Roxanne

It is a gray, unsettled morning, as if the skies are troubled by the endless recitation of names over the PA system at the meeting grounds for the AIDS walk. I think of Roxanne.

When I first met her, she was unconscious. Her too-thin frame seemed to remember some youthful promise, long ago abandoned for heroin and cocaine. She was 29 years old, a mother of three. Her spinal fluid exam suggested herpes encephalitis; there were opiates in her blood.

Two days later, she was only a little better; still confused and sleepy.

I finally reached her mother. She said, “We've washed our hands of Roxanne. She's bolted from rehab too many times, lied to us, stole from us. She's hurt us too much. We've got custody of the kids. We don't want you calling back.”

The next day, as I passed through the hospital lobby on my way to the wards, Roxanne, in a sweater and shorts, had to avoid bumping into me as she headed for …