The next morning my Stockholm syndrome is working full-tilt. Patty Hearst had nothing on me. Callie has made herself a daily fixture in my life. She’s like gum on the bottom of my shoe. There’s no way to get it off without making a mess.
When LuAnn called me before I even logged in for the day, I lit into her. “LuAnn, if you’re calling to tell me that I have to drive Callie again, you might as well know that I’d rather drive my cab off a bridge. It’s someone else’s turn.”
“She asks for you, Finn.” LuAnn is enjoying this way too much. “Except she refers to you as ‘that sweet boy.’ How can I say no to that?”
“Like this. No! No, no, no. Do you know that she made me get her a Christmas tree yesterday? I had to strap it to the top of the car.”
“It’s just that she needs to go to the doctor again, and you’re the only one of my drivers who won’t just drop her off at the curb.”
The doctor? Why is she going back to the doctor? Is she sick again?
“After what you told me about last time, I thought maybe you wouldn’t mind. But don’t worry. I’ll call Butch.”
I imagine Butch taking care of her. He’s a brillo pad of a man who’s usually ramped up on caffeine and is always looking for a fight. “No, he can’t handle her. How about Lamar?”
“No, he’s off today. Finn, she’s a sweet old lady. Can’t you do it?”
I sigh loud enough for her to hear it. “All right, LuAnn, but this has to stop.”
“Keep the meter running. She has been paying you, hasn’t she?”
“Yes.” It’s true. Her checks didn’t bounce, and I was actually able to pay my rent. But I like having time between fares to think and be on my own.
Still, I don’t want some grouchy cabbie to drop her at the curb outside the hospital. “Okay, I’ll take her.”
“Thank you, Finn. I knew you would.”
I hang up angry and grab my jacket.
The doctor’s office is the same as last time. I roll her in and go through the arduous process of getting her checked in. Instead of parking her there alone, I sit down next to her this time, intent on waiting it out as long as I have to. While she seems somewhat lucid this time, she’s a little weaker than before. Her shoulders are more slumped, her hands more limp, and her breathing sounds a little heavier. I reach to the magazine stack sitting on the table next to me and pull out one about parenting. Mindlessly, I open it to an article about potty training. When I realize what I’m doing, I drop it back on the stack. I wipe my hands on my jeans as if the magazine has soiled me.
Yeah, I’m losing it.
I turn to Callie. “So this appointment, is it something that you made because you aren’t feeling well, or is it a follow-up to the one you had before?” Either she doesn’t want to answer or she doesn’t know the answer. She just looks up at me. Her eyes are red, but I don’t know if that’s age or illness or fatigue or what. I haven’t really stared into her eyes that much before.
Callie turns her attention to a woman carrying a baby. “You know, some babies just aren’t that cute,” she says way too loudly.
I glance at the mother, hoping she didn’t hear. She didn’t seem to. Stifling a smile, I say, “Miss Callie, that wasn’t very nice.”
“My Gloria . . . beautiful baby.”
“Sydney’s mom?”
“When she had her baby, I didn’t think she had the sense to take care of her. She made a lot of mistakes. Her biggest one was dying too soon.”
A blind person with a seeing-eye dog walks by, and Callie is distracted again. “Imagine bringing a dog into this place,” she says.
This time I know her target heard her. I think of getting up and standing against the wall where no one knows I know her, but suddenly the door to the examining rooms open and the nurse calls out, “Mrs. Beecher?”
I jump up, thankful. “That’s you.” I unlock her wheels and push her toward the door. When I’ve rolled the chair to the nurse, I stop. “I’ll be out here waiting.”
“You don’t want to come back with her?” she asks.
Haven’t we been through this before? “No. I’m just her ride. In fact—” I slap my pockets for the phone number I’ve written down. “Whatever her family needs to know, you should tell Sydney, her granddaughter. I think she’s already been in touch with you.”
The nurse looks a little concerned. “When I called this morning, Mrs. Beecher said she would have her granddaughter with her.”
The doctor’s office called her? No wonder she didn’t mention it yesterday.
When the nurse takes her, I go back to the chairs and sit there, jiggling my knee, hoping the appointment doesn’t last too long. Today’s a big day for Christmas travelers since school is out. I don’t want to miss this surge in the taxi market because I’m sitting here in this godforsaken waiting room.
But the wait is long. Two hours pass, and I find myself watching the soap opera on the TV in the corner of the room with the sound turned down. I wonder if Callie’s sitting alone in an exam room or if they’re actually doing something. Finally, I catch the nurse when she comes out to call the next patient.
“It’s been a long time. Is Callie Beecher still back there?”
“The doctor sent her for an MRI and a PET scan,” she says. “She’s waiting to talk to the doctor again.”
I should have known. They must have a back way to slip people out without their cab drivers knowing.
Now I feel stupid for waiting here. I could have been working. I force myself to wait longer.
Finally, after another twenty minutes, Callie is wheeled back to me. She seems weaker than ever. She’s wiping her nose with a wadded tissue.
“It’s very important that the doctor talk to a family member,” the nurse says. “He tried to call her granddaughter, but he just got voice mail. Is there someone else?”
“I think her granddaughter is in court.”
“Then he really needs to talk to you.”
“Trust me. I’m not your guy. Aren’t there HIPPA laws?”
“If the patient is with you and approves our talking to you, then we can.”
I feel cornered. “No, I don’t want to know. I’m just some guy. None of this is any of my business.”
“Okay, sir. Take it easy.”
Looking at me like I’m dangerous, the nurse retreats back through the mystery door.
Callie is quiet as I wheel her out to my car and put her into the back seat. It isn’t clear to me whether she’s been crying or just has a runny nose, but she seems to stare off into space as I get behind the wheel. I look back at her. “Miss Callie, are you okay?”
She doesn’t answer, and I wonder if she’s even heard me. I’m pulling away when she finally speaks up. “I need to go to church.”
I glance in the rearview mirror. “Miss Callie, it’s not Sunday.”
I wonder if her need to go to a holy place is based on some kind of bad news that she’s gotten at the doctor. I almost wish I’d found out . . . then I snatch that thought from my brain. I can’t get involved in this. Whatever it is Callie is going through, I’m not going to be pulled in or entangled.
“I know,” she says. “I need to talk to my pastor.”
My heart jolts. It is bad news. “Okay,” I say. “What’s the name of the church?”
I recognize the name and head that way. What is going on with her that she needs to talk to the pastor? Does she need someone to pray for her?
Worry suddenly tightens my chest, but I shove it away. I don’t have time for this.
But as I drive, my thoughts drift back to the sad justifications I made when my own mother was dying. What is wrong with me?
By the time I get to her church, I half expect her to be asleep, but she’s awake and staring out the window. I help her back into her wheelchair and roll her in.
The secretary greets her, then gets the attention of the pastor, who hurries out of his office to welcome her. He rolls her into the office and sits down with her. “I’ll wait for her out in the hall,” I say.
The pastor waves at me, so I go to the bench I passed in the hallway and drop down. I’m glad Callie is talking to someone if she’s upset. Someone better than me. I hope he offers her some comfort, maybe prays with her.
I feel uncomfortable in this house of prayer, as if the people in that office are going to recognize me as an intruder. If they knew me, I’m sure I wouldn’t be welcome here.
After a few minutes, I hear her voice and the pastor laughing as he rolls her out. “Miss Callie, I would love to come to your house for lunch. But Christmas Day is just impossible.”
Are you kidding me? She’s here trying to set him up with Sydney?
If Sydney only knew what this crazy woman is doing!
“You only have to be there for an hour, Pastor,” she says. “Just one hour.”
“My mother would never forgive me,” he says. “But seriously, I’m so glad you asked. I appreciate it very much. I’m sure Sydney’s very beautiful.”
“You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says with that coy smile.
I’m ticked off as I take Callie back. She looks disappointed as I roll her into the hallway.
When we’re on our way home, I look into the back seat. “Miss Callie, Sydney doesn’t need you to do all this. She has a lot going for her. Why are you so dead-set on fixing her up? Don’t you think she has men asking her out all the time?”
“I just don’t want her to be alone for Christmas.”
“She won’t be. She’ll be with you, won’t she? I’m sure that’s all she wants.”
Callie grows quiet again. Finally, she says, “But what about next year?”
I don’t know what to say. Callie doesn’t expect to be here next year. Maybe she did get bad news at the doctor’s after all. I wonder how long she has to live.
A sudden sadness falls over me, and I can’t shake it away. It’s that same sadness I felt that day standing at my mother’s hospital door. The sadness that drove me back to my car and away from that place.
But I can’t get away from Miss Callie.
She’s sound asleep by the time I get her home, so I leave the car running, get the key out from under the mat, and unlock her door. Then I go back and lift her out, grabbing her purse to hook over my wrist. She weighs less than a child.
I carry her inside, walk through the house, and lay her on her bed. Carefully, I slip off her shoes and cover her up with a blanket I find on the bench at the foot of her bed.
I back to the doorway and stand there with tears in my eyes . . . tears that aren’t for her so much as they are for my mom.
I wipe them on the arm of my jacket and go back out to the car. I get her wheelchair, bring it in, and set it up next to her bed.
I don’t like my unsettled feeling as I lock the door and return the key to its hiding place.