Doctor Olaf van Schuler's Brain (28 page)

Still, as I sit beside my father's bed, I cannot imagine going anywhere but to my own bed. We are working on the Sunday crossword puzzle, which I clipped from yesterday's
Times
. I read clues and letters. At first Dad asks me to repeat them: “What was that S, blank, blank, what?” Soon, he stops pretending. I don't ask him to count backward from five, but I doubt he can do that either. Otherwise he is lucid. When I offer him the paper, he shakes his head.

“I see everything double,” he says. “Even with my glasses.”

At four o'clock, his doctor arrives. He is my age, balding and — judging by the way he carries his chart extended before him like an offering to the gods — officious and petty.

“How are we today?” he asks.

“We are fine,” Dad answers.

“I'm Elizabeth.” I extend my hand. “Stuart's daughter.”

“James Cranston,” the doctor says. “I have the MRI results.”

Doctor Cranston, clipboard at his side now, turns to me and smiles. “We did an MRI Friday morning. It's a standard test —”

“I know,” I say.

“My daughter's a doctor,” my father says. “A
medical
doctor.”

I stiffen. A
medical
doctor. I am a new graduate again, and my dad, expectant smile as wide as his fist, makes his offer: “You'll take over my practice when I retire.” Pride still rings in the words I spoke then: “I'd rather help people.”

“A family of doctors, eh?” Doctor Cranston smiles. “Runs in the blood or something?”

My father snorts.

“What did you find in the MRI?” I ask.

Doctor Cranston turns from me to my father. “Good news and bad news,” he says. “The MRI is completely normal.”

I
DON'T GET
to the lab until eight. The room feels too bright and so cold that the blood does not flow to my fingertips. Two of my colleagues are still working.

“Sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” I say. The woman's name is Kathy or perhaps Karen — a young doctor who's been with us for over
a year. Her team has a conference abstract due in just under a week, and they are still collecting and analyzing data. “How's the research coming?”

“Getting there,” she says. “Not as conclusive as we'd like.”

“Nothing ever is,” I say. “If you need me, I'll be in the FISH room.”

I like the FISH room because I always have it to myself. Only two other doctors in my group study chromosomes using fluorescent in situ hybridization, and both are on leave — one in Germany; the other, Japan. The room has no windows, and the desk is too low for writing — perfect for microscope work.

I remember, suddenly, to call Harold.

“Hi,” I say. “How's it going?”

“Fine. Good. When are you coming home?” He sounds tired. Behind him hums the air conditioner, a clunky wall unit we haven't made time to replace. Our apartment needs work: pantry shelves for the tinned fish Harold brings home from his import store, bookshelves for my medical journals, closet shelves for Arabella's old clothes, new paint, new floors, small things like drain plugs, a knob for the silverware drawer, batteries for the remote.

“I'm coming as soon as I can. How's Arabella?”

“Asleep. She diagnosed me with mumps at dinner.”

“She did?”

“Mumps. Can you believe it? The child's only four.”

“She's a smart one,” I say. “I'll call before I head home.”

I don't call. When I view the invisible, time speeds up. Law of microscopes: you can't cheat time and vision; pull chewing gum long and the width diminishes; stare at a slide long enough, time vanishes. One dimension gives way to another, one choice excludes another. When I look at a screen test, a glow of blue with red and green dots, human chromosomes, I feel pure joy. I don't leave the lab until 2:30 a.m.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, I bring a bagel with lox and red onions and a decaf coffee to the hospital. Dad complains that the drink is too hot, that the room is too hot, that people are watching him. He believes that the television is actually a video camera, that his room is bugged, and that our conversation is being monitored.

“Anything else?” I ask.

He taps the side of the bed so I'll lean closer.

“They are weighing my turds,” he whispers.

When I return that afternoon with the sandwich he ordered, he's more himself. I can tell by his eyes; the hazel has deepened, as if sanity is expressed in color.

“I brought you dinner.” I can't tell if resentment sounds in my voice. I hope not. I want to help my father while he is fragile. I want to rise above our differences, to prove to him,
to me, that it doesn't matter what he thinks of my decisions or my work, that we are family.

“Any news from the doctors?”

“It's not vitamin B toxicity.” He shrugs, but his movement is jerky. “Tell me something nice. How was your day?”

“Good,” I say. I don't tell him how tired I am, or how Harold lost his temper this morning, or how I haven't spent time with Arabella or my friends in days. “My paper came out in
Science
.”

“
Science
. That's an honor. Bring me a copy. Give your old dad something to do.”

“Sure,” I say. My father has never expressed interest in my work; now he can't even read it. I study the lines around his eyes, the crease in his forehead, the stubble above his lips. I search for resentment, the old anger, but notice nothing except how changed he is, how foreign.

“I'm having trouble swallowing,” he says. “Just the paper next time — just your paper.”

I
GO HOME
before I return to the lab. I want to have dinner with my family, but I should have called first; they aren't there.

Harold has taken Arabella out for a movie and milkshakes — I don't hear about the fun until the next day.

“You missed out,” Harold tells me. He's making breakfast: poached eggs for us and raisin oatmeal for Arabella.

“I know.” I think of my mother, her second face, the smooth one that showed neither anger nor pain unless emotion thrust her lips apart and colored her skin hot red. She threatened to leave if my father said yes to another conference; she threatened many times, but only when he wasn't home.

“How about tonight?” I say. Already, I'm anxious, worried that I won't have time to see Dad and make my first morning appointment.

“We eat at five.”

Five. Midafternoon. Midworkday. Arabella looks up from the table, sticky orange pulp around a defiant smile.

“We're having spaghetti,” she says. “Daddy promised.”

J
UST AFTER NOON
, my father calls me at work.

“Elizabeth, I need to talk to you. Can you come in?”

“I have —” I have already stopped by the hospital once. I have an appointment at two and another at three-thirty and dinner at five. Yet my father's tone, the fact that he called, alarms me. “I'll be there as soon as I can,” I say.

W
HEN
I
ARRIVE
at the hospital, Dad raises his bed so he can sit with me. He folds his hands over each other, but cannot hide their tremble.

“I only have a few minutes,” I say. I still carry my purse and I make no move to remove my jacket, though I do sit
down beside the bed. I woke too late to shower this morning, and my hair slips from a hasty bun.

“Doing research?”

“I'm meeting with a mother. Her first child has Down syndrome, and now she's pregnant again. She has a narrow window —”

“And she wants to know her chances?” My dad laughs. “Is that what medical doctors do now, hand out chances?”

“It's not like that.”

“I know.” A trickle of saliva runs down the side of his mouth. “They think I have Creutzfeldt-Jakob.”

My throat tightens, and I clasp my hands because the pressure of my skin against itself calms me, allows me to collect my thoughts. I know prion disease — an exotic and elusive illness, sometimes familial, sometimes not, known for rarity and speed. One day my father woke and couldn't remember the word for breakfast; perhaps two weeks later, he began to lose his balance, then his muscle control; he bought diapers; he pretended his health did not trouble him. Within a year, probably within the month, he'll be dead. There is no cure.

“They can't know without a biopsy,” I say.

“They'll do that when I'm dead.”

I shake my head, but he speaks before I can. “The chance you'll develop it is very slim.”

He doesn't have to tell me that my daughter and I might
carry a mutation, a single gene passed through generations, a gene that might one day express itself, or not. Most likely, in my case — in my hypothetical case — it will remain unexpressed, a dark thing inside me that threatens but never explodes.

“I can't make this look any better,” Dad says.

I reach for his hand; his fingers are moist, cold. I can't tell him everything will be okay; he knows better. “I'm sorry.”

“I have most everything in order. The will —”

“Dad, I can't talk about this now. I have to get back —”

“You have work. I know.” My father's words have begun to slur, so that they seem to run together, to form a continuum. Beside him on the bed table is my paper. The pages are open, as if he has only just set down the work.

“I'll come back first thing tomorrow,” I promise.

“Go on then.” He tries to dismiss me with a wave, as he did when I was a child and he wanted to work or slip into the forbidden bedroom. He sends me away to my work, to my choices, but his hand falls beside him. He lacks the strength for anger or hope, approval or sorrow, though I listen for one of those, one in particular, in his voice.

“Go on then,” he says again. “Go on and save us.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

M
ANY THANKS TO THE PEOPLE
who helped make this book possible: my agent, Eve Bridburg, who believed in the stories; my editor, Antonia Fusco, who combed through every page with great care; Bob Jones, Brunson Hoole, Courtney Wilson, and the talented people at Algonquin; the thoughtful folks who provided feedback and encouragement: Daphne Kalotay, Laila Lalami, Mary Akers, Katrina Denza, Lane Zachary, Laurel Erdoiza, Jill Hoffman, David Marx, Jenn Shreve, Alan Rapp, Annie Penn, Alison Bing, Marco Marinucci, Eve Menger-Hammond, George Menger-Hammond, Lenore, Ali, Cyrus, and Gus Mohammadian, Myrna Britton, Roger Anderson, Julie Wells, Bob and Vera Thau. A giant thank you to the Zoetrope online writing community and to Ben Fountain and the staff of the
Southwest Review
, Nathanial Staicer and the staff of the
Maryland Review
, Jeannie de'Aladdin and the staff of
Plaztik Press,
Jamie Clarke and the staff of
Post Road,
and James Alan McPherson and the staff of
Ploughshares.

This book benefited greatly from the amazing stories and histories I came across as I worked: Edwin G. Burrows and Mike Wallace's
Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898
provided many details
about New York City over the centuries, as did
The Historical Atlas of New York City
by Eric Homberger and Alice Hudson and
Chronicles of America
by DK Publishing. I am deeply indebted to Jan Bondeson, whose books
Buried Alive
and
Cabinet of Medical Curiosities
inspired several of the tales in this book.
Quack! Tales of Medical Fraud
by Bob McCoy provided background information for several chapters.
Soul Made Flesh
by Carl Zimmer played a large role in Dr. Olaf's search for the soul;
Honey, Mud, Maggots, and Other Medical Marvels
by Robert and Michèle Root-Bernstein provided additional details, as did
The World of Our Mothers by
Sydney Stahl Weinberg. I would also like to acknowledge Dylan Morgan, whose “What Mesmer Believed” provided background for “The Baquet,” and the
Frontline
“Breast Implants on Trial” Web site, which was very useful to “The Story of Her Breasts.” Thanks also to the helpful staff of the San Francisco Public Library, and to the Internet and the people who've contributed knowledge to it.