M: Alice #4

For years my job was to sit in the basement along with the other
girls and type up medical reports. I bet those same girls are typing up
reports about me. They'll know who I am, of course. You can't miss a
name like mine. Part of me hopes they are kind, skimming over the
references to my scar tissue and nausea, even though I wouldn't
be.

A couple of times I brought my son with me to work. I don't know why.
It was easier than fighting with him about school, which he hates. He'd
roam the basement of the hospital, or take the elevator to the top of
the hospital towers. Once he came back and told me he'd found a bag
down in the tunnels that connect the different hospitals. "There's
blood coming out," he said. I told him to go to the cafeteria and bring
me an iced tea.

I was working late one night when I met Warner. "I handle the entire
basement," he said proudly, his mop leaving a puddle on the floor.
Warner had come from Hollywood. He'd been in a television series about
pilots during World War II. How could I resist?

Warner has never visited me in my room at the hospital. When I was back
at home, wearing that long wig and the velour dress I'd bought and
couldn't afford, he'd show up regularly. But now he's just a voice on
the phone, telling me to speak up. Still, we had some fun. He knew a
lot about art and even made a wire sculpture of me. It was my face on
the body of a mermaid. My son hung it in his bedroom.

My son - that has an odd ring to it, doesn't it? - will be here soon.
He takes the bus from the apartment. I can't imagine what the apartment
looks like by now. We had roaches before I left. They are probably the
size of Buicks by now.

At least they're not here. It's very clean here.