Part 10 (1/2)
Dr. Orlando's tone said he didn't believe him. ”Yes, well, be that as it may, I-” He stopped and pointed at Darryl's hand. ”Oh, I see you have a tattoo. Contaminated tattoo needles can spread the infection as well.”
Darryl looked down at the little black Kicker Man in the web between his thumb and forefinger.
”Aw, no. Don't say that.”
”The manner in which you were infected does not affect your treatment options. The fact that you have Kaposi's indicates that you've been infected for some time-years, most likely.”
Years? Then it couldn't be the Kicker tattoo. He hadn't had it anywhere near that long. But how then? Darryl couldn't imagine. He'd had a couple of girlfriends back in Dearborn after his divorce-well, okay, before his divorce too-but he'd always used a rubber because they hadn't been the choosiest women.
But right now how how didn't matter all that much. He had AIDS, man. f.u.c.king didn't matter all that much. He had AIDS, man. f.u.c.king AIDS AIDS!
He listened to the doc go on about staging him and waiting for the results of tests that would take longer to complete and how treatment was so much better these days.
Yeah, sure. Medical bulls.h.i.+t. Everybody knew AIDS was a death sentence. So as the doc rattled on about this and that, tossing out terms like T-cell counts and remission, Darryl rose and forced his rubbery legs to carry him out of the office and back down toward the street.
Dead man walking.
He wasn't a fool. He'd been handed a death sentence.
He just couldn't let anyone else know.
11.
Jack spotted Eddie at the far end of the waiting area, motioning him over.
”It's her,” he said, relief large on his face as Jack reached him. ”Weezy's their Jane Doe.”
He pressed a hand over his eyes and for a moment Jack thought he was going to sob. He squeezed his old friend's shoulder.
”At least she's in good hands.”
He nodded. ”I was so worried. She's nutty as a fruitcake, but I love her to death. She's the only family left.”
Uh-oh. Jack had never thought to ask ...
”Your folks?”
”Gone. Mom from cancer, Dad from a car crash a year later.”
”I'm sorry. I never heard a thing about it.”
”It's okay. Old news.”
”How's Weez?”
”Pretty banged up and still unconscious.”
”I want to see her.”
Eddie looked at him. ”You sure?”
”h.e.l.l, yeah. I didn't get involved in this just to locate her and say, 'See ya, bye.' ”
She'd been his best friend at one time and he hadn't seen her in ages. He needed to lay eyes on her at least once.
He followed him upstairs to a semiprivate room that seemed oddly familiar. At least it wasn't an ICU or trauma unit. The inside bed was empty. Eddie led him to the one by the window.
”Hey, Weez,” he said to the supine figure under the sheet. ”You'll never guess who's here.”
The figure didn't move or respond as Jack stepped closer and looked down at his childhood friend.
He could see that she'd added a few pounds-picked up some of the weight Eddie had lost, maybe? Her face had rounded out, but he could still see the old Weezy Connell in those features. She'd never been pretty in the cla.s.sic sense, but as a teen she easily could have been considered ”cute.” He remembered her dark, dark brown eyes, closed now. Her almost-black hair was shorter than he'd ever seen it and showed minute streaks of gray. Was that unusual for someone in her late thirties? A partially denuded area of her left frontal scalp revealed a st.i.tched-up, three-inch laceration. Her skin was as milk pale as ever-even as a kid she'd never liked the sun.
No endotracheal tube or respirator, just an IV running in from a bag hung high and a catheter tube running into a receptacle slung low. He noticed movement under the sheet where her right hand should be but didn't lift it to investigate.
”Well,” Eddie said. ”There she is.”
Jack felt his throat constrict. He hadn't given her a thought for so, so long. She'd been a year ahead of him in school, but during prehigh school summers they'd been almost inseparable. He'd never paid much attention to her mood swings; that was the way she was, and he accepted it. Weezy was Weezy-a loner like Jack, a free thinker, one of a kind. During high school a doctor began putting her on medication that smoothed out the swings but, in the process, changed her. Things were never quite the same.
He wished she was awake and on her feet now so they could hug and exchange long-time-no-see cliches.
”Yeah,” was all he could manage.
”Good day,” said a high-pitched, accented voice behind him.
He turned and recognized the tall, lean, dark-skinned man in the white coat. He had a Saddam Hussein mustache and carried a clipboard. Jack checked his ID badge to make sure he was right.
”h.e.l.lo, Doctor Gupta.”
The man looked confused. ”I'm sorry. Have we met?”
Jack now knew why the room seemed familiar.
”Yes. I was acquainted with Professor Buhmann.” When Gupta shook his head, Jack added, ”The guy with the stroke who spoke only in numbers?”
His eyes lit. ”Ah, yes! How is he?”
”Gone.”
”Yes-yes. The tumor. So sorry. A most fascinating case.” He gestured toward Weezy. ”I am told you are the brother of our mystery patient?”
Jack pointed to Eddie. ”That would be him.”
”Her name is Louise Myers, Doctor,” he said, stepping forward and shaking hands. ”How is she?”
”As you can see, she is comatose from her head trauma. She has a lacerated scalp but no skull fracture. Scans reveal no intracranial hemorrhage or hematoma.”