Florence looked at the clock. It was fifteen minutes past 10. Florence looked at the door. She checked the angle of her wheelchair to the door. With her right hand she clutched the worn black leather purse by her side wedged between her leg and the chair.
The TV was on. What was on? A court case show. She slowly ran her fingers over the buttons. She turned the TV off and stared at the door.
Twenty past 10. He was late. He wasn't usually late. Did he forget? Did I forget? Florence looked out the window through the blinds. It looked hot out there. The TV said it wouldn't be hot, but it looks hot. Why did she wear long sleeves? Her oxygen tank clicked in the bedroom. She turned her head and made sure her portable one was still attached and ready to go. It still was.
At 10:22 he came. She saw him out the corner of her eye. She stared at the door. She'd show him how ready she was. How late he was. It wasn't that big of a deal. She slowly pulled her purse onto her lap.
"Hey Florence, sorry I'm late."
He walked in. Why doesn't he shave? He looks tired. She asked him if he wanted some coffee.
"Oh no no no. We're late."
A bagel? She'd bought some cheese last week.
"No. We should get going."
Yeah, we're late. You're late. I'm late. It's only a doctor's appointment. And there are only three of them one after another. She asked him if he was sure he didn't want some coffee as he started to wheel her out the door.
He slammed the front wheels of the chair on the rise of the doorframe. Florence lurched forward just as she always did when she was rolled straight out the door.
"Shit! Shoot! Sorry Florence."
"Yeah, you'd uh better watch it there. I'll end up on the cement and you'll have to scrape me up and throw me in your car."
He managed a chuckle. He whipped her around and backed her out the door, over the bump. It was fake. Then again, she was being fake. He was late. What the heck was he doing? She'd told him two or three times. Reminded him.
He wheeled her over to his car. It was hot. It was going to get hotter, she sensed. She said nothing. It was too late now.
He wheeled her over to the car. He opened the car door and pulled her oxygen tank out of the sack on her chair. He put it on the floor of the passenger's side. He took her hand and helped her into the seat. He put the oxygen tank between her legs. He shut the door.
Florence waited. It was hot. He folded up her wheelchair and put it in the trunk of the car. It was getting hotter by minute. She slid her hand up the door to put the window down. She knew it wouldn't work but she let her fingers fumble over the lock anyway. It didn't work.
He shut the trunk. She could feel a little sweat droplet welling on her back where her tube started to come up her neck, over her ears, and under her nose. She took a deep breath. The pressure of her portable oxygen was different from the one at home. She wished she didn't have to leave home. She tried to take a deep breath.
He got in the car. It was good for her to leave the house.
"Sorry again about being late," he said. It sounded like he was trying to start a conversation. Was she that boring? She over-assured him it was not a problem. She told him it was the first time he'd been late (it wasn't). She told him they could get a sandwich after the appointments. She expected a reaction from him, but there was none.
They drove. He turned on the air conditioning. That felt better, yes. She stretched her legs a little. Made sure her seatbelt was on and hadn't put a kink in her oxygen tube. She tried to take a deep breath again. The air conditioning was really cool. Almost too cool.
She thought about her old air conditioner. The one in the blue apartment. When they bought that air conditioners were still kind of new. New to her anyway. That's when her mother was still around. Her mother, two daughters, their significants, and two or three kids. Jesus. That thing pumped out freezing cool air, no matter now low or high you turned the knob. And it would leak like crazy. The carpet turned to much. The floor underneath turned to mush.
He turned the air conditioner down a notch. The engine relaxed a bit. She tried to take a deep breath. It was 10:34. Thirty minutes late. If the appointment with Dr. Thompson went over an hour she'd be pressing to get to the next one by 12. It was almost on the other side of town. This could be trouble.
That apartment had two bedrooms. She could picture her mom and her sleeping on the couch or the floor while the kids had their rooms with the kids. They were so ungrateful. Well, Sheri was ungrateful. Always. She didn't even make them pay rent. And she couldn't even call her once in a while. She lived less than a mile away and she saw her once a year. Florence remembered the night she heard Sheri's husband beat her. He was still a boyfriend at the time. How could she marry him after that? Have a kid with him? He damn near killed her by the end of it all and there was Sheri begging to move back in. In the green apartment. Florence looked out the window and tried to throw out her thinking like the trash. Out.
The car pulled into the doctor's office. He turned off the key and she waited. With the air conditioning off she really noticed a difference. Don't take too long. Don't take too long. Her door opened. The chair was already there. She forgot to lift the oxygen for him. He grabbed it and took her hand. Led her to the chair. Wheeled her in the office.
"Sorry we're late," he said cheerfully. He always perked like he had a cup of coffee in his tummy when there were female receptionists to flirt with.
They made small talk. Florence looked around the waiting room. There was no one there.
"Dr. Thompson isn't here yet you guys."
"Not here?" he sounded surprised. He wasn't. She wasn't either, really. Dr. Thompson was often late. Florence had forgotten that until now. She could tell he was angry. His voice, even in the midst of starting a good flirt session, dropped a bit.
"How have you guys been?" said a Mexican girl. She wore so much makeup. She looked like a whore. She only looked at him when she spoke.
"Not bad. We thought we'd be kind of late so...I guess it's good we aren't."
Inane conversation. That girl was really a whore. But probably perfect for him. He's the kind of guy her daughters would have fallen for back then. No, no. He wasn't a greasy biker. He wouldn't spend his afternoons in bars and pool halls. When was the last time Sheri even called? A month ago? Florence tried to remember. She looked at the wall. She felt tired. Was it time for her pills? No, it wasn't 12. And she hadn't eaten.
He was still flirting. The phone rang. He stared at the girl's chest. He quickly looked at Florence and she gave him a silly grin. "Oh, I left you in the middle of the office. Here." He wheeled her over near a seat against the wall. "You want a magazine?"
She started to answer but then the girl got off the phone and he was over there again. She looked at the table at the magazines. Wouldn't she want to read one anyway? At last Dr. Thompson appeared behind the Mexican slut. He raised his eyebrows and some other nonsense and they finally went in the office. After they waited in there for another 10 minutes Dr. Thompson came in and smiled.
"How are you these days?" Dr. Thompson asked.
Florence told her. She told her everything, starting with her back. It was like a needle in the left side of her spine. There was her elbow. That hurt a little like arthritis. Her right foot hurt. Mostly her ankle, but she wondered if the circulation was bad again. And her fingers. That was about the worst of it all. She held out her hand. It looked like a useless appendage. A useless raisin appendage. She got choked up when she talked about her hand. Not so much because of the way it looked. But because of the way it felt. She wanted to cut her hands off sometimes. Dr. Thompson nodded.
"How's your sleeping?"
Fine. Usually. A few sleepless nights here and there. None of those night...terrors. Haven't had one of them for a while.
"Can I see your hands?"
Florence held them out again. She didn't look at them this time. She looked at the wall. At the anatomy chart. She looked at the hands. Working hands. Living breathing working hands. Hands that used to laugh. Hands that used to smoke. Hands that talked when she talked. A body that talked. And, the end of the line. She was religious but she remembered God when she reminded herself to. She did now. As she looked at the Pfizer Anatomy Chart she thought of God.
“Florence, you’re taking oxycontin right?”
Of course she did. She took it everyday. Every time she took pills she took that. She told Dr. Thompson.
“I think I’m going to up your prescription from three a day to eight.”
There was a silence in the room. It was already quiet, but it got more quiet. He turned around and looked at the doctor. Whatever. Whatever works. She looked at her hand now. It was constricted. Like it was holding something.
“I’m a little worried about your hand. I’m going to prescribe an anti-inflammatory and also a heavy duty arthritis pill.”
Dr. Thompson wrote the prescription. She gave it to Florence and made some small talk. Florence told her again about her back. That it felt like a needle was sticking in it. Like a needle at a 45 degree angle.
Dr. Thompson nodded her head and soon Florence was being wheeled out the door.
“Byyyyeee,” said the Mexican girl. Florence turned around and raised her hand, but the girl wasn't looking at her.
“We’ll see you later. I hope you do well on your exam,” he stopped pushing the chair and started talking to her again.
Florence looked at her watch. It was nearly 11:35. Ten minutes to drive there. A few minutes to get out of the car. They’d be pushing 12 o'clock. Two minutes to walk to the car, 3 minutes to get into the car, 10 minutes to drive there, 3 minutes to park and get out of the car. As Florence added the numbers she realized they wouldn’t be late. In this she was somewhat disappointed. They’d be right on time, most likely. She took a deep breath out, until he chest began to wheeze. She looked at him. He was animated in a way she’d never seen. A young man on the prowl, thought Florence. A young man with his whole life ahead of him. Her husband was like that. She could picture him dancing in a barn. Her friends thought he was an idiot. But handsome enough. Not bad, at any rate. Dancing in the hay. Kicking up bits of straw. He had straw all over his pants.
Talking and talking. What do you do on the weekend usually? Oh, not much. Usually watch some TV, help my mom. Is your Mom working? No, she usually stays at home. Sometime she help my Dad if he has a big job. Where does your Dad work? He works at a winery in town. Oh, which winery. Wente. You know it? Sure, I know it. Good wine. It's a good company for him. He started off working in the fields but now he's a manager of...he manages a whole section of the winery. Both laugh nervously.
Florence knew this song and dance. Doesn't change much, does it? She had just stared working in the bank in San Francisco and he’d come in to deposit a service check every month. She'd recognized and remembered him the second time he came in, but didn't give it much thought until he'd started coming every week, always to her window. He was a little shy. A little handsome. Not handsome. He looked like a real Italian. Like one of the Joeys from South San Francisco. They could be trouble but they had good Catholic hearts. He had a big nose. Like a bulb. Dark eyes. He was short and stocky. I fought in the war he told her on two separate occasions. It wasn't until he came in twice the next week, to her window that she got a little nervous. He slipped her a note and winked. She knew what it was. She took it with her right hand and watched him walk out of the bank into the afternoon sun. When he was safely away she read it: “You are beautiful. Please call me (415) 459-9941.”
Florence moved to look at her purse. A patient opened the door into Florence's wheelchair. A man squeezed his head through the door. He was angry. Until he looked at what was stopping the door and saw the head of an old woman attached to the metal appendage. "Oh, ha ha ha. I'm so sorry."
"May I help you?" said the Mexican slut.
Florence was wheeled back so the man could enter. "I'm here to drop off some samples of something-flex,” Florence couldn’t quite make it out. “And I've got some other goodies too. I've got calendars and some post-it notes. Are you guys available for lunch today?"
The talking floated into the background. Florence looked through the still opened door. Through it she could see another door. Outside the window was her helper's car. She looked at her watch. The man was still talking. She looked for her helper over her shoulder. What was he doing? Was he really going to wait out this sales pitch? Was he really going to leave me sitting here in a doorway, waiting out a sales pitch, so he could talk to that slut more? She glared over her shoulder. Then she gave up and looked at the door.
She'd never called him. Two weeks passed and he came in the bank again, visibly nervous. He was more polite. He took his hat off when he spoke to her. She’d never felt so alive. Here was this soldier practically on his knees just to talk to her. She said yes. He picked her up at her house. They went to dinner and an Army dance. She’d never been to Livermore. It was hot there. That’s about all she’d heard about the place. They drove all the way to Livermore. She couldn't have known less than a year she'd be driving from Livermore to San Francisco to go to work. It took over an hour. She didn't tell him that when he dropped her off her head was splitting in two because she wanted a cigarette so bad. And she didn't tell him that she ran not to her parent's house but into the side alley behind it where she could smoke one or two cigarettes. He told her later, after they were married, how he'd run off to the men's bathroom to smoke a cigarette during the night. He’d brought her a flower and she carried it with her the whole night. A single white flower. They danced. They sat at a table in the corner. He'd almost cried when he’d told her about his sister who had died of a broken neck while playing next to a creek on the outskirts of town. Not far from here. Florence didn’t know much about men then. She let him kiss her and take her home late. Her parents were furious. Her father threw her purse against the door. Because he knew he was losing his daughter.
The finally finished talking. He gave her his number. Can't imagine that. Would she call him? Would she really sit on her bed and call a boy?
They got to the next appointment and it was a lot like the first. The aches and pains. The hard listening. The advice. More pills. Next doctor. Did they really listen to her? She waited in the car while he went into the store dropped off her prescriptions and got a sandwich. Then they went home.
Sometimes they didn't talk at all. She knew when someone was trying to make conversation with her and when someone wasn't. She wanted to ask him about that Mexican slut at the doctor's office. She thought better. That was his business and she didn't care much for it anyway. If she didn't start a conversation they didn't talk much. Occasionally they'd talk about the war in Iraq. But war gets tiring. It's on the TV all night and day. It was only worth talking about when something big happened. Like when they took down the Sadaam Hussein stature. Or killed his son. And even then, no one likes to talk about war. So mostly they'd just watch TV together.
He was eating his sandwich. Florence didn't like him to work while he was eating, so she got up to get her own glass of water. She pulled herself out of her chair and whipped her oxygen cord around the chair kind of like a lasso. She shuffled over to the kitchen. She could hear him chewing. She took one step and could hear him chew 10 times before she took a step.
She pulled out the water and put it on the counter. She reached to get a glass but they were all toward the back of the cabinet. She couldn't even see one. She reached up and just put the tips of her finger on a glass. She pulled it toward her and it fell into her hand. She didn't think about how close she was to pulling the glass right past her hand and onto the floor in a million pieces. She also didn't notice the rustling sound in front of the TV. Or if she did, she thought it was his sandwich wrapper. But it wasn't. It was the bag of medicine they'd just picked up at Safeway.
Florence poured her glass of water. She took a big sip of the cool water. She'd earned it. What a long day. Three appointments. She wanted to go to sleep. It was only 4:30 p.m. though. She was a bit peckish too. "You want some ice cream?" She headed back to the refrigerator. "I need something sweet. And it's hot. And I deserve it," she chuckled to herself.
Again, she didn't so much notice the sound coming from the area of the TV, but she did somehow notice that it had happened twice. Before she opened the freezer door to get her pint of choco choco chip ice cream he turned her head and looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see well, but she could see his hand reaching into her bag of pills. He was being awful quiet about it. She couldn't even hear the sound of him pulling a bottle out of the bag.
Florence was stunned and her oxygen tank clicked. She became more aware of sounds. The TV commentator at a baseball game. The next door neighbor's dog barking. A car driving past outside. Her freezer hummed. She turned back around and got the ice cream out.
When she was walking back to the other side of the kitchen she looked directly into the sitting area. He was watching TV. Eating his sandwich like nothing had happened. He was chewing with about the same motion as she'd heard before. She'd forgotten bowls. She turned back around and headed for the other side of the kitchen. Her feet shuffling on the ground. The TV was on a commercial. The dog stopped barking. A bottle of pills popped open. Of all the sounds in her life these days Florence knew that one like the back of her hand.
She got the bowls down quite easily and in no time was scooping the choco choco chip into two bowls. She didn't hear any other sounds. And by the time she'd made it back over to her chair with the bowls of ice cream on a TV tray the bag of pills was sitting right where it was. Looking mostly like it did before. Not totally. But mostly.