God's Country

Goddammit, thought Miranda, staring at the ceiling in Bradley’s bedroom as faint reflections of dawn crept up the plain white walls like a pale gray kitten. As soon as she stirred, a strong hand clamped around her wrist.

"Ease down, big guy, just need to use the toilet," she whispered.

"Don’t leave," came muffled from half under the pillow.

"I won’t," she said. "Not this time." The hand loosened and she fumbled her way to the attached bathroom. She shut the thin laminate door, knowing he’d be able to hear her pee. The thought interfered with her bodily function and she was in there longer than she needed to be. She washed her hands, and rinsed her face, lingering to sniff his soap, his towels, a small bottle of cologne sitting out on the counter. No hairs in the sink. Like the rest of the house, the bathroom was sterile, not in the medical sense – in the vacant-of-personality-sense.

"Can I have a t-shirt?" she said.

"In th’drawer," he mumbled.

A pressboard dresser, eerily similar to her own, stood against the wall by the door. She got lucky on her first try and pulled out a soft black t-shirt that covered her to mid-thigh. She felt much better. She got back in the bed, trying not to flinch away as Bradley cuddled up next to her. He radiated heat and she was soon too warm in the big t-shirt, and too wide awake to lay still.

"I’m going to get up and make some breakfast," she said, and kissed him on the cheek as she got out of bed. He barely moved. Not a morning person, then. Not so much a food person, either, she decided, checking out his bare kitchen. Not enough eggs for omelettes, hardly any veggies except for a wrinkled onion, a bunch of limp carrots, and a couple of tomatos, still reasonably fresh. There was a whole loaf of bread, though, and a splash of milk that hadn’t gone bad, so Miranda settled on French toast. She’d grill the tomatos as well, for a little nutritional balance.

It took her awhile to locate the necessary utensils. The white kitchen was cavernous, but there were hardly any implements behind the copious cabinet doors. She found herself doing circles around the large kitchen island and found herself wishing for her own old-fashioned u-shaped kitchen, where she could reach everything in two steps or less. But soon she had two delicious plates of golden brown French toast (there had been vanilla, but no cinnamon) with a side of grilled tomatos, and two cups of rich, black coffee.

She went back in the bedroom. Bradley was still sound asleep. She sat on the bed and stroked the hair out of his face. His eyes opened, glazed and unseeing.

"Hey. Do you want to eat in the kitchen, or in here?" He blinked at her.

"It smells good. I didn’t know I had food," he said blearily.

"You barely did, but I managed. Come and have some."

"What time is it?"

"About 6:00 a.m. on a beautiful Monday morning." He groaned. "What time do you have to be at work?"

"7:30."

She grinned. "What time do you usually get up?"

"7:15."

"That’s what I thought. Well, I have to be at work at 8:00, but I have to go home and shower and change first, so I have to get going soon. I can wrap up the food for you if you want to stay in bed, but if you want to eat with me, you have to get up now."

"Is there coffee?"

"Do I look stupid to you? Of course there’s coffee."

"All right." He rolled out of bed, his eyes still mostly closed. He padded off to the bathroom naked. Miranda tried not to stare, but then thought, fuck it. I’m sleeping with this guy, I can look at his butt. The door closed behind him and she shook her head, breaking the trance. She dashed out of the room before she could hear him pee.

She set the plates on the countertop and started searching in vain for sugar for her coffee. She had used the last of the milk in the French toast, but managed to rummage some powdered non-dairy creamer. It was sub-par, but better than nothing.

He came out in five minutes, fully dressed and apparently even showered, wet hair slicked off his forehead.
She felt vulnerable again, aware of the fact that she wasn’t wearing panties, or a bra, or pants of any kind. She knew she was covered to the knees, but somehow, it didn’t help. She smiled in his direction, avoiding his eyes, and took a quick sip of the bitter coffee to hide her morning breath. She made a mental note: Never go anywhere without a toothbrush.

"Well, isn’t this lovely?" he said, seating himself on a barstool and digging in. "I’ll have to kidnap you more often."

"You didn’t kidnap me," she said, sitting down gingerly on the cold vinyl, t-shirt tucked firmly beneath her, and taking a quick bite.

"Oh, so you were perfectly willing to stay?" he said, taking a big sip of coffee.

"You kill more brain cells than a night of drinking martinis," she said. He laughed abruptly, spluttering coffee down the front of his shirt.

"Oh, shit, now I’ll have to change," he said cheerfully.

"At least it didn’t come out your nose," she said, beginning to relax a little. Maybe she could do this after all. Be in a strange man’s house wearing nothing but a t-shirt, act casual. Sure. No problem.

She ate quickly, clearing the plate and taking it to the sink. She took his, too, while he lingered over the coffee.

"More?" she said, the coffee pot in her hand. He nodded and she poured for him, turning to rinse out the empty pot and click off the coffeemaker. When she turned back, he patted the stool next to him. She walked around the counter obediently, but he grabbed her before she could sit down.

"Am I going to have fight you every time I want to see you?" he said. Her arms went around his neck and she buried her nose in his freshly-shampooed hair, feeling weak. She shook her head. "That’s good," he said, sliding his hands up under the t-shirt. "I’m going to be here on this job at least another year, Miranda. You can let me in."

And then what? she thought bleakly, but didn’t say out loud, letting the warmth of his hands take away all her worries.

She had to make a bunch of phone calls when she finally got home, rescheduling her patients for later in the day. She checked on her mother. Nadine was out on the back porch, reading the paper and doing the crossword. A filled ashtray sat beside her, still smoldering. Miranda kissed the top of her head and emptied the ashtray without a word.

"Can I make you something to eat, Ma?"

"I’m all right, thanks, dear." Miranda sat on the porch next to her, absently waving away the smoke as Nadine lit up again.

"I liked your Bradley," she said. Miranda nodded.

"I’m glad."

"Looks like you like him, too." Nadine shot her a knowing and not entirely approving glance.

"Think that macadamia is ever going to bear?" said Miranda.

"Be careful, Miranda. He’s charming, but he could hurt you. Don’t get pregnant."

"Jesus, Ma. I’m a nurse. I understand about birth control. Are you and Grandma in some kind of conspiracy?"

"We care about you."

"Ma, do you have some certificate for me, showing that I belong to the Navajo Nation?"

Nadine sat quietly. "Ma, do you?" Miranda insisted.

"Yes."

"Can I have it?"

"Why, Miranda? Why do you want that, why now?"

Miranda stared at her, taken aback. "Grandma Lupe told me about it and she seemed to feel I should have it. Is there some problem with that?"

"Oh no. No problem at all," said Nadine bitterly. She stubbed out her cigarette before it was finished, unheard of behavior for her, and stomped into the house, slamming her bedroom door.

Does lung cancer cause personality changes? Miranda wondered. Nadine was normally so easygoing. She sighed and got herself together to start her day.

That day began a long string of days that were not so different from each other, though each held its own peculiar happiness, its own grinding agony. Bradley blended into her life as though he’d always been there, visiting several times a week, having dinner every Sunday night with her and Nadine and Lupe, until Nadine became too ill to sit up at the dinner table. Even then, he came anyway, bringing Lupe up with him to have dinner with Miranda, chatting to her in Spanish, taking her home afterwards.

Miranda continued to see Rick every day, but her schedule of other patients gradually grew less and less as Nadine faded. The other nurses came by, often on their own free time, to help give her a break, give her a few hours to spend with Bradley, or just to get a pedicure, or take a nap. But Miranda began to refuse the help as her mother’s hours grew short. She wanted her mother to herself, to hold each minute tight, releasing it to the next only with the greatest reluctance.

In the last month of her mother’s life, Bradley abandoned his house entirely and moved into hers, making sure she ate and showered. Holding her at night while she shook without crying.

The nurses were quietly supportive, never asking too much about her mother. They didn’t need to, they watched the deterioration in turns. Watched hers as well.

She was aware on some level that even Rick was becoming protective of her. She had thought she was doing all right on the job, at least, his wounds were finally healing up, scabbing over, and the abscess was completely gone. But he spoke to her so gently, his tough mannerisms dampened. Even his family seemed to feel it. Michael checked with her at every visit, to see if she needed anything. Rick’s room was always freshly cleaned before she got there. Donny stayed out of her way, leaving any room that she walked into. Even Carmen came out of her bedroom one day, clutching her rosary, to whisper to Miranda that she was praying for her mother. Miranda nodded and smiled, wordless. She must look like a complete wreck, that Carmen would notice. Tootie didn’t seem to be around. She asked one time and was told he had moved in with one of his shambling friends who lived over on the next reservation.

She saw Sandy a few times, sometimes with the little girl, Lily. Once with her new baby, a tiny boy with thick black hair. Fetal alcohol syndrome, Miranda thought clinically, listening to his thin cry. Killing ourselves through the choices we make, like Nadine said. Or the choices our parents make for us.

The day Nadine died, a Tuesday morning, Miranda was alone with her. Bradley was at work, and Lupe had been over on Sunday as usual, and said her goodbyes then, spending over an hour alone with Nadine, speaking to her last living daughter. Lupe looked nearly dead herself when she came out, tissue drawn over bare bone, but she held two pieces of paper in her hand, which she gave to Miranda.

"These are yours, mija," she whispered, then turned to Bradley, who was taking her home. Miranda had put the papers in her bedstand drawer without looking at them, going back in to sit by her mother. She was afraid every minute she left her mother alone, that Nadine would die just then, that Miranda would miss it, be taken by surprise.

In the event, she did miss it, even though she was staring right at her, even though she was actually touching her, bathing her. The water dripped onto the sheet as her hands stopped moving. The oxygen machine continued to rattle uselessly, no longer pumping anything at all into Nadine’s exhausted lungs. Miranda flipped it off without thinking, listening to the sudden silence. She placed her mother’s withered arm lightly back on the bed, feeling how empty it was, how light. She toweled her off, arranged her robe so she looked normal, comfortable. Tucked the sheet around her. She had seen the dead before, of course, many times. But this was the first time she had seen someone actually die, watched the moment a person turned from a living being into meat, a dead thing, nothing you could love. Did you ever really love it? That hunk of decayed flesh?

For the first time, Miranda truly understood the limitations of the body, its relative unimportance. It was a glorious thing, marvelous in its concept and construction – that she had always known, even though she most often saw it in various degrees of breakdown, through age or injury, or disease. But it was nothing to the miracle of a soul. That thing that was more than breath, more than intellect. The essence of life itself. Her mother’s beloved face was a dead face, when a moment before it had been living. The difference was unmistakable, profound. Never religious, Miranda sat at her mother’s quiet bedside and prayed for her mother’s spirit, which was so obviously, irrevocably gone.