Entropy and Sorrow's Kiss

"511 Byron Court. That's Joan's address."

He reached down to the center console and flipped on the lights and siren, and punched the accelerator to the floor. He took corners hard and deep, pushed the squad car as fast as he dared down straight stretches of road, and soon he saw her house. It looked quiet, just another Tuesday Afternoon in suburbia. He reached for the radio. "2114, code six."

"2114 code six at thirteen forty."

He pulled up in front of the house and jumped out of the car and ran for the door. It stood open a few inches, and he called out her name and knocked on the door before he stepped in. He heard moaning, and he pushed the door open and instantly felt resistance, then he heard more moaning. He looked down through the partially open door and there she was, lying on her side on the floor in a white terrycloth robe, a pool of vomit under her face. He could see vomit in her mouth, vomit all over her face, but she was lying quietly. Her eyes were wide open, almost lifeless.

'She's not breathing,' he thought. 'Fuck, she's drowning in her vomit!' He pushed the door open and dropped to her side, put two fingers on her carotid artery and felt for a pulse as he watched her chest for signs of breathing. He couldn't feel anything. He checked her neck for obvious trauma, then pulled out his hand radio and yelled: "2114, starting CPR at this location, expedite ambulance!"

"2114 received at zero nine forty one."

He swept the vomit from her mouth carefully, not remembering exactly what to do in this situation other than to clear the airway and start rescue breathing, so when he had all of the liquid that he could out of her mouth he started breathing for her. He gave two breaths, then moved to her chest to begin compression – and then he saw the carnage under her robe. Her breasts were gone, and the skin he saw was blotchy red and yellow from radiation. Her arms were bruised, and her hair was gone. He started to cry as he felt for her sternum, and placed his hands where he thought he would do the least damage and began chest compressions. He moved back to breathe for her, and back to her chest to help her heart move blood, and he continued even as he heard a firetruck and ambulance wailing in the distance, then coming down the street and stopping in front of her house. He heard voices and footsteps running toward the door, but he kept up his rhythm, not wanting to miss a breath or a compression.

"In here! Just inside the front door!" he yelled as he pressed down on her chest, and the door opened. A paramedic slid in the narrow entry and dropped to her head, then put a mask with a rubber bag attached to it over her face; a fireman pushed into the space and began chest compressions while still another paramedic ripped her robe open and started hooking up EKG leads to her chest.

"She had a mastectomy several months ago..." he blurted out.

"No shit!" the paramedic bagging her said. "You know her?"

"I met her when her house was burglarized, popped a couple of 'scrotes when they ran out the back..."

"Yeah, yeah, I remember... that was you, huh? Dave, you got anything there?"

"Yeah, got a rhythm, but its thready and her BP is 62 over 28. I'm gonna call in for orders; bet we need to get some fluid in her..."

Burnett stood and backed away from the medics, let them do their thing. He walked back into the house, checked for signs of foul play – and found none, looked for numbers of friends to call – and found none, or doctors to call – and he found a hospital discharge order and a number to call if she had a problem. It was dated not quite a week ago, he saw, so he went to the telephone and called the number, got a nurse and explained who he was and what was happening.

"Oh, yeah, Joan Dickinson. Yeah, she's still in chemo. Yeah, can the paramedics bring her to Baylor? Dr Dunsworth is on call there this morning; I'll let him know she's headed in..."

"Okay, I'll let them know. Listen, you have any family or any other contacts to call?"

"Ah, let me look. Uh, just an Officer Alan Burnett, with the police department."

The words hit Burnett hard, he seemed to stagger under the weight of them.

"You still there, Officer?"

"Yes. I gotta go, but thanks for the info." He hung up the phone, turned to look at her, and it all snapped into focus.

She'd been protecting him, didn't want him to go through her sickness and disfiguration.

That's why all the contradictory impulses flew across her face.

He looked at her lying there, vomit all over her robe and in her hair, and he felt like he'd betrayed her – again. Like he'd betrayed himself. Like he'd betrayed Debbie and Elaine and Henry – all of them.

'Hell,' he thought, 'I have betrayed her.' He turned, looked away, wanted to hide the tears that were welling in his eyes. 'I was her friend', he thought, 'and I let her push me away. Even let her dictate the terms...of my surrender...'

The paramedics were running an IV, talking to the hospital on their radio, but they didn't seem too concerned now. Maybe she would be alright, he thought. He walked back deeper into the house, to her bedroom, and memories washed over him when he saw her things again. Lots of medications on the bedside table now, and vomit on the carpet, red-tinged vomit on the bedsheets. He walked into the bathroom, and he could see that she had a least tried to make it to the toilet a number of times.

"God, she was in a living Hell" Yes, and you left her for us, the Keeper said.

Burnett walked back to the kitchen, told the medics about the transport request to Baylor, then helped them load her on the gurney. He walked with them out to the ambulance, helped lift her into the back of the box, then shut the door behind the paramedics. He walked back to the house and secured all the doors, then back to his squad car and sat behind the wheel. He picked up the radio and checked in with dispatch.

"Ah, 2114."

"2114, go ahead."

"2114, show me clear with a report."

"2114, clear at fourteen hundred hours. Service number 9169717."

"2114, received." Burnett looked at his steno–pad, started to write some notes, but his hands started to shake, his eyes filled with tears. He shook his head, tried to clear the fog that had settled over his world, but he seemed to sink deeper into a surreal gloom that had engulfed this world. He tried again to put a few words down on the pad, but he quickly gave up the effort. He looked at his hand, looked at the trembling that consumed his flesh, but he still held the pen in his hand like a talisman – even as he willed his hand to stop shaking. The ambulance started to pull away from the curb and he watched the 'box' leave with cold dread in his heart.

He watched as it moved away from him down the street, feeling lost and truly alone.

He watched the ambulance like it was a hearse, and that all his dreams had just died and the remains were being hauled away.

He watched as the ambulance continued down the street, then turned a corner and was gone.

His hands began to shake violently now – as tears fell on his report.

Then there was a knock on the car's window and he jumped, looked, and saw an old man standing there in the street and rolled down the window.

"Are you okay?" the old man said. Burnett recognized him. The old man who'd stopped him on the street those many months ago.

"I don't think so. Sorry."

"Do you know Joanie?"

"I did. Once."

"Oh?"

"We were friends. For a few days, anyway. I was with her when she was diagnosed, when she had the biopsy."

"My wife just baked some cookies. Want to come in, have some coffee? It's getting kind of cold out here."

"2114," blared the radio.

"Sorry. Got to take this," he said to the old man as he picked up the radio's mic. "2114, go ahead."

"2114, major accident at Crest View and Walnut Grove."

"2114, Code 5."

"2114, en route at fourteen zero five hours."

"Sorry," he said to the old man as he started his patrol car's motor, "they're playing my song...and it's time to dance again."

"Be careful out there." He may make it yet. "You never know," the old man, the Keeper said.

"Thanks, sir. Hope to see you again some day." He drove away, turned on the car's lights and siren and rolled up the window as cold air filled the car.

"I feel most certain we will," the Keeper said.

+++++

Burnett was sitting in one the visitor's parking lots outside Baylor Medical Center in his old BMW; he was lost in thought, hesitating on the crest of a wave.

He didn't know what to do, which way to turn. The way had once seemed so clear, but she had listed him as her sole contact information, so she must have still seen him as someone important in her life. But her last words to him still rattled away in his mind, the wound fresh and raw despite the passage of time.

Go – Leave – Now and you had listened, too, hadn't you?

'Why,' he asked the air in front of his face. 'What had she done to deserve this betrayal?'

Finally, he decided – her words did not matter now. He opened the car door and got out, stretched away the day's anxieties, then walked into the hospital. He still had his uniform on, something he usually didn't do after his shift was over, but he didn't want to answer questions from nurses and the uniform was good at keeping people at a distance. He ignored, as he usually did, stares from people as he made his way into the lobby, and walked over to the information desk and asked the lady where he could find Joan Dickinson.

She looked at her list, shook her head. "Is she family?" the woman asked.

"Uh, no, I took a call this morning at her house. I've got to get some follow up information for my report."

"Oh, alright. She's in 417South, go up those elevators to the fourth floor. Just check-in with the duty nurse at the desk."

"Thanks, Ma'am," he said as he walked over to the bank of elevators. He walked into an open car and rode up silently into the tortured world of the sick and the dying, and he tried to ignore the dehumanizing medical blather passing between two white-coated doctors in the back of the car. He looked up at the ceiling, let out a sigh, then exited as the door opened on the fourth floor. He walked to the nurse's station, feeling slightly sick to his stomach.

"Can I help you, Officer?" the nurse asked, looking him over with just a hint of suspicion.

"Yes ma'am, I'm doing some follow up on a sick call this morning. Joan Dickinson, I think they said she's in 417. How's she doing?"

"'Bout as good as can be expected?"

"How so?"

"She's pretty sick, Officer. Cancer, she's still doing chemo, but her second round."

"What does that mean?"

"Well, first they try to stop the immediate spread of cancer with surgery, this is usually followed by chemotherapy, in case surgery doesn't get all the cancer out. Surgery and chemo didn't work in her case. Radiation failed too, so they've decided to try another round of chemo."

"And if that doesn't work? Then what?"

"Then we'll try to keep her comfortable," the woman said, avoiding the obvious conclusion.

"So, what did y'all do today?"

The nurse took out a chart and looked it over. "Sorry, I just came on. Uh, looks pretty straight forward, tried to stabilize her, her white count was low so they've transfused her; now we're trying to get her fluids stable again, then we can work on the nausea."

"Can I see her?"

"Uh...is this personal business, Officer, uh, Burnett?" the woman asked, reading the name on the little silver badge over his right shirt pocket.

"Little bit of both, Nurse Parker," he said after craning his head to make out the nurse's name on her uniform. "I met her when her house was burglarized last summer. She has me down as her personal contact."

"Oh, well then, yeah, go ahead." She shook her head and frowned. "I think she's asleep; please don't wake her if she is."

"Right," he said as he walked off down the hallway. Burnett hated hospitals; all cops hate hospitals, bad karma to even be here, he said to himself. He looked in the rooms at the various people laid up in bed after bed, an oppressive feeling of illness permeating the air. He came to 417 and knocked gently on the door; when he heard no answer he pushed the door open a little bit and looked in; she was sitting up, eyes wide open – looking at life as it played out on the ceiling.

"Hello there," he said, leaning into the room.

She looked over at the sound of his voice, looked at his face and uniform, and lifted her left hand and motioned him in. "Well, well, well," she said, her voice a raspy echo of the seductive music she had played not so long ago. "Look who's here..."

"Well, aren't you a sight. You look a helluva lot better than you did this morning."

She looked confused. "This morning?"

"Yeah, I responded to the call this morning, got there before the paramedics."

"Oh?"

"So, you feeling better now?"

"I feel like shit, and my throat hurts."

"Got any ice?"

"Yup."

"Mind if I ask a couple of direct questions?"

"Yes, Alan, I do."

He looked at her, walls of unasked questions still hanging in the air between them.

"What, Alan? What do you expect?"

"I thought at least I could be your friend. You know, friends help friends when they're down, and I want to help if I can. If you'll let me."

"You still playing that same song, Alan?"

He laughed. "I can only imagine what was going through your mind the last time we were together, and I'm not sure I would want to share what you're going through, if I was in your place, I mean. But I'm pretty sure I wouldn't turn my back on a friend who wanted to help, either."

"Oh, are you my friend?"

"I wanted...I want to be."

"You're just not going to grow up, are you, Alan?"

"Just what the Hell does that mean, Joan? I mean, really, please tell me, because I obviously don't get it! What strikes you as childish, what is it about needing someone else that strikes you as childish!?"

She looked away; her eyes still focused on her father. "So, Alan, you want to watch me die. Does that strike you as good entertainment? Oh, why can't you just understand?"

Her eyes seemed lost to him, focused on someone or something far away.

"You know, Diane... Joan... I am really selfish. I don't give a damn if I'm with you for a day, a week, or a month. I just wanted to be with you, hell, like I said, maybe I need to be with you. And the thought of you barfing all over yourself, almost drowning in vomit... well, nobody should go through that alone, darlin'. It ain't right, and I guess I'm pissed off!"

"Well, at least you know you're selfish!" she said, a smile trying to form on her cracked lips.

"Oh? Is that the point. Me? Selfish? Why are you being so Goddamned selfish?"

"Because I love you."

The words rocked him, left him feeling dizzy. He felt the room spinning, felt light-headed as her words hit him and their meaning washed through his soul.

"Not what you expected to hear, Alan?"

"No, I guess not," he said in a voice just barely above a whisper.

"Come here," she said, holding out her hand.

He walked over to her, took her hand in his and looked at her, looked into her eyes. "I just don't get you," he said in a matter-of-fact monotone. "I'm just fucking clueless when it comes to you."

"Yes you do, Alan. You're about the only person who ever has."

He nodded his head. "Uh-huh. Right."

"So you were there? This morning, I mean?"

"Uh-huh."

"I don't remember. Any of it."

"Not surprised, darlin'. You were about nine–tenths dead. Had to do CPR and all that hero shit. You were a mess..."

"CPR? My heart had stopped?"

"I'm not... sure. You were choking, on vomit, drowning."

"You did CPR and my mouth was full of...?"

"Yup, just part of the service, Ma'am," he said with a grin all over his face.

She was gripping his hand very hard now, looking at him intently. "Thank you."

He looked away for a moment, then came back to her. "You're welcome, darlin'."

"I like it when you call me that."

"Yeah? So, when do I get to spring your ass from this place?"

She looked away, looked out the window into the infinite. "I don't know. They're not telling me much right now."

"Want me to find out?"

"No, not really. Things will work out now as they're meant to."

He looked at her, looked at the serenity on her face.

"Some mistakes, Alan, we never stop paying for," she said.

"Yeah, but I think I said once we need to learn from our mistakes. At least I'd like to think we can."

"Maybe so. We're gonna find out soon enough."

"Yeah?"

"I need you to call my mother."

+++++

He met Joan's mother at the airport late the next afternoon. He knew just by looking at the woman she was Joan's mother. The same jet black hair, though turning silver in places, the same eyes – though her's were brutally cold, and decidedly aloof. This was, he saw, Joan in 'pain writ large' and stretched to the breaking point.

He greeted Mrs Jennifer Dickinson as politely as he could and gave her right hand a firm embrace, but the woman remained distant and cold all through the terminal, though once outside in the fading daylight she tried briefly to make small-talk about the flight and the weather – anything, it seemed, but to acknowledge the nature of her presence here. They made their way to Alan's car and were soon driving toward downtown, and the hospital, but there was a wall in the air between them, and the longer they drove the more ridiculous it became. Then, finally, the wall cracked...

"How is she, Alan?"

"I'm not trying to be evasive, but I'm not really sure. The nurses seemed kinda optimistic this morning, but Joan wasn't. Maybe she's just depressed, or maybe the docs told her something the nurses don't know – yet. I don't know, but maybe she'll tell you more than she's told me..."

"I wouldn't count on that. How did you two meet?"

Alan recounted the burglary, the shooting, taking her to dinner. He told her a condensed version of their brief affair and split-up."

"So, you're a cop?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Interesting. Joanie's father was a cop, though only for a few years, when she was very young. I guess the uniform made an impression..."

"I didn't know that. Where's he now?"

"Oh, he passed away several years ago. AIDS. He developed a taste for...other things."

"I see," Burnett said as he listened to the coldness underlying the woman's voice. "Have you remarried?"

She tossed out a sharp little cackle. "Not on your life! Never make the same mistake twice."

Burnett flinched at the irony of her words.

"So, when's the last time you saw Joanie? She hasn't really talked much about you, and didn't want to call you at first; actually, she only just yesterday asked that I call you."

"How long has she been ill?" Mrs Dickinson was good at evading painful associations, too, he noted.

"About four months. The initial diagnosis was breast cancer, but it had already spread to some lymph nodes around her right shoulder."

"Did they take her breast?" she asked, and Alan heard a tremble in her voice.

"Yeah, well, they did a full radical mastectomy...last summer."

"They took them both! But...but why?" The woman seemed angry and surprised.

"You'll have to ask someone else that question, Ma'am. That's a little out of my line."

For the rest of the drive into town Mrs Dickinson remained quiet and defensive, her arms crossed protectively over her breasts – as if to ward off dark spirits that had gathered in the air around her own worn body. Burnett looked over at her from time to time as he drove, noticed an almost childlike quality that seemed embedded within the air of denial the woman exuded, and he thought she looked as if she might break out in tears when the car approached the hospital – when she first saw the huge buildings. As he thought about this woman he saw how fragile life was, how interconnected we all are, and he found the thought crushing. Didn't we all make bargains, he thought, to find our way through the night?