Free Heart and Soul by Sally Mandel Page A

Angie said. “We didn’t know it would be so cold.”
    â€œOkay, then, Ange, I want you to go down to the nurses’ station and ask what’s happened to Dad’s pain medication. Can you do that?”
    Angie nodded. I leaned close to Dutch’s face. “We’ll get you something to take the edge off, Pops.”
    â€œBrew would help,” he whispered. “Pint of Guinness.”
    I put my hand against his cheek. “You couldn’t find yourself a skinny old lady to save?”
    â€œHow is she?” he asked.
    â€œShe’s fine,” my mother answered. “They’re treating her for bruises and heart palpitations.”
    I’ll show her palpitations, I was thinking. We waited a few minutes in silence.
    â€œWhere the fuck’s Angie?” I muttered finally, just before she walked in.
    â€œThey say they can’t authorize pain medication until the specialist gets here,” she said. “He’s at a bar mitzvah or something.”
    Dad moaned. It was a sound I hope I never hear again, out of anybody. His skin was changing from gray to green. “Turn me,” he said. I could tell the pain was so bad it was hard to get the words out. Mumma stood to help him.
    â€œNo, don’t touch him,” I said. Dad’s head rolled back and forth. Then he looked right at me and mouthed the words since he couldn’t speak any more. Help me. Please. Okay, now I was really scared, and like I said, when I’m scared, I get pissed.
    I stuck my head out the door and yelled “Nurse! ” so loud that Angie and my mother jumped. I said to Angie, “Stay right here and don’t let anybody touch him, not even Mumma. I’ll be right back.”
    I could have been on my roller skates, I moved that fast down the hall. The first person I saw in hospital greens got an earful. He was leaning against the wall eating a doughnut.
    â€œYou! Who are you?” I said, grabbing his name tag. It said Miles Rorch, Resident. “You’ll do. What the fuck is going on here? You’ve got a firefighter in terrible pain and you people are jerking off here. I don’t care who you dig up, a pediatrician or a goddamn gynecologist, just get my father some medication or I swear to God I’m yanking him out of here and admitting him to North Shore Hospital where he’ll get some attention. And they’ll hear about it in the newspapers, Miles, you can bet your doughnut on that.”
    The guy stuffed the remains of his Krispy Kreme into his pocket. “Name?” he asked.
    â€œStallone.”
    I could see his eyes open even wider. Sometimes it pays to have the name, but if the guy had gotten the question out of his mouth I might just have decked him. “No, he’s not!” I growled.
    â€œOkeydokey,” Miles muttered, licking the last crumbs off his fingers. I had the feeling he’d been up for forty-eight hours straight and was looking for a sugar hit.
    â€œWhere’s he at?”
    â€œWaiting for an MRI.”
    â€œMeet you there in five,” he said, and off he went in a reasonable hurry.
    When I got back to my father, he was moaning in a regular rhythm with his eyes closed. I could smell the sooty odor of burning buildings.
    Angie explained. “A bunch of the guys from the firehouse were just here. It was nice of them, but it was too hard on Dad, trying to be brave. I asked them to take Mumma for a cup of coffee. She was losing it.”
    â€œExcellent.” Angie had obviously pulled herself together. It was a relief—one less person to worry about.
    In fact, within moments, the chief resident in Neurology appeared and things started moving along efficiently enough to calm me down. They pumped a shot of something into Dutch, got the MRI, and set him up in a private room. I stepped outside and ran straight into Pauline, who had her arms full of sweaters and jackets. As soon as I saw her face, I started to