Jack Tumor (12 page)

The waiting room was about the most depressing spot in the universe, the kind of place they stick you in after you die and before they let you into hell. It was full of people with dirty bandages and crying kids, and it was hard to know if it was the kids who were sick or their mothers, who were all tired and gray and greasy-haired, and you could see them itching for a fag. The
mothers, I mean, but maybe the kids as well, who were probably passively smoking about forty a day.

No one here looked at all healthy to me.

After about an hour I got wheeled through a doorway and into a cubicle, with Mum still holding on to my hand like she thought I was going to make a break for freedom. After another ten minutes Dr. Jones appeared, along with a couple of other doctors—unless they were impostors disguised as doctors, which happens more often than you'd think, according to the papers, at least, but probably not in this case.

“Well, well,” said Doc Jones, “what have we been up to?”

I didn't really mind his patronizing tone. As long as people are trying to save me from deadly cancers, etc., they can patronize me as much as they like. What I object to are people who patronize me either before or after beating me up in that overly literal way of adding insult to injury.

“I think I, er, fainted.”

“Think?”

“Well, I was unconscious at the time.”

My mum pinched me.

“That's good,” said Doc Jones, peering into my eyes through a reasonably cool gadget with a lens and a red light.

After a bit more general-purpose examining (“Tongue out . . . Please cough . . . How many fingers?” . . . etc., etc.), Doc Jones said to my mum: “I think we'll keep him in tonight. Just to be on the safe side. And anyway, he's scheduled for his scan tomorrow so it'll save you both the journey.”

He smiled, and when he smiled his eyes disappeared, to show that his whole face was getting in on the act.

So that was that. I hung around for another hour while they tried to find a bed for me, and Mum seemed to cheer up a bit now that she knew the burden of keeping me alive wasn't solely on her back, and I quite liked that feeling too—the feeling, I mean, that the professionals had taken over. Most of the time what you do, how you get by, how you survive, is down to you. But when you're in hospital, that's all for someone else to worry about, and so you can think about other stuff, if you want to.

I was looking forward to Mum leaving, so I could do just that. But she hung on in there until I was finally pushed up to a ward, when she said, “I'll nip home and bring you back some pajamas, and some clean clothes for tomorrow.”

Jack Tumor, you'll have noticed, kept his mouth shut through all of this. Worn out, no doubt, by all that collapsing and spewing. And then I don't suppose he liked hospitals much. But I knew he'd be back.

I
was wheeled up to the ward by a tiny man who, when I asked him, said he was from Mauritius. I told him that that was where dodos were from, and he pretended to be interested, but I'm sure he knew it already, because even I knew it, and I wasn't from anywhere near Mauritius.

He left me with a nurse who took me to my bed. She said I could lie down on top of it until my mum came back with my pajamas. Then she bustled off and I looked around at the ward.

Like most hospital wards, this one was full of sick people.

Sick old people.

Sunken faces, sparse gray hair, bits of flesh the color of putty.

About half of the old geezers had drips coming in or going out. One man was sleeping with his mouth open, gums all over the place. There was a tube coming out from under his bed-clothes. It was blood red and ran into a jar. The jar was half full.

Or half empty.

Not the cheeriest place on God's earth.

WHAT A BUNCH OF DERELICTS. AND THAT SMELL. SOMEONE HAS DEFINITELY HAD AN ACCIDENT AROUND HERE. WILL SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME EXACTLY WHAT THE ARGUMENTS ARE AGAINST EUTHANASIA
?

Yep, there he was again, with his first contribution since I'd passed out. I thought about ignoring him, but I wanted to know what had happened to me.

“Was that you?”

A couple of the old guys swiveled around towards me. The sleeper briefly awoke, closed his mouth, and then fell asleep again.

YOU DON'T HAVE TO SHOUT. ONE OF THESE POOR OLD SODS'LL HAVE A HEART ATTACK IF YOU KEEP UP WITH THAT. JUST THINK IT. BUT THINK IT CLEARLY, THINK IT IN WORDS
.

NO, NOT LIKE THAT, I SAID IN WORDS. AS IF YOU'RE SPEAKING, BUT THEN DON'T MOVE YOUR LIPS. YOU'LL FIND YOU ATTRACT LESS ATTENTION. WAS WHAT ME
?

As if you don't know. Was it you that made me pass out?

OH, THAT. WELL, YOU CAN'T MAKE AN OMELETTE WITHOUT BREAKING EGGS
.

What have omelettes got to do with it?

THE OMELETTE IS A METAPHOR. YOU KNOW, WHEN ONE THING IS DESCRIBED IN TERMS OF ANOTHER FOR THE PURPOSES OF AMUSEMENT, EDUCATION, OR
—

I know what a metaphor is. Me brainy, remember. But what exactly is it a metaphor for?

METAPHOR FOR FOR FOR, said Jack in a mocking voice. I'VE BEEN WORKING BACK HERE, BEHIND THE SCENES. STRETCHING MY WINGS. LEARNING HOW TO SOAR
.

Well, I wish you hadn't made me faint.

LOOK, IT COULD HAVE BEEN A LOT WORSE
.

How?

THINK SPHINCTERS. THINK LOSING CONTROL OF THEM. A NOTCH OR TWO LOWER DOWN ON THE OLD CONSCIOUSNESS SETTINGS, AND YOU'D HAVE BESHAT AND PISSED YOUR PANTS. WHICH MIGHT HAVE MADE YOU MORE AT HOME HERE WITH THE FOSSILS, BUT NOT NECESSARILY WHAT YOU'D WANT THE FRAGRANT UMA TO SEE. OR SNIFF
.

So I'm supposed to be grateful that you didn't make me crap myself? Well, thank you sooooo much.

OR YOU COULD HAVE HAD AN EPPIE. THINK ABOUT THAT ONE. YOU COULD HAVE BEEN FLIPPING AND JIGGING LIKE A GUPPY IN A BUCKET. I COULD HAVE MADE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU NEED HORSE-PILL MEDICATION JUST TO GET YOU BACK TO THE LEVEL OF A STRAIGHTFORWARD EPILEPTIC FIT. BUT I DIDN'T. I HAD TO CLOSE YOU DOWN TO DO A LITTLE MAINTENANCE WORK, RUN A COUPLE OF LEVEL-ONE DIAGNOSTICS. I KEPT IT ALL AS LOW-KEY AS POSSIBLE. WE'RE WORKING TOGETHER ON THIS, REMEMBER
.

And what is it, exactly, that we're working on? Death?

DON'T BE SO MORBID
.

Morbid
? Christ, you're the cancer, you're the killer here, and
you're
calling
me
morbid. If it's not death that's your game, then what is it?

LIFE
, said Jack Tumor, with such seriousness it had to be a joke.

I spat out the appropriate response of bitter laughter. Heads turned to me again. I guess I wasn't looking too sane to the crumblies.

Actually, crumblies gets them exactly wrong. Age and illness
weren't drying these people up: their decay was moist and wet. They were rotting down to a pulp.

And soon I'd be joining them.

I thought of a sick joke, told months ago by that psycho Flaherty. Not very funny, but apt.

A leper comes running up to Jesus in a state of obvious distress.

“What is it, my son?”

“It's him, master,” says the leper, pointing at another beggar. “He dipped his bread in me neck.”

Blood, mucus, pus, lymph. We die wetly. We die in the damp.

I'M NOT GETTING ALL THAT, said Jack T., BUT I DON'T LIKE THE LOOK OF IT. I'M SEEING SOME UNPLEASANT THINGS HERE. YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE SPENT SO MUCH TIME THUMBING THE MEDICAL ENCYCLOPEDIA IN THE LIBRARY. LET'S ACCENTUATE THE POSITIVE. WHICH TAKES US BACK TO WHAT I WAS SAYING. NOT DEATH BUT LIFE. LOVE. AND I'M NOT TALKING ANY OF THAT LOVE-THY-NEIGHBOR CRAP EITHER
.

Jack's voice had taken on a new quality: panting, primeval, not very appealing.

What do you mean?

LOOK, HECK, WHAT'S LIFE ALL ABOUT, WHAT'S IT ALL FOR
?

How the hell should I know? I haven't had enough of it yet.

NO NEED TO BE SO MODEST. I DON'T NEED A PHILOSOPHICAL ANSWER. WE'RE IN THE SCIENCES, NOT THE HUMANITIES. WE'RE IN BIOLOGY. WE'RE MAKING BABIES, THAT'S WHERE WE ARE
.

I know what you're getting at. You're saying the only point to life is reproduction.

HEY, DON'T MAKE IT SOUND SO DULL. NO WONDER YOU HAVEN'T EXACTLY BEEN FIGHTING THEM OFF WITH A SHARP STICK
.

You don't have to get personal. Anyway, I seem to be doing all right with Uma Upshaw.

AND WHO HAVE YOU GOT TO THANK FOR THAT
?

Oh, well, maybe . . . but that's not the point. I don't believe what you're saying, that the only point to life is to screw. What about art and poetry and—?

LISTEN TO YOURSELF, BOY. ART AND POETRY? WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY'RE FOR
?

They're for . . .

AND WHAT ARE THEY ABOUT
?

They're about . . .

NOT GOT AN ANSWER? LET ME GIVE YOU ONE. OR TWO. SECOND FIRST. WHAT THEY ARE ABOUT IS SEX. WHAT DO YOU THINK A LOVE POEM IS? AND HOW MANY MILLIONS OF PICTURES ARE THERE OF WOMEN
WITH NO CLOTHES ON
? TAKE THE SEX OUT OF ART, AND YOU HAVEN'T GOT MUCH ART LEFT
.

Music. That's not about sex.

HAVE YOU EVER
LISTENED
? HAVE YOU EVER
DANCED
? NO NEED TO ANSWER THAT, I KNOW YOU CAN'T DANCE, BUT WE CAN FIX THAT. MUSIC IS ABOUT DANCING. DANCING IS JUST SEX STANDING UP, AND SEX IS DANCING LYING DOWN
.

What about symphonies? You don't dance to Beethoven. And not all paintings are paintings of nude girls. Landscapes.
Pictures of the sea. Abstract art, lumps of wood, and stuffed sharks and all that.

EVEN IF I ACCEPT YOUR POINT, WHICH I DON'T, I'VE STILL GOT MY OTHER ANSWER, WHICH IS WHAT ART IS FOR. ARTISTS ARE ALL SHOW-OFFS. THEY WANT ATTENTION AND THEY WANT MONEY. THEY WANT ATTENTION FROM GIRLS AND THEY WANT MONEY SO THAT THEY CAN IMPRESS THEM SO THAT THEY CAN HAVE IT AWAY WITH THEM. SEX, SEX, SEX
.

I thought they were all gay.

NOT
ALL
OF THEM, AS YOU WELL KNOW. BUT THE POINT REMAINS. MAKING THE BEAST WITH TWO BACKS, PERFORMING THE DEED OF DARKNESS, SHEATHING THE BEEF DAGGER, PLAYTIME FOR PERCY. LET'S GET IT ON
.

You're disgusting. And plain wrong. There's more to life than that.

YES, BUT THE MORE IS ALL A MEANS TO AN END
.

And what if you kill me? Not much chance for . . . anything then, is there? I'm not stupid. I know what you are, and what you might do to me.

HECK, HECK, HECK, HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT? HOW CAN YOU EVEN THINK IT? WHY WOULD I WANT TO HURT YOU? DON'T YOU SEE, WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER. DIVIDED WE . . . I MEAN TOGETHER WE STAND, DIVIDED WE FALL. HEY, COOL IT. HERE COMES THAT CREEPY DOCTOR. I DON'T LIKE HIM, DON'T LIKE HIM ONE BIT
.

Yeah, and I know why, because he's got your number, because—

“Hector?”

“Oh, hello, Dr. Jones.”

“Are you okay . . .? You seemed a bit, ah, distracted.”

“Been a funny old day, so far.”

“Yes, of course. I'm just here to tell you what to expect tomorrow.”

“The scan.”

“Precisely. They'll come for you at about ten to eleven. You'll be taken down to radiography, and they'll give you the CAT scan.”

“How long does it take?”

“About half an hour. Perhaps three-quarters. They'll play music. You get a choice. Bring your own, if you like.”

“And after that you'll know what it is?”

“What it . . . ?”

“This,” I said, pointing at my head. “The thing in there.”

Doc Jones paused. And then cleared his throat. And then paused again.

“It should give us a good idea, yes,” he managed finally.

“I think I already know.”

“You do?” Doc Jones looked amused, but not in a snidey way. “You're a better doctor than me, in that case.”

“Let's just say I have a . . . different perspective.”

“And what do you suppose you've got?”

“A brain tumor.”

Jones looked startled, but then got a grip on his face and went back to neutral.

“Well, that's not necessarily the case. Very rare in boys of your age. Plenty of other things it could be.”

“But it
could
be cancer, right?”

“Well, we can't rule that out. But, you know, just because there's . . .I mean, even if we find a little something in there, that
doesn't mean it has to be what you might call cancer. For every malignant brain tumor, we find . . . well . . . several nonmalignant growths. Harmless little chaps, mostly. Relatively harmless, that is.”

“What do you do if it's one of those?”

“Oh, I don't want to go too deeply into the options now, before we even know what, if anything, we're dealing with.”

“But roughly, what can you do?”

Jones looked at me seriously. I think he'd got the message that I wasn't just some kid who wanted reassurance. I think he understood that I needed the truth, the way some other people need lies.

“There are various ways we can attack it. Shrink it down to, ah, manageable proportions. And then, if necessary, we can, ah, remove it.”

“An operation?”

“Yes, an operation.”

DON'T LISTEN TO HIM, HE'S A MANIAC
.

“Shut up!”

“Okay, I know that must be worrying, but we're a long way from there . . .”

“Sorry, no, not you . . .”

And Dr. Jones left me, looking thoughtful. Or worried. Or like he'd just heard some kid jabbering to himself like a nutter.

A little later Mum came back with my pajamas and things, and she'd brought a CD with some songs on it. I groaned when I saw what it was:
Puff the Magic Dragon and Other Nursery Favorites
.

“You always used to love it, when you were small. If you were
frightened or if things happened that you didn't like, you used to put it on. I thought you might like it now.”