We followed the ambulance in Jake’s car. At the hospital a nurse with a tight, old-fashioned bun asked us questions.
‘It says here Mr Anderson has had some “falls” in the past,’ she said, going over his chart. ‘Do you think in hindsight these may have actually been early suicide attempts?’
‘How the hell should we know?’ Jake said. ‘The dude’s an alcoholic. Alcoholics fall over all the time.’
‘So you’re sure nothing like this has happened before?’
‘What difference does it make? What exactly are you getting at?’
‘It’s important for us to confirm this was a suicide attempt. Past attempts can help us establish a pattern.’
‘Of course it was a suicide attempt. He slashed his fucking wrists.’
‘Sir—’
‘You tell me this,’ Jake fumed, ‘how many old men do you get in here who have slashed their wrists? Huh? How fucking common is that?’
‘He was in a concentration camp,’ I said to the nurse. Jake threw up his hands.
‘Great Hilda—what a way to complicate the situation. Well done.’
‘I’m just saying! He has a history of trauma, he’s been depressed, paranoid. He hardly goes outside. It’s like he’s frightened of the world.’
‘They don’t need to know this Hilda! That’s his private business!’
‘What do you care?’ I yelled back. ‘Why are you even here? You don’t give a shit about him. Or me. You just want him back at home so you can keep using him.’
‘I think maybe you two should take this outside,’ the nurse said, putting her hand lightly on Jake’s shoulder. He shook her hand off, and she stepped back with a hurt look on her face.
‘Why are you saying that?’ he said to me. ‘Why are you being such a goddamn brat all of a sudden?’
‘Oh, I’m being a brat?’
‘Yeah,’ he said, his eyes hardening.
‘Okay,’ the nurse said, trying to wrestle control of the situation. ‘I really think you need to go outside—’
Jake ignored her. ‘I mean, how can you say I don’t care? Just who do you think I am?’
‘I guess I don’t know.’
‘I’m getting security,’ the nurse said, tottering off.
‘I think she’s right Jake,’ I said. ‘I think you should just leave.’
Jake’s face crumpled in a way I had never seen before, a way I had believed he was incapable of. Standing in front of me, his eyes downcast, it was as if for the first time I was actually seeing him. He looked stripped bare.
‘Did I do something?’ he said. ‘Because I don’t understand what’s going on.’
‘I saw your script Jake. On your laptop. The Life Upstairs?’
‘Oh shit. Hilda, that’s nothing. I’m not even working on it anymore.’
‘Is that all we are to you? Is that all I am to you? A story?’
‘Oh man,’ he spluttered, punching himself in the forehead with a closed fist. ‘I’ve fucked this up. I always fuck things up. Look, in the beginning, yeah, I thought it would make a cool story. I heard you guys on the balcony—’
‘You were spying on us?’ I couldn’t believe it. All the pieces started to come together. ‘That’s why you were his friend. That’s why he said you were asking too many questions. How long have you been writing his story Jake? Without him knowing?’
Jake took a step forward and I held up my hand.
‘Don’t come near me.’
‘I don’t understand why you’re so angry! You’re just as bad.’
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means where do you get off judging me? You feed off that old man like a vampire. You think you and I are so different? We’re the same Hilda, we take what we need from people and throw them away.’
‘I am not like you. I will never be like you.’
‘Wise up Hilda. You know I’m right. You’re nothing but a bloodsucker, feeding off everyone’s misery. You think saving some old guy will bring your parents back? Make everything right again? Gee, wouldn’t that be a nice little character arc. But let me tell you something. Life doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t tie up in a neat little Hollywood certified bow.’
Behind him the nurse was returning, a security guard by her side. Jake followed my gaze and turned around.
‘You know what?’ he said. ‘I don’t need this.’
‘Sir,’ the guard said, standing beside him. ‘I believe this nurse asked you to leave.’
‘Don’t worry. I’m gone. I am so out of here.’
He brushed past me, stomped down the hallway.
‘Jake!’ I called out.
He turned. ‘What?’
‘Your writing sucks.’
He took his sunglasses out of his pocket and put them on, kept walking.
‘So long Hilda,’ he said, and I watched him walk down the corridor. I wanted to chase after him, tell him we had been doing so well—couldn’t we go back to before he betrayed me? But I couldn’t. I thought of all the conversations Hank and I had had on the balcony and in his living room and couldn’t erase from my mind the image of Jake listening from his apartment below. The tape recorder that fell from his bag. All the things he knew that I had never told him, that he’d never given me the chance to. I watched as the hospital doors closed behind him, and then I walked away.