Book of Jo: Parts 26, 27 & 28
Voices
Start with Part 1. Or read a quick, spoiler-free synopsis.
September 23, 2016
Friday, 2:30 am
The tiles in the hospital bathroom are a bright, salmon pink. I suppose their kitschy cheer is intended to help patients and loved ones maintain their spirits in the face of adversity, but I find it borderline hostile. I wonder if my spirits are irredeemably damaged.
I look at myself in the mirror, and see a sick, older woman. New crows’ feet have emerged around my eyes, which are bloodshot and raw-looking. My eyelids are swollen like fat caterpillars. My cheekbones are shockingly prominent, suggesting a bare skull. I run my fingers through my hair and come away with a handful of straw. I read somewhere that stress can make your hair fall out. Maybe it’s true.
Worst of all, the sore on my lip has grown to the size of a nickel. It’s moist and raw in the center and crusty on the edges. I look diseased. Contagious. Like someone to be avoided. It stings a little when I touch it, and a lot when I smile.
I turn on the tap and wash my hands carefully. Ashley is having her consultation with Dr. Whitlow. I’ll be next at 2:45 a.m. Berry has already left for the house. She’s planning to drive Brad’s car back to Pleasanton in the morning. I worry that Ashley and I have been too preoccupied with our own grief and fear to be truly kind to Berry. Yes, I was put off by her constant texting. But people grieve in different ways. She’s been under a lot of stress. She was probably just reaching out to friends.
I reach my hand into my purse again and touch the bottle of Xanax. I consider taking another to keep my feelings safely muffled. I don’t want to break down in front of the neurologist. He may be our only hope to make sense of these deaths — Mom, Jenna, and now Brad. I want to include Whitney and my baby to the list. It all seems connected somehow. Personal.
I open the bottle and notice my supply is dwindling. I think back to this evening, when I gave Brad the two pills. A female voice pops into my head, sweet and placid and cloying.
“You killed your bother, you know,” it says.
“No! I only gave him two pills,” I reply.
“He was drinking a lot. You should have known better.”
“You’re wrong, He couldn’t have OD’d on two pills, even if he had been drinking.”
“Are you sure you only gave him two pills?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why don’t you just shut the fuck up?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?” It’s not the voice in my head. It’s lower and more worn. I turn around and see a cleaning woman. She’s short and at least fifty pounds overweight with closely cropped hair. Her large, brown eyes are sad and wary. She’s obviously heard me talking to myself.
“Sorry,” I mumble, and rush past her. I practically run to the neurologist’s office. Maybe he can tell me why I’m hearing voices.
September 23, 2016
Friday, 2:45 am
Dr. Whitlow doesn’t look like any doctor I’ve seen before. He’s corpulent with long, gray hair like an aging Jerry Garcia. His cheeks are covered in broken capillaries, and he smells faintly of cigarette smoke.
“Are you Joanna Goodman?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“First off, I’m so sorry for your loss. Losses. Losing three close family members like that must be devastating,” he says.
I think my eyes cannot cry any more, but I’m wrong. My eyes water, and tears trickle down my face. The doctor hands me a tissue.
“Thanks.”
“You’re understandably nervous about your own health after what you’ve just experienced,” he continues, tapping his fingers on his desk.
I nod.
“I can offer you imaging tests to give us a better look at the blood vessels in your brain, and if there are any abnormalities, we can discuss options for treatment. The problem is that there are substantial risks associated with the surgical treatment of many arteriovenous malformations.”
I nod again. This is pretty much what Dr. Morris had said.
“Many physicians suggest watchful waiting. Some patients tolerate this very well. Others find it provokes considerable anxiety.”
“Yes,” I say. “Dr. Morris mentioned all this. I’d still like to know if I’m at increased risk for what happened to the rest of my family.” Mom, Jenna, and Brad have now been reduced to “the rest of my family.” My eyes well up again. The doctor gives me another tissue.
“Then I suggest we start with an MRI,” he says. “Have you been having any unusual symptoms? Headaches? Numbness, weakness, or tingling of the limbs?”
“I’ve started to hear voices. Does that count?”
Instead of looking horrified as I expect, Dr. Whitlow looks thoughtful. “In some cultures, hearing voices have religious significance. It can mean that you are closer to God, or the spiritual realm. Of course, as a doctor, I’d want to rule out temporal lobe damage, epilepsy, drug interactions, and schizophrenia.”
I look around Dr. Whitlow’s office. His walls are covered in psychedelic prints and reproductions of ancient cave paintings. He and my mom would have gotten along.
“I’m afraid I’m not religious,” I say. “How do we check out the medical stuff you just mentioned?”
“In addition to the MRI that we’re already planning, I’d like you to contact Dr. Marla Rune. She’s a highly trained psychiatrist, and she can help us get to the bottom of those voices of yours.”
I feel nauseated. The medical doctor is sending me to a psychiatrist. It’s official. I’m crazy. I start to tear up, but this time it’s pure self pity. The doctor looks at me with professionally concerned eyes. It somehow reminds me of Trisha, the funeral director.
“I’d also like to give you a prescription for Valtrex. That cold sore must be awfully painful. And that’s the last thing you need right now.”
“It’s not herpes.”
September 23, 2016
Friday, 5:45 am
The air is cold but refreshing. It’s good to be outside after the claustrophobic hell of the MRI machine. It was like being buried alive in a construction zone. I step over a homeless man and feel a surge of guilt. Maybe I should work through my grief by volunteering for some charitable organization. I’m emotionally shattered, but at least I still have food, shelter, and a paycheck.
Ashley and I decided to walk home from the hospital. Neither of us wanted to be trapped inside a cab. While Ashley is a self-assured tugboat of a woman and I’m the gentle family diplomat, we’re both terribly claustrophobic. We both hate to fly — not because we’re afraid of heights but because we’re afraid of the tiny, cramped cabins and despise the stale taste of re-circulated air.
“Did you get your tests results?” asks Ashley.
“Yeah,” I say. “The blood vessels in my brain are utterly normal and boringly average. What about you?”
“Dr. Whitlow is going to call me later today,” says Ashley. “He said he needs to consult with a colleague.”
“That could mean anything. It’s not necessarily bad,” I say.
“Bullshit. Of course, it’s bad. The only question is how bad.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” I say, even though I think Ashley’s probably right.
Ashley remains silent and walks faster. Her high heels click rhythmically on the pavement. We’re passing a row of crumbling Victorian brownstones. I smell gardenias. I think of my mother.
“Why are you lying?” asks the voice from the hospital bathroom. “You know she’s doomed.”
“No she’s not!”
“What?” asks Ashley.
“Nothing.”
We keep walking, now up a steep hill. Ashley is huffing with every step. She’s the general manager of a semiconductor plant, and she has little time for exercise. We finally reach the top. The sky is lightening, but the streets are still quiet. Ashley turns to me, her face solemn.
“It looks like I may not be around for much longer,” she says.
“No, don’t say that! You just need to be patient and wait for the test results.”
“You know I don’t believe in patience,” she says, smiling. We both laugh at how true this is. She takes my hand and holds it tightly. I’m starting to worry.
“There’s something I need to tell you.” Her grip on my hand tightens. I’m afraid.
“I thought about telling you this before, but I didn’t want to interfere. I didn’t want to get in the middle.” I nod, but I have no idea what she’s talking about.
“In the middle of what?”
“Your marriage. It’s Wolf.” The wind picks up. I feel cold. I look at Ashley, confused.
“What’s wrong with Wolf?” I ask.
“He’s having an affair with Berry.”
Book of Jo is a homeless novella that is going to crash on Medium for a few months. I will release new parts on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, until the whole story has been posted. Enjoy!
Read Part 1.
Read Part 2.
Read Parts 3 & 4.
Read Parts 5 & 6.
Read Parts 7 & 8.
Read Parts 9 & 10.
Read Part 11.
Read Parts 12 & 13.
Read Parts 14 & 15.
Read Parts 16 & 17.
Read Parts 18 & 19.
Read Parts 20 & 21.
Read Parts 22 & 23.
Read Parts 24 & 25.
Read Part 29.
Read Parts 30 & 31.
Read Parts 32 & 33.
