’t want to call her because I’m afraid of what she has to tell me. But I want to call her just to talk to her, to hear her voice. I wonder if I could have a meaningful long-term relationship with her. I listen to the advice from the women on the talk show, but none of it seems to apply. “Love is love, no matter who you are,” one of the hosts tells one of the transsexuals, who is crying. Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing. The TV cuts to a commercial for floor wax. I close my eyes. Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…
I feel my pulse rising inexorably. I can’t stop it. Panic needles again, up and down my arms and legs, more than before, more than I can remember…
The door opens to the waiting area and a short, round nurse calls my name and I get up and follow her back to an exam room, where I sit on the paper-covered examination table. Flecks of grave soil drop off my clothes and onto the white paper and I brush them off. I look up and see myself in a small mirror on the wall and once again I am taken aback by my wretched appearance. My face is colorless and my breathing is shallow and realize I
I go to the restroom and my reflection forces me back a step, from shock. My face is milk white and my eyes are red slits sunk in sallow hollows beneath filthy, coagulated hair. The Band-Aid I bought at the Kansas City airport is soaked through with blood. I didn’t even realize I was cut until I had driven halfway back to Kansas City and a trickle of blood dripped into my eye. I don’t remember being hit—I only remember the blinding light.
I had washed up at the airport in Kansas City the best I could, then wrapped some ice in a napkin and held it there until the bleeding stopped, but I guess it started again. I peel the blood-soaked Band-Aid off, wincing when I see the deep, open split in my brow. I may need stitches but not here, not now. My flight to Burlington connects in an hour and I will stop at the ER at the university hospital on the way home.
I wash up and dab the cut clean and put a towel against the wound until the bleeding stops and then I take the small packet of Band-Aids from my pocket and apply two fresh ones and go find my gate and sit there and think.
What in the name of God is happening?
I take out my phone and dial my voicemail. Four messages: “Jack? It’s Nicki. Call me right away, please.” The next one, again from Nicki: “Jack, where are you? It’s very important that you call me immediately. I’m at the office but here’s my cell…” A similar message from Joel, and one from Arnie.
Now what?
I sit there, wondering what to do. Everything in me resists the idea of calling them. I am certain it is bad news.
They call boarding time for my flight and I get up and I am the first in line to get on the flight to Burlington and get the hell out of here.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I drive away from Burlington International Airport in my truck and head for the University of Vermont hospital. I reach it in a few minutes and pull into the parking lot beside the ER.
I go inside and give my information to the registry nurse and she gives me a chemical ice pack for my head and I sit in the waiting room. I take out my phone and look at Nicki’s number. I don’t want to hear what she has to tell me, but how long can I put it off? I snap the phone shut and put it in my pocket and distract myself with the television hanging from the ceiling in a corner of the waiting area. The TV is tuned to a daytime talk show featuring the show’s hosts, all women, interviewing transsexuals about their difficulties maintaining meaningful long-term relationships. I take out my phone again and look at Nicki’s number. I try to gather my scattered thoughts and, in my dizzy, light-headed state, I find those thoughts focusing on Nicki. But not as my attorney. As a woman. I don’t want to call her because I’m afraid of what she has to tell me. But I want to call her just to talk to her, to hear her voice. I wonder if I could have a meaningful long-term relationship with her. I listen to the advice from the women on the talk show, but none of it seems to apply. “Love is love, no matter who you are,” one of the hosts tells one of the transsexuals, who is crying. Love is a sickness full of woes, all remedies refusing. The TV cuts to a commercial for floor wax. I close my eyes. Love beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things…
I feel my pulse rising inexorably. I can’t stop it. Panic needles again, up and down my arms and legs, more than before, more than I can remember…
The door opens to the waiting area and a short, round nurse calls my name and I get up and follow her back to an exam room, where I sit on the paper-covered examination table. Flecks of grave soil drop off my clothes and onto the white paper and I brush them off. I look up and see myself in a small mirror on the wall and once again I am taken aback by my wretched appearance. My face is colorless and my breathing is shallow and realize I
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