Jukebox

     There is no one in the waiting area. Brahms’ Lullaby plays twice before Sjon comes for me. He immediately launches into his monologue about wanting to go back to working in the ER, but not in Portland. He wants to live “somewhere more redneck.” He misses the faster pace, and not having to watch what he says.

     “I moved here at the wrong time,” he says. “I could’ve dealt with Portland eight years ago, before it went too far to the left or the right, whichever it was.” I say it certainly hasn’t gone to the left. “Well it’s the one responsible for giving people too much freedom that’s the trouble,” he says. I don't say a word. He starts bitching about all the terrible people you have to deal with at inner city hospitals. “Found a meth baby in a toilet once,” he says. “Amazingly it lived.”

Shelley pushes aside the curtain. “I got you a present,” she says. I know what it is before she wheels it in; the donated wheelchair. 

“You can take it with you today,” she says. 

“I took the bus,” I say. She looks crestfallen. “But maybe I can have a friend drive me over and pick it up later this week.” 

She and Sjon both leave and I sit there a while. On the other side of the curtain they are all talking animatedly about placentas. I wait a long time until Taggert says, “Wait, is Seann ready? I guess if you’re out here…”

“He’s been ready a while,” Sjon says, pulling back the cutain. 

“Well you got me talking about placentas,” Taggert says, hurrying into her yellow paper gown.

Shelley comes in and plants herself in front of the computer. Taggert says she’s going to put a new skin graft on. I tell her I thought I was only getting two. “We’re cutting them in half,” she says.

“I thought you weren’t allowed to do that,” I say, once again confused.

“I consulted the senior member of our department and they made an executive decision,” she says. I assume she means Dr. Thompson, who no one would dare question. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Great, so you give me an illegal skin graft, and try to saddle me with a castoff wheelchair. What kind of joint is this?”

“It’s brand new,” says Shelley.

“Welcome to Providence,” says Taggert.

She concentrates as she chops away the callous that has accumulated around the wound. When she’s done she removes the leftover patch of skin from the foil package and pats it into place quietly. 

“No singing today?” I ask. “The jukebox broken?” She starts singing “Don’t Rock the Jukebox” but I can tell her heart’s not in it.

“It says here he’s not supposed to have the Epicord put on until Thursday,” says Shelley.

“Well I just did it,” says Taggert.

“Um…ok. How do I make a record for it?”she asks.

“There’s no record,” Taggert says.

“I know, so how do I…”

“There’s. No. Record.”

“Ohhh. Gotcha.” She looks at the screen. “So should I cancel his Thursday appointment?”

“Sure. I think he’s ready to go down to once a week.” Hope, that slippery worm, raises its head and sniffs the air.

Taggert leaves and Sjon wraps my leg back up. I hear her talking about the babies that were just born. “Two in one day!” she cries. 

I ask Shelley how her Thanksgiving was and she says her older daughter is bullying the younger one for refusing to use her training potty. I wish KC was here, though it’s probably better that she’s not. I’ve been allowing myself to think about her again, which is pointless and just ends up exacerbating my loneliness. But I still wish she was here.

           When the doctor returns she talks to Sjon about working in southern Oregon during the pandemic. “They were such isolated communities, it took a long time for COVID to reach them,” she says. “I’d be down there for a few months and not have to freak out about going to the grocery store. Of course it caught up to them eventually.”

“That’s what I want, some little place in the middle of nowhere,” says Sjon. 

“It’s great,” she says. “Until you need a specialist. Then you’re spending all day on the phone with every hospital within 500 miles. I was actually sending patients up here and it’s a five hour drive.” 

Shelley leaves to give them space and Sjon starts dropping the rolls of casting into the bucket. “We’re making good time today,” Taggert says. It’s not true. I am going to miss my bus by a few minutes, which is maddening. I tell her this and she says she can work faster. 

“Oh great, so I’ll be getting a lumpy cast on top of my umbilical cord leftovers and junkyard wheelchair.”

“It’s brand new,” Shelley yells.

As Taggert is finishing up, Sjon drops one last roll of casting into the water. She glares at him.

“No?” he asks.

“No!” she barks. He snatches it out but it’s too late; the roll is ruined.

I get downstairs just as my bus is driving past. It’s cold out, so I sit inside and read while I wait for the next one. It’s quiet and warm and the lighting seems less harsh than usual. The corporate hotel vibe of the lobby feels softened, almost cozy. An enormous Christmas tree has been set up next to the metal detector, its hundreds of white lights dimming then brightening again, gently, dimming and brightening.