Trondheim by Cormac James

Author:Cormac James
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bellevue Literary Press

PIERRE’S ROOM WAS STILL EMPTY when Lil got back to the ICU. The nurse’s station, too, was unmanned. She stood in the corridor listening for some sign of life in the ward. Next door, Elsa’s father was lying in exactly the same position as always. In the waiting room, amid the wreckage of Kristen’s party, she found Elsa sitting alone. Beside her, a stainless steel cart bore the remains of a huge, penis-shaped pink cake. Half-eaten slabs of it lay in stainless steel kidney trays on the table and chairs. The windowsill was lined with champagne bottles and paper cups, the floor scattered with balled-up wrapping paper. Lil brushed the confetti from a chair and sat down.

“I saw them taking Pierre away,” Elsa said.

“For tests,” Lil said.

“I thought they did that yesterday.”

“That was an MRI, to check for bleeding. This is an electroencephalogram.”

Elsa nodded. The long word stirred an old, redundant hope.

“It’s hard to keep track,” Lil said, “but right now brain activity seems to be their big concern.” The technical terms were a language she did not really want to learn. She could only pretend interest in the minutiae. As far as she was concerned, this whole thing was a test with only two possible grades, fail or pass. “How is it?” She nodded at the kidney tray on Elsa’s lap, and at that cue Elsa’s phone began to ring. Elsa checked the screen, then handed it to Lil, because the caller was Alba. Lil set it face down amid the debris, then drew the cart closer, took one of the scalpels, and cut herself a big slice. The phone rang on.

“I saw forks somewhere,” Elsa said, vaguely scanning the mess. “You’re not going to answer it?”

On the coffee table, Lil noticed, there was also a half-empty bottle of Japanese whiskey, a pack of tarot cards, a book of temporary Maori face tattoos. No Pain! No Regrets! the cover said.

“I don’t need any more Alba in my life right now,” Lil said when the ringing stopped. “I don’t need any more blame, any more explanations, any more plans. All she ever does is tell me what I’m doing wrong. It’s my accent. It’s the way I sleep. It’s the paint I put on the walls. I’m sure even all this”—she stirred the air—“is my fault, too, somehow, in her mind.”

“She’s terrified,” Elsa said generously, “and you’re the person closest to her, so of course you bear the brunt.” She picked up a champagne bottle, lifted it to the light, and shared its last dribble between two paper cups. “This isn’t the first ICU my father has been in. So I know what I’m talking about,” she said, draining another empty on top of the first. “You need to remember that one day, one way or another, this thing is going to be over, and you’re going to come out the other side.”

“She’s waiting for nothing to happen,” Lil explained. “That’s her plan. If from now on he just stays the way he is, that’s good enough for her.

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