Simon Fill
Night Visits was first presented by Actors Theatre of Louisville, Kentucky, in January 2000. It was directed by Sullivan Canaday White; scenic design was by Tom Burch; lighting design was by Andrew Vance; costume design was by Jessica Waters; the dramaturg was Kelly Lea Miller; and the stage manager was Nichole A. Shuman. The cast was as follows:
TOM Tom Johnson
LIZ Samantha Desz
EMILY Rachel Burttram
CHARACTERS
TOM A second-year resident in medicine, twenty-eight.
LIZ: A nurse, twenty-seven.
EMILYEMILY: Gentle, looks about twenty-three.
TIME: The present.
PLACE: An examination room in a hospital.
(A hospital examination room. White. Patient gowns hang all over. We hear wind outside. TOM lies on the examining table, asleep. Twenty-eight. In a doctor ' s outfit. LIZ enters. Twenty-seven. Nurse ' s uniform. Quiet moment to herself, then notices the gowns and TOM.)
TOM: (eyes closed) I' m not seeing patients anymore, Liz. (Quickly, lightly, sounding upbeat and energetic.) It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. It's over. Do you have a problem with it being over? You better not. Is it not really over? I don' t think so.
LIZ: Tom. One more. That's all.
TOM: Seeing one patient in your thirty-fifth hour of being awake is the equivalent of seeing fifteen hundred in your first.
LIZ: You can' t refuse to see patients. You're a resident.
TOM: Shit. (He gets up.) You look … nice.
LIZ: Got a date.
TOM: Doctor?
LIZ: No.
TOM: Yes. Yes. YES! Good for you.
LIZ: You are such a freak. (Looks out window.) Windy outside.
TOM: It's a bad night.
LIZ: I know. We all do.
LIZ We all loved Katie, Tom.
TOM Yeah. Thanks. No, I mean it.
LIZ She was a great nurse. I wish I'd known her more.
TOM You're okay, Liz. I hate to admit it. (He hits her lightly on the arm.)
LIZ You are such a freak. (Beat.) This patient—Doug gave her a shot of methicillin, he's busy now. Watch her ten minutes, see if she's allergic. She was… in a car …
TOM: Look. Katie's accident was a year ago.
LIZ: To the day.
TOM: I' m not really doing anything to this patient anyhow.
LIZ You mean that?
TOM: (very dramatic) Have I ever lied to you before?
LIZ: Yeah.
TOM: NO, ' bout something serious.
LIZ: Yeah.
TOM You're—you're—you're— (Jokingly, he grabs a tiny knee hammer.)
LIZ: You gonna test my reflexes? You are such a… ! TOM What!
LIZ: (Beat. Softly, with great fondness.) Little boy. This patient. The accident involved only her. After it, she disappeared. They found her in a church. Sitting on the floor. Surrounded herself with lit wish candles. Hundreds. She'd been there hours. When they asked her why, she said, “I' m cold.” (She gives him a chart. He stares at her.) Emily. I know, I know. She's odd, this one. Another sweet nobody. Passed a psych consult, but otherwise, she won' t talk. Here twenty-one hours. Won' t leave ' til she feels she's “okay.” She's a little banged up, but fine. She could go now. She won' t. Bring her upstairs when you're done. (Beat. Studies TOM with suspicion.) No.
TOM: I' m good at this. She' ll feel better. She' ll leave.
LIZ: Won' t work. We tried everything. Social services was called. They' ll be here soon. (Looks at robes.) I wish we had another free room.
TOM: YOU didn' t carry those up from a broken dryer at three in the morning.
LIZ: Dr. Pitnick, that was nice. Someday you' ll make a good nurse. TOM: I' ll get her to go.
LIZ: Won' t happen. (Looks him up and down.) You need a compliment. Badly. (Beat.) Serious now. You okay?
TOM: Funny. When Katie died, I prayed every night for a month.
LIZ: What about?
TOM: If I told anyone, Liz, I'd tell you. (Lightly.) It was very self-involved. (Beat.) I' m fine. Thanks. Have a good date. You're not as cute as you think you are.
LIZ: (smiles) I' ll send her down. See you tomorrow. (She exits. Pause. The sound of wind. He looks out the window. He is over come and starting to break down. A knock. He recovers himself.)
TOM: (cheerful) Dr. Pitnick's house of optimism and laundry! (EMILY enters. She looks about twenty-three. Gentle. Bruised face and arms. TOM grins. A quick patter. His “ routine.” ) Just kidding. There's no optimism here. Don' t mean to be unprofessional. I expect you to stay silent. (Looks at chart, then her arm, checking where the shot was given.) Hope that didn' t hurt too much. I hate shots. We're gonna get you to feel okay. I usually do this by showing patients how impressive they are in comparison to me. Some patients protest. For good reason. I expect you to stay silent. They call me the funny doctor. (To self.) This is like one of my dates in high school. (Looks at her.) Did I detect a glint of humanity? (She smiles a little.) I bet no one upstairs tried to crack you up. Their mistake. Do you feel sorry for yourself? (She shakes her head.) You ought to. You gotta listen to me. But if you talk to me, you get to listen to me less. ' Round here, I' m considered aversion therapy for introverts. (Whispers.) Of course, being the funniest doctor ' round here is a weak claim. (Beat. Back to normal.) Look. I know what you went through was serious. I know. I do. But sometimes when you think you're alone, when you most think that, you … aren' t. (Beat.) Sorry. I' m expecting a lot here. I mean, it's not like you're God or anything. No offense. (Silence. He raises his hands in surrender, looks out the window. Pause.)
EMILY Why would I be offended you don' t think I' m God? That's pretty queer.
TOM: I' m not the one who surrounded myself with wish candles in a church.
EMILY: Does that unnerve you? Dr. Tom?
TOM: (beat) How'd you know my name was Tom?
EMILY (mock mystical) Woo woo. (Beat. She points at his name tag.)
TOM: Oh. Wow. I need some sleep. Sorry. I shouldn' t say that.
EMILY (lightly teasing) C' mon. This is all about you. (Beat. Sin cere.) You look tired. You okay?
TOM: Great. My patient's asking me if I' m okay. Are you? EMILY: You want me to leave, don' t you?
TOM: I … (Looks at her face and arms. Gentle.) These bruises' ll disappear on their own in a few days. They hurt?
EMILY: No, they feel great. Sorry. Not that bad. Thanks. You're nice.
TOM: I' m only nice when I' m tired.
EMILY: How often you tired?
TOM Always. You're gonna be fine
EMILY: I' m not important.
TOM: Nothing.
What?
TOM: (warmly ironic) I WISH someone'd said that in your chart! (She smiles.)
EMILY You're weird.
I know.
EMILY: When the accident happened, I hit a divider, everything stopped. I didn' t know where I was. For some reason, I thoughta my dad. He died four years ago. Nothing to do with cars. I … loved him. After he was gone, I never felt his loss. I … Something happened. (Pause.)
TOM: YOU tell anyone this?
EMILY Do you count? (Beat.) I got out of the car, looked around to make sure no one was hurt. Then I ran. (Silence.) You all right?
TOM: Yeah. Sure. I' m gonna get you outta here. In good shape. EMILY: (lightly) I' m a nobody. And I dress poorly.
TOM: What's the one thing you could do to give your life meaning?
EMILY: Accessorize? (Beat. He smiles. She looks off.) You can' t see wind.
EMILY You can' t see it, but it's there.
TOM: (beat) Is it? When the accident happened, who were you with?
EMILY: That's an odd question.
TOM Who were you with?
EMILY: why?
ANSWER IT!
EMILY NO one! (Beat.) I was hurt, and for the first time I felt, knew, I' m with no one. My father, he's really … gone…. (Pause.) You understand what I' m saying?
TOM: (Thinks with care, then nods slowly.) I' m sorry. (Beat.) You okay?
EMILY (Upset. Snippy.) With doctors like you, who needs accidents!
TOM: Sorry.
EMILY: I… No, don' t feel bad for me. I don' t. My father … I loved him.
TOM: Did he love you?
EMILY Yes, but that's not as important.
TOM: YOU okay?
EMILY: Keep asking that, and you won' t be.
TOM: (softly) Sorry.
EMILY Stop apologizing, you didn' t kill him. (Beat.) When I left the accident, a few blocks away I passed a homeless woman. I asked her for the nearest good church. One that was honest, that wasn' t about exclusion. She said nothing. I asked again, and she goes, “Here.” (She points to her heart.)
TOM: (softly) Oh.
EMILY You enjoy helping this nobody?
TOM: Who? You?
EMILY: You know a lot about this. (Beat.) Who was it?
TOM: You're my patient.
EMILY: So? There's doctor-patient privilege. I won' t tell anyone.
TOM: I' m trying to make you all right.
EMILY You're almost there. This' ll help. Or don' t you open up to nobodies?
TOM: IS this a trick?
EMILY Yes. You got me to like you.
TOM: (Beat.) My wife Katherine. She was a nurse here in pediatrics. We grew up together in Brooklyn, but in high school I was too shy to ask her out. We ran into each other when she'd graduated from college, at a reading of James Joyce by an Irish actor. Joyce was her favorite writer. She and I dated. At that point, I was well on my way to becoming the “funny doctor.” She was quiet and funnier, in that good way the most serious people are. After two months, I proposed. Now that was funny. She didn' t answer. We kept dating. Every day for two months after that I proposed. Silence. I thought, “This woman either likes me or is totally insensate.” At the end of that time she gave me a copy of Finnegans Wake, her favorite book. At college I'd read it and almost finished. The first page, that is. But I loved her so much I slogged through the book. Boy, did I love her. On page fifty, at the bottom, in pencil, someone'd written something. I looked closely. It said, “Yes. I' ll marry you.” (Pause.) I called her up and told her Joyce had accepted my proposal of marriage. (Pause.) She was driving to Riverdale, a favor, to pick up a friend's kid at school. I know she was starting to think about children herself. She said she wanted them to have “my looks and her sense of humor.” Another car, an old lady who shouldn' t have been driving, who had a history of epilepsy… and … you know the rest. The other woman lived. (Beat.) I asked Katie once why she wrote “yes” to me on page fifty She said, “I knew you loved me, but I wasn' t sure how much.” (Pause.) Don' t look so serious.
EMILY (gently) The line you draw between yourself and other people, it doesn' t exist. Not how you think. You know that, you' ll let her inside of you, even if she's gone.
TOM: (softly) Hey. Thanks.
EMILY: (with affection) You gonna believe that? Or are you just another punk doctor? (Long pause.)
TOM: Yeah, I do. (Beat.) Yeah. (Beat.) What do you charge? I don' t know if my insurance covers this.
EMILY This was good.
TOM: I can' t treat you for premature nostalgia. It isn' t my specialty. You gonna stay or go?
EMILY Quiet in here.
TOM: (Light. Gentle.) That tough being a nobody? (She smiles.) Funny. When Katie died, I prayed every night for a month. It was very self-involved.
EMILY No, it was just about her. You asked that she be okay. You never worried about yourself. That's incredibly rare, even for people who love each other. And you're a nonbeliever.
TOM: (Beat.) How'd you know that?
EMILY: listens to prayers?
TOMI don' t get it.
EMILY: listens to prayers?
TOM: Nobody! (Beat. A slow realization.) Nobody. You could leave the hospital now.
EMILY: Thanks for the permission. (She gathers her things.) Oh, and Tom?
TOM: Yeah?
EMILY: Your insurance doesn' t cover it.
(She leaves. Pause. The sound of wind. He looks out the window. He opens it. When the wind enters the room, the robes fill with air, as if inhabited by ghosts. They sway beautifully. Tableau. Blackout.)