Patient Care
By
Edward Ahern
It’s relaxing for me to spend an hour or so in the large waiting rooms of medical treatment centers. The room contains a gallery of mostly elderly patients who distract themselves on cell phones while waiting for the yin/yang judgements on their health.
Their worry-tinged expressions are open and vulnerable. They’re my cut flowers, never fresher than they are right then, beautiful in their anticipated wilting.
There’s rarely conversation between patients, rarely a smile on departure. Except for me. I scan the rooms hoping to talk with someone I care for. At the New England medical center, in the large open room with pictures not quite true to life, I spotted, Sam, one of my favorites. I sat one chair away, out of touching range.
“The wait’s always too long for comfort, Sam, but never long enough to accomplish anything else.”
The sixtyish man, suspended flab on large bones, nodded. “It’s worse than that.”
“How so?”
“Last time I was here my condo was broken into.”
“I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible. A violation of your home.”
Sam grimaced. “They took almost everything valuable to me other than some pictures- money, coins, jewelry. They ran up two thousand on a credit card before I noticed it was missing. The bastards.”
My sad expression behind bifocal glasses masked an annoyed churn. Sam already had the effervescent fragrance of death, in six months he’d be institutionalized, in a year he’d pass. To steal the few things that still important to him demanded retribution.
I recalled overhearing a similar complaint two weeks earlier from a middle-aged widow. Someone was apparently targeting the patients.
I stared for a second at the blue-black veins filigreeing my hands, thinking, then diverted Sam onto another topic and we chatted for a few minutes before his name was called.
“That’s me, Manea. Always nice talking to you.” He stood and held out a hand which I avoided.
“And you. I’m sure we’ll be meeting again here.” I left as soon as he went into the examining rooms. I am incapable of anger, but proficient in vengeance. Someone had sullied my flowers Someone would have consequence exacted.
The appointments in my ledger were close to splitting its binding, but I made time for investigation. Little old lady iterations like me go largely unnoticed and as I could, I visited centers during their busiest hours and surveyed the parking lots. The burglar would most probably park facing the entry and wouldn’t ever go inside. He’d watch for likely prospects, note the duration of visits and follow the patsy home. A little painless web searching would show him if the victim lived alone. It took five weeks, but I had him.
I followed the thief following someone else from a treatment center to outside the victim’s apartment and then on to his own rundown house. I was standing several paces behind him when he unlocked his door. “Michael,” I said gently. He spun around in a twitch, then relaxed when he saw my skinny little frame. Michael Provenzano lived only with his drug habit, and already had several unpleasant people wanting to harm him, but he assumed he could bully me.
“What the hell do you want? Take your bible somewhere else.”
“Michael, I can’t undo the harm you’ve already done, but I can give you a sincere warning. Stop your thefts from patients or face pestilence. Please, take my warning to heart and spare the already sick.”
He scowled. “Crazy old bitch, get your ass off my porch before I push you off.”
I sighed. “Mr. Provenzano, please think this through as best you can. I know all about what you do and where you live. I could pass this information along to the police, but instead am offering you a chance to desist without legal penalty. But if you continue taking from the diseased, I will ensure that you share in their worst pains.”
His face purpled. “You got nothing, and the cops don’t give a shit about a few busted in doors. But you call them and I’ll break your bones.”
“So be it.” I waved the hand that wasn’t holding my purse. “Michael Provenzano, I bequeath to you a contingent curse of agonizing lesions and infections. Said curse to last your lifetime. Violate my stricture at your peril. Au revoir, Michael.”
He leaned toward me, but I’d already taken a step down off the porch. He didn’t follow as I turned and left.
#
Michael had several bad habits. He hid the track marks between his toes, but the nicotine stains and booze breath were more obvious. He’d abused every welfare program available to him, and now supported his life style by break ins and pilfering from unlocked cars. He did have a ghost gun, the components bought during a brief flush and lucid period, but was leery of using it. He’d already done time for robbery, and didn’t want another drugless sabbatical.
His major possession was a battered Honda Civic, which he drove with expired plates on a suspended license. The car kept him in business, and he treated it to the minimum necessary to keep it running.
Crazy, skinny little bitch. But she knows. But she said she wouldn’t rat me out. And if I bust her up it’ll maybe come out about the smash and grabs. Screw her. I need a hit. John isn’t going to front me any dry goods without me paying him something. I need another job.
Michael grabbed his car keys and drove to a Bridgeport treatment center. He cursed when he saw that all the prime spots to observe from and not be noticed were occupied, then pulled a stolen handicapped placard from the glove box stuck it on the rear-view mirror, and parked. It made him a little too visible, and he cursed again. He waited.
#
Alison Peabody died. Unexpected to her family, but not, of course, to me. We’d had several wonderful visits together in the Fairfield waiting room, and I missed her self-deprecating sense of humor and doting love of grandchildren. I cannot be sad, but am often rueful, and this was one of those times. As I was, in my fashion, mourning, I felt the twinge telling me that Michael had violated my prohibition. Writhing things were unleashed.
#
The itching was deep under his skin and scratching left red marks without relief. Pustules formed in his crotch and armpits, his finger and toe nails began a rank yellow seepage that clotted on hitting the air. Heroin, his savior, only dragged the raw, screaming discomfort into his hallucinations. As he dribbled from nose, penis and anus, Michael quickly dehydrated, even with constant drinking of anything liquid within reach.
Find her. Kill her. Beg her to make it stop. But where? Try Fairfield? Bridgeport? Fairfield closer. Car keys. Car. Ass flaming. Agony to hold steering wheel. Fairfield medical center. Park. Go in. There she is!
He stopped a few feet from her, swaying. “You dried up old whore, what’ve you done to me?”
#
“Hello, Michael. I thought that was obvious. I’m sorry to see you violated my proviso, and I literally sense your pain, but there’s nothing to be done now. If it’s a consolation, many saints and holy men were also afflicted with loathsome diseases and they offered their suffering up to the god of their choice. You might try that.”
He lurched forward at me and I took a step toward him. He grabbed my shoulders, the last sensation he felt before dropping onto the thin carpet, dead before he hit it. I am, after all, a touching experience.
I sidled away from the body, saying nothing. Social inertia kept anyone from noticing and reacting until I was almost at the exit, and even then, there was only a muted outcry. His skinny body smelled of tobacco and body odor, but there were no lesions. Those had vanished with his anima.
I’d known of course when and how he’d die. I allowed myself a small smile. Free will is so predictable.
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 500 stories and poems published so far, and eleven books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he manages a posse of six review editors, and as lead editor at Scribes Micro.
By
Edward Ahern
It’s relaxing for me to spend an hour or so in the large waiting rooms of medical treatment centers. The room contains a gallery of mostly elderly patients who distract themselves on cell phones while waiting for the yin/yang judgements on their health.
Their worry-tinged expressions are open and vulnerable. They’re my cut flowers, never fresher than they are right then, beautiful in their anticipated wilting.
There’s rarely conversation between patients, rarely a smile on departure. Except for me. I scan the rooms hoping to talk with someone I care for. At the New England medical center, in the large open room with pictures not quite true to life, I spotted, Sam, one of my favorites. I sat one chair away, out of touching range.
“The wait’s always too long for comfort, Sam, but never long enough to accomplish anything else.”
The sixtyish man, suspended flab on large bones, nodded. “It’s worse than that.”
“How so?”
“Last time I was here my condo was broken into.”
“I’m so sorry. It must have been terrible. A violation of your home.”
Sam grimaced. “They took almost everything valuable to me other than some pictures- money, coins, jewelry. They ran up two thousand on a credit card before I noticed it was missing. The bastards.”
My sad expression behind bifocal glasses masked an annoyed churn. Sam already had the effervescent fragrance of death, in six months he’d be institutionalized, in a year he’d pass. To steal the few things that still important to him demanded retribution.
I recalled overhearing a similar complaint two weeks earlier from a middle-aged widow. Someone was apparently targeting the patients.
I stared for a second at the blue-black veins filigreeing my hands, thinking, then diverted Sam onto another topic and we chatted for a few minutes before his name was called.
“That’s me, Manea. Always nice talking to you.” He stood and held out a hand which I avoided.
“And you. I’m sure we’ll be meeting again here.” I left as soon as he went into the examining rooms. I am incapable of anger, but proficient in vengeance. Someone had sullied my flowers Someone would have consequence exacted.
The appointments in my ledger were close to splitting its binding, but I made time for investigation. Little old lady iterations like me go largely unnoticed and as I could, I visited centers during their busiest hours and surveyed the parking lots. The burglar would most probably park facing the entry and wouldn’t ever go inside. He’d watch for likely prospects, note the duration of visits and follow the patsy home. A little painless web searching would show him if the victim lived alone. It took five weeks, but I had him.
I followed the thief following someone else from a treatment center to outside the victim’s apartment and then on to his own rundown house. I was standing several paces behind him when he unlocked his door. “Michael,” I said gently. He spun around in a twitch, then relaxed when he saw my skinny little frame. Michael Provenzano lived only with his drug habit, and already had several unpleasant people wanting to harm him, but he assumed he could bully me.
“What the hell do you want? Take your bible somewhere else.”
“Michael, I can’t undo the harm you’ve already done, but I can give you a sincere warning. Stop your thefts from patients or face pestilence. Please, take my warning to heart and spare the already sick.”
He scowled. “Crazy old bitch, get your ass off my porch before I push you off.”
I sighed. “Mr. Provenzano, please think this through as best you can. I know all about what you do and where you live. I could pass this information along to the police, but instead am offering you a chance to desist without legal penalty. But if you continue taking from the diseased, I will ensure that you share in their worst pains.”
His face purpled. “You got nothing, and the cops don’t give a shit about a few busted in doors. But you call them and I’ll break your bones.”
“So be it.” I waved the hand that wasn’t holding my purse. “Michael Provenzano, I bequeath to you a contingent curse of agonizing lesions and infections. Said curse to last your lifetime. Violate my stricture at your peril. Au revoir, Michael.”
He leaned toward me, but I’d already taken a step down off the porch. He didn’t follow as I turned and left.
#
Michael had several bad habits. He hid the track marks between his toes, but the nicotine stains and booze breath were more obvious. He’d abused every welfare program available to him, and now supported his life style by break ins and pilfering from unlocked cars. He did have a ghost gun, the components bought during a brief flush and lucid period, but was leery of using it. He’d already done time for robbery, and didn’t want another drugless sabbatical.
His major possession was a battered Honda Civic, which he drove with expired plates on a suspended license. The car kept him in business, and he treated it to the minimum necessary to keep it running.
Crazy, skinny little bitch. But she knows. But she said she wouldn’t rat me out. And if I bust her up it’ll maybe come out about the smash and grabs. Screw her. I need a hit. John isn’t going to front me any dry goods without me paying him something. I need another job.
Michael grabbed his car keys and drove to a Bridgeport treatment center. He cursed when he saw that all the prime spots to observe from and not be noticed were occupied, then pulled a stolen handicapped placard from the glove box stuck it on the rear-view mirror, and parked. It made him a little too visible, and he cursed again. He waited.
#
Alison Peabody died. Unexpected to her family, but not, of course, to me. We’d had several wonderful visits together in the Fairfield waiting room, and I missed her self-deprecating sense of humor and doting love of grandchildren. I cannot be sad, but am often rueful, and this was one of those times. As I was, in my fashion, mourning, I felt the twinge telling me that Michael had violated my prohibition. Writhing things were unleashed.
#
The itching was deep under his skin and scratching left red marks without relief. Pustules formed in his crotch and armpits, his finger and toe nails began a rank yellow seepage that clotted on hitting the air. Heroin, his savior, only dragged the raw, screaming discomfort into his hallucinations. As he dribbled from nose, penis and anus, Michael quickly dehydrated, even with constant drinking of anything liquid within reach.
Find her. Kill her. Beg her to make it stop. But where? Try Fairfield? Bridgeport? Fairfield closer. Car keys. Car. Ass flaming. Agony to hold steering wheel. Fairfield medical center. Park. Go in. There she is!
He stopped a few feet from her, swaying. “You dried up old whore, what’ve you done to me?”
#
“Hello, Michael. I thought that was obvious. I’m sorry to see you violated my proviso, and I literally sense your pain, but there’s nothing to be done now. If it’s a consolation, many saints and holy men were also afflicted with loathsome diseases and they offered their suffering up to the god of their choice. You might try that.”
He lurched forward at me and I took a step toward him. He grabbed my shoulders, the last sensation he felt before dropping onto the thin carpet, dead before he hit it. I am, after all, a touching experience.
I sidled away from the body, saying nothing. Social inertia kept anyone from noticing and reacting until I was almost at the exit, and even then, there was only a muted outcry. His skinny body smelled of tobacco and body odor, but there were no lesions. Those had vanished with his anima.
I’d known of course when and how he’d die. I allowed myself a small smile. Free will is so predictable.
Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over 500 stories and poems published so far, and eleven books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories where he manages a posse of six review editors, and as lead editor at Scribes Micro.
