scratching that itch.
23
DR. SETH’S house calls weren’t really house calls, but visits. He wasn’t worried about Hannah’s physical problems anymore; it was her mother’s body he came to see. He didn’t give Hannah’s liver a thought these days, saying hello quickly with a squeeze to the shoulder or an insincere pat on the back.
Twice a week, her mom and Dr. Seth sat together in the living room, sipping wine, eating crackers and soft cheese or little meatballs they picked up with toothpicks. Sometimes they had fat strawberries dusted with powdered sugar.
At dusk they moved to the bedroom, where, her mother told her, they listened to classical music.
Now it was early evening and Mozart sounded through the walls, down the hall, and into Hannah’s bedroom, where she sat at her desk putting together a puzzle—a gift from Dr. Seth. The puzzle was a re-creation of a famous painting. A woman sat on a hill looking at a house or the woman was crawling toward the house, Hannah wasn’t sure. She had the puzzle pieces spread out in front of her and was trying not to hear what was happening. The sitting or crawling woman’s back was only half there and Hannah was looking for her shoulder, and her mother was moaning in the next room, and the moan sounded painful, like the doctor might have been hurting her.
Hannah found the piece of the woman’s shoulder and snapped it into place and now the woman was a whole woman. The puzzle was really coming together. She leaned back for a moment, admiring her progress, while from the other room, her mother shouted: Oh, no. Oh, God, no. OK, OK, OK.
24
WHEN MARTIN stood at the nurses’ station with his hands jammed in his pockets, sucking on breath mints and waiting for Penny to return from handing out midnight meds, he felt remotely human. It was the briefest respite. It wasn’t redemption, which he certainly needed, but something else. He had no illusions about his gift-giving, and understood that buying toys for the girl could never absolve him of what he did and, mostly, didn’t do—stay put and care for the child—but Penny reminded him that some small part of him was still capable of feeling something other than guilt and shame.
They were becoming friends and maybe more than friends, and it was a human thing to do, more human than hating your sister or lying to your parents about how you spent your days or ignoring most of Tony’s phone calls and hanging out alone in your tiny apartment or on the couch in your parents’ den. It was risky, starting to care about someone—that urge to talk, to tell too much, to confide and confess already pressing on his throat.
Penny answered Martin’s questions and thankfully didn’t ask too many of her own, especially about what brought him to the hospital in the first place, which was obviously an unexplained and curious duty to Hannah Teller—nor did she ask why he kept coming back, even though she had told him Hannah had been released and sent home with her mother weeks ago. Martin had imagined the little girl sitting in a wheelchair and being pushed through the big glass doors and into the sunny day with all the new, complicated physical problems that were his fault.
He worried that Penny had a sense about what he had done and sometimes felt himself pulling away, recoiling—not from her, although it probably looked that way when he took a step back from the nurses’ station and said an abrupt good-bye or refused to accompany her downstairs to the cafeteria for her break.
Perhaps Penny was suspicious but was choosing not to acknowledge it—the way Tony Vancelli was telling him now that his new girlfriend, Veronica, a seriously religious girl, the daughter of a local minister, was oblivious to his heavy cocaine use. Sure, she’d asked Tony, who was a sloppy user, about the white powder under his nose, and sure, she noticed his mood swings, but she trusted him, Tony said—that’s all that matters finally, he told Martin,
23
DR. SETH’S house calls weren’t really house calls, but visits. He wasn’t worried about Hannah’s physical problems anymore; it was her mother’s body he came to see. He didn’t give Hannah’s liver a thought these days, saying hello quickly with a squeeze to the shoulder or an insincere pat on the back.
Twice a week, her mom and Dr. Seth sat together in the living room, sipping wine, eating crackers and soft cheese or little meatballs they picked up with toothpicks. Sometimes they had fat strawberries dusted with powdered sugar.
At dusk they moved to the bedroom, where, her mother told her, they listened to classical music.
Now it was early evening and Mozart sounded through the walls, down the hall, and into Hannah’s bedroom, where she sat at her desk putting together a puzzle—a gift from Dr. Seth. The puzzle was a re-creation of a famous painting. A woman sat on a hill looking at a house or the woman was crawling toward the house, Hannah wasn’t sure. She had the puzzle pieces spread out in front of her and was trying not to hear what was happening. The sitting or crawling woman’s back was only half there and Hannah was looking for her shoulder, and her mother was moaning in the next room, and the moan sounded painful, like the doctor might have been hurting her.
Hannah found the piece of the woman’s shoulder and snapped it into place and now the woman was a whole woman. The puzzle was really coming together. She leaned back for a moment, admiring her progress, while from the other room, her mother shouted: Oh, no. Oh, God, no. OK, OK, OK.
24
WHEN MARTIN stood at the nurses’ station with his hands jammed in his pockets, sucking on breath mints and waiting for Penny to return from handing out midnight meds, he felt remotely human. It was the briefest respite. It wasn’t redemption, which he certainly needed, but something else. He had no illusions about his gift-giving, and understood that buying toys for the girl could never absolve him of what he did and, mostly, didn’t do—stay put and care for the child—but Penny reminded him that some small part of him was still capable of feeling something other than guilt and shame.
They were becoming friends and maybe more than friends, and it was a human thing to do, more human than hating your sister or lying to your parents about how you spent your days or ignoring most of Tony’s phone calls and hanging out alone in your tiny apartment or on the couch in your parents’ den. It was risky, starting to care about someone—that urge to talk, to tell too much, to confide and confess already pressing on his throat.
Penny answered Martin’s questions and thankfully didn’t ask too many of her own, especially about what brought him to the hospital in the first place, which was obviously an unexplained and curious duty to Hannah Teller—nor did she ask why he kept coming back, even though she had told him Hannah had been released and sent home with her mother weeks ago. Martin had imagined the little girl sitting in a wheelchair and being pushed through the big glass doors and into the sunny day with all the new, complicated physical problems that were his fault.
He worried that Penny had a sense about what he had done and sometimes felt himself pulling away, recoiling—not from her, although it probably looked that way when he took a step back from the nurses’ station and said an abrupt good-bye or refused to accompany her downstairs to the cafeteria for her break.
Perhaps Penny was suspicious but was choosing not to acknowledge it—the way Tony Vancelli was telling him now that his new girlfriend, Veronica, a seriously religious girl, the daughter of a local minister, was oblivious to his heavy cocaine use. Sure, she’d asked Tony, who was a sloppy user, about the white powder under his nose, and sure, she noticed his mood swings, but she trusted him, Tony said—that’s all that matters finally, he told Martin,
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