Pelican
Elizabeth Toman
I buckled my seatbelt and looked over the drink menu, hoping I would not fall asleep before the cart came down the aisle. The woman next to me kept glancing in my direction, a placid midwestern grandmother’s smile fixed on her face. I considered asking her to nudge me when the cart appeared but thought better of it, afraid she would want to chat. Outside, the dome-shaped industrial hangars of O’Hare looked like something out of Metropolis, an old movie Doug had recently dragged me to. Beyond them, the Chicago landscape was gray and colorless. I was looking forward to this trip. I had not looked forward to anything for a long time.
I had been in a dark place all winter. Every morning I awoke with a feeling of dread. I was in the same bed, staring at the same ceiling, the same job awaiting me at the end of a long commute through the same neighborhoods. The same husband lay beside me. There seemed to be no way out, no relief in sight.
The sample drawer at work provided some possibility of comfort. I'd tried Zoloft first. It was relaxing but caused indigestion. Wellbutrin made my heart race. Citalopram gave me a little kick, a little gladness for a few weeks, but after that, I felt the same emptiness, the same detachment.
I was a good actor at work, putting on my cheerful face for staff, my concerned face for patients. I would burst into the exam room, all smiles and sympathy. Then, when they told me their complaints, my brows would furrow up in the middle. I would say things like, "That must be hard for you," or "You must be in a lot of pain," or "No wonder your blood pressure is so high!" By the end of the day, my face would ache from all that effort. I would count the patients left, trying to talk myself through it. Only four more to go, I would tell myself, only two left. I can do this! And then, I would rearrange my expression and sail into the next exam room.
The plane taxied for a long time and stopped suddenly, the brakes groaning.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said my seatmate, leaning over me to peer outside the window. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”
An anxious passenger myself, I had no idea why we'd stopped so suddenly, but I gave her my most reassuring smile and said, "I’m sure it’s fine. We’re just waiting our turn.” I brought my hand to my mouth and pretended to yawn, popping the second Xanax I'd been palming just in case I needed it. I always needed it. Then I closed my eyes to shut down any further conversation.
At home, my acting faltered and I complained incessantly about my job. Last year, after “Take your daughter to work day,” I overheard Megan talking to someone on her phone.
“She’s like a totally different person at work. Like totally nice.” This year, she decided not to go. She would rather stay at school, she said. She hated school.
Lately, I'd noticed my daughter could barely stand being in the same room with me. She would lock herself in her bedroom before I finally arrived home at night.
“Megan,” I’d call through the door. “Are you still up? How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’ve got homework,” she’d reply, her voice a low whine.
A few years earlier, we had been thick as thieves, going rock-hunting, hot-gluing Christmas ornaments, attending mother-daughter camp together. When Megan started middle school, everything changed.
“It’s normal, Ellie,” Doug said. “Don’t take it so personally.” My husband taught art at the local public high school, not the expensive day school where we sent our kids. Megan tolerated him, so it was easy for him to say. My son, who was away at college now, had never behaved this way. We were not as close, but he was always friendly, listened to his parents, and never banged doors. He'd received near-perfect grades and was now in a pre-med program at Grinnell. When he came home for a long weekend, we tried to act normal and happy.
The plane finally started its ascent, and that feeling of my stomach dropping away from me was there, but it was vaguely pleasing instead of terrifying. When I ordered a glass of chardonnay, my seatmate frowned in disapproval. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven, and I intended to have a good time on this trip. I was going to be myself.
In San Diego, the shuttle driver insisted on grabbing my arm and handling my suitcase when I stepped off. I felt woozy but happy as the warm sun hit my face. The hotel and convention center were right on the bay, and I slipped out the back door as soon as I’d checked in. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the breeze smelled soft and slightly fishy. People cast lines off a little pier in the distance and seagulls cried overhead. I took a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with the freshness of it all, before heading to the conference.
I was too late for morning plenary sessions, so I wandered around the vendor hall collecting swag: totes, books, fancy pens, and a little rubber foot at a booth promoting a new drug for diabetic neuropathy. Megan might like the foot for an art project. I would still need to get her something else, a real gift. But what? She never liked anything I bought for her.
The hall was a vast, windowless room filled with corporate-looking booths enticing attendees with food and espresso drinks. I chatted up the drug reps, took a survey to earn a gift card and another for cash. I never passed up the opportunity to earn. Making money was the one thing I was truly good at. My best asset, I often told Doug. As I finished the second survey, a rep named Jason, earnest and youthful in a new-looking suit, invited me to a special wine and chocolate tasting the following night.
“It’ll be an informal gathering to meet some of our researchers. A couple of our vice presidents will be there," he said breathlessly. "Can I count on you, doctor?" He looked like a puppy begging for affection, so I said I would try.
After the surveys, my eyelids began to droop. I tried to sit through a lecture on new treatments for retinopathy but kept nodding off. Finally, I slipped off to my hotel room, thinking I would take a brief nap. I was unaccustomed to Xanax plus alcohol. The room was better than expected, with a bottle of French mineral water in the minifridge and some lovely citrus-scented lotion in the bathroom. I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
When I awoke, it was after five PM, and the only thing left to attend was the President’s reception, where wine and appetizers would be served. I was determined not to spend my own money on this trip and survive only on freebies, saving my stipend for dinner with Doug and Megan once I got home. My suit was a mess, rumpled and stained with a dark spot on the breast pocket that I could not identify, probably coffee.
I tore off my clothes and confronted my image in a full-length mirror beside the bed. Dark festoons underlined my eyes. Once a bright blue, the irises had faded, and the sclerae were injected with pink, spidery vessels. My belly sagged. My breasts were uneven. I sighed and donned clean clothes, business casual, splashing water on my face. Makeup might have helped. I thought of Megan, who had tried to coach me in the art of applying it before she'd stopped speaking to me.
At the reception, I loaded a plate with shrimp scampi and stuffed mushrooms but lost track of it at the self-serve wine station. I stayed to the edges of the room and pretended to study the research posters in one corner, nodding as I glanced at the summaries, staying in the center aisles to avoid being seen. I moved slowly from poster to poster, sipping my wine and trying to summon enthusiasm for the topics. A man in a tan sports jacket started a conversation with me just as my cell phone rang. I fished it from my pocket with relief. “Excuse me.” I smiled pleasantly and moved away.
It was Doug calling to make sure I had arrived safely. I had completely forgotten to call him.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “What are you two up to?”
"We got Chinese, and we're trying to decipher Megan's biology textbook," Doug said. "We could really use your help." Doug was being kind because had I been there, Megan would be in her bedroom. I pictured them huddled over her homework at the dining room table, fortune cookie crumbs and little paper prophecies strewn around them. I tried not to feel jealous.
The following morning, I woke up early and walked around the park out back before heading to the first session. I was determined to make the most of the meeting today, and I stuck to the schedule, grabbing cappuccinos from the vendor hall between sessions to stay awake. At the noon break, I looked in a few shops, trying to find something for Megan. There were orange and yellow sun hats, matching scarves, and brightly colored fabric pin-wheels that spun in the breeze, but nothing seemed right for her. What did she even like?
The sessions that day were better. New drugs were coming down the pipeline, one derived from an isolate of the venom of the Gila monster. I tucked that fact away to relay to my son when I next spoke to him. Megan would roll her eyes if I told her anything about my work. I stayed attentive during the lectures, taking notes and underlining essential points on the handouts.
By the end of the day, I wanted to return to the room and collapse, but I headed straight to the wine and chocolate reception. It was the sort of thing Doug would have liked and at least I could tell him about it when I got home. It was at a different hotel several blocks away, and I decided to walk.
On the way to the reception, I walked several paces behind two teenage girls who reminded me of Megan except for their dark skin and hair. They talked nonstop, gesturing with their slender hands, and halted suddenly at a storefront, making little squeals of delight at whatever they saw through the window. I paused briefly and then followed them in. The place was dark and crowded with racks of gauzy fabric. The store clerk, a woman about my age, stood frowning at the girls but smiled politely at me. I rifled through the racks, alarmed at the prices, while the girls flitted around the room, the clerk following close on their heels. It occurred to me I could easily pluck an item, that silk scarf for example, and shove it into my bag without her noticing. It would serve her right, but I would never risk it. At the girls’ request, she brought out a tray of rings and sighed, her arms folded over her breasts, as they tried on one after the other and asked for the prices. When they left, I asked to see the tray.
The ring I chose was a vintage design, twisted ropes of fourteen karat gold with a deep red garnet, Megan's birthstone, set in the center. It cost many times more than I had intended to spend, and I wondered if the Mastercard fraud alert system would notify Doug of this extravagance. It was so lovely that I didn't care. Megan was bound to love it, I thought. Or, even if she didn't love it now, she would appreciate it later. The clerk put it in a box with a blue ribbon, then into an organza drawstring bag. I threw this into my bag and hurried to the party, pleased with myself.
The party was in a darkened penthouse suite of a new hotel with only a handful of guests milling around. I stood by the elevator momentarily, considering retreat, when a tall woman approached me. Soon, Jason appeared, his shiny face beaming as he introduced me to his colleague, Alison. She was older than him and impeccably dressed in an expensive-looking beige suit, her streaked hair shiny, her makeup flawless. He told her about my endocrinology practice in Chicago with evident pride, like a student giving a report. Jason and Alison started walking me around the room, stopping at every station to try the different pairings: white chocolate with Riesling, dark hazel truffles with Syrah, milk chocolate almonds with Madeira. I tried to discern the differences in flavor, those hints of citrus and notes of oak, but my palate was a muddle. By the time we got to the cabernet, it was clear that they wanted me to become a consultant and hawk their new insulin analog.
"You don't have to do much," Alison explained as she poured wine. "Just some lunches with a few of your colleagues. Talk about your experience with Insulin X. It's a great way to supplement your income."
"I'm not much of a salesman," I said. Alison looked horrified.
"It's not sales," she said with a tinge of disgust. I looked sympathetically at Jason, whose name tag read "sales division." "We just want you to share your honest opinion. We provide a talk but what you say is entirely up to you. We haven't gotten a lot of traction in the Midwest. Providers there are a bit more reticent; they’re set in their ways."
"That good old midwestern conservatism," I said.
"But you," Alison pointed at me, smiling broadly, “you're one of our earliest adopters.”
I looked questioningly at Jason. "Oh, well, I didn't mean to overstate my prescribing history.”
"You didn't at all,” Jason said, grinning like a teenager. “You're using Insulin X in one out of five prescriptions, which is fifty percent more than the average endocrinologist in your area.” They had statistics on my prescribing habits. Had Jason gathered all this information on me since the afternoon, or had my name been on some predetermined list? Either way, it was creepy. And sort of pleasing.
I agreed to at least think about the proposal as I left, Alison’s well-manicured hand pressing my shoulder. I hated nothing more than chitchatting with colleagues at informal luncheons, but they were offering a generous stipend.
Jason, so grateful that I had shown up, thrust a large shopping bag filled with boxes of chocolate and a nearly full bottle of wine as I approached the elevator, teetering slightly. Alison wanted to call me a cab, but I convinced her I would be fine. I needed the air.
My head was spinning as I stepped off the elevator and exited the hotel lobby. After walking half a block, I stopped to look around. The convention center was not far, but I was disoriented. I stopped and tried to get my bearings. The street was crowded with people; cafes and bars were overflowing, and loud music blasted through a nearby doorway. I looked for someone to point me toward the water, but people were rushing by, and the bright neon and traffic sounds overwhelmed me. Suddenly, a man in faded jeans and a lumberjack jacket was in front of me, saying something I could not understand.
He repeated himself: “You look lost. Where you headed?"
I took a step backward. "I'm just trying to get back to the convention center."
“It’s behind you,” he said, “You’re headed in the wrong direction.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “I thought I might be. Thanks." I spun around to walk in the other direction, but the sidewalk did not keep up with me and started wavering. I stood there, waiting for it to stop, and the man was next to me, grabbing my arm.
“Whoa,” he said, “are you ok?” He was right in my face and smelled like he had not washed his clothes in a long time.
I moved away again. “Fine, really,” I said, but my words felt thick. "Thanks again." I tried walking more slowly this time. He walked alongside me.
“Well, I was wondering if you could spare a little change for a meal. I’m trying to get a meal together.” He made it sound like he was arranging a dinner party.
I hesitated for a second. I knew you were not supposed to give money to such people. Impulsively, I opened my shopping tote.
“How about some chocolate?” I asked. “There’s some excellent dark chocolate in here.”
He looked down at the sidewalk and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can't eat chocolate. I'm diabetic. I need to get a real meal." He seemed genuinely apologetic, and I felt horrible.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I said. “You said you needed a meal. Let’s get you a meal. Where do you want to eat?”
“Really?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, “I need something other than chocolate myself.”
He ran back to a dark threshold and picked up a heavy-looking army backpack I had not noticed before.
“There’s a place right around the corner that might be good,” he said and looked at me doubtfully. “If you think you can walk.”
“Of course I can walk,” I said. “Lead the way.”
I followed him down the block, wondering what I had got myself into. We passed a sleek wine bar and an Asian fusion place, weaving through groups of tourists and bar crawlers. He was easy to follow, with his tattered backpack and uneven gait. I wondered if he'd had hip dysplasia that no one had bothered to repair during childhood. He kept turning around to look for me. Finally, we turned the corner and walked into a small storefront restaurant with a blackboard menu over the counter advertising coffee and organic sandwiches.
"Hope this is ok," he said, holding the door open for me. The girl behind the counter smiled as I walked in, but the smile turned into a frown when she saw my companion. He acted as though he did not notice and placed a detailed order. He wanted the tofu bowl without the teriyaki sauce and extra vegetables, and could the tofu be steamed rather than fried?
We found a table in a corner, and when I sat across from him, I realized with a shock that his face, though sunburned, was smooth and boyish. All that beard and mustache had been hiding his youth.
“Well," he said, "this is sure nice of you. My name's Benjamin, by the way." He held out his hand, and I shook it, determined not to appear squeamish.
"Ellie," I said. He looked down at his hands for a minute, and then stood up, saying he needed to freshen up. Grabbing his backpack, he disappeared into the restroom. The woman at the counter gazed after him with a worried look. I smiled at her reassuringly. He was gone for what seemed like a long time, and when the food arrived, I considered packing up my sandwich and leaving. But I thought he might get kicked out if I was not there, so I waited.
When he finally returned, he looked better. His hair was wet and brushed back from his now clean face. He had ditched the plaid jacket and put on a fresh T-shirt. He might have been a college student with a haircut and a newer backpack. He could have been my son.
“Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, "you shouldn't have waited. Please, dig in." I took a tentative bite of one of my fries and watched as he pulled an insulin syringe out of his breast pocket, pulled up the hem of his shirt, and plunged it into his belly. I don’t know why that surprised me so much. I had assumed he was lying about being diabetic.
“Sorry about that,” he said, “I have to do that right before I eat or I go…” he twirled his finger in a downward circle. “Low blood sugar. I get seizures. Not pretty.” He stabbed a hunk of tofu with his fork and blew on it before putting it into his mouth and chewing carefully. “One time,” he said after swallowing the food, “I lost all my shit that way. Woke up in the hospital, all tied up in IV’s. Bastards took everything I owned.” He shook his head. “And they say there’s a code. There’s no code! But that’s the outdoor life for you.”
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“Here, there, anywhere I can find.” He smiled pleasantly. “San Diego is perfect for winter. Lots of tourists. Balmy nights.” He had a funny way of looking up, down, or sideways when speaking. Anywhere but straight at me. It was charming. His gaze fixed on my chest, and he squinted. “American Diabetes Association? That’s at the convention center?”
I looked down and saw that I was still wearing my convention I.D. I slipped it over my head and into my purse, embarrassed.
“So you’re a nurse?”
Usually, I would play along when someone assumed I was a nurse. It was easier that way, with fewer expectations. But I felt like being honest with him.
“No, I’m a doctor,” I said. “Endocrinologist.”
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve met a lot of Endos. Never had a meal with one.”
“Well,” I said, “we have to eat too.” This seemed rude, but he didn’t appear to mind.
“I mean usually I’m in an ICU or something. And they’re busy trying to work on me. But that was before I got my dosing right. I’m better at it now.”
“Type 1?” I asked and, without waiting for the answer, added, “How old were you?”
"Fifteen years of age," he said. "I passed out during second-period trig. The teacher thought I'd been drinking or something. I had that acetone breath, right?"
I nodded, picturing it. "Thing was, my stepdad never bought it. He didn't believe the doctors. Thought insulin was for sissies. Mom and me had to hide it from him. And whenever he found it, he'd beat the crap out of me." He smiled as though recalling a fond memory.
“Are they talking about that at that meeting of yours? Have you heard of that treatment? Beating the crap out of diabetes? My stepdad really thought it might work.”
I had no idea what to say to that. But Benjamen kept talking. He told me about running away from home and losing contact with his mother. He described all the cities he'd lived in, which had the best free clinics, which were best suited for the outdoor life.
“Hey,” he said, looking me in the eye for the first time, “you couldn’t score me some insulin pens, could you? That’s one thing about San Diego. The free clinic here deals in vials and syringes only.”
I considered this. Pens would make so much more sense for someone who was homeless. I probably could get some for him, but he needed so much more. An eye exam, for instance. It occurred to me that his faraway look might be from more than just a dreamy disposition.
"I probably could," I said. I just had to find the right booth and approach a drug rep. Jason might be able to help me. I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed slowly. All I’d had that day was cappuccino, wine, and chocolate and a wave of nausea suddenly overcame me.
“You know, I’m not feeling well,” I said. “Too much chocolate before dinner.” I was dizzy again. I really did not handle alcohol well.
"Well, you're in luck," he said, hopping up from the table. "I've got just the thing.”
He packed up my leftover sandwich in a napkin and stowed it in his backpack ("Waste not, want not," he said), and we left the restaurant, the counter girl's eyes following us out the door. I trailed behind him, back towards the water, instead of going up to my hotel room as I told myself I should. I just didn’t want to leave yet. I wanted to try whatever it was he was offering. We sat down on a rocky outcropping overlooking the water. He rooted around in his backpack until he brought out a pipe and a baggie.
“This is my other medicine,” he said, flashing me a grin. He shook some of the baggie’s contents into the pipe, lit it with a lighter, and drew deeply on the stem. He sighed.
“That’s it, that’s good shit. Now you try.”
"It's just weed. Right?" I had not done anything like this since college. He smiled, held the pipe to my lips, and lit the lighter. I took a tentative puff and then another, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke inside my lungs before exhaling again. It went to my brain almost immediately, swirling around, blurring my vision at the edges.
"Oh," I said.
"Good, huh?" he asked, and I just nodded because I could not speak. It was more potent than any weed I'd smoked before, although I hadn't tried any since college. The high school guidance counselor had warned us about this at parents' meetings. "It's not the marijuana of your youth," she'd said. We both took another hit, and I lay down on the ground.
The sky overhead was dark but retained the deep blue of earlier in the day. The trees above us waved arrhythmically with the breeze, causing the dim haze from the city lights behind us to flick off and on. The air was so soft as I breathed it in and out. It had a warm, salty smell to it—sea air. I smiled, thinking perhaps there was something to that old-fashioned remedy. I felt a lightness, an easiness I had not felt in a long time. Something had been lifted from me; some heaviness was gone, drifting out to sea.
The wind picked up, and the gentle waves lapped the rocks more vigorously. I glanced over at Benjamin, who was picking up rocks around us and examining them closely. He was building a little pyramid with them by his feet. I took another deep breath and thought about home. I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. I would keep trying with Megan and with my work. We could do things together as a family. A vacation! Maybe even to San Diego.
Benjamin stirred next to me, rustling something in his backpack. I could do something for Benjamin as well. This young man, much like my own son in everything but circumstance, needed so much. And I had the means to help him. I could help others in his situation, too. There must be quite a few homeless diabetics. I could take that consultant job and use the stipend to help them get insulin pen. Start a program of some sort. There was so much I could do.
I sat up, and blood whooshed through my brain. The bay around us was sparkling and moving, little lights from boats or buoys— I was not sure which— floated here and there. Everything was so beautiful, so vibrant. It was exhilarating to be here and to be alive.
I noticed a shape on the water, not far from us, bobbing up and down. It looked like it might be a bird, but it was far too big. Maybe it was a child's toy—an abandoned float of some sort. I strained to see what it was and realized it was darker than anything nearby, the only thing not sparkling. There was something unnatural about it, something black and ominous, as though it was absorbing all the loveliness around it. A feeling of dread overtook me. I felt for Benjamin’s hand. He was holding a rock. I still could not speak, but I pointed in the direction of the thing.
He peered into the bay, trying to see what I was pointing at. Then, suddenly, it began to move, and I recoiled in fear. It unfurled what looked like enormous wings and began moving them, very slowly, up and down, as it skimmed across the water, its feet flapping the surface as though to help push off.
"What is it?" My voice was raspy and unfamiliar.
Benjamin stared a little longer as the thing gained altitude and curved toward the convention center. “Pelican,” he said, his tone flat. “Thief of the ocean.” He had a rock gripped tightly in his fist, his whole arm taut, and, for a moment, I thought he would hurl it at the bird.
I felt foolish. Now I could see its long, thick beak jutting out ahead. I watched it fly silently away as Benjamin talked about pelicans; how they steal from each other, snatching regurgitated food from the mouths of babies in neighboring nests. How did he know all this?
The next time I opened my eyes—I don’t know when I had closed them or how long I had been sleeping—Benjamin was going through my satchel. I watched as though in a dream as he removed and examined each item: my wallet, phone, and credit cards, setting them down one by one next to his pile of rocks. Finally, he pulled out the ring from its gift bag and held it up to inspect in the distant light of the pier, never glancing my way.
I was being robbed but was unable to move. I could find no voice, no words to stop him. I was weighed down, barely able to keep my lids open, and was soon pulled back under.
When I awoke alone, I was engulfed in a dense fog, the moisture forming beads on my cheek and forearm. I sat up wearily, my head thrumming, and strained to make sense of the thick gray surrounding me, finally recognizing the bay by the lapping sound of water. Behind me, the vague shapes of the convention center were just visible. It was dawn or maybe later. I felt for my phone in my pocket and then remembered, with a sigh, the wine, the pipe, and Benjamin going through my bag. I shuddered to think of the fondness I had felt for him, the motherly compassion. How would I get on the airplane without an I.D.? How would I explain this to Doug?
I stood up carefully, glancing around, and was surprised to see my satchel and the shopping bag, now crumpled and soggy but still full of boxes, on the ground next to me. When I opened the purse, everything was there. My phone, the gift for Megan boxed and tied neatly in the organza, my wallet and cards, even the cash I had meant to give him. He had taken nothing. At the bottom of the purse was something extra, a rock. I pulled it out to examine it. It was a dull, gray ovoid, smooth and hard, identical to the thousands lining the shore before me.
Elizabeth Toman
I buckled my seatbelt and looked over the drink menu, hoping I would not fall asleep before the cart came down the aisle. The woman next to me kept glancing in my direction, a placid midwestern grandmother’s smile fixed on her face. I considered asking her to nudge me when the cart appeared but thought better of it, afraid she would want to chat. Outside, the dome-shaped industrial hangars of O’Hare looked like something out of Metropolis, an old movie Doug had recently dragged me to. Beyond them, the Chicago landscape was gray and colorless. I was looking forward to this trip. I had not looked forward to anything for a long time.
I had been in a dark place all winter. Every morning I awoke with a feeling of dread. I was in the same bed, staring at the same ceiling, the same job awaiting me at the end of a long commute through the same neighborhoods. The same husband lay beside me. There seemed to be no way out, no relief in sight.
The sample drawer at work provided some possibility of comfort. I'd tried Zoloft first. It was relaxing but caused indigestion. Wellbutrin made my heart race. Citalopram gave me a little kick, a little gladness for a few weeks, but after that, I felt the same emptiness, the same detachment.
I was a good actor at work, putting on my cheerful face for staff, my concerned face for patients. I would burst into the exam room, all smiles and sympathy. Then, when they told me their complaints, my brows would furrow up in the middle. I would say things like, "That must be hard for you," or "You must be in a lot of pain," or "No wonder your blood pressure is so high!" By the end of the day, my face would ache from all that effort. I would count the patients left, trying to talk myself through it. Only four more to go, I would tell myself, only two left. I can do this! And then, I would rearrange my expression and sail into the next exam room.
The plane taxied for a long time and stopped suddenly, the brakes groaning.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said my seatmate, leaning over me to peer outside the window. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”
An anxious passenger myself, I had no idea why we'd stopped so suddenly, but I gave her my most reassuring smile and said, "I’m sure it’s fine. We’re just waiting our turn.” I brought my hand to my mouth and pretended to yawn, popping the second Xanax I'd been palming just in case I needed it. I always needed it. Then I closed my eyes to shut down any further conversation.
At home, my acting faltered and I complained incessantly about my job. Last year, after “Take your daughter to work day,” I overheard Megan talking to someone on her phone.
“She’s like a totally different person at work. Like totally nice.” This year, she decided not to go. She would rather stay at school, she said. She hated school.
Lately, I'd noticed my daughter could barely stand being in the same room with me. She would lock herself in her bedroom before I finally arrived home at night.
“Megan,” I’d call through the door. “Are you still up? How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’ve got homework,” she’d reply, her voice a low whine.
A few years earlier, we had been thick as thieves, going rock-hunting, hot-gluing Christmas ornaments, attending mother-daughter camp together. When Megan started middle school, everything changed.
“It’s normal, Ellie,” Doug said. “Don’t take it so personally.” My husband taught art at the local public high school, not the expensive day school where we sent our kids. Megan tolerated him, so it was easy for him to say. My son, who was away at college now, had never behaved this way. We were not as close, but he was always friendly, listened to his parents, and never banged doors. He'd received near-perfect grades and was now in a pre-med program at Grinnell. When he came home for a long weekend, we tried to act normal and happy.
The plane finally started its ascent, and that feeling of my stomach dropping away from me was there, but it was vaguely pleasing instead of terrifying. When I ordered a glass of chardonnay, my seatmate frowned in disapproval. I shrugged and looked at my watch. It was nearly eleven, and I intended to have a good time on this trip. I was going to be myself.
In San Diego, the shuttle driver insisted on grabbing my arm and handling my suitcase when I stepped off. I felt woozy but happy as the warm sun hit my face. The hotel and convention center were right on the bay, and I slipped out the back door as soon as I’d checked in. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the breeze smelled soft and slightly fishy. People cast lines off a little pier in the distance and seagulls cried overhead. I took a deep breath, trying to fill my lungs with the freshness of it all, before heading to the conference.
I was too late for morning plenary sessions, so I wandered around the vendor hall collecting swag: totes, books, fancy pens, and a little rubber foot at a booth promoting a new drug for diabetic neuropathy. Megan might like the foot for an art project. I would still need to get her something else, a real gift. But what? She never liked anything I bought for her.
The hall was a vast, windowless room filled with corporate-looking booths enticing attendees with food and espresso drinks. I chatted up the drug reps, took a survey to earn a gift card and another for cash. I never passed up the opportunity to earn. Making money was the one thing I was truly good at. My best asset, I often told Doug. As I finished the second survey, a rep named Jason, earnest and youthful in a new-looking suit, invited me to a special wine and chocolate tasting the following night.
“It’ll be an informal gathering to meet some of our researchers. A couple of our vice presidents will be there," he said breathlessly. "Can I count on you, doctor?" He looked like a puppy begging for affection, so I said I would try.
After the surveys, my eyelids began to droop. I tried to sit through a lecture on new treatments for retinopathy but kept nodding off. Finally, I slipped off to my hotel room, thinking I would take a brief nap. I was unaccustomed to Xanax plus alcohol. The room was better than expected, with a bottle of French mineral water in the minifridge and some lovely citrus-scented lotion in the bathroom. I collapsed on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
When I awoke, it was after five PM, and the only thing left to attend was the President’s reception, where wine and appetizers would be served. I was determined not to spend my own money on this trip and survive only on freebies, saving my stipend for dinner with Doug and Megan once I got home. My suit was a mess, rumpled and stained with a dark spot on the breast pocket that I could not identify, probably coffee.
I tore off my clothes and confronted my image in a full-length mirror beside the bed. Dark festoons underlined my eyes. Once a bright blue, the irises had faded, and the sclerae were injected with pink, spidery vessels. My belly sagged. My breasts were uneven. I sighed and donned clean clothes, business casual, splashing water on my face. Makeup might have helped. I thought of Megan, who had tried to coach me in the art of applying it before she'd stopped speaking to me.
At the reception, I loaded a plate with shrimp scampi and stuffed mushrooms but lost track of it at the self-serve wine station. I stayed to the edges of the room and pretended to study the research posters in one corner, nodding as I glanced at the summaries, staying in the center aisles to avoid being seen. I moved slowly from poster to poster, sipping my wine and trying to summon enthusiasm for the topics. A man in a tan sports jacket started a conversation with me just as my cell phone rang. I fished it from my pocket with relief. “Excuse me.” I smiled pleasantly and moved away.
It was Doug calling to make sure I had arrived safely. I had completely forgotten to call him.
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “What are you two up to?”
"We got Chinese, and we're trying to decipher Megan's biology textbook," Doug said. "We could really use your help." Doug was being kind because had I been there, Megan would be in her bedroom. I pictured them huddled over her homework at the dining room table, fortune cookie crumbs and little paper prophecies strewn around them. I tried not to feel jealous.
The following morning, I woke up early and walked around the park out back before heading to the first session. I was determined to make the most of the meeting today, and I stuck to the schedule, grabbing cappuccinos from the vendor hall between sessions to stay awake. At the noon break, I looked in a few shops, trying to find something for Megan. There were orange and yellow sun hats, matching scarves, and brightly colored fabric pin-wheels that spun in the breeze, but nothing seemed right for her. What did she even like?
The sessions that day were better. New drugs were coming down the pipeline, one derived from an isolate of the venom of the Gila monster. I tucked that fact away to relay to my son when I next spoke to him. Megan would roll her eyes if I told her anything about my work. I stayed attentive during the lectures, taking notes and underlining essential points on the handouts.
By the end of the day, I wanted to return to the room and collapse, but I headed straight to the wine and chocolate reception. It was the sort of thing Doug would have liked and at least I could tell him about it when I got home. It was at a different hotel several blocks away, and I decided to walk.
On the way to the reception, I walked several paces behind two teenage girls who reminded me of Megan except for their dark skin and hair. They talked nonstop, gesturing with their slender hands, and halted suddenly at a storefront, making little squeals of delight at whatever they saw through the window. I paused briefly and then followed them in. The place was dark and crowded with racks of gauzy fabric. The store clerk, a woman about my age, stood frowning at the girls but smiled politely at me. I rifled through the racks, alarmed at the prices, while the girls flitted around the room, the clerk following close on their heels. It occurred to me I could easily pluck an item, that silk scarf for example, and shove it into my bag without her noticing. It would serve her right, but I would never risk it. At the girls’ request, she brought out a tray of rings and sighed, her arms folded over her breasts, as they tried on one after the other and asked for the prices. When they left, I asked to see the tray.
The ring I chose was a vintage design, twisted ropes of fourteen karat gold with a deep red garnet, Megan's birthstone, set in the center. It cost many times more than I had intended to spend, and I wondered if the Mastercard fraud alert system would notify Doug of this extravagance. It was so lovely that I didn't care. Megan was bound to love it, I thought. Or, even if she didn't love it now, she would appreciate it later. The clerk put it in a box with a blue ribbon, then into an organza drawstring bag. I threw this into my bag and hurried to the party, pleased with myself.
The party was in a darkened penthouse suite of a new hotel with only a handful of guests milling around. I stood by the elevator momentarily, considering retreat, when a tall woman approached me. Soon, Jason appeared, his shiny face beaming as he introduced me to his colleague, Alison. She was older than him and impeccably dressed in an expensive-looking beige suit, her streaked hair shiny, her makeup flawless. He told her about my endocrinology practice in Chicago with evident pride, like a student giving a report. Jason and Alison started walking me around the room, stopping at every station to try the different pairings: white chocolate with Riesling, dark hazel truffles with Syrah, milk chocolate almonds with Madeira. I tried to discern the differences in flavor, those hints of citrus and notes of oak, but my palate was a muddle. By the time we got to the cabernet, it was clear that they wanted me to become a consultant and hawk their new insulin analog.
"You don't have to do much," Alison explained as she poured wine. "Just some lunches with a few of your colleagues. Talk about your experience with Insulin X. It's a great way to supplement your income."
"I'm not much of a salesman," I said. Alison looked horrified.
"It's not sales," she said with a tinge of disgust. I looked sympathetically at Jason, whose name tag read "sales division." "We just want you to share your honest opinion. We provide a talk but what you say is entirely up to you. We haven't gotten a lot of traction in the Midwest. Providers there are a bit more reticent; they’re set in their ways."
"That good old midwestern conservatism," I said.
"But you," Alison pointed at me, smiling broadly, “you're one of our earliest adopters.”
I looked questioningly at Jason. "Oh, well, I didn't mean to overstate my prescribing history.”
"You didn't at all,” Jason said, grinning like a teenager. “You're using Insulin X in one out of five prescriptions, which is fifty percent more than the average endocrinologist in your area.” They had statistics on my prescribing habits. Had Jason gathered all this information on me since the afternoon, or had my name been on some predetermined list? Either way, it was creepy. And sort of pleasing.
I agreed to at least think about the proposal as I left, Alison’s well-manicured hand pressing my shoulder. I hated nothing more than chitchatting with colleagues at informal luncheons, but they were offering a generous stipend.
Jason, so grateful that I had shown up, thrust a large shopping bag filled with boxes of chocolate and a nearly full bottle of wine as I approached the elevator, teetering slightly. Alison wanted to call me a cab, but I convinced her I would be fine. I needed the air.
My head was spinning as I stepped off the elevator and exited the hotel lobby. After walking half a block, I stopped to look around. The convention center was not far, but I was disoriented. I stopped and tried to get my bearings. The street was crowded with people; cafes and bars were overflowing, and loud music blasted through a nearby doorway. I looked for someone to point me toward the water, but people were rushing by, and the bright neon and traffic sounds overwhelmed me. Suddenly, a man in faded jeans and a lumberjack jacket was in front of me, saying something I could not understand.
He repeated himself: “You look lost. Where you headed?"
I took a step backward. "I'm just trying to get back to the convention center."
“It’s behind you,” he said, “You’re headed in the wrong direction.”
“Oh,” I said, embarrassed. “I thought I might be. Thanks." I spun around to walk in the other direction, but the sidewalk did not keep up with me and started wavering. I stood there, waiting for it to stop, and the man was next to me, grabbing my arm.
“Whoa,” he said, “are you ok?” He was right in my face and smelled like he had not washed his clothes in a long time.
I moved away again. “Fine, really,” I said, but my words felt thick. "Thanks again." I tried walking more slowly this time. He walked alongside me.
“Well, I was wondering if you could spare a little change for a meal. I’m trying to get a meal together.” He made it sound like he was arranging a dinner party.
I hesitated for a second. I knew you were not supposed to give money to such people. Impulsively, I opened my shopping tote.
“How about some chocolate?” I asked. “There’s some excellent dark chocolate in here.”
He looked down at the sidewalk and said, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I can't eat chocolate. I'm diabetic. I need to get a real meal." He seemed genuinely apologetic, and I felt horrible.
“Oh, no, I’m sorry,” I said. “You said you needed a meal. Let’s get you a meal. Where do you want to eat?”
“Really?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said, “I need something other than chocolate myself.”
He ran back to a dark threshold and picked up a heavy-looking army backpack I had not noticed before.
“There’s a place right around the corner that might be good,” he said and looked at me doubtfully. “If you think you can walk.”
“Of course I can walk,” I said. “Lead the way.”
I followed him down the block, wondering what I had got myself into. We passed a sleek wine bar and an Asian fusion place, weaving through groups of tourists and bar crawlers. He was easy to follow, with his tattered backpack and uneven gait. I wondered if he'd had hip dysplasia that no one had bothered to repair during childhood. He kept turning around to look for me. Finally, we turned the corner and walked into a small storefront restaurant with a blackboard menu over the counter advertising coffee and organic sandwiches.
"Hope this is ok," he said, holding the door open for me. The girl behind the counter smiled as I walked in, but the smile turned into a frown when she saw my companion. He acted as though he did not notice and placed a detailed order. He wanted the tofu bowl without the teriyaki sauce and extra vegetables, and could the tofu be steamed rather than fried?
We found a table in a corner, and when I sat across from him, I realized with a shock that his face, though sunburned, was smooth and boyish. All that beard and mustache had been hiding his youth.
“Well," he said, "this is sure nice of you. My name's Benjamin, by the way." He held out his hand, and I shook it, determined not to appear squeamish.
"Ellie," I said. He looked down at his hands for a minute, and then stood up, saying he needed to freshen up. Grabbing his backpack, he disappeared into the restroom. The woman at the counter gazed after him with a worried look. I smiled at her reassuringly. He was gone for what seemed like a long time, and when the food arrived, I considered packing up my sandwich and leaving. But I thought he might get kicked out if I was not there, so I waited.
When he finally returned, he looked better. His hair was wet and brushed back from his now clean face. He had ditched the plaid jacket and put on a fresh T-shirt. He might have been a college student with a haircut and a newer backpack. He could have been my son.
“Oh, I'm so sorry," he said, "you shouldn't have waited. Please, dig in." I took a tentative bite of one of my fries and watched as he pulled an insulin syringe out of his breast pocket, pulled up the hem of his shirt, and plunged it into his belly. I don’t know why that surprised me so much. I had assumed he was lying about being diabetic.
“Sorry about that,” he said, “I have to do that right before I eat or I go…” he twirled his finger in a downward circle. “Low blood sugar. I get seizures. Not pretty.” He stabbed a hunk of tofu with his fork and blew on it before putting it into his mouth and chewing carefully. “One time,” he said after swallowing the food, “I lost all my shit that way. Woke up in the hospital, all tied up in IV’s. Bastards took everything I owned.” He shook his head. “And they say there’s a code. There’s no code! But that’s the outdoor life for you.”
“Do you live around here?” I asked.
“Here, there, anywhere I can find.” He smiled pleasantly. “San Diego is perfect for winter. Lots of tourists. Balmy nights.” He had a funny way of looking up, down, or sideways when speaking. Anywhere but straight at me. It was charming. His gaze fixed on my chest, and he squinted. “American Diabetes Association? That’s at the convention center?”
I looked down and saw that I was still wearing my convention I.D. I slipped it over my head and into my purse, embarrassed.
“So you’re a nurse?”
Usually, I would play along when someone assumed I was a nurse. It was easier that way, with fewer expectations. But I felt like being honest with him.
“No, I’m a doctor,” I said. “Endocrinologist.”
“Wow,” he said. “I’ve met a lot of Endos. Never had a meal with one.”
“Well,” I said, “we have to eat too.” This seemed rude, but he didn’t appear to mind.
“I mean usually I’m in an ICU or something. And they’re busy trying to work on me. But that was before I got my dosing right. I’m better at it now.”
“Type 1?” I asked and, without waiting for the answer, added, “How old were you?”
"Fifteen years of age," he said. "I passed out during second-period trig. The teacher thought I'd been drinking or something. I had that acetone breath, right?"
I nodded, picturing it. "Thing was, my stepdad never bought it. He didn't believe the doctors. Thought insulin was for sissies. Mom and me had to hide it from him. And whenever he found it, he'd beat the crap out of me." He smiled as though recalling a fond memory.
“Are they talking about that at that meeting of yours? Have you heard of that treatment? Beating the crap out of diabetes? My stepdad really thought it might work.”
I had no idea what to say to that. But Benjamen kept talking. He told me about running away from home and losing contact with his mother. He described all the cities he'd lived in, which had the best free clinics, which were best suited for the outdoor life.
“Hey,” he said, looking me in the eye for the first time, “you couldn’t score me some insulin pens, could you? That’s one thing about San Diego. The free clinic here deals in vials and syringes only.”
I considered this. Pens would make so much more sense for someone who was homeless. I probably could get some for him, but he needed so much more. An eye exam, for instance. It occurred to me that his faraway look might be from more than just a dreamy disposition.
"I probably could," I said. I just had to find the right booth and approach a drug rep. Jason might be able to help me. I took a bite of my sandwich and chewed slowly. All I’d had that day was cappuccino, wine, and chocolate and a wave of nausea suddenly overcame me.
“You know, I’m not feeling well,” I said. “Too much chocolate before dinner.” I was dizzy again. I really did not handle alcohol well.
"Well, you're in luck," he said, hopping up from the table. "I've got just the thing.”
He packed up my leftover sandwich in a napkin and stowed it in his backpack ("Waste not, want not," he said), and we left the restaurant, the counter girl's eyes following us out the door. I trailed behind him, back towards the water, instead of going up to my hotel room as I told myself I should. I just didn’t want to leave yet. I wanted to try whatever it was he was offering. We sat down on a rocky outcropping overlooking the water. He rooted around in his backpack until he brought out a pipe and a baggie.
“This is my other medicine,” he said, flashing me a grin. He shook some of the baggie’s contents into the pipe, lit it with a lighter, and drew deeply on the stem. He sighed.
“That’s it, that’s good shit. Now you try.”
"It's just weed. Right?" I had not done anything like this since college. He smiled, held the pipe to my lips, and lit the lighter. I took a tentative puff and then another, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke inside my lungs before exhaling again. It went to my brain almost immediately, swirling around, blurring my vision at the edges.
"Oh," I said.
"Good, huh?" he asked, and I just nodded because I could not speak. It was more potent than any weed I'd smoked before, although I hadn't tried any since college. The high school guidance counselor had warned us about this at parents' meetings. "It's not the marijuana of your youth," she'd said. We both took another hit, and I lay down on the ground.
The sky overhead was dark but retained the deep blue of earlier in the day. The trees above us waved arrhythmically with the breeze, causing the dim haze from the city lights behind us to flick off and on. The air was so soft as I breathed it in and out. It had a warm, salty smell to it—sea air. I smiled, thinking perhaps there was something to that old-fashioned remedy. I felt a lightness, an easiness I had not felt in a long time. Something had been lifted from me; some heaviness was gone, drifting out to sea.
The wind picked up, and the gentle waves lapped the rocks more vigorously. I glanced over at Benjamin, who was picking up rocks around us and examining them closely. He was building a little pyramid with them by his feet. I took another deep breath and thought about home. I felt hopeful for the first time in a long time. I would keep trying with Megan and with my work. We could do things together as a family. A vacation! Maybe even to San Diego.
Benjamin stirred next to me, rustling something in his backpack. I could do something for Benjamin as well. This young man, much like my own son in everything but circumstance, needed so much. And I had the means to help him. I could help others in his situation, too. There must be quite a few homeless diabetics. I could take that consultant job and use the stipend to help them get insulin pen. Start a program of some sort. There was so much I could do.
I sat up, and blood whooshed through my brain. The bay around us was sparkling and moving, little lights from boats or buoys— I was not sure which— floated here and there. Everything was so beautiful, so vibrant. It was exhilarating to be here and to be alive.
I noticed a shape on the water, not far from us, bobbing up and down. It looked like it might be a bird, but it was far too big. Maybe it was a child's toy—an abandoned float of some sort. I strained to see what it was and realized it was darker than anything nearby, the only thing not sparkling. There was something unnatural about it, something black and ominous, as though it was absorbing all the loveliness around it. A feeling of dread overtook me. I felt for Benjamin’s hand. He was holding a rock. I still could not speak, but I pointed in the direction of the thing.
He peered into the bay, trying to see what I was pointing at. Then, suddenly, it began to move, and I recoiled in fear. It unfurled what looked like enormous wings and began moving them, very slowly, up and down, as it skimmed across the water, its feet flapping the surface as though to help push off.
"What is it?" My voice was raspy and unfamiliar.
Benjamin stared a little longer as the thing gained altitude and curved toward the convention center. “Pelican,” he said, his tone flat. “Thief of the ocean.” He had a rock gripped tightly in his fist, his whole arm taut, and, for a moment, I thought he would hurl it at the bird.
I felt foolish. Now I could see its long, thick beak jutting out ahead. I watched it fly silently away as Benjamin talked about pelicans; how they steal from each other, snatching regurgitated food from the mouths of babies in neighboring nests. How did he know all this?
The next time I opened my eyes—I don’t know when I had closed them or how long I had been sleeping—Benjamin was going through my satchel. I watched as though in a dream as he removed and examined each item: my wallet, phone, and credit cards, setting them down one by one next to his pile of rocks. Finally, he pulled out the ring from its gift bag and held it up to inspect in the distant light of the pier, never glancing my way.
I was being robbed but was unable to move. I could find no voice, no words to stop him. I was weighed down, barely able to keep my lids open, and was soon pulled back under.
When I awoke alone, I was engulfed in a dense fog, the moisture forming beads on my cheek and forearm. I sat up wearily, my head thrumming, and strained to make sense of the thick gray surrounding me, finally recognizing the bay by the lapping sound of water. Behind me, the vague shapes of the convention center were just visible. It was dawn or maybe later. I felt for my phone in my pocket and then remembered, with a sigh, the wine, the pipe, and Benjamin going through my bag. I shuddered to think of the fondness I had felt for him, the motherly compassion. How would I get on the airplane without an I.D.? How would I explain this to Doug?
I stood up carefully, glancing around, and was surprised to see my satchel and the shopping bag, now crumpled and soggy but still full of boxes, on the ground next to me. When I opened the purse, everything was there. My phone, the gift for Megan boxed and tied neatly in the organza, my wallet and cards, even the cash I had meant to give him. He had taken nothing. At the bottom of the purse was something extra, a rock. I pulled it out to examine it. It was a dull, gray ovoid, smooth and hard, identical to the thousands lining the shore before me.
