The Orderly: a dark love story

By Fraser L Rebekah

Love can bloom in the darkest of times.

Inspired by actual events, The Orderly is a story of love, trauma, disease, and the power of relationships to heal or destroy us. Francis MacKenzie should be dead.  It's 1969 and Francis is the oldest person alive with cystic fibrosis.  Aware he may not survive

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bee Books
• Release date: Sep 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781732618718

Fraser L Rebekah

A graduate of Yale University, Rebekah L. Fraser worked as a journalist for several years before turning to fiction. Her articles, creative nonfiction, and personal essays have appeared in publications throughout North America. The Orderly is her first novel.Find her at http://linktr.ee/RebekahLFraser

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Chapter 1

September 21, 1969 - Fran

TEWKSBURY STATE HOSPITAL, Tewksbury, MA

I love the sound of her laugh—like tinkling bells. And I love that I’m the one making her laugh. It’s a little game we play. I have no chance with Bev. Even if I was her type, it wouldn’t matter. I’ve always known love isn’t in my cards. Marriage, family— sounds swell but it’s not possible. So I shut it down. I have fun flirting, tell her, With your blue eyes and my dancing feet, we’ll make beautiful children, Bev.

And she giggles, Francis, you’re bad, her chest heaving under that nurse’s uniform. Oh, man. But then the doorbell rings, and my heart really starts racing.

I spin around like I’m on the dance floor, point my fingers like guns right at her, which sets her giggling again, then triple-step down the wide hallway toward the door. Out of  habit, I look into the various treatment rooms on the way. I make sure the meds room and sharps closet are locked. My heart beats faster with every step. The irony’s not lost on me. I get more excited hearing the doorbell, knowing a patient is on the other side than I do flirting with a gorgeous girl. Well, this is my reason for being— saving people in my own small way.  If I could’ve finished high school, I’d be a doctor.  No sense crying about that now.  I know I’m making a difference.

I pass Seclusion Room B and see Marty standing just inside the door. He looks sternly at the patient on the bed. Hey, Angela, Marty says. You don’t wanna end up in restraints again, stop scratching at your arms and keep your hands apart.

The kid makes me proud, so I flash him a thumbs up before pulling out my key ring. We keep the entrance locked on both sides to protect the public health patients from the psychiatric patients, and to protect the psych patients from themselves.  I open the door, and two public health orderlies wheel a stretcher with a girl— maybe my age, 29, maybe 28— into the hall. She looks in rough shape.

Took four of us to get her husband off her, one whispers, gesturing to the fresh marks on the patient’s face. Bev comes down the hall, greets the orderlies, and takes the paperwork.

Irene Boutelle, one of the orderlies tells Bev. Went into shock or something.

Irene, can you hear me? Bev says loudly. I’m Nurse Beverly Tomassi. You’re in the psychiatric ward now. Francis and Marty will get you settled in Room One.

The public health orderlies leave the ward and I lock the door behind them, then wait at the foot of the stretcher. Bev takes Marty’s place watching Angela in the seclusion room, and Marty joins me. That Angela, he mumbles as he grabs the head end of the stretcher.

You handled it good, though, Marty. I’m proud ‘a ya.

Thanks! Marty nods, and we wheel Irene Boutelle into Room One.

Here we are, I sing as we enter. It’s a weird habit, I know, but it’s what I do— I have a sing-song voice. We got a private room for you, Irene. How about that? A nice quiet place to rest.

Of course, she doesn’t answer. I’m just trying to make her feel safe. I’ve been told my sing-song voice is soothing. It’s nothing like the sultry baritone Marty inherited from Dad, but it’s gentle, comforting. I maneuver the stretcher alongside the bed near the window, look out at the changing leaves, and feel my heartbeat slow. Looking at the leaves could start me daydreaming, but I return my attention to the task, lock the wheels, walk around the stretcher to get a closer look at Irene’s face. Her right eye is swollen, hair’s a tangled mess. Bruises cover her face and arms. Can you stand, Irene?

Irene stares straight ahead as if she doesn’t realize Marty and I are in the room. On three, we lift her dead weight out of the stretcher and settle her onto the mattress. I slide the blanket from the foot of the bed over her delicate frame.

Irene? Marty asks, Can we bring anything to make you more comfortable?

His deep voice hangs in the air. If Irene was in her right mind now, she’d be swooning like girls usually do when Marty speaks.

We stare at her for a minute. I wonder if she’ll recover.  God, help this woman. I make a sign of the cross and whisper, You’re safe now, Irene.

Her eyes spark for just a second. At least I think they do. Could be the lights flickering.

Back at the nurse’s station, I read Irene’s intake file while Marty double-checks our assignments.

What’s the deal with Irene? he whispers in my ear. She sedated?

Nope.

So what’s the deal?

I have to remind myself that Marty’s still green. Six months working the psych ward is nothing. I look up at my kid brother: fit from his brief stint in the Navy, he’s got a strong, open face that attracts all the girls, and dark eyes that reveal his smarts and his fear. Seeing signs of abuse, like the bruises on Irene, makes Marty nervous. He can’t bear to see people suffer. Like Ma, Marty’s always clowning around, trying to lift everyone’s blues away.

He nudges me and repeats the question. Seems I’ve spaced out again. Bad scene in the E.R. Came in with a hypoxic kid, then her husband showed up, beat the shit out of her. Got worse from there. She dissociated, I explain.

Dissociated?

Checked out. Ya know? Like an altered state. Still conscious, but in her mind, she’s somewhere else.

Marty looks like he’s processing this, trying to imagine what that’s like.

Fran! Marty! Bev rushes toward us from the other side of the ward, all sex appeal gone in her obvious distress. Your mother just called. Your sister’s at Boston Children’s.

Shit, we say simultaneously.

You’re here ’til 7:00?

I nod and look at my watch. It’s three fucking thirty.

Let me call around, see if anyone can come in early to cover for youse.

Thanks, Bev. That’s real sweet, I say.

You know me.

TWO HOURS LATER, I’M fuming. I’ve never been good at parallel parking. The CBS radio news break isn’t helping, neither.  Fighting in the dense jungles near Cambodia began Sunday and there were reports of new clashes earlier this evening. There have been no figures on enemy losses, but government casualties were numbered at 200 dead, wounded, or missing.

Government casualties. Sickening. Why don’t they just call it what it is: our men dead, wounded or missing?

One of the most frequently repeated pieces of conventional wisdom in this war is that, unless the Vietcong can be beaten in the Delta, the South Vietnamese government can have no hope of winning the war.  The Delta is where most of South Vietnam’s population is concentrated, where most of its food is grown, the richest and most coveted area in Southeast Asia. Up until last year, the Delta belonged to the Vietcong.—

Might be an easier spot down the street, Marty offers. I can hear the nervousness in his voice.

I click off the radio, shift into first, and start over.

Marty sighs as I pull my beautiful new F-150 alongside the shitbox sedan for the third time, shift into reverse, and take a deep breath. The doctors are always saying deep breathing calms the nerves. Of course, that’s tough for me sometimes. Right now, though, I manage it. I exhale real slow as I back into the empty spot, cut the wheel at exactly the right moment until the truck is perfectly positioned in the space. A minor victory. I hope it’s a sign.

We open the doors at the same time and hop out of the cab. Have any nickels? I ask, reaching onto the dash for my banana.

Marty fishes through his pockets, pulls out several coins and feeds the parking meter. He always has change, always jingles when he walks. As we hurry toward the entrance, every step sounds like the beginning of Jingle Bells. If we weren’t on our way into BCH, if I was feeling more upbeat, I’d make a joke. But I’m not feeling upbeat.

We walk in stride, slam the hospital doors open and go to the reception desk. The receptionist seems confused by our work uniforms and even more confused when we say we work at Tewksbury Hospital.

Hazel MacKenzie. Room 629.

The receptionist looks at the directory. That’s the CF... Ohhhh.... Yes, of course, just past the elevator, and—

Thanks, we know where it is.

She’s still talking when we walk away.

We enter the Cystic Fibrosis Center a few minutes later, walk past the nurses’ station and into room 629. Our little sister’s lying in bed, staring at the doctor in front of her.  It breaks my heart to see her like this, even though it’s not the first time and won’t be the last, God willing. An oxygen mask covers her nose and mouth.  At fifteen, she’s the size of a ten-year-old. Her belly’s distended and her arms and legs are skinnier than normal kids her age.  The doctor is reading her chart.

Are you going to work with me, my dear? His voice is both stern and loving, like Dad’s. I watch his face as he looks back at her chart. It cracks me up how he always lifts and lowers his bushy graying eyebrows as he reads. It’s important to find a little humor in a tense situation.

Hey, hey, Hazel! I sing. Marty joins in, harmonizing with the silly song we made up for her when she was a baby.  Don’t mean Basil. She’s a hay, hay, Hazel, Hazelnut.

She looks up and smiles, It’s about time you showed up.

The doctor looks up and frowns right at me. Francis, you’re here, he says. Hello, Marty.

We nod at him. Hello, Doctor Schwachman.

Where’s Ma? I ask.

She and Dad just went down for food, Hazel explains.

Let’s chat outside, shall we, Fran? Doctor Schwachman puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me toward the door. Marty can keep Hazel company until your parents return from the caf.

I don’t resist. Looking over my shoulder, I see Marty go to Hazel’s bedside and envelop her in his arms, as well as he can with all the tubes coming out of her.

Be right back, Hay, I sing as the good doctor and I reach the door.

Outside the room, the doctor puts a hand on each of my shoulders, looks me straight in the eyes and whispers, This is serious.

I feel sick hearing that. I don’t want to ask, but I know I have to. Is she dying?

Hazel has a highly contagious bronchial infection, and you—

I know what he’s going to say. I’ve heard it a thousand times: Francis, you’re more susceptible to infection than others.  Being with your sister right now is too risky for you with your condition.  I respect his opinion, but this is no time for cowardice.  My sister needs me. I’m a grown man, I say.

Doctor S. smiles at this. The fact I’ve survived this long is a point of pride for him, I know. I’m kinda the poster child for advances in CF medicine, thanks to him.

You are a grown man, and you can make your own decisions, Doctor Schwachman says. And I know this is hard on you, but—

It’s not me I’m worried about. No one else knows what she’s going through, I remind him. The meds and treatments can only do so much.

The doctor sighs and closes his eyes, a sign he’s thinking about what to do next. Doctor Schwachman has every right to bar me from seeing Hazel if he wants, so I have to make a strong case. It’s her family that lifts her spirits, Doc, and you’re always saying that’s half the battle.

Your parents have been by her side since they brought her in. You know how they are.  They only left because I made them take a break. Marty’s here.  Your other sisters will be here shortly, I understand.

But I’m the one who knows what she’s going through.  I’m the only one.

The doctor sighs and drops his arms back to his sides. You win.

Thanks be to God.

But, he says, pointing his finger at my chest, I expect you in my office next week for a full round of tests.

Yes, sir.

I can’t help but love the man.  He’s saved me and Hazel’s lives so many times. 

When I return to the room, Hazel is crying into Marty’s chest, her long hair covering her face.  Oddly, Marty looks at me with that pained expression he gets when he’s trying not to laugh.  He takes a deep breath, and announces, Paul’s dead.

Who? I ask.

Paul! Hazel moans, not looking up.  McCartney.  I heard it on the radio!

What? How?  I go to the other side of her bed and sit next to her.  Hazel’s obsession with the Beatles goes beyond fan status, so I know this is painful for her.

He died in a car crash almost three years ago, and The Beatles have been using a body double all this time.

I choke. Now I’m the one stifling a laugh, Oh, ah, you sure about that, kid?

I heard it on WAAF. They played the song ‘Saint Paul,’ and it’s all about his death!

Marty puts on a British accent, Don’t believe it, luv.  The Beatles wouldn’t do that now, would they?

That’s not funny, Marty, Hazel sniffs, then launches into a coughing fit.  I thump her back with my cupped palms.

Just listen to ‘I Am The Walrus’ when you get home, she says, her voice vibrating with the rhythm of my thumping.

Getting upset isn’t healthy for her right now.  Also, I think she’s projecting her fears about her own possible death onto Paul McCartney.  I want to bring her back to reality, but gently. So what’s going on with you, Hay?  How’d you end up with this infection?

Some of the kids at school were sick.  Then my sugars got all out of whack because I couldn’t eat.  The pounding brings up some mucus, and she coughs and spits into a tissue.  I wasn’t hungry, so I just had some orange juice, but that was too much sugar, and—

You didn’t listen to Ma, did you.

I wasn’t hungry.  I was too upset to eat.

Upset about what?

About Paul! Hazel yells, her eyes wide.  How could he be dead?  And how could they not tell us?  And what if Will is dead in Vietnam and nobody told us?  And what if—

"Hey, kid, don’t catastrophizing on me now. Just because this Beatles thing is— I mean, if Paul’s dead, that doesn’t mean— The Beatles aren’t the US Military.  If anything were to happen to our brother— not that anything— nothing will happen to him.  He’s a MacKenzie.  We beat the odds!  Remember?"

I’m ready to launch into a lecture about how resilient we are, how Ma danced her way through polio and still walks, how Hazel and I— but then I catch the look on Marty’s face, and I look at Hazel.  All of a sudden, it feels like we’re thinking the same awful thought, a thought that until now I have not allowed myself to think: What if William does die in Vietnam?

I stop pounding Hazel’s back and take her hand.  I say comforting words to her, but the vision in my mind is a hailstorm of explosions all around my younger brother.  Will is the one everyone always teased for being too sensitive, the one who went to war not to fight, but to save people as a medic.  Bullets might be ricocheting around William right now and there is nothing I can do to save him.

Chapter 2

September 21, 1969 - Irene

TEWKSBURY STATE HOSPITAL, Tewksbury, MA

Voices ricochet all around.  Urgent.  Soothing.  Questioning.  Accusing.  Hypoxic, institution, permanent, damaged.  Wheels moving.  Body vibrating.

Still in the car?  There yet?  Drive faster.  Heart pounds.

Speed down the side street.  Sun glare blinding, making everything golden.  Tina goes on about, Daddy’s medicine... Daddy’s new friend, and trying to stop Peter’s screaming.  What is Tina talking about?  Tilt the rearview mirror to see Peter in his big brother’s lap.  Eyes half closed.  Dopey grin.

Peter, honey.

He don’t respond.

A horn blares. Look back at the road just in time to swerve.

Station wagon blur.

Near miss.

H sign.

Quick right turn.

There it is, Ma, Jimmy yells from the back seat.

There!  Tewksbury Hospital Emergency Room.

Engine off.  Parking brake.  Keys.  Grab the baby.  Run.

White uniforms come.

Nurses take Peter.  Ask questions.  Yelling all around.  ABG!

Whatever that means.

Jimmy and Tina— hands.  Hold hands!  Follow.

Try to see over white uniforms.  Try to breathe.

They poke him, prod him, lift his eyelids, test his reflexes.  No response, but—

He’s breathing, they say.

Sit on the bed.  Arms open to receive Peter again.  Rock him side to side.  Kiss his soft hair.

Soothing smell of baby shampoo.

Nurse lifts a big needle.  Hold him steady, Mom.

Hold Peter tight.  Needle goes into his arm.  His scream stabs.

And stabs.  And stabs.  And stabs.  And—

Irene, can you hear me?  A new voice intrudes, I’m Nurse Beverly Tomassi. You’re in the psychiatric ward now. Fran and Marty will get you settled in Room One.

Rising.  Floating.

Tina’s serious little eyes searching.  Tina’s little voice, the Rs that sound like Ws: Daddy’s new friend came with his medicine. Petey didn’t like the man. He cried and cried and cried and Daddy said be quiet, but Petey kept on crying, and  then he was screaming, and I tried to make him feel better, but it didn’t work.  Daddy made him stop.  Hey, Mama, did you know Petey’s eyelids flicker when he’s sleeping?

SEPTEMBER 22, 1969

The flickering of the lights in the E.R. made you feel extra jumpy.  Now, even though you’re alone in this quiet room, you feel you’re still sitting on the bed in the emergency room with two of your three beautiful children, rocking back and forth, back and forth. 

Jimmy’s quiet, leaning against your shoulder, taking everything in like he does.  Calming.  You’re watching Tina tell her story.  Her mouth is red from the lollipop they gave her at the registration desk.  Her face is dirty from the sandbox.  The bows you tied so carefully this morning are undone, hanging limp from messy brown pigtails.  In another situation, you’d take the hairbrush from your purse and fix her hair, drag her to the bathroom and wash that face.  Instead, you listen to her squeaky five-year-old voice repeating the story she told in the car. 

Petey wouldn’t take his Teddy Bear, and he wouldn’t take his blanket. He threw it and screamed for you, so Daddy gave him some medicine.

What medicine, Sweetheart?

Daddy’s medicine.

What medicine?  You wondered.  Now you’re alone in the quiet room and your questions been answered, you can’t stop shaking.

IS PETEY GONNA BE OKAY, Ma?  Jimmy asks.

You shake your head.  Shhh, Sweetheart.

Don’t look into his wise brown eyes.  He’s just twelve.  Don’t show him how scared you are.

Tina continues like a broken record, Petey didn’t like the medicine, but then he went to sleep. He looked funny, and I told Daddy, but Daddy wasn’t listening. Daddy was taking his medicine.

You can’t stand to hear it; can’t stand not to hear it; don’t know how to respond. 

You took care of your baby brother, like a big girl, Tina. Mama’s good girl, you say for the umpteenth time.

Tina looks into your face—sincere, urgent. I don’t know why Daddy likes shots, ‘cause nobody else in the whole world likes ‘em, but he really does, Mama. He really does. He even said, ‘Tina, this medicine makes Daddy feel so good,’ and he smiled and closed his eyes.

IRENE, CAN YOU OPEN your eyes?

His soft voice rouses you.  Kind.  Familiar.  Musical.

Irene?  It’s supper time, he sings.  Will you come to the dining room?

You open your eyes a crack.  Dark hair, dark eyes, soft features.  White uniform.  He’s kneeling beside you on one knee, steadying himself with his hands.  His fingertips are pudgy, like little clubs.  He leans forward, so his face is close.  Handsome.  Warm.  Open.  Your heart starts beating wild, like when you’re running after the kids on the playground.  The kids.

Are you hungry?

A quiet moan is all that comes out.  Peter?

I’ll bring something to your room, all right? You like fish or steak?

You manage a nod.

Steak?

He stands and his shoes squeak as he walks away.

You look at the white linoleum, white walls, white blanket covering your body.  Still cold.  You finger the hospital bracelet on your wrist, shiver, hear the social worker’s voice in your head again.  

Tina ‘n Jimmy are decent kids. We’ll make sure they go to good homes.

What?!?

Keep ‘em together if possible. 

What are you talking about? I just, I just went next door! Was just having coffee with my neighbor.

There are many responsible families in our foster care system who will —

Responsible! Foster care? I’m... Jimmy was in the backyard playing with the neighbor’s son.  Tina and Peter were home with their father.

Mrs. Boutelle, the children are clearly not safe with their father, and it looks like you’re not safe with him, either.  Are you.

Mama, why is the lady taking us?

Hush up, Tina! Can’t ya see Ma’s crying?

You hush, Jimmy.

Come on, Tina. We’re just gonna do what the lady says, ‘cause the doctors say that’s what we have to, and we’re gonna be fine. Ma’s gonna rest here and then she’ll come get us.

Tomorrow?

Maybe tomorrow.

Saturday?

Maybe Saturday.

Sunday?

Geez, Tina, I don’t know. Maybe Sunday.

You sit up and try to shake the memory out of your head.  You think about Peter’s chubby little face laughing.  His fat fingers holding crayons.  Peter learning to walk, climbing onto the couch, bouncing to music.  Peter and his slobbery baby kisses.  Peter—happy, a normal boy, a sweet, normal, healthy eighteen-month-old.  Playing in the sandbox with the big kids. Swinging with Tina at the playground.  Riding on his big brother’s shoulders.  Giggling.  Happy.  Normal.  Then Tina calling, Mama!  Fear in her voice.  Peter limp in his big sister’s arms.

What happened? Peter? What HAPPENED, Tina?

Daddy gave Peter his medicine and he fell over.

What medicine?  No time to listen, scooping them both into your arms with a strength you didn’t know you had, running to the car, screaming for Michael and Jimmy to come, to hurry, to get in the car.  Jimmy panting, asking what happened.  Screaming for your husband again.  No response.  Driving to the hospital without him.

Peter?  Mama’s here, Baby.  Mama’s here.  Everything’s okay.  You’re okay, Sweetheart.

But he ain’t.

You never shoulda left him.

Now, your chest is caving in, shoulders rounding, breath leaving.  It’s like you’re sitting on the emergency room bed again, holding Tina in one arm and Jimmy in the other, feeling the emptiness on your lap where Peter was sitting before they took him away for treatment.  It’s like the doctor is standing in front of you again,