“I have no intention of helping him.”
How I walk by this coughing, wheezing, struggling-to-breathe old man is beyond me, but I do, seeing the faint F scar on his temple as though it has been there a very long time, like it’s as much a part of him as the freckles and hair alongside it. I walk straight to the two women in the Flawed seats. They are chatting about making jam, as if nothing is wrong.
“Excuse me,” I say sweetly, offering them the most polite smile I can muster. They respond immediately with their own bright smiles. Two polite, friendly women from the suburbs willing to help me with anything. Almost anything.
“Yes, dear.”
“I was wondering if you could help me.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Could one of you sit in any of the available seats here? Or I could offer you two seats together where my boyfriend and I are sitting so that you can continue your conversation?”
As I look up at Art, all I can see is terror on his face. Funny, I no longer feel it. I like solutions. The problem was disturbing me, and fixing it just made sense. I’m not doing anything wrong; I’m not breaking any laws or rules. I’ve always been complimented on my timing, my perfection. I come from a good home. I have a pleasant manner. The anklet of geometric harmony proves it.
“May I ask why?” the woman with the broken leg asks.
“Well, this man here”—I point to the old man—“is clearly Flawed, and you are in the Flawed seats. He can’t sit down anywhere else. And he is struggling.”
I notice a few faces turn to stare at me when I say that. I expect them to understand. I expect there to be no further conversation. I even expect the few who have overheard to step in and agree, make sense of the situation. But they don’t. They look confused, some even scared. One man looks amused. This is illogical. This is Juniper’s territory, not mine. I look at her. She has the same face of terror as Art does. She is not moving. If I ever thought she was going to back me up, I know now that she won’t.
“But we’re talking,” the other woman says.
“And he’s choking,” I say with the same smile on my face, which I know looks a little psychotic, because we are no longer being polite.
“Are you trying to help him?” the woman with the crutches asks.
“N-n-no,” I stutter. “I’m not. I’m trying to help the situation.…” I flash her a brilliant smile, but she recoils from me.
“I want nothing to do with this,” the other woman says loudly, attracting more attention.
“With what?” I laugh nervously. “Your leg is fine. Perhaps if you just move to another chair and your friend stays here…”
“I’m staying right where I am,” she hollers.
Now we have the attention of the entire bus.
The old man, who is beside me, can barely stand. He is bent over coughing. He turns to me, face purple, and tries to talk, but he can’t catch his breath.
I don’t know what he’s trying to say. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what medical help to give him. Even if I knew what medical help to provide, I wouldn’t be able to give it to him. Think, think, Celestine. I can’t help, but a doctor can.
“Is there a doctor here?” I call down the bus, and I see Art put his face in his hands.
There’s an audible gasp in the bus.
I look around at everyone, the judgmental faces of surprise. I feel dizzy and confused. This man is going to collapse, maybe die. My eyes start to fill.
“Are we going to just watch this?” I scream.
“Stop it, dear,” a woman says to me in a hushed voice. She is clearly upset about it, too. It’s not just me, but she’s warning me. I’m going too far.
This is completely illogical. Have we no compassion for this human being, Flawed or not, that we won’t help?
Heads look away. Eyes are averted.
“Okay, okay,” I say to the old man, who by now is panicking severely. He continues to cough, and I can see the F on his tongue, which makes me recoil slightly. I can’t imagine the pain of receiving it. “It’s okay.”
He punches his chest, starts to fall to his knees.
I pull him up under the arms, and I bring him to the nearest open seat.
“Stop the bus!” I yell.
The bus stops, and I assure the old man everything will be fine.
I look over at Juniper and see that she is crying.
“It’s okay,” I tell her and Art. “It’s going to be fine.” My heart is still pounding. “This has all been so very ridiculous.” My voice is high-pitched and shrill; it doesn’t sound like mine. And then I hear the siren, loud, close, intense, and threatening.
TWELVE
EVERYBODY STAYS STILL in their seats, waiting, my heart beating loudly over the silence. Two Whistleblowers climb aboard blowing silver whistles so loudly most people block their ears. They make their way toward me and the old man.