Free Unkiss Me by Suzy Vitello Page B

medical waste bins. They were part of a team, is how Abraham often put it: the team of deletion. They were the nameless elves of support, those nearly invisible employees charged with upholding the antiseptic construct of an acute care facility, paving the way for good health—or, in some cases, seamless death—beneath the surface of a high-profile healthcare system.
    Abraham stumbled along behind Rachel admiring her economy of movement, the result of years of ballet training, the way she’d mastered rushing so it appeared to be gliding. Abraham tried to imitate his wife, and in so doing, tripped over the rounded toe of his shoe. Rachel adjusted her handbag as they neared Mesa Samaritan’s vacuous visitor parking lot. She spit-pat stray wisps of hair. Rachel was going to meet Doctor Rudy before their shifts. Abraham had been instructed to wait in the cafeteria.
    Doctor Rudy was an oncologist who procured marijuana for his cancer patients and thus had slipped into a world, which indulged his two biggest weaknesses: the craving for altered consciousness and the acquisition of money. Doctor Rudy thought himself alternative; he ignored the dress code and padded about in Birkenstocks and torn Levis. He called the support staff, Babe, and wore his hair in a fashionable temple-shaved ponytail. It was rumored that his supplier lived in South Phoenix, in one of the rentals Rudy owned, cooking methamphetamine as a side job to running shrimp up from the Gulf. In addition to crank, Doctor Rudy could get you first class camarones grande, Abraham’s favorite indulgence. Indeed, Abraham once bought a ten-pound box of the shrimp from the cargo hold of Doctor Rudy’s four-by-four, back when the oncologist had been a mere resident. “Medical school,” he’d explained while tucking a Phoenix Suns t-shirt into his scrubs. “That, and two ex-wives.”
    Rachel had arranged to meet Doctor Rudy near the cancer coffee urn, across from her office in Pod C. Abraham did not remain, as instructed, in the cafeteria, and he followed his wife from the distance of at least a dozen gurneys. Though a bumbling idiot at graceful rushing, Abraham was a decent enough spy.
    The transaction, as always, involved a bo gus diet sheet—orders for the patient in room such-and-such: high-protein, no fresh fruits or vegetables, (it was Rachel’s job to pull garnish from the trays of the mask-wearing leukemia patients). The sealed baggie of contraband was stapled between two such instructional papers. Rachel handed the rubber-banded roll of cash to the doctor in an empty can of strawberry Ensure.
    From his position behind a portable ultrasound machine Abraham watched Doctor Rudy walk duck-footed away from his wife. He was whistling some tune (could it have been “Born Free?”), the turd of a ponytail still glistening from his morning shower. The guy was a salesman, Abraham thought. So he had M.D. after his name, big deal. Shrimp or speed or chemo, what’s the difference? Abraham watched Rachel cradle the package, her hands slipped in between the diet instructions, as though delivering a baby.
    Mesa Samaritan was set up in pods. Four pods: A, B, C, and D on each of the twelve patient floors. Each floor had its own theme, not unlike Disneyland: ICU, Post-Op, Cardio-Vascular, Peds, Ortho, Rehab, Neuro-Intensive Care (not to be confused with Neo-Natal Intensive Care—both claiming NICU as an acronym), Renal, Cancer, OBGYN, and Rich. Rich was the floor reserved for wealthy and/or famous patients. Nixon had been here once, it was rumored, as had Goldwater, Reagan, Johnny Carson, and even, God love her, Vanna. The gossip with Vanna: she suffered from menopausal bloatation. Her chart read: hormonal imbalance, but there was much ruling out during her stay. Tumors, for instance, and various viruses.
    Rachel worked Rich during Vanna’s stay, before she’d proved too good at her job and was subsequently promoted to the dietetic challenges, renal and cancer. Vanna’s