Gastrointestinal

It’s late when I get in. Little lamp on the kitchen table. The white tile floor, just mopped. A dark puddle, barely visible in lamp-light, spreads. Through a wad of paper towels, still warm. Another, smaller puddle closer to the wall, finite and defined.

Into the bedroom. She’s crouched beneath the nightstand, waiting.  The ashtray tipped over and her water is black, Marlboro Light butts bobbing near the surface, islands, maggots. I rinse the bowl in the sink. The water takes forever to get warm. Pick the butts out of the drain, plump and saturated. The new bowl is set down and the water ripples while I mumble to her: “let’s try to eat.”

I’m standing in front of the open refrigerator; the interior bulb is the only light on in the apartment. I’m staring at the tin on the top shelf, half open, little spoon already in it. I’m staring as if this tin offers options, infinite variations on infinite possibilities. I bring the paper towels into the bedroom with the tin. I scoop out the smallest amount of I/D Gastrointestinal Health Food and tap it into the plastic Tupperware. Then I sit down on the edge of the bed, paper towels at my feet, and wait.

It takes fifteen minutes. She moves to the center of the room, performing, and she begins to heave. It’s always the same: first one big, second one, a few feet away, much smaller. She can’t keep anything down for long. The puddles steam a little in the moonlight, spreading over the linoleum. The space heater is unplugged under the desk.

I’m sitting in the waiting room for the third time this year. They carried her in for blood work about five minutes ago. Consistent vomiting is a symptom of everything. It’s snowing outside so she got kind of wet on the way over and I’m wondering if they noticed. The receptionist is talking in a really weird baby voice to some guy about frequent flyer miles and how traveling together is good for any relationship. I keep accidentally meeting her eyes.

Later, one of the techs is sitting next to me, speaking slowly. He talks to the back of my eyes. “She was very good. We got blood and urine from her.” The results will be in tomorrow. She’ll cry on the way home, snowflakes sticking to her coat. “Sign here with your finger and tap accept. An invoice will be emailed to you shortly.”