The Bell

Blanketed by fog, the morning sun looks like a full moon as I head to my appointment with dr taggert. This is only my second time seeing her since the nurses went on strike nearly six weeks ago. They signed a new contract over the weekend but they’re not back at work yet. When the bus pulls up in front of the hospital, I see that the tents and port-a-potties for the picketers are all gone.

The metal detector is in operation for the first time in a while, and I put my bag in the tray and set off the alarms when I hobble through on my crutches. A polite young man wands me over and for the first time it starts to beep. He asks if I have anything in my pocket and I tell him just pens and he waves me on without checking to see if they are in fact pens and not a knife or gun. 

I check in with a man I’ve never seen before, then head up the green elevator. The lights are on in the office but I’m very early. I only have to wait a few minutes before taggert bursts out and hollers for me to come in.

She asks where my wheelchair is, as I knew she would, but she seems satisfied when I tell her I’ve been using crutches all the time, which I have. “The wheelchair is just so much harder,” I say. 

She says she understands. “I told you about my brother, right? He had MS as a kid and we wheeled him around everywhere.” She’s not wearing her mask, and I can’t stop staring at her mouth, which I’ve only glimpsed before. There’s nothing wrong with it, in fact she looks younger and prettier without the mask, plus for the first time her hair is down. Freed of its ponytail, it’s golden and longer than I imagined. I would not recognize her if I saw her on the street. 

The only other person in the office is Bridget, the new receptionist. Taggert says the nurses will be back tomorrow. I ask if she’s relieved. “Oh god yes, this has been a nightmare. But I saw what some of them will be making and I think maybe I should’ve just become a nurse. Now maybe you can tell me, does the chair look right to you? I can’t get the leg rest to go back any further but maybe it was always that way?”

I slip off my postop shoe and sock and she peels off the bandage. “Well, this still looks good,” she says. “Really good. Wait, what about your knee? Is that still… oh, that’s healed up too. Wow. Okay, let me just get this callous off.” She plucks it off with a knife and says everything is healed up underneath. She slaps a bandage on and says, “Oh wait, it’s all wrinkled up, that’s not…do I need to cut it? No, I can just fold it over like…you know, the nurses really are better at this. Anyways, that’s it! You’re all healed up! You don’t need us anymore!”

“Really?” I ask.  I had figured on there being at least another visit or two. It’s strange to suddenly be separated from people I’ve spent so much time with over the last year. I wanted to hear how they weathered the strike, if they enjoyed the time off or were just tense the whole time. And of course the one I miss the most is KC, her awkward flirting, her terrible singing… I feel sad knowing I may never see her or any of them again. But mostly her. 

Or I may be back in two weeks. Regardless, I should draw them a thank you card with my info so they can keep in touch, though I’m pretty sure they won’t. 

“So now what?” I ask. 

“Now you can start breaking in your shoe, though if you’ve had it a while you might want to get a new one,” I tell her I’ve never worn it and she says I should still get a new one. “Besides, Medicaid covers a free one every year,” she says. “Oh wait, you don’t have Medicaid.”

“Yeah but soon no one else will either!” I cry.

“That fucking guy,” she mutters. “I can’t even bring myself to say his name. But give them a call. They should be  adjusting your inserts quarterly anyways.”

“Quarterly?” I groan. She nods and gives me that bug-eyed stare I’ve grown so accustomed to, though its intensity is oddly diluted without her mask. 

“A wound like this takes ten to twelve months to fully heal up, and even then it’s only ever going to be 80% of what it was before,” she says for possibly the thirtieth time. “You are always going to have to be hyper-vigilant. The moment you se any signs of rubbing or soreness, you rip those shoes right off and get them adjusted. And if the sores open up, you call us immediately.” I tell her I will, though I feel tense and tired just thinking about it. This isn’t over. This will never be over. This is my life.

Taggert holds my coat up so I can worm my arms into the sleeves. “I feel like your butler,” she laughs, and escorts me to the door. She surprises me by giving me a big hug. 

“This is so anticlimactic,” I say. And it’s true; there are no emotional outpourings, no fitting denouements to any of the character arcs. Apparently this story ends with just me and Taggert hugging awkwardly in the vestibule. From a narrative perspective, it’s pretty weak. But perhaps there’s something fitting about that, even if it feels unsatisfying. 

Sitting on the counter is the bell you get to ring when you finish your treatment. For the first time, I notice that there are actually three bells; the one I rang last time, and also a town crier type hand bell and a squat cowbell. 

“Don’t I get to ring the bell?” I ask.

“Oh my god, of course!” Taggert laughs. “I forgot! It’s been so long since anyone’s rung it!”

I grab the little cowbell and shake it maniacally. It clonks dully, a harsh, ugly sound. I should’ve taken the town crier bell, but it’s too late. You can’t undo these kinds of mistakes. Taggert nevertheless waves her arms in the air and cheers. Bridget grimaces and shakes her head. I ring and ring and ring that fucking bell.

Outside, the sun has burned away the fog, and the world and all its denizens are cast in a harsh, cold light. It feels strange to be going to work after my appointment instead of the other way around. As I wait for the bus, a spotlight seems to shine on the litter at my feet one object at a time. Soggy brown wads of paper towels. A sheet of newspaper. A family of cigarette butts. A wrapper for a king-sized Snickers bar. A guy in a bright yellow vest is lethargically sweeping it all up. 

A man with purple hair walks past, wearing a black jean jacket with the words Where Roses Bloom So Does Hope stitched in Gothic lettering on the back. I move so the guy with the broom can sweep up the Snickers wrapper, and then the bus comes and I climb on and we head down Glisan, taking the Burnside bridge across the river, which is still shrouded in mist, despite the sunshine, into downtown, past the empty storefronts and boarded-up buildings, past addicts frozen in place and cops strapping on their riot gear, past people with baby carriages and mobility devices, couples holding hands or walking their dogs or getting coffee, past all these stories unfolding all the time around us, until finally I pull the cord to ring the bell for my stop.