The Golem of Hollywood

Chapter fifty-six

The nurse came into his room to announce a visitor. Assuming it was his father, Jacob waved permission and continued spooning oatmeal. The curtain shuffled aside and Divya Das stepped in.

He sat up, wiping his mouth. “Hey.”

She looked around for a place to sit, did not approach the unmade cot next to Jacob’s bed.

“My dad’s been sleeping here. Go ahead. He won’t mind.”

Sam’s copy of the Zohar lay on the pillow. She moved it to the nightstand and sat down, setting her orange bowling ball bag on her knees.

Jacob said, “I take it we’re going dancing.”

She smiled. “How are you feeling?”

Jacob had no memory of his first night in the hospital. He’d sneaked a look at his chart and learned he’d walked into the emergency room on his own, ranting and raving. He assumed that Mallick, Subach, and Schott had dropped him off and left. The clinical notes said it had taken two doctors and three orderlies to wrestle him down. Now they had him on an array of barbiturates, along with B vitamins to ease his detox and IV fluids to counteract blood loss. The wound in his leg had been sutured neatly.

He was no longer having green dreams, which offered relief but also pangs of melancholy. His world appeared astringent and flat. Institutional linoleum, smudged bumper rails, oppressive overlighting. No matter how much he slept, he felt tired. He was relaxed and bored and doped up, unable to care very much about anything.

He felt better and worse, trapped and free, blessed and punished in equal measure.

He said, “Sore.”

“May I?”

He nodded.

She lifted a corner of the thin hospital blanket, revealing his bandaged thigh.

“Missed the femoral artery by a quarter of an inch,” he said.

She tucked the blanket back in and reached for the chart, paged through it. “They gave you six units of blood.”

“Is that a lot?”

“You oughtn’t to be alive.”

He spread his arms: here I am.

She lingered on the page a bit longer, replaced the chart. “I’m glad you’re coping so well.”

“Thanks. I thought you’d left town.”

“I was going to.” She dug in her bag and came out with a folder. “I wanted to deliver the results of your request personally.”

He chose not to question the about-face. He thanked her and accepted the folder.

DNA recovered from Reggie Heap’s bloodstained shoes matched the profile of the second Creeper offender — a perfect nine for nine.

He closed the file. “So that’s that.”

“So it would seem.”

“I’ll have to get in touch with the other Ds,” he said. “They’ll want to know.”

“I’m sure they will.” Long black eyelashes fluttered. “I have a message from Commander Mallick. He congratulates you for your fine work in stopping two dangerous and violent individuals, and he wishes you a speedy recovery. He said not to worry about the paperwork. They’ve got it covered.”

“I can handle it myself.”

“The Commander feels that you could use a break, after the ordeal you’ve been through.”

“Does he.”

“He — the detail as a whole — feels it wouldn’t be appropriate to keep you in a high-stress position.”

“Why are you talking to me like that?”

“Like what.”

“Like a suit.”

“You’ll have a month, paid.”

“And then?”

Her mouth bunched. “You’re being transferred back to Traffic.”

Jacob stared at her.

She looked at the floor. “I’m sorry, Jacob. It wasn’t my decision.”

“I’d sure hope not,” he said. “You’re not my superior.”

She did not reply.

“He couldn’t tell me face-to-face?”

“Mike Mallick is a very dedicated individual,” she said. “But he’s stubborn, and his way of thinking isn’t necessarily the most people-friendly.”

“No shit,” he said.

“We’re not all the same, Jacob.”

“Whatever.”

“He’s entitled to his opinion,” she said. “And I’m entitled to mine.”

“And what’s your opinion?”

“As I said, the Commander can have trouble when it comes to predicting how a person might behave in the moment. Given what you’ve seen, it’s hard for me to find fault with your actions.”

Jacob said, “Who is she?”

Silence.

Divya Das said, “The Commander congratulates you for your fine work in stopping two dangerous and violent individuals.”

“Seriously?” he said. “This is what we’re doing? Do you have any idea what this feels like?” He tapped the center of his forehead. “What it’s like in here?”

On the other side of the curtain, his roommate, a ninety-year-old man, gargled and snored.

“Please keep your voice down,” Divya said.

“Is someone going to show up with a machine that erases my memory? Do I get a complimentary lobotomy?”

His heart rate monitor was chirping aggressively. She waited for it to slow, leaned in to speak. “It seems to me that you have a choice. You can live inside your experiences or outside of them.”

“And so? What now?” he said. “I wait for her to come back?”

“She certainly seems attracted to you.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Jacob said.

She smiled crookedly. “Don’t sell yourself short, Jacob Lev.”

Silence.

“It had to be Traffic,” he said.

She tried a smile. “Consider it a vacation.”

A soft knock at the door. The curtain swished aside, and Sam appeared with a grease-blotched bag.

“Whoops,” he said. “I didn’t realize you had company. I can come back.”

Divya Das stood up. “I was just on my way out. You must be Jacob’s father.”

“Sam Lev.”

“Divya Das.”

“Good to see you,” he said. “How’s the patient?”

“Better than most of the ones I deal with,” she said.

She turned to Jacob, laid a warm hand on his shoulder. “Be well.”

Jacob nodded.

After she’d gone, his father said, “She seems nice.”

“She came by to tell me I’m being demoted.”

Sam’s eyes creased behind his sunglasses. “Really.”

“Back to pushing paper.”

“Mm,” Sam said. “I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

“I didn’t think you would be.”

“You’re my son. You think it’s easy for me to see you like this?”

“I don’t think it’s easy for you to see anything,” Jacob said.

“Touché.” Sam reached in the bag and unpacked a breakfast croissant. “I had Nigel stop off,” he said, putting the food on Jacob’s tray. “Hospital food is dreck.”

“Thanks.”

“So? How’s the leg? You want to take a rest? I can be quiet.”

“I’d rather talk,” Jacob said. He took a bite of the sandwich. It was pure artery-clogging pleasure. “You remember to put my tzedakah money in?”

“I did. I kept you in mind the whole time. I hope you felt it.”

“Oh, absolutely. An angel came down and touched me and now I’m all better.”

Sam smiled. “Lucky you.”

A new resident came by to inspect Jacob’s wounds and declared the leg to be healing “okay.” He probed the scab on Jacob’s arm, reviewed the chart, and offered the umpteenth lecture on the need for Jacob to cut back on his drinking.

“The good news is we’re not seeing signs of infection.”

“What’s the bad news?” Sam asked.

“There has to be bad news?” Jacob said.

“It’s not bad, per se,” the resident said. “But everyone’s puzzled by your bloodwork. Your iron is still pretty elevated, as are your magnesium and potassium, although not to the same degree. Iron overload can be a risk factor for liver disease. Do you eat a lot of meat?”

“Do hot dogs qualify?”

The resident frowned. Young and cranky. He’d age badly. “I can’t recommend that one bit. Anyhow, we reran your blood twice more, looking for other anomalies. A few other things popped up that I’m having trouble interpreting.”

“What’s that mean?” Sam said.

“Do you take a silica supplement?” the resident asked Jacob. “Some people use it because they think it prevents hair loss.”

Jacob ran his hand over his thick, dark waves.

“Uh-huh. Other supplements? Anything homeopathic?”

“Nothing.”

“Hunh. Okay. Well. I asked some colleagues for their opinion, and Dr. Rosen in psychiatry had a thought.”

Jacob stiffened. “What’s that?”

“There’s a condition called pica, where a person gets cravings to eat inedible things, like hair or dirt or plaster. It mostly happens in pregnant women, or sometimes in individuals with severe anemia. In very extreme cases, you can get unusual trace minerals showing up in the blood. What I’m seeing from you isn’t exactly consistent — you’d expect lower than average iron, not higher — but I’m having trouble coming up with a better explanation for why you have so much silicon in your system.”

Jacob said nothing.

“Aluminum, also,” the resident said. “Unless you’re bathing yourself in antiperspirant.” He paused again, glanced at Sam, back at Jacob. “Is that something you’ve, uh, done?”

“Eating dirt?” Jacob asked. “Or bathing in antiperspirant?”

“Either.”

Jacob said, “No.”

The resident seemed relieved. “I’m sure it’s a lab error. We’ll definitely keep an eye on it, though. Rest up.”

Jacob lay back, absently running his fingers over his scabbed arm. The taste of mud was faint in the back of his throat. He was thinking about Mai, and Divya Das, and his father saying to her Good to see you rather than Good to meet you.

He looked at Sam, inscrutable as always. “Abba? I think I’d like to sleep a little now.”

His father nodded. He reached for the Zohar. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”