BEFORE CHAPTER NINETEEN
The Heart Sutra makes it clear in two lines what the problem we have with our mind and thinking.
With nothing to attain the bright person depends on wisdom and the mind is no hindrance.
If you track Susan’s thoughts you will easily see her hindrance in mental formations and what follows.
Without any hindrance no fears exist…
Susan is fearful, upset, full of views that upset her.
What about you? What thoughts and mental formations upset the mind? Are you able to depend on wisdom to drop the thoughts or do you believe them to be true and fall into fear?
Chapter Nineteen - The Reverend
“He has no relatives that anyone knows of….” the kid says as he lifts his hoodie over his head. “I work in the convenience store below where Mr. Samuel lives. I found him passed out on the sidewalk. He didn’t look good when the ambulance took him away. They are the ones that told me he’d end up in County, said it’s where everyone goes who has no ID….no money….no next of kin.”
“Thank you. Thank you for letting me know.” Susan answers sensing the kid wants to say as little as possible.
“Sure, sure,” says the kid without making eye contact.
When the kid gets up to leave Susan mentions Samuel spoke well of him. The kid, surprised by Susan’s kindness, pulls both sides of his hoodie around his cheeks.
“He mentioned you’d give him a paper and a cup of coffee.”
“Oh yeah. Day old. Sure. He’s an interesting guy. Always saying interesting things. We just throw the stuff out. No skin off, ya know.”
Before the kid opens the front glass door to Susan’s shop, he turns round with his head down looking at the floor and in a somber tone says, “If ya see him, tell him, there’s a paper and coffee waitin’ for him.” The boy’s laid-back voice was unable to mute his affection for Samuel.
Susan remembers this encounter with the kid as she plans to drive south to the hospital, an hour or more in rush hour. She called ahead to see if Samuel Vandewater was a patient. The young kid gave her little to go on. His last name. The probability was that he was in County hospital. The kid wasn’t sure. He gave her a slip of paper.
Equipped with so little, Susan was determined to stay on the phone until someone in County told her of Samuel’s whereabouts. The kid said the slip of paper with her name on it was taped to the side of his fridge.
Hospital clerks and volunteers want the barest of facts on the phone; just enough to locate someone or tell the caller there is no such patient. Susan imagines the hospital hired reputable sorts and wanted to gamble on the long drive despite being told Samuel was in the hospital but due to be transferred.
“You take your chances if you come today. He could be here. He could be gone. Can’t guarantee.”
Odds up in the air she looks up the address, prints out a map and heads out.
The County hospital fronts a boulevard suggesting something of a bygone elegance. It is the only hospital for the poor. nowadays. It is a big hospital with arches, columns, and a variety of stone finishes which have yellowed like the beard of an old street man. Susan makes suitable time, faster than expected. The entrance, a bit of a distance from a busy parking lot, is through a dingy darkened porte-cochére.
‘The entrance to a mausoleum. Glory days long past.’ Susan knows little about the history, the architecture. ‘The poor among us.’ She thinks. ‘Care for paupers and the penniless.’
Swept along through the double set of revolving doors Susan finds herself under an ornamental dome. Great stone cherubs arranged along a cracked and crooked lower rim remind Susan of a layer of icing on Miss Havisham’s wedding cake. Everything frozen in time. Unkempt. Patched and flaked plaster, once sky blue. The lobby is enormous holding fast to a stern and disturbing face from the past. Aloof and colossal it is an out-of-date American promise to look after the poor and homeless.
Once inside Susan fumbles in her pocket. Her name scribbled next to the words ‘I don’t want to be cut-off’ reminds her why she took her chances today. Before she checks the wall of directories, she is ushered to a central information counter by a tired-looking security guard.
“How can I help you?” The hefty man behind the desk asks.
Susan turns the slip of paper over and asks, “How do I find Wing U. Third Floor, Rm 358N, Bed 2E.”
One of the volunteers behind the armpit high counter grunts when she hears the information. “Ain’t no Wing U.” Before Susan could protest the volunteer took the paper from her. “Let me look for you. What’s the last name?”
“Vandewater. Samuel Vandewater.”
The volunteer checks on one of the old computer screens. “Here ya go. Take that bank of elevators and go to the third floor North. Stop and ask for directions when you get off the elevator. You’ll get lost otherwise.” All the volunteers laugh and guffaw at how often the P.A. system announces someone is lost somewhere in the hospital.
‘Nothing seems quite clean.’ A strong sour odor permeates the elevator. Susan determines not to touch anything. ‘Everything needs to be wiped down. Disinfected.’ Scanning the faded numbers on the elevator panel she worries about Samuel. ‘This is such an ugly place. It should be condemned.’
The nurse’s station is down the hall away from the elevators. It looks abandoned. Unfit, for anyone. A number of old, wooden desks are stored against one another behind a dirty yellowed counter. Susan senses the woman sitting behind a computer screen is unfriendly and appears as abandoned as the clobber of desks she sits nearby. But she is the only attendant on duty.
“Go down corridors.’ The woman points with one finger and speaks in foreign English. “Lined with old wheelchairs. You can’t miss’em. That side of wall. Gurneys on other side. That’s how you know where you are.” Her voice is hoarse and clipped. Susan is grateful for her one finger pointing giving her the sense of where to go.
The halls are lit, severe overhead lights that hiss. The hiss accentuates the vacant harshness of the corridors. No voices, just smells; a dirty water stench, bedpans left full. Toilets not flushed. Metal hospital beds crowd the rooms leaving little space to move. No workers in sight; just room after room of an odd bare leg or uncovered foot. One man droops against the metal jamb as if forgotten; just left there. He doesn’t lift his head.
In the unkind pitiless stink of it all Susan searches for room 358N, Bed 2E. It is a corner room, angled along the end of the building, three stories up. A white curtain is drawn down and around the bed along a metal ceiling rail. It serves to block any gaze on bed 2E. Bed 1 is stripped revealing the faint blue lines across a lumpy bare mattress. Susan sighs. She feels doused in the hospital’s dreariness. Everything diluted by sickness. She stops. Stands at the threshold. Muted by the drawn curtain. Wearied by the negligence.
‘Should I, or shouldn’t I?’ She asks herself hobbled by the presence of someone with him. She doesn’t want to be an intruder.
She looks in. Listens. A gloomy chair, something that once was a perky plastic pink, up against the wall at the end of a bed. is her only option. She studies it before she sits down.
The cracked seat underneath her weight separates making a conspicuous crackle. She looks at the curtain, but nothing happens. Unsettled, she leans against the unsteady back. With her ankles crossed, her feet slide outward along the worn-out linoleum until she gets her balance. She opens her bag and looks for her phone to check the time. She doesn’t want to leave Loretta alone too long and doesn’t want to hit rush hour traffic.
“Mr. Vandewater?” Susan hears the voice behind the curtain, a tone of authority, informative yet critical. “Mr. Vandewater? I am here to explain to you the transfer. Do you hear me, Mr. Vandewater?”
The question seems piqued and irritable. Susan hears the scruff of what she thinks is a chair being pulled across the floor. She imagines it is akin to the one she is sitting on.
“Mr. Vandewater! You do hear me! Yes, I thought so. Good. Very good. I’m here to tell you about the transfer. You do know you are in County.” There is a short pause followed by more instructive assertions. “You do know you are in County.” The voice repeats. “I don’t expect you to say anything.”
Susan notes Samuel doesn’t reply; he can’t speak.
“I just want to be clear. I came here…. drove here all this way to tell you will be going to hospice. You do know what hospice is? Yes. I thought so.”
Susan, tired and troubled sits forward. ‘I think I know that voice.’ She slides her weight to the edge of the plastic mold and tilts her head towards the metal frame of the empty bed. With one ear cocked toward the curtain, she listens. The voice drops lower, softer than she heard before. It is calm but there is something about the cadence, the emphasis, the inflection. There is an insistence with each phrase. It is sharp and quick. Firm. It is a voice she’s heard before.
“Mr. Vandewater. This is good. All good.” With each word there is a shadow of a demand, an order. The woman is not giving information, she is making unyielding stipulations. Telling Samuel to be good. She is setting up exact requirements that are not to be challenged. There is a tempo of beats; one fixed assertion after another.
“You’re good. Don’t worry. No fear. None of that. NoNo. You will go to hospice.”
It is chilling.
Susan hears the chair scuff again. It is being dragged closer to the far wall. Closer to Samuel’s face. Susan listens.
“I have come for you. You’re in my care. Good. Yes. Good. Good. Nothing to worry over. Give up all of that. I’ve made all the arrangements. You’ll be transferred today. Soon. Soon. Soon.” The voice goes quiet.
Susan fills in the blank with worry.
“You’re in my care. It’s my job. Mr. Vandewater. This is the great matter of life. I’m the expert here. I’m Reverend Mrs. Gee.”
When Susan hears the name, she stands up as if she’s been struck with the quickness of a snapped whip. Speechless. Silent. She glances at the curtain hoping to get away before the woman sees her. She hurries out into the corridor. Unsure which way to go, she knows she is lost. She scurries like a rat to the next turn in the hallway. ‘Which way? Which way? Oh God. I’ve got to get out of here. Back to the workstation.’ In a rush she looks for the old man in the doorway. No one. She steps it up, stands up tiptoed and runs down the corridor like a teenager sneaking out of the house. She looks behind her. Checks. No one. Checks again. Turns down another hall.
The long row of wheelchairs appears like luggage carts racked together. The gurneys on the other side. ‘Am I going in circles?’ She stops. Shaken, a bit winded, she rests one hand on a gurney; it begins to roll away from the wall. “Oh my god. It can’t be?”
She screams out. She tries to stop the getaway gurney. It rolls towards the line of wheelchairs and bangs into them. She checks to see if she is being followed. ‘Mrs. Geesky! Reverend Mrs. Geesky? Are they, is she the one and the same person? Gawd, I hope she didn’t see me.’ Susan knows she is lost. ‘OK. Calm down. It must be. Mrs. Geesky…. is Reverend Mrs. Geesky. Must be. It’s not a common name.’ She dares not to touch the wheelchairs again. ‘I’m all right. She didn’t see me.’ Susan tells herself, running away is not much help. ‘Go for some tea. Find the cafeteria. Come back and see him before they transfer him.’
When the elevator door closes Susan feels a cool sweat roll down one arm like the doubt and dismay rolling in her mind. It’s at this moment she tells herself. ‘I am in over my head.’ But when she remembers Samuel, when she fills her mind with thoughts of him the dismay shifts. ‘He is dying with someone he does not know. He was a spark, a man who never wanted to end-up cutoff going nowhere.’ When the elevator reaches the ground floor it jerks and shakes then the dinged metal doors crank apart.
The basement is shabby. Old brown laminate tables stack up one upon another like lifeless animals with four legs standing straight up in the air: each with dark, dirty castors. ‘No one bothered to fold them up.’ She critiques. A horrible strong smell of burnt coffee permeates with an equally terrible odor that gets stronger as Susan walks towards a pair of swinging green doors. She gags as one door swings open which nearly misses hitting her in the face. ‘Take it easy.’ She wants to say but remains quiet.
She stops. Checks with a scan of the room. She remembers her meeting with Mrs. Geesky, her loud persistence for a good note. With a small tint of doubt she thinks, ‘If it is her, how will Samuel manage?’ She stops again. Softens her thoughts. ‘My aim here is to see him. That’s all. Just have some tea and make it back to room 358N.’ With a stated aim she regains her bearings.
The County Cafeteria is a gymnasium of dark green vinyl chairs the kind decorated in tiny black dots making them tasteless. The same brown tables are scattered throughout. She notes, ‘Sick colors.’ Mahogany brown pan racks line one wall, aisles of steam tables on the other. A misted heat is in the air; it smells of boiled cabbage and fish. A long array of warming food with long armed spoons idle under hot lights in metal trays of …. Corn niblets. Green beans. Lumpy potatoes with grey bratwurst. A puree of clumped red sauce. Macaroni and cheese burdened by bright orange cheese chunks. Half-emptied dressings and cold soups on the end. No sign of salad.
Susan manages to queue up by a stack of plastic trays and beige plastic mugs. It’s the starting line. She pulls a tray onto the worn steel track that bumps and jerks along splashing her newly poured cup of tea on the buckled belt. She looks for milk or cream. The short man in front of her tells her it’s by the silverware. The wait in line is clumsy and awkward; one man is arguing at the cash register. Susan watches heads tilt to see what’s the slow down. When she reaches one of the cashiers, she hands the young stout girl a twenty-dollar bill.
“Ya kiddin’?” The cashier gripes.
Susan cautions herself. “No, nothing smaller.” She waits for the change. With her change crushed in her hand she picks up one edge of the tray and walks into the green walled box of a room. There are the same harsh hanging overhead lights descending from above. She looks for a seat far from the lines. ‘Have the tea. Just have tea. Go back and see Samuel. That’s it.’ She knows she keeps slipping into a vague fear, a dog-tired fatigue. Susan looks around. Checks. The tables are covered with soiled plates and half eaten food. The chairs are cracked; some are too dangerous to sit in. Many of the customers are dressed in oversized scrubs…. some with hair covered, others with both hair and shoes covered. She wonders how they can eat. Nothing is clean, everything seems dirty, stained with use and age and mismanagement. She finds a seat near the waist-to-ceiling windows. She wonders. ‘This is what a prison must feel like.’ Greased over with grime, inmates that are too exhausted to care. She looks down at her cup. Small white curd balls float on the surface of the watery tea. ‘It’s spoiled.’ With her fingers on the handle, she lifts the cup to her nose. ‘Soured.’ She jerks her nose away in disgust and thinks even a cup of water is too risky.
She stays seated. She can’t remember how long she’s been there. ‘How will I tell if the coast is clear? Did she leave? Did Mrs. Geesky leave? Give her 20 minutes. Maybe thirty?’ The sound of plates and silverware distract her as she sees several attendants scraping leftover food into big trash bins in front of an open window. With her napkins stuffed into the sour tea she dumps the contents into the bin and leaves the cup on the counter. Before she grabs a napkin to dry her hands, she sees Mrs. Geesky at the beginning of the hot food line. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself!’ she warns herself. ‘An old woman. White hair. She’s bound to see me.’
Susan looks at Mrs. Geesky. Fear. She changes focus. ‘Is she heading back to Samuel’s room?’ Along each wall there are words stenciled in uneven, faded letters.
PLEASE DO NOT REMOVE THE TRAYS FROM THE CAFETERIA.
Relief, enough to consider a bathroom break, but she doesn’t remember seeing any restrooms. Imagining the crusted scum in them turns her stomach. ‘Wait. Think, Susan. Think.’ She calms herself. ‘That woman would not pay attention to those signs even if she read them. Wait a minute.’ She stops again. Checks. ‘Where did she go?’ She turns around. No Mrs. Geesky. Not in the food line. Susan scans the room. Nowhere to be seen. Susan walks back towards the green swinging doors, checks several times to see if Mrs. Geesky is seated. When she reaches the swinging doors, she checks one last time. Mrs. Geesky, carrying a brown paper sack, is coming in towards the doors. Susan panics. Pushing the doors open Susan moves in between the stacked tables. For a moment she thinks of hiding behind them. ‘Too exposed.’ She feels trapped. She doesn’t know where she is. Doesn’t know which way to go. Alarmed, she finds an abandoned telephone booth built into the wall right by the bank of elevators. She pushes open the folding door. No light goes on. There is no phone. But the small built-in stool is still there. She climbs in and closes the door hoping Mrs. Geesky doesn’t see her. But Susan feels she must see, wants to see, to make sure Mrs. Geesky is leaving and not going back to Samuel’s room. She covers her head with her arms and peeks out into the lighted corridor.
Susan turns her face into the wall of the booth. ‘One, one thousand, two, one thousand three, one thousand.’ She counts until she gets to ten and starts counting from the beginning. With her head against the back wall, in a darkened, derelict booth she does this ten times. Her face is red and sweaty. She hides. Holed up.
Time passes. Minutes or more. ‘The coast is clear.” Susan thinks. The excitement is more than she bargained for. She wants to see Samuel and leave. Unaccustomed to such fear she feels short of breath. Foolish. The smells and grime faded, and she is left impressed by Mrs. Geesky’s presence. She takes one, two deep breaths, hunts for the slip of paper. Room 358 North Bed 2E. ‘I can do this!’ she encourages herself. ‘Third floor.’
Absorbed by her need to find Samuel’s room she makes it easily to the third floor. One imperative drives her. Recognizing wheelchairs and gurneys…. the old droopy man reappears at the threshold…. bare legs, bare feet. The repellant odors…. someone must have vomited…. until she stands in the doorway of Room 358 North.
All the turbulent effort vanishes as she bears witness to two stripped metal beds. “He’s gone.” She moans aloud into the bare room. She stands, limp, hung forward…. stooped by the nakedness. It’s barren…. a near miss…. a close call all the way round. “He’s gone.”
Susan steps back and drops down into the cracked chair. The blinds are drawn up. Outside, above tree line the top seam of the new medical buildings draws a long horizon before the old, cold industrial pipe stacks and towers in the distance.
Susan stays seated. She holds her bag close to her belly before she gets up and begins a slow lope back towards the desk on the floor. When she arrives, she sets her bag on the counter with a thump. “Excuse me.” She says hoping for kindness. There is now just a young man sitting behind the old computer screen. He looks up over her head. “Yes? Can I help you?” She holds back unexpected tears.
“Yes. I…was just in Room 358 N…North. A Mr. Samuel Vandewater. He was there.” She stops. She refrains from any explanation. “Anyway, he’s been transferred, I think. Could you tell me where?”
The young man clicks on the keyboard in his lap, looks at the screen but before he shares what he is looking at asks, “Are you his next of kin?”
“No. No I am not. But I don’t think he has any living relatives.”
“Yes. I understand. But I am sorry. I can’t give out any information.”
“Was he transferred to hospice?” Susan slid her question in between what she senses is a closing door.
The young man tilts his head to the side and returns to look at the computer screen. “Sorry.” It gave nothing away. His one dull word gave no hint or clue one way or the other. Susan wanted to ask if Samuel is dead…. ‘Did he die while I was running away from this woman?’ But she says nothing more. It is pointless.
Susan casts a look of desperate sorrow at the young man, but he has looked away, moved on. She guesses, no…. hope….it is twisted training that makes him turn away. From her own training she throws a closing remark, thanks across at him and leaves.
In the car she recalibrates herself and the directions back to the highway. There is more traffic, but she has time before the rush of city workers mob the streets. Susan knows she needs all of her attention to make the drive home; she’s not used to the traffic, the speeding zigzags and swerves and the run across four lanes to pass another car. She wants to review her steps. Hearing Mrs. Geesky explain to Samuel he was being transferred to hospice. ‘What a strange world’ is all she can come up with. She is weary. It’s strange to be blocked, kept away from knowing what happened to someone who was there one minute and gone the next. ‘The world holds odd things secret.’ She thinks and repeats her bewildered sense of the red tape around sickness and death until she reaches the end of the parkway. The world begins to be more familiar. The streets are known, less cars, slower traffic. She knows where she is going.
Susan concentrates. Considers options. The kid in the convenience store, saying she was a next of kin, on the phone, being content she tried to see him and with one last burst of effort…. ‘I could ask that woman, Mrs. Geesky…. ask her if she knew where he is.’ With this thought she pulls into her lower-level garage underneath her house, lowered the door, turned off the ignition and promised herself in the confines of the dark.
‘Never.’
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