"Kathe Koja - Queen of angels" - читать интересную книгу автора (Koja Kathe)

Queen of angels
by Kathe Koja

In the water-green half-light his lips protrude, moist starlet red. Glossy and swollen
as sweet infection; his irises are gray. When she touches him, he makes no sound at
all; but his lips move.
He might be praying; or trying to speak.
He never says her name.
Down the hall again; still. Just after nine on the heavy clock, white face in dust
behind bland mesh and big black numbers you could see from either end of the hall;
the all-purpose institutional clock. Hospitals and schools. And prisons. And nursing
homes. Walking, her back threatening to lock that feeling again like grinding bones in
socket; scraped dry and she leaned for a moment against the wall. Tired inside and
out, calf muscles crimping like they had all day; every day; she was so tired of
working here. Continuing care; right. Tired of bending over, of the smells and the
way shit feels between your fingers; youтАЩre wearing gloves but that doesnтАЩt really
help, does it? The endless rosary of pills, meds twice a shift and she was tired of
that too. Tylenol and vitamins; and Darvocett. And Xanax; She wished she could
have some Xanax. In the room closest tb her, Mrs. Reichert was screaming again.
Pretty soon they would all be screaming.
She was so tired of hearing people scream.
She had been here for four years, but they were all still people to her; helpless,
Most of the aides called them by their illnesses, their ailments, walking tragedies: the
ParkinsonтАЩs, the CVAs, the Alzheimers; a whole familyтАЩs worth of Alzheimers.
Strokes and dementia, congestive heart failure.
Her name was Deborah; but he never said her name.
The first time she saw him he was wrapped like a pupa, mummy in white,
bony and incongrubus, shivering mute with some vast disturbance; he could not talk;
his family talked too quietly and at such length that she could not stop to listen; she
had work to do. Count meds, her fat shifting pile of paperwork, charting BMs and
electrolyte counts, blood and urine, all the fluids rich and thin; a whole future in a
plastic sample container: I can tell you where youтАЩll be in a year, six months; six
weeks.
The family was in a hurry, despite the time they spent talking; she saw them
go. None of them said goodbye to their--what? Husband? Brother? Little brother. He
was barely forty, she saw: Elliot. His name was Elliot and he had had a stroke, a
cardiovascular accident. Some accident. With good care he would live a long time,
but he would never know a minute of it.
 Would he? Did they know, the ones whose brains took disasterтАЩs brunt while
leaving their bodies intact, slow wreck of blood and shoaling bone, endlessness
replicated with each breath, each intubation? The nurses and aides debated this,
when they had time, a few minutes with coffee or a Coke, one of the aides dropping
ashes on his shoes; sneakers. She wore sneakers too. She used to wear regular nurse
shoes but found she liked sneakers better, sometimes she had to move very fast and
the crepe soles had slowed her down.
тАЬDoes he even know heтАЩs in there, thatтАЩs what I wonder.тАЭ The aide dropped
ashes again. тАЬI mean, look at him. Look at any of тАШem.тАЭ
She shrugged. The other nurse sipped coffee, cursed softly for a scalded lip;
shook her head. тАЬTheyтАЩre not there anymore, no way. TheyтАЩre just empty bottles.тАЭ
The image seemed to please her; she said it again. тАЬEmpty bottles,тАЭ and when