The Valeditztorian (25 page)

“You’re
such a heretic, you know that?” said my dad, kissing my mom on the cheek. “Good thing I’ve always loved your rebellious side.”

“It’s true, though,” she continued
. “If people weren’t focused on getting to heaven or worrying about he—if they weren’t afraid of eternal da—oh, you know what I’m trying to say here, Larry…then we could all just live in the moment. If the concept of an afterlife didn’t exist, then people would behave themselves because treating one another decently is the right thing to do, period. Even though I’m not particularly religious, that’s something I’ve always liked about Judaism—the lack of a strong heaven/hell concept. Sorry, Emma. It’s impossible not to say the word.”

“But you’re always complai
ning about Judaism,” I said.

“I am
?” she said.

“
Yeah, you’re always saying stuff like, ‘Of all the religions in the world, Orthodox Jews treat women the worst.’”

“It’s true that I’m not a fan of extremely religious groups, Orthodox Jews included, and discrimination against women is just one reason why
. But I like that fact that Judaism doesn’t motivate people with a reward and punishment system.”

“I’m not sure I understand that last part
,” I said.

“It’s like
John Lennon sings in his song,
Imagine
. You know, the one where he says, ‘Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try, no hell below us, above us only sky….’ And then he says, ‘Imagine all the people living for today….living life in peace.’ I do imagine that, all the time.”

“I’m
still not sure that I get it,” I said.

“Did I lose you, sweetheart?” she asked, giving me a hug.

“I think so.”

“The bottom line
, Emma, is that as a human being, you are the architect of your own destiny. Moreover, you should try to enjoy the gift of life while you have it, and treat others the way you’d like to be treated along the way.”

“Cecile’s Philosophy of L
ife, 101,” said my dad.

“But I’m
still confused about God,” I said.

“Confused is
a good way to be. When you’re confused about a difficult concept, it means you have a brain, and you’re using it to think, rather than blindly following the masses.”

She kissed my
forehead.

“S
omeday, when you’re older, you’ll understand what I’m saying. And if you don’t agree with me, that’ll be just fine.”

Walking h
ome along York Avenue, I reach two conclusions. One, I’m finally old enough to understand that whole conversation. And two, I don’t totally agree with her. In particular, the “architect of your own destiny” concept seems flawed. Maybe I’ve been influenced by my brief foray into the world of medicine, but I’m convinced that when it comes to health, the whims of fate are random and all powerful. Despite our best efforts, many illnesses aren’t preventable or treatable. After all, even vegetarians who run marathons die from cancer sometimes.

Incidentally, i
f fate is playing a role in human health, then it might be controlling other aspects of our lives as well. Just look at Aimee. If a different family had adopted her, she might’ve turned out to be a totally normal kid; or at least somewhat normal, considering that her brain is a calculator. For the sake of Aimee and her family, I really hope there is a God—an entity strong enough counteract the indiscriminate cruelty of fate. Judging from Mr. Santos’s physical appearance, nothing short of divine intervention could possibly save this unfortunate man’s life.

Chapter Sixteen

Epiphanies

Perhaps
it’s witnessing the shadow of death, or maybe the impetus is the hopeful breath of spring, but suddenly I’m feeling compelled to make the most of my time on this planet. Who knows? Maybe the “death complex” that I acquired at age 10 will turn out to be beneficial. Hopping on the number six train at 72
nd
Street and Lexington Avenue, I’ve got just enough time to make a swing dancing class in Midtown. After a quick subway ride downtown, I enter a warehouse-sized ballroom, hand over my 15-dollar admission fee, and dash into the class. The lesson is being held in a smaller version of the main ballroom, mirrored walls and all.

Like the big c
ity itself, the room is a melting pot of ages and ethnicities. No one seems to have brought a partner. Lovely.

“Okay, everybody,” says a
perky, muscular blonde woman standing in the center of the room. “Let’s make two lines. Leaders to my left, followers to my right.”

Most of the men shuffle
off to the left, while the majority of the women head right. Several confident-looking women, however, break ranks and join the “leaders,” while a bunch of men line up as “followers.” Since I’m a beginner with less than no leading ability, I take my place in line with the followers. Moments later I reach out my hand to my first partner, a middle-aged (perhaps older?) Asian woman, who turns out to be a competent leader.

“Not bad,” she s
ays, winking at me after a few basic swing steps.

When the followers rotate, I’m paired off with a polite older gentleman who could be in his eighties, but moves like a much younger man
. I’m always impressed by this phenomenon—the way that dancing equalizes individuals of different ages and physiques. Sometimes people who are quite overweight, for example, glide like pros once the music starts. The reverse is true, as well. Someone who looks promising might turn out to be a total fiasco on the dance floor (i.e. me). Dancing and sex are similar in this respect. Whether it’s on the dance floor or in bed, until you take someone out for a spin, you never know how he/she is going to perform.

“Okay, everyone,” says the teacher
. “For the next rotation, we’re going attempt a more challenging step…the eight-count whip.”

Whips
? Hmm. This could get interesting.

Speaking of sex—or rather
, sexy—my partner for the whip is a youngish guy with sandy-blond hair and gray-blue eyes who appears to be prematurely balding. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only 20 (or 30?)-something person in the city with hair problems.

“I haven’t seen you here
before,” says my new partner. “What’s your name?”

“Emma.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Emma,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.

His grip is warm and reassuring.

The teacher then begins calling out the rhythm, clapping on every beat, “One, two, three-and-four…five, six, seven-and-eight.”

Perhap
s hair loss corresponds to dancing ability, as the balding blond is the best leader yet. Somehow, this complete stranger manages to direct my entire body through several turns of the whip without dislocating my arms or crushing my toes. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about his toes. I probably step on all ten of them, some more than once.

“Oops!
”

“
I’m sorry!” 

The words rush out my mouth, over and over again
.

“No problem,” this kind soul
replies repeatedly, with a smile that is both charming and forgiving.

Before I can ask
the man his name, we’ve moved on to the next partner. Soon the teacher throws in some great old swing music, like “Rock Around the Clock,” by Bill Haley and the Comets, and Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” As we rock, tuck, spin, and whip our way through the class, I feel invigorated and a bit disinhibited, similar to that night in the Pelourinho, when dancing in the street inspired a kind of contagious, joyful recklessness.

By the time I’m standing next to the fr
iendly blond again, I’m convinced that dancing regularly must be an excellent way to prevent mental illness.

Blondie interrupts my thoughts.

“What are you smiling at?” he asks.

“Dancing is just so much fun,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “That’s why I come here.”

“Have you been dancing for a long time
?” I ask.

“
Not really. When I was a kid, my parents forced me to take some ballroom classes, but I gave it up after a few years. Now I wish that I’d pursued it more seriously.”

“And the swing dancing?”

“I’ve only been coming here for about six months, so I still consider myself a beginner,” he says.

“Y
ou’re a terrific leader,” I say. “I would’ve guessed you’ve been ‘swinging’ for much longer.”

“D
epends on your definition of the word.”

Ooh.

“Thanks for the compliment, though,” he adds.

The
teacher interrupts our conversation.

“Good job everyone,” she says
. “Once again we’ve run out of time, but I look forward to seeing everyone next week, same time, same place.”

As the class
files out into the larger ballroom, I capitalize on my daring state of mind.

“You never told me your name
,” I say to Twinkle Toes.

“Sorry about that
,” he replies, smiling at me. “All that rotating makes it hard to finish a conversation. The name’s David.”

“
Well, it’s been very nice dancing with you, David.”

Once again we shake hands, and
I love the feel of David’s grip. The skin on his palm is a little rough, presumably from calluses. I wonder how he got them.

“
Do you think you’ll come back next week?” David asks.

“Def
initely. This was terrific.”

“Great
. I’ll see you then, Emma.

Oh, my
. That almost felt like he was asking me out on a date. Or maybe I was asking him out on a date. Perhaps I should dye my hair purple every day. As I leave the studio, I’m already excited about the upcoming lesson, least of all because of the dancing.

Following the subway ride
home, I start to feel hypoglycemic and swing by the local Korean deli for my usual buffet-style, pseudo-Chinese food. While chugging a can of A & W Cream Soda, I load up my plastic container with deep-fried general Tso’s chicken and saucy broccoli.

“Hey, you suppose to pay faw
dat fust!” shouts the manager, who smiles at me and laughs.

For
the last three years, I’ve bought something from this shop nearly every day. The manager knows I’m good for it.

Though not partic
ularly healthy, the food is quite tasty, and today I don’t feel a bit guilty about indulging myself. In fact, in the elevator I’m so hungry that I pop open the plastic and grab a piece of sticky orange chicken with my fingers. The first piece is so delicious that I quickly grab another. Arriving at my apartment, I nearly start choking when I find a little girl sitting outside my door.

“Aimee
! What are you doing here?” I splutter.

“I need your help.”

Attempting to wash down the food obstructing my throat, I chug some more soda.

“Does your mother know you’re here?”
I say, after swallowing.

Aimee smiles ruefu
lly.

“She thinks I went home to
Maria.”

I raise my eyebrows questioningly at her.

“My mom stuck me in a cab outside the hospital a few minutes ago.”

“
We need to call her—soon—to let her know where you are. But why don’t you come inside first, and tell me what’s going on. Then we’ll give your mom a ring.”

“Okay,” she says, standing up
.

“How did you find me, anyway?”
I ask.

“It wasn’t too hard, since
you already told me where you live.”

“I did?”
I say.

“
Yes, you did. Remember last week, when I used your address to tell your fortune?”

“Oh,
yeah,” I say. “I’m surprised you remembered it.”

Aimee shrugs her shoulders.

“I’m good with numbers.”

As
I unlock the door, Aimee follows me inside like a little shadow. Since Helen is out somewhere, we’re the only ones home.

Though I’d like to continue shoveling food into my mouth wit
h my fingers, I take the time to grab a fork, trying to set a decent example for the kid. Settling into a chair at the kitchen table, I motion for Aimee to join me.

“What kind of help do you need?”
I ask.

Aimee drops down into another
wooden chair and looks at me wistfully.

“You said you’re a medical student, right?”

“That’s right.”

“A medical student is almost a doctor.”

“Almost, but not quite,” I say.

“Well, my d
ad is very sick. I was wondering if maybe, since you’re almost a doctor, you might know about some medicine that could help him.”

“
Aimee, I wish that I could help you and your family, but I’m sure your dad’s case is really complicated, and I’m just learning the basics. I don’t think there’s much that I could….”

I don’t finish the sentence
. Aimee’s chin has started quivering, and I can see that she’s close to crying. Sensing that words aren’t going to help, I pull open the freezer, grab a chocolate fudgesicle, and shove it into Aimee’s mouth. This immediately calms her down.

One point
for Emma, meltdown averted.

“What kind of illness does your father have
?” I ask, while Aimee sucks on the pop.

“He’s got cancer, and it’s spreading everywhere
. For a while they were giving him medicine to make it go away, but the medicine isn’t working anymore. I think he needs a new kind of medicine.”

“What kind of cancer does he have?”

“I don’t know the exact type,” she says.

“Do you know where it started?”
I ask.

“His arm.”

“Okay. Can you give me some details about the cancer?”

“What kind
s of details?”

“L
ike was it bone cancer, or muscle cancer?”

“Oh, neither of those,” she says
. “I’m pretty sure it was skin cancer.”

“How do you know?”

“My dad had a big, dark freckle on his arm near his shoulder, and he went to a skin doctor, who cut out the freckle. Then the skin doctor figured out that the freckle was cancer.”

“Okay, skin cancer
. Do you remember hearing the words ‘squamous cell cancer’?”

“Nope,” says Aimee, shaking her head.

“How about ‘melanoma?’”

The word must’ve rung a bell, because Aimee nearly jumps off the chair.

“That’s it!” she says.

Now my heart rate starts accelerating
, just a little bit.

“You know what’s really interesting about that?”
I say.

“What?” she asks.

“When I was in Brazil last month, I worked on a project studying melanoma.”

Aimee’s eyes are suddenly so wide t
hat she looks like a patient with Grave’s disease.

“Did you find medicine to make it go away?”

“Well, we found something that helped mice with melanoma. When I came back to New York, we still didn’t know whether the medicine would help people. Also—and this is really important—the medicine only worked for one type of melanoma. I’ve got no idea whether your dad has the right type, but chances are he doesn’t.”

Aimee leaps out of her seat, grabs my arm, and begins pulling me toward the door
.

“What are we waiting for?
” she says. “Let’s get going. We have to find out whether he’s got the right type.”

“Whoa, slow down there,” I say
.

Her fingers are
clenched so tightly around my forearm that I’m unable to unwind them when I try.

“This is really complicated,
” I say, giving up on extricating myself from her grip. “We could get into big trouble if we do something wrong. The first thing we need to do is call your mother. You wouldn’t happen to know her phone number at the hospital?”

“Yeah,
I memorized it,” she says.

Of course she did
.

Aimee relaxes her fingers
somewhat but doesn’t let go of my arm. As she recites them, I dial the seven numbers.