Don't Move (2 page)

Alfredo is the best surgeon in his department, and yet nobody gives him any special consideration. His manner is tentative, his behavior is frequently off-putting, he has no visible merits; he works in the shadow of the chairman of surgery, who stands around watching while Alfredo wears himself out. Many years ago, I gave him a few words of advice, but he never listened to me; his character’s not as highly developed as his surgical skills. He’s separated from his wife, and I know he has a teenage son more or less your age. He wasn’t on duty, he could have opted out, no surgeon likes operating on a colleague’s relative. Nevertheless, he jumped into a taxi and had the driver drop him off in the middle of the traffic outside. He ran through it as fast as he could, darting past the cars in the rain. I’m not sure I would have done the same.

“Is everything ready upstairs?” Alfredo asks.

“Yes,” replies the nurse.

“Let’s go up.”

Ada approaches you, takes you off the respirator, and hooks you back up to the Ambu bag for your trip to the operating room. Then they get you under way. As they’re loading you into the elevator, I see one of your arms slip off the gurney. Ada leans down, reaching for your hand.

I stay downstairs with Alfredo. We sit in one of the rooms near the intensive-care unit. Alfredo turns on the transilluminator, puts up your CAT scan, and examines it from a few inches away. At one point, he stops, furrows his brow, gazes more intensely. I know what it means to search the nebula of an X-ray for some helpful clue.

“See here,” he says. “This is the main hematoma, near the dura mater. I won’t have any problem getting to it. We’ll have to see how much damage the brain has suffered—that’s something I can’t predict. Then there’s another area here, deeper down. I don’t know, maybe it’s an effusion caused by the contrecoup. . . .”

We exchange glances, standing in the lurid light that projects the image of your brain onto the wall behind us. We know we can’t lie to each other. “Ischemic complications could have started already,” I whisper.

“I have to open her up; then we’ll understand.”

“She’s fifteen.”

“That’s good. Her heart is strong.”

“She’s not strong—she’s little.”

My knees buckle, and now I’m crying without restraint, pressing my hands against my wet face. “She’s going to die, isn’t she? We both know it. Her head is flooded.”

“We don’t know shit, Timoteo.” He goes down on his knees beside me, takes my arm, and shakes me hard, shaking himself at the same time. “We’re going to open her up and take a look. I’ll aspirate the hematoma, give her brain a chance to breathe, and we’ll see what happens.”

He gets to his feet. “You’re going to be in there with me, right?”

Before I stand up, I wipe my nose and my eyes with my forearm. A shiny trail of mucus clings to the hairs. “No, I don’t remember anything about the brain. I wouldn’t be any help to you. . . .”

Alfredo gives me one of his imperturbable looks. He knows I’m lying.

In the elevator, we don’t talk; we look up at the illuminated numbers of the floors we’re passing. We separate without a word, without even touching each other. I take a few steps and sit down in the doctors’ lounge. Alfredo is scrubbing for surgery. In my mind, I follow each of his movements as he goes through a ritual I’m quite familiar with. I see him thrust his arms up to the elbows in the big stainless-steel sink; I watch his hands unwrap the sterilized sponge. I’ve got the smell of antiseptic in my nose. The nurse passes him the sterile towels so he can dry himself off; the scrub nurse ties his surgical gown. . . . It’s unusually quiet around here—everyone’s been reduced to silence. A nurse, someone I know very well, passes in front of the open door, our eyes meet, and his immediately shift to the floor and his rubber shoes. Now Ada’s at the door. Ada, who’s never been married, who has a ground-floor apartment with a garden that her upstairs neighbors’ laundry falls into.

“We’re starting,” she says. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

She nods and tries to smile.

“Listen, Ada,” I say as she moves away.

She turns toward me again. “Yes, Doctor?”

“If the worst should happen, ask everyone to leave. Then, before you come to call me, before I see her, disconnect the respirator, remove all the needles and all the tubes, clean up everything, and cover up the—well, just try to give her back some dignity.”

Now Alfredo has finished scrubbing, and he enters the operating room with his hands in the air. The assistant surgeon approaches him and slips on his gloves. You’re lying under the OR lamp. I’ve got one thing left to do, the most terrible of all: I’ve got to notify your mother. You remember, she left for London this morning. She was supposed to interview somebody, a cabinet minister, I think. She was very excited. Her cab drove away from the house just before you left. Earlier, I heard the two of you talking in the bathroom. You came home at 12:15 Saturday night, fifteen minutes later than the time you’d agreed to, and she was very upset. In certain areas, she’s not at all indulgent. She can’t stand when you break the rules; she takes it as a personal attack on her serenity. Generally, though, she’s an easygoing mother; when she’s inflexible, it’s a kind of self-defense, sure, but believe me, it oppresses her, too. I know you’re not doing anything wrong. You meet your friends after school and talk in the twilight, in the cold, you pull the sleeves of your sweaters over your hands and shiver under all that graffiti. I’ve never been strict with you. I trust you; I even trust your mistakes. I know you from the way you are at home and from the rare moments we spend together, but I don’t know you as you are with other people. I know you have a good heart, and I know you give it all to your great friendships. And so you should; it’s wonderful to have that sparkle in your life. But your mother doesn’t see it that way. She thinks you don’t study enough, that you waste your energy, and she’s afraid you’ll fall behind in school.

Sometimes you and your friends walk down the block and descend into that subterranean saloon on the corner, that smoke-filled underground cavern. I looked down in there once. I was standing outside, peering through the sidewalk-level windows. I saw you all laughing, kissing one another, stubbing out cigarettes. There I was, an elegant fifty-five-year-old gentleman out for a nocturnal stroll, and there you were, sitting on the other side of one of those little grated windows the passing dogs like to mark. You were all so young; you were sitting so close together. And you’re all so beautiful, Angela, you and all your friends. Beautiful. I’ve been meaning to tell you that. I was almost ashamed to be spying on you, watching you all so curiously, like an old man watching a child unwrapping a gift. But so I did, and I saw you down there, unwrapping your life in that smoky bar.

I just spoke to my secretary. She’s managed to get word to the people at Heathrow Airport. They’ll meet Elsa as soon as she gets off the plane, take her to a private room, and explain the situation. It’s terrible to think about her sitting up there in the sky with a lapful of newspapers and no clue at all. She thinks we’re safe down here, my poor daughter, and I wish her flight would never end—I wish her plane would go around the world indefinitely. Maybe she’s looking at a cloud right now, one of those clouds that hide the sun almost but not completely, and a golden beam is passing through the little window and lighting up her face. She’s probably reading an article written by some colleague and reviewing it by adjusting the contours of her mouth. I know all her involuntary expressions; it’s as if every emotion has a tiny indicator on her face. I’ve sat next to her on many airplane flights. I know the creases in her neck, that little pouch that forms under her chin when she lowers her head to read; I know the fatigue in her eyes when she takes off her glasses and lays her head back against the seat. Now the flight attendant’s offering her a meal on a tray and she’s refusing in perfect English and asking for “Just a black coffee” and waiting for the smell of prepackaged food to go away. Your mother always has her feet on the ground, even when she’s in the air. Now she’s probably sitting back with her face turned toward the window; maybe she’s pulled down the stiff little shade for her half hour of rest. She’s thinking about all the things she has to do today, and, on top of that, I’m sure she’s determined to go downtown and buy you something. The last time she came back from a trip, she brought you that great-looking poncho, remember? But no, maybe she won’t buy you anything; maybe she’s still angry with you. . . . What’s she going to think when the people from the airline meet her on the ground? Will her knees give way? What will be the look on her face as she stands there in the midst of all that international coming and going? How much terror will be in her eyes? This is going to age her, you know, Angela; this is going to age her a lot. She loves you so much. She’s a liberated, highly civilized woman, she’s a model of social grace, she’s extremely knowledgeable, but she knows nothing about grief. She thinks she knows, but she doesn’t. She’s up there in the sky, and she doesn’t yet know what grief is like down here on earth. It’s an atrocious wound, a hole in the heart, and it’s sucking in everything at top speed, like a whirlpool: cassettes, clothes, photographs, tampons, marking pens, compact discs, smells, birthdays, nannies, water wings, diapers. Everything’s gone. She’ll need all her strength in that airport. Maybe she’ll run to the window overlooking the runway and fling herself against that transparent wall like an animal swept away in a flood.

My secretary spoke with one of the airport managers, who assured her that they’ll proceed with extreme caution; they’ll try their best not to alarm your mother too much. Everything’s been arranged: She’ll be on the next plane home. There’s a British Airways flight that leaves London shortly after her arrival. Everything’s been arranged: They’ll give her a seat in some quiet corner, they’ll bring her some tea, they’ll offer her a telephone. I’ve got my cell phone in my pocket, turned on and ready for her call. I’ve checked it; it’s got good reception and good signal strength. I’m going to lie; I’m going to try to tell her you’re not in critical condition. Naturally, she won’t believe me, she’ll think you’re dead. I’m going to be as convincing as I can.

You were wearing a ring on your thumb. I’d never noticed that before. Ada managed to get it off—it’s here in my pocket. I try to put it on my own thumb, but the ring’s too small. Maybe it’ll fit on my middle finger. Ah, don’t die, Angela, don’t die before your mother’s plane lands. Don’t let your soul fly up to the clouds she’s looking at so calmly. Don’t cross her flight path, dearest daughter. Stay where you are. Don’t move.

I’m cold. I’m still in my scrubs; maybe I should change. My street clothes are in the metal locker with my name on it. I carefully put my sport jacket on the hanger over my shirt, I left my wallet and my car keys in the upper compartment, and I closed the little padlock. When was that? Only three hours ago, perhaps even less. Three hours ago, I was a man like any other. How devious grief is, how quickly it sets in. It’s like a corrosive acid, deep down inside, eating away. I’m leaning over, resting my arms on my knees. On the other side of the accordion curtain, I can see a portion of the oncology wing. I’ve never spent any time in this room before; I’ve only walked in and out of it. I’m sitting on an imitation-leather sofa. In front of me, there’s a low table and two empty chairs. The green floor is covered with small dark spots that move frenetically before my eyes, like microbes under a microscope. Because now it seems to me that I’ve been expecting this tragedy to happen.

We’re separated by one corridor, two doors, and a coma. The distance between us is like a prison, but I’m wondering if it might be possible to break free of it, to imagine it as a kind of confessional, and to request an audience with you right here, my child, right on this floor with the dancing spots.

I’m a surgeon, a man who has learned to divide things, to separate healthy parts from diseased ones. I’ve saved many lives, but not my own, Angela.

We’ve lived in the same house for fifteen years. You can recognize my smell, my footstep. You know how I touch things; you know the even sound of my voice. You know both sides of my character, the gentle side and the irritating, indefensible, hostile side. I don’t really know what you think of me, but I can imagine. You think I’m a responsible father, not without a certain sardonic sense of humor, but too aloof. You and your mother have a solid bond; sometimes your relationship is stormy, but it’s always very much alive. I’ve hung around in the background, like an empty suit in a wardrobe. You’ve learned more about me from my absences, my books, my raincoat in the hall, than you have from my flesh-and-blood self. And I don’t know that other story, the one you and your mother have written about me with the help of the clues I’ve left here and there. Like your mother, you’ve come to prefer missing me, because having me around requires too much effort. Many a morning, I’ve left the house with the sensation that the two of you, bursting with all that energy, were pushing me toward the door to get me out of the way. I love the natural rapport between you and your mother, it brings a smile to my face; to some degree, you two have protected me from myself. For my part, I’ve never felt “natural.” I’ve tried hard to be—I’ve made some pretty drastic attempts—but when you have to try to be natural, you’re already defeated. So I’ve long since accepted the blueprint you made for me, the carbon copy that responded to your needs. I’ve been a regular guest in my own house. I’ve never got angry, not even when it’s rained on my day off and the maid has spread out the drying rack with your clothes on it, yours and your mother’s, next to the radiator in
my
study. I’ve grown accustomed to these damp intrusions; I never complain. I remain in my armchair, unable to stretch my legs out completely, I place the book in my lap, and I stare at your laundry. I’ve found company in those wet clothes, perhaps more so than with the two of you in person, because I could catch in their thin, gleaming fabrics the brotherly fragrance of nostalgia. I’ve thought of you two, of course, but I’ve felt nostalgia principally for myself, for the days when I was a fugitive from justice. Angela, I know that my hugs and kisses have been stilted and awkward for too many years. Every time I’ve put my arms around you, I’ve felt your body quivering with impatience, if not downright discomfort. You could never feel at ease with me, that’s all. It was enough for you to know that I was there, to look at me from a distance, as though I were a traveler on another train, standing at the window, with his face blurred by the glass. You’re a sensitive, sunny girl, but your mood can change in a second; you often fly into a blind fury. I’ve always suspected that that mysterious rage, which leaves you baffled and a little sad, has grown inside you because of me.