Dying For Pizza

I'm engaged.

Or at least I was. I couldn't quite tell you how I got engaged. It was all so fast; a spur of the moment type of thing. I had always viewed the guy as just a friend. What five-year-old wouldn't?

“Rose!” the little, black boy called. “Come on, Rose. Let's play!”

We always played together. Rayson and I were practically glued at the hip. Even at six, he was long and gangly with a pair of glasses that never stayed on his face. His hair was always the same – buzzed off save a bit of dark stubble. It was the epitome of the home haircut. None of us daycare kids lived in the lap of luxury. I remember a couple of equally successful home-haircuts I’d suffered. More importantly, though, Rayson and I always had a good time playing house or racing cars. Sometimes a little Hispanic boy would join in the fun. I don't really remember him. Only that he had no one, save us, to play with.

But, one day, the big girls wanted me to play with them. The tall, Cuban girl with beautiful dark brown hair, green eyes, and pepper of freckles spreading across her cheeks claimed me as her surrogate daughter. She adored my gray-blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. And, I felt special when she – a fifth-grader – wanted to play with me.

“Now,” she proclaimed as she grabbed my hand, “I am going to do your hair.”

“Okay,” I said. And, I let her drag me across the room to her “salon.”

Then, Rayson popped up. He told me about him and Matthew and their epic game of cars. I wanted to play, too. But, Arianny only pulled my hand harder and said, “Come on, Edelira” that's what she called me “we have important things to do.”

I looked at Rayson. I wanted to tramp off with him, but I didn't have the words to say so. He didn't mind. With a slight nod, he turned away. Matthew was waiting, and Arianny was not. But, then, Rayson came back and whispered in my ear, “We're still gonna get married, right?”

I nodded. I didn't exactly want to marry him, but I didn't know how to say so. Yes seemed easiest, so I just let him think that I meant it. I was only five. What else could I have done?

That kind of stuff happened a lot when I was younger. Saying stuff I didn't mean or didn't understand the meaning of what I’d said. There were also plenty of times I didn't understand what other people meant.

My mom's friend had picked me up from preschool one day. We drove with the windows down, so the wind caught my hair and blew it in every direction. I didn't mind. The wind was better than the stifling, Texas heat. My legs stuck to the old, cracked leather seats of Sonya’s second-hand car, and when I'd buckled myself in, I had burnt my hands on the buckle's metal end. But, I quickly forgot as we edged onto the freeway and sang off-key to old country songs.

The best part was when the announcer came back on to remind everyone they were listening to The Wolf. Then, we'd howl so long and deep that I thought we did better than the real wolves. I stuck my arm out the window and smiled.

Sonya smiled back at me and declared, “Today's a good day to be a human bein'.”

“What's a human bean?” I asked perplexed.

“Why, my gracious!” Sonya exclaimed. “We are, of course!” She went on to mutter about what on God's green earth were they teaching in schools these days. I didn't mind. Most grown-ups rambled about school and the good old days. Besides, I'd just figured out I was a bean! Such a discovery isn't taken lightly. I believed it, too, for a couple of years. Texans and their accents. Sunday school knocked the notion right out of me, though. While I was slightly humiliated when I was corrected in front of the entire class, I didn't mind too much. At least I knew.

Sometimes, when you're little, the problem is more about not understanding the gravity of the situation. That happened to me a lot. I was always back talking. I just wanted to know why. Especially about serious stuff that an innocent mind couldn't fathom.

“Rose, this is serious.”

I don't think I'd ever heard my dad sound more serious. It was slightly scary. I still didn't understand, though.

“But, why?” I asked, again.

“Because I said so,” Daddy says, clearly ending the conversation.

I didn't argue. My dad rarely yells, but pushing this issue might trigger one of those few moments. So, I skirted around the confrontation. But, I kept wondering. What's the harm? He's only an old man. And, he's my friend. So, why couldn't I take some of his candy? Because I said so. Humph. I thought some more about it. I didn't see the harm in Mr. Goldener. Then, my dad caught my hand and squeezed it. I guessed he probably knew what he was talking about.

When I was younger, I didn't understand certain things because, well, I was little. Now, I'd like to think I know more, see more, process more. Yet, here I am.

“I do not understand,” I say. I should say I don't want to understand. Because that is the truth. Even the idea of what he's proposing is sickening. “People will die.”

My superior looks over at me. His age is searing. Maybe it's the wisdom age implies or the thought that he doesn't value it. I force myself to look at his pale, veiny hands instead of the seemingly kind face I've admired for years. “People have died, Rose.”

Now, I look up into his face, into his old, tired eyes. I see myself reflected there. I see what I might become. I see the toil our profession takes on us. In twenty to thirty years, I might look the same, be the same. Weighing the value of innocent lives day in and day out cannot go without consequences. But, they are nothing like the ones we can inflict.

“Doctor, perhaps we may reconsider,” I plead. Hopeful so hopeful that I can change his mind. I just have to make him understand the cost and unfairness of what he's saying.

“I am afraid I cannot,” he answers, breaking our gaze. “The younger have a higher survival rate. We must help those guaranteed survival. Supplies and staff are so low. We cannot waste . . . ”

“It is not a waste,” I practically growl. “They are not a waste.”

Dr. Winchell gives a small smile. Maybe there's a reason, I think. A better solution. A better-outfitted place to care for the elderly that's more specific to their needs. I desperately hope there is something he is not telling me. But, when he rubs the back of his neck and avoids my eyes, I know. That is it. Some people won't get a bed because we don't want to take a chance. A chance that could save their lives. But, some people are more valuable. And, some people are a waste.

“They are not a waste,” I repeat in a whisper. I have to say it. “They are people.” He has to understand. He has to know he's sentencing people to death. For their age. For something, they cannot control. Doesn't he realize? Doesn't he realize he's playing with people's lives?! He's – he's –

“You are playing God.”

I don't shout the words, but somehow they fill the room and echo off the walls. I shouldn't have said them. It was foolish but true. He needed to hear it. He needed to see himself fully for a minute. But, he didn't.

Anger flashes in his eyes. My once role-model pulls himself up to his fullest height and looks at me with scorn. If my moral radar weren't pinging incessantly, I'd waver and drop his glare. I know he's wrong, though. So, I glare back. Refusing to back down, I think of the fall-out of this split-second decision.

Hank opens his mouth to tell me. But, he only gets as far as my name before the door bursts open. A young medical student with sandy-brown hair hurries into the room. With his face so pale his freckles stand out vividly and his hazel eyes wide in panic, he looks younger than he is.

“Doctor … ” He realizes there are two doctors in the room and specifies his preference. “Glendale,” he stammers, wiping sweat from his brow, “Your presence is requested immediately. Room 302, the patient is – he is – well, he's running again.”

Right. The older man with a dehabilating fear of doctors. Even though he is in critical condition because of the virus, the man has already managed to run twice. Both times severely set back his recovery process. But, I'm in deep doo-doo at the moment. All I can say or do in response is “Of course, Sam. I'll be right there.”

Hank eyes Sam warily. He wants Sam to leave. But, Sam refuses to leave without me because I'm the only one who can talk down the patient. Hank's gaze shifts to me. “You are freakin' lucky you are such a freakin' good doctor.”

And, with that small reassurance, I follow Sam swiftly down the halls to the runner. I coax the older gentlemen into staying, and I fix all of my work that he undid. Afterward, I run from one patient to another. We have an overload of patients, are short of staff, and will run out of rooms soon. No one can control the virus. It spreads more each day, and we are not equipped to handle it. Still, I keep fighting. I keep treating. I keep being a doctor because I have to help as many as I can.

But, ten hours later, my determination has worn-out. I was on my feet for twelve hours straight. Now, I just want to rest. When I open the door to my condo, I breathe a sigh of relief. Home. Sleep. No more stupid, unjustified misunderstandings. And, I think I smell …

Pizza. I smile. Even though I’m tired and my feet hurt and all I really want is a glass of wine, the thought of pizza makes it all better. Pizza is a love that never goes away. Somethings don't change no matter how old I get, or how many pounds it makes me gain.

I walk over to the couch where my husband is sprawled out, fast asleep. Bending down, I kiss him behind his ear and along his jawline. Daniel’s eyes flutter open and land on me. “You're home,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up to cup my neck. I kiss him, and he settles back down into the couch to sleep. I run my fingers over the peaceful smile pulling at his lips, and he kisses the tips of my fingers. Then, he falls asleep.

I don't mind. I know he's had a long day, too. Watching the kids is a tough job, especially when they can't simply be dropped off at school for eight hours. Still, I’m glad they get some special time together. I wish I could be here with them. Precious is already eight, and Zabien is almost six. Before I know it, they'll be teenagers who won't want to talk to their old mom. The thought is unbearable. Years away, I tell myself.

Still, I miss my babies. I want to be with them. So, I tip-toe into Precious' room, hoping I'll be able to say goodnight to her. I swipe a slice of pizza on the way. With pizza in my hand, I peek into her room. Instead of seeing her small sleeping form in the darkroom, I see two lumps whispering frantically under Precious' blankets. A flashlight shines in every direction as they fight over it. When I finally hear what they're saying, I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing.

“Well, you are an orange, red, yellow, and blue,” whisper- yells Zabien.

Precious gives an audible gasp, and I see the flashlight whisk back to the larger lump. “How dare you?! You – you hot pink indigo!” she hisses.

This time I do laugh. While I'm clutching my stomach from the weight of my laughter, they both scream and throw the blanket off them.

“Mama!” they cry as they rush over to me.

Their little arms wrap around my body. As I hug them back, I kiss the tops of their freshly cleaned heads. “What are you two doing?”

Zabien holds me tighter and sobs, “I'm sorry, Mama! Please, don't get us in trouble.”

Precious has the opposite reaction. Instead, she stubs her foot into the ground and avoids my eyes. I sigh and look hard at her. “Do you have any explanations, Precious?” I ask sternly.

“Well … ” she hesitates.

Zabien, however, has no such qualms. He cries out, “We were – we were using colorful language!” Precious looks murderously at the little tattle. Then, he buries his face in my shirt and boohoos loud enough to wake-up Daniel.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Daniel stumbles into the room. In his worry, he clips the door-frame and agitatedly flicks the light on. “Is everyone alright?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” I answer, rubbing his shoulder while trying to pacify Zabien. “These two were using some 'colorful' language, though.” My eyes glint with laughter as I tell Daniel, and he understands what I mean.

“Little rascals,” he crows out. With one arm, he sweeps up Precious and uses the other to tickle her. She screams and shrieks. Then, Zabien runs around giggling as he tries to escape the same fate. We chase the little guys, catch them, tickle them, kiss them, and repeat until everyone ends up sleeping in mine and Daniel's bed.

I don't mind. Even though there's little privacy and the bed is uncomfortably cramped and it's one o’clock and I still can't sleep, I smile. I think about all the events of the day. All of the mistakes. All of the misunderstandings. And, somehow, I smile. Somethings don't change no matter how old you get. Like loving pizza, people being on different pages is inevitable. People are different. And, that's good, but sometimes it means we disagree or don't understand each other or even refuse to understand the other person's point of view. Maybe I should be thinking about how I could fix these perpetual flaws in myself, but I actually find comfort in them. I don't know why. It's against everything I believe in. Maybe it's because I’m human, but I don't really care. All I can think about is how I’m dying for another slice of pizza.