Ask Again Later (12 page)

I dial the phone.

“Hello?” Jim says.

“Hi. It's Emily. What are you doing?” I say.

“Jumping on a trampoline,” Jim says.

“Yeah, me, too,” I say.

“Good for the heart,” Jim says.

“Want to come and have coffee at the hospital?” I ask.

“The surgery was today?” Jim asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “It's taking a long time, though, and I keep thinking she's going to die. That's crazy, right? It's a simple procedure. One lump.”

“Your mother wouldn't die there; she doesn't like hospitals. Thinks they're dirty. Besides, dying in a hospital is convenient. Expected. That's just not her,” Jim says.

Games

MY FATHER AND I
drink coffee in the waiting room.

“I kind of wish I smoked at a time like this,” I say.

“Me, too,” Jim says.

We stare at the floor for a while. There is a TV hanging in the corner. Some people are watching
The Price Is Right
. How does Bob Barker do it? How does he play the same game every day for thirty years and still manage to smile and remember people's names and appear interested?

My father looks up. “I'm going on a trip. The first thing I'm going to pack in my suitcase is a bowling ball,” Jim says.

I stare at him blankly. Did he just have a stroke? Is that what I'm witnessing?

“Now it's your turn,” Jim says.

“My turn?” I ask.

“What are you putting in the suitcase?” Jim asks.

I sip my coffee.

“What suitcase?” I say. Do I need to have him admitted now? Or do I wait to see if things right themselves? I pray they do. I really can't see myself bouncing back and forth between oncology and whatever the stroke wing is called.

“You don't remember this?” Jim says. “We used to play it on car trips. It's your turn to put something in the suitcase. Then you have to say what I put in the suitcase and so on….”

I have no memory of this game. I have no memory of road trips. He could be making this up, and I wouldn't know the difference.

“A bowling ball and…a number two pencil,” I say.

“A bowling ball, a number two pencil, and an anemone,” Jim says.

“Oh, I see. That's how you want to play it? Okay. A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, and a hot shoe,” I say. “I'm taking you down, old man.”

I regret the last part after I say it, because I said it in a way that could have been taken seriously. When I was actually grateful to have someone there with me.

“A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, and a hot shoe—what is a hot shoe?” Jim asks.

“It's a groove on a camera that holds the flash attachment,” I say.

“I'll take your word for it—under protest,” Jim says.

My plan is working. He protests. He forgets the order
of the words. Victory is closer than anticipated. In this moment life is simple.

“Oh, and you see people putting anemones in suitcases on a regular basis,” I say.

“It's not a literal game,” Jim says. “A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, a hot shoe—under protest—and a tension column,” Jim says.

“A bowling ball, number two pencil, an anemone, a hot shoe—under protest—a tension column, and a carboniferous reptile,” I say.

“Good one,” Jim says.

Dr. Kealy is walking toward us. I wave. I get up from the waiting area and walk toward him. Jim is still talking.

“Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, and hydraulic brake hose,” Jim says.

“To be continued,” I say.

“Things are looking great,” Dr. Kealy says. “It went very well. We don't see any reason she shouldn't make a full recovery. All very textbook. She's sleeping now, but you can see her as soon as she wakes up.”

The fear I had just a few hours ago when the surgery seemed to drag on is already becoming a distant memory. It's replaced by relief and gratitude and the way things used to be.

“Since everything's okay, I'll take off and let you have
your time with your mom,” Jim says. He throws away his coffee cup and makes his way to the door. He waves.

“See you Monday morning,” Jim calls.

“Thanks for keeping me company,” I say.

“Of course,” Jim says. “Tell your mom I said hello.”

Neat Little Mass

“THE CANCER DIDN'T
spread. Neat little mass,” Dr. Kealy continues, still standing in the hallway. “As a precaution we'll follow up with radiation twice a week for two weeks.”

“Neat little mass. She'll love that description! How long before she wakes up?” I ask.

“There was an issue with the anesthesia. She had an allergic reaction, so we had to give her more fluid and change the type of anesthesia we were using. So she's a little bloated, and she has a rash.”

“But everything's okay? Can she still go home tonight?” I ask.

“Everything is okay, but she'll have to wait until tomorrow. We just want to watch her for a few more hours,” he replies.

Everything is okay, except the part where it took twice as long as it was supposed to. And my mind started to imagine all of the horrible things that could have happened.

“Great,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

He starts to walk away.

“Excuse me,” I call to him. “Who's going to explain the bloating part to her? I'm not sure I want to be in the room when that happens.”

He laughs and keeps walking. His work is done. He's off to the next patient. Really, it's not funny.

I walk into her room. She's already out of bed studying her face in the mirror.

“I didn't see anything in the presurgical waiver about a fifteen-pound weight gain in the face,” Mom says.

“You look fine. The swelling will go away quickly,” I say. “Dr. Kealy said it couldn't have gone better. He said it was a neat little mass, and he got it all.”

My mom is silent. I stop to appreciate the rarity of the moment. Then I look at her. Tears are streaming down her face.

“Honestly, Mom, it's just an allergic reaction,” I say.

“It's not that,” Mom says, crying again. “I'm so relieved to have that thing out of me. I hated knowing it was there.”

My mom wipes her tears and starts making the bed.

“Why are you making the bed?” I ask.

“A room just looks so much nicer when the bed is made,” Mom says. “Even this room.”

“Hello?” I hear a familiar voice in the hallway. My mother looks shocked.

“Hello?” I hear Nana's voice again. She walks into the room. “Joanie, is that you?”

“No, Joanie checked out twenty minutes ago,” my mother says. Then her face changes. For the first time in weeks she looks relieved. She takes her mother's hand. “I was just thinking about you. I really was.”

“Oh, Joanie,” Nana says. She studies her face. “You need to reduce.”

My mother laughs. She doesn't let go of Nana's hand.

On the windowsill is a flowering plant and two vases of fresh-cut flowers.

“Who sent the flowers?” I ask.

“The plant is from Marjorie. The tulips are from Mavis,” Mom says. “I feel terrible she's spending her money on me.”

“You have cancer…she's known you for thirty years. It's okay for her to spend her money on you,” I say. “Who are the other ones from?”

“A friend,” Mom says.

“Which friend?” I ask.

A nurse comes in to go over post-operative procedures. No heavy lifting. No making any important decisions for forty-eight hours. She's nothing like the stripper on
The Passionate & the Youthful
.

The Facts

I PAY SOMEONE
to listen to me. That someone is Paul. It was a big stumbling block standing between me and therapy. I am a good listener. Would I be a better listener if
someone paid me? Maybe. Probably not for the long haul, though. I'd pay attention, then start to lose patience as soon as my insights didn't lead to changes in behavior.

In the real world, I don't like it when someone tells me something about myself that I haven't yet realized. If I lack the courage to tell myself something revealing, I'm not ready to hear it from someone else.

“How did you know,” I ask, “that she's very treatable…that she wasn't dying?”

Paul uncrosses his legs, shifts his weight, and crosses his legs again. It's a stall tactic of his. Since upping my sessions to twice a week, I've realized it's what he does when he's deciding if he'll tell me the truth, or wait and see if I'll figure it out on my own.

“I don't remember saying that,” Paul says.

“You didn't,” I say. “Not really. You said I should talk to her doctor, but the way you said it made me think you didn't believe she was dying.”

“From everything you've told me, your mother is a real…storyteller. She's entertaining, but she's rarely accurate,” Paul says. “Why were you so willing to believe she was dying?”

“If I imagined myself in her situation, and I received her diagnosis, I could very easily convince myself I was dying,” I say.

“Only because you're empathetic and you've been conditioned to assume the worst-case scenario,” Paul says. “Most often the worst-case scenario doesn't happen.”

“She couldn't imagine a positive outcome,” I say. “I can relate to that.”

“See, that's really useful,” Paul says.

I don't like the way he says it, though. As if her cancer is helpful. Or a tool for us to use. It's not. It's something awful she has to go through. We're vultures waiting to take what might be useful.

“Why is she like that?” I ask.

“We can't know that without her sitting in this room with us. We can only learn about why you respond the way you do,” Paul says.

“I really didn't like the way you said that—that this is all really valuable. It sounded really selfish,” I say. “And kind of mean.”

“What we're doing here is selfish. Or it's supposed to be. There's no other way to approach this,” Paul says. “Wouldn't it be far worse if she were to go through this experience and nothing was gained?”

Somewhere inside of me, that's what I've thought all along, of course. That nothing would change between us, there would be no gain. That the opportunity got away—again.

“While we're being honest,” I say, because revenge will be mine for his calling my mother a liar before I had the chance, “where's your wedding ring? Did you get divorced?”

“Why would you think I got divorced?” Paul says.

“No wedding ring,” I say.

“When did you notice that?” Paul asks.

“I don't know, a few weeks ago. But when did you get divorced?” I ask again.

“I'm interested in why I must be divorced if I'm not wearing a ring,” Paul says.

“So you're not going to tell me if you're divorced or not?” I ask.

“Not until we explore what this means to you, and what your fantasies about this are,” Paul says.

“
So
annoying…” I say.

“What?” Paul says.

“I've been seeing you once a week—or more—for two years,” I say. “You think it's not appropriate that I'd ask about why you aren't wearing your ring?”

“I didn't say it wasn't appropriate. I think it might be useful to ask about why you have leapt to the divorce conclusion?” Paul says.

“If your wife died, I think you might have taken a few personal days. If not, you'd be a heartless bastard, which you're not. If you'd lost your ring, you'd have a new one by now. That leaves divorce. There are other things, too. You've made your office look nicer; you were kind of forgetful for a month or two, that must have been when it happened,” I say.

“What if I wasn't wearing a ring when you first met me? How would you feel? Would you feel safer if I weren't wearing a ring, or if I were wearing a ring,” Paul says.

“Are you telling me you've been tricking me into
thinking you're married for the past two years?” I say. “There's something wrong with you.”

“I'm not telling you anything,” Paul says.

“Well, at least you're being honest now!” I say.

Recuperating

WE WATCH MOVIES.
Play Scrabble. Then Bogle. The list of games we can play without getting into a standoff continues to dwindle. We seek other forms of tame amusement.

We shop for the world's most beautiful note cards at Kate's Paperie. We buy an assortment of colored pens and carefully match the ink to the envelopes. Then we write over-the-top thank-yous as both chore and entertainment. “Your amazingly fragrant and generous gift of flowers arrived at the perfect juncture…not only was the bouquet splendid and cheerful, the vase was beyond stunning! An heirloom in the making!”

Mom waits on her davenport, watching a movie, while I wait in line at the post office for forty-five minutes to buy an assortment of unique and limited stamps.

My mother counts her towels. She likes perfect sets of six or eight. If she has only seven towels, she donates them to charity and starts all over again with a new set.

“Why not buy one to match the others?” I ask.

“They won't match. All of that washing fades them,” Mom says.

“They're white,” I say.

“They discolor with time, and the manufacturer changes their decorative weave on purpose so new towels don't match old towels,” Mom says. Another conspiracy revealed.

“What are you going to do when Dr. Kealy tells you that the tissue analysis has come back and everything is great, and that the cancer is really gone?” I ask.