Comfort Zone

Chapter 14

Miriam had seen many dead bodies before and knew just what to do. As soon as she controlled her scream and a crowd had come running, she shouted, "Call a code!"

But it didn't take a doctor to know that the pharmacy tech no longer had the proper body parts with which to do CPR. He was bleeding from a hole in his chest that was exactly in the place that his heart should be compressed. Miriam forced herself to go toward the body and check for any breathing, any pulse, but he was completely, utterly still.

Security, and then the police came quickly.

They took down her information as she struggled to remember every detail, trying to breathe slowly, but knowing she couldn't make her yoga teacher proud this time.

Finally, they were done with her. Miriam gathered up the article she'd earlier, in a panic, thrown down on the cluttered counter top. The papers stuck to a bright green folder with a Oneworld Medical logo, and she quickly pulled at them and shoved them in her pocket.

When she lifted her eyes again, she noticed a small vial labeled filgrastim on the counter close by. It's wrong to take it, she thought, but grabbed it anyway, knowing Ms. Phillips wasn't likely to get one the usual way that day. The vial was still cold from the fridge, and filled with a clear liquid. Into her pocket it went with the papers.

Miriam's hands were shaking when she left the pharmacy. Ms. Phillips would have to wait just a little longer, she thought, as she stopped in the cafeteria for a cup of decaf coffee and a muffin. She would've liked to talk to someone—even Dr. Engels!—but there was no one she knew so she headed toward a small table and sat alone.

The sugar, fat and hot beverage did the trick. Soon her hands had stopped playing chopsticks on a nonexistent piano and her breathing slowed. What an awful thing, she kept thinking. She didn't want to think about the terrible time the technician's loved ones would be having, and felt bad that the last words he might have heard in life were her impatient ones.

Miriam went to the recycling bins and separated her trash carefully, glad at least that Miami Health was trying to go green—

Green. Out of the corner of her eye Miriam caught another flash of green. A stack of folders were piled on a nearby table. She recognized the logo as the one from the pharmacy counter, and glanced at the sole occupant of the table. Distinctive face, loads of dark hair, scar etching the right side of his face, but handsome despite it.

The man lifted his head and caught Miriam staring right at him.

She looked quickly away and left the cafeteria.

She still needed to give Lisa Phillips the pirated filgrastim, though. At the nurses' station, Phillips' nurse looked up with relief.

"I was just about to page you," he said. "I caught Mr. Phillips injecting something into her arm. He wouldn't tell me what it was. I called security but they haven't come yet."

Miriam couldn't imagine why.

She walked over to the bedside where the defiant husband stood.

"Mr. Phillips," she said, "what happened?"

"Lisa called me and said she didn't get her shot so I brought it from home, that's all. I gave it to her like I always do. The nurse just didn't listen, but I knew you would."

"Don't worry," Miriam said, relieved. Realizing how chaotic pharmacy would be for the next few days, she told him to bring the other medicines from home, that she'd write an order allowing it and there would be no more miscommunication.

She canceled the call to security and finally left the hospital, having avoided the difficult discussion with Lisa Phillips yet again.

A rainstorm had come and gone. Miriam drove through puddles and the muggy night to Whole Foods to pick up a quick meal. A woman was giving an inspirational talk to a small group of rapt listeners there, saying she chose to focus on one positive word every single day.

Her word for that day had been joy.

Miriam thought sadly of the pharmacy technician's death. No joy there. She noticed that the lecture had been set up near the bins of nuts, and ate her meal, trying with scant success to think positive thoughts. It wasn't until she was home that she remembered the filgrastim in her pocket.

Worth its weight in gold, or out of the fridge too long? Miriam tossed it into her refrigerator to decide its fate later on.

Finally, to sleep. Flashbacks from the day tried their best to prevent it, but exhaustion won out...until the muffled sounds of drumbeats drove her up from bed to her window. The full moon shone like a bright button in the dark sky.

Drumming, full moon... the truth shook her fully awake. It was that time of month again. Dozens of New Agers would be drumming and cavorting on the beach outside her window for hours.

Tonight? The moon had to blossom tonight? she groaned.

Oh, joy.

The monthly ritual had relocated to the beach outside Miriam's window months before, having been kicked out of its previous venue, and like other monthly occurrences, this one was no "friend."

Bring your instruments, your voice, your open heart, soul and mind, the flyer said. Join our life-affirming demonstration of drum-induced highs, a good vibe medley of pounding beats, dancing feet and LOVE among brothers and sisters of all beliefs, ages and groups.

The medley typically included the sounds of bongos and other drums, tambourines and maracas, the swish of guiros, singing and chanting, as well as all the usual noise that a few hundred moon-loving people make when they get together on the sand, but to Miriam it just meant sleep-killing noise drowning out the soothing ocean roar, with the smell of marijuana wafting through any window she was foolish enough to open.

She sometimes called the police, and after what felt like hours of aggravation, the welcome sound of a police bullhorn scattered the revelers. More recently, she'd headed down to the sand to talk to the organizer but got nowhere. The man had been kind and courteous, had spewed countless benefits of the celebration (including plugging our alienated souls back into nature's rhythm where they belonged), and had gone so far as to invite her to be the designated moon deity any month of her choice.

"You look like a moon goddess with that wild dark hair!" he'd said, going on in even more flattering terms about her blazing eyes.

Hard as she tried, she could not convince the man that as good as drumming was for a person's immunity, a good night's sleep was better.

So once a month it was AC cranked high, ear plugs tucked in tight, pillow over the head, and a heart-felt prayer that moon goddess Miriam would hear her phone if it rang, and her alarm the next morning.