Kinflicks (41 page)

Then she sat down and listened with pleasure to the steady tick-tock. Soon her pulse was throbbing in cadence with the ancestral clock.

As Ginny sat concentrating on this unlikely biological feat, her mother shuffled in on the arm of Mrs. Childress. Mrs. Babcock glanced around the room, startled. As she saw the clock and the photos, her tired yellow face burst into a smile, and she said with surprise, ‘Why, thank you, dear.'

Ginny smiled back, her guilt temporarily allayed. It was really so easy to please her mother. She didn't require much. Why then had she, Ginny, spent most of her life trying to make her miserable? ‘How are you feeling today?'

‘Fine, thank you. Better.' Mrs. Babcock settled herself in bed and gazed with affection at the faces in the photographs while the clock ticked away.

Soon Dr. Vogel appeared. He sat in an armchair and crossed his legs, prepared to stay a while for once. ‘All right, Mrs. Babcock, I'll give it to you straight, since you've asked me to.' They settled back, bracing themselves for their respective tasks in this interchange.

‘Now. How does blood clot? All right. In grossly oversimplified terms, there are some twelve compounds referred to as clotting factors. These factors interact in various ways to produce an enzyme called prothrombinase. Prothrombin in the presence of prothrombinase and calcium yields thrombin. And fibrinogen in the presence of thrombin yields fibrin. Platelets under the influence of thrombin break down so as to liberate ADP, which causes other platelets to clump at the site of tissue injury. The clumping platelets, interspersed along fibrin, form the clot.'

Ginny looked at him with disgust. Was this the best he could do for the unfortunate layman? Mrs. Babcock looked dazed.

‘Hmmm, yes, hmmm,' he continued. ‘So you see, a disorder at any point in this chain can inhibit clotting — the absence of any of the twelve factors in appropriate amounts, a malfunction of any of the chemical reactions. Hemophilia, for example, results from a factor deficiency. However, because of your platelet count, one can conclude that factor deficiency doesn't apply in your case. You see, those with factor deficiencies don't exhibit low platelet counts as well. Hmmm, yes. So — you are not factor deficient, you are platelet deficient. You have only 16,000/mm' compared to a normal count of over 150,000/mm
³
, using the Coulter Counter Model F.

‘Hmmm, yes, hmmm. Now. How do platelets come to be deficient? Hmmm, yes, hmmm. Well, platelets can be deficient if an insufficient number is being produced. Yes? Or if they've gone into hiding somewhere. Hmmm, yes. Or if they're being destroyed. The reason people have been extracting all the blood from you, Mrs. Babcock, is that we've been doing tests to try to narrow down the reason in your particular case. Hmmm, yes. Now cells in the bone marrow called megakaryocytes exude the small bodies of protoplasm that we call platelets. If platelet production were low, one would expect the megakaryocyte count in the bone marrow to be depressed. However, we've done a bone marrow aspiration and your megakaryocytic count appears to be normal. This is nice because it means that you aren't in the early stages of leukemia, which sometimes exhibits symptoms similar to yours.'

Mrs. Babcock felt stricken. She might have been dying of leukemia unawares because nobody had bothered to consult the subject of all these amazing tests?

‘Hmmm, yes.
So
— this would indicate that your platelets are hiding, Mrs. Babcock. Or that they're being destroyed. Now. How are platelets destroyed?'

Ginny felt as though she were being hypnotized by the ticking of the clock and the simultaneous pulsing of her blood, which blood was apparently healthy only through some fluke of nature. How could
anyone's
blood be healthy with all these things to go wrong?

‘The spleen functions as a filter,' Dr. Vogel was saying. ‘It sequesters and destroys worn out or diseased blood components. It's possible that your body has formed an antibody to your own platelets and your spleen is destroying them. We're still trying to narrow this down and should have an answer for you in the next few days. Well! Any questions?'

Ginny and Mrs. Babcock sat as mute as college students during a discussion period. ‘How does the spleen destroy platelets?' Ginny asked finally.

‘Hmmm, yes, hmmm. Ah, actually we don't exactly know.'

‘Who is this “we” you keep referring to?' Mrs. Babcock asked.

‘Hmmm, yes. “We.” Modern medicine, I suppose.' He blushed and shifted in his chair.

‘So you gave me steroids to spur platelet production even though you already knew from my bone marrow aspiration that I was producing enough?' Mrs. Babcock asked casually.

‘Hmmm, yes. Well, no, not exactly. Well, you see, we don't know exactly how steroids work. We just know that often they
do
work.'

‘But not this time,' Mrs. Babcock reminded him.

‘Well, no.'

‘So what happens next?' Ginny asked.

‘Hmmm, yes. Well, next we try a transfusion. We'll give you two units of whole blood, Mrs. Babcock, with the idea that your bloodstream can use the foreign platelets to stem your bleeding, until they die off. Plus it will alleviate your anemia and low blood pressure for a time. By then we expect to have pinned down your difficulty so that we can treat it directly. It's also possible, though not medically proven, that these foreign platelets could exercise some sort of “priming'' effect on your own bloodstream. I've seen it happen.'

‘What you're saying is that you really don't know what you're doing?' Ginny asked.

Dr. Vogel stood up. ‘My dear young lady, I assure you that we in the medical profession know a good bit more about what we're doing than a layman.'

Ginny didn't reply. She had learned from observing Eddie Holzer, who had done it all the time, that it was impossible to discuss issues civilly with a person who insisted on referring to himself as ‘we.'

‘Granted it's trial and error, to an extent, but it's
educated
trial,
trained
error.'

Ginny stared at him evenly.

‘And so we'll begin the transfusions as soon as we can find a donor. We need fresh blood, not more than an hour old, because the platelets in stored blood are often injured or dead. But you have an uncommon blood type, Mrs. Babcock. Did you know that? You could get forty-five dollars a pint for it on the Bowery in New York City.' He laughed weakly. ‘But we're typing the staff for a donor right now.'

‘What type is it?' Ginny asked.

‘B negative.'

‘That's my type. I could maybe be her donor.'

‘Why didn't I think of you? Let me type you.' He raced from the room in search of a syringe.

Only then did Ginny and Mrs. Babcock realize simultaneously that they still hadn't gotten any definitive answer about the ultimate severity of Mrs. Babcock's condition.

‘What did he say?' Mrs. Babcock asked, her yellow face haggard.

‘I don't know,' Ginny confessed. ‘But I think it sounds pretty good, don't you? I mean, they're certainly going all out with these tests and things.' She knew that her efforts to feign cheerfulness weren't convincing. ‘Where's Dr. Tyler these days?' she asked, intent upon tracking him down so that she could question him.

‘He goes to his cabin at Spruce Pine near Asheville in the summer now.'

Ginny turned on the television. ‘The Price Is Right' was on. She and her mother stared at it vacantly. Ginny was well-acquainted with the show. It had formed the backdrop for much of her morning housework in Vermont. Most of the things being won — a lifetime supply of Alpo dog food, a ceiling-to-floor bookcase complete with a leather-bound set of the outer covers of the world classics, a year's subscription to New York's most prestigious wake-up service, a ship-to-shore short-wave radio — neither of them needed, which was nice because it meant that they didn't have to squander their vital energies being envious of the shrieking winners.

But eventually a three-week tour of Ireland was up for grabs. Mrs. Babcock had always longed to go to Ireland, Scotland, England in search of the towns her forebears had come from. Wesley had always refused to take her. He had no business to do over there. The trip wouldn't be tax-deductible. It was out of the question. What about the IRA? she had suggested. Don't they make bombs? It had never occurred to her to go alone. The household would collapse in her absence.

‘Let's go on a trip to Ireland when I get out of here,' Mrs. Babcock suggested.

Ginny glanced at her doubtfully — doubtful about her mother's getting out in the first place, doubtful about her stamina for a trip if she did, doubtful about the two of them even going to downtown Hullsport in a friendly fashion, and especially doubtful about the strained cheerfulness of her mother's voice.

‘Sure. That would be fun,' Ginny said brightly. The thing was, she'd love to go to Ireland, all those places. From her mother's stories, she felt a definite bond with her ancestors. They had been German Lutherans from the Catholic part of Germany, Puritans and Pilgrims from Anglican England, Anglicans in the Catholic south of Ireland, Scotch Irish Presbyterians in the Catholic sector of Scotland after the ‘45. Misfits, all of them, with loyalties every bit as confused and fragmented as Ginny's had always been. Was this proclivity for propelling oneself into circumstances in which one was bound to feel set apart from the surrounding community hereditary, a result of those minute flecks of nucleic acid in each cell? Or was the proclivity absorbed from one's parents, in the same way that kittens learned to drink milk by watching their mother?

‘…and I consider it a
privilege
to be deemed worthy of suffering like this,' Sister Theresa was saying fervently, when Ginny and Mrs. Babcock arrived at the sun porch for lunch.

‘A
privilege
!' Mr. Solomon snorted, his thick lenses magnifying his eyes to the size of platters. ‘A
privilege!
You think you've been singled out for special favors, eh, Sister? I like that vun. God says, “There's Sister Theresa. I think so highly of her that I'd like to give her cancer.”'

Sister Theresa crossed herself. ‘A
privilege,'
she confirmed, fingering the medal around her neck with the praying hands and the slogan ‘Not My Will But Thine.' ‘The Lord gives no one more than he can endure. The cross and the strength to bear it.'

‘Big of Him. So the number of misfortunes you experience is a token of the cosmic judgment on the well-being of your soul?'

“When I was a little girl at school, Mr. Solomon,' Sister Theresa explained earnestly, ‘sometimes I would come home crying because the bigger boys had teased me. And my mother would say, “But they wouldn't tease you if they didn't like you, child.” That's how I see my present situation, Mr. Solomon.'

“Vell! At last ve have something to agree on, Sister. God -your God and my God — God is a bully!'

Sister Theresa crossed herself again. ‘I didn't say that, Mr. Solomon,' she said, her eyes lowered and her beefy face turning red. ‘I
said
that it is a pleasure for me to bear whatever burden the Lord chooses to place on me. I am strong and the burdens make me stronger.'

“Vell, if that vere how it vorked, Sister, I vould now be a Charles Atlas of the soul!'

Sister Theresa looked at him questioningly.

‘My vife and my three children vere herded into box cars, Sister. I suppose they died. I
hope
they died. It vould have been a blessing compared to life in the camps.'

That's not fair, Ginny thought. Jewish people always won out in the one-upmanship of suffering.

T'm sorry, Mr. Solomon.' After a delicate pause, Sister added, ‘There has always been evil in the world, since the Fall. Evil will flourish until all men in their hearts and minds accept Christ our Lord as their savior. God does not perform or condone evil. However, He can turn it to His own ends sometimes. Look what a bright and sensitive race yours is for its suffering, Mr. Solomon.'

Mr. Solomon cleared his throat, aware that he was being drowned in honey. ‘Thank you, Sister. But I still say it's vun hell of a lousy vay to run a vorld. If I had run my jewelry department the vay your God runs this vorld, do you think I'd have lasted a veek? No, I'd have been out valking the streets looking for vork.'

The electric chimes on the Southern Baptist church were now playing ‘Call Me Unreliable.' Mrs. Babcock was struggling with an overcooked piece of meat that might have been beef or veal or pork or lamb.

‘How can you call it “lousy,” Mr. Solomon, when you can look out the window on a beautiful sunny day and see a bird singing?' Sister Theresa pointed to the bird feeder in the pine tree on which sat a mockingbird.

Mr. Solomon's fist hit the table hard. The dishes jumped, and the silverware clattered. Mrs. Cabel looked up from her meal in alarm for the first time during the entire discussion; she had food smeared across her face.

‘I call it lousy for that very reason! God put me on this earth and made me love vat I found here. Little by little, He's taken it all avay from me. First my parents, then my vife and babies, then my house and country, and now my occupation and means of livelihood.' He pointed at his cloudy eyes. ‘I can't fix clocks anymore. I can hardly even
see
the bird you're talking about, Sister. And soon He vill take avay my breath, and vith it my life.' He was very upset and was breathing with difficulty. ‘You know vat I call your God, Sister? I call Him a sadist.'

‘No, Mr. Solomon,
no.
This life is only a pale hint of the next. Death is the beginning, not the end. You lose
nothing,
you gain
everything.
Everything precious that's been taken from you here, you retrieve with interest on the other side. I'm
sure
of it, Mr. Solomon. Your wife, your children, everything.'