Turn of Mind (17 page)

Funny how at the end of life things accelerate at a pace beyond our ability to process them. I kept waking up at six to prep for class for three years after I retired. I still can't believe I haven't been in a classroom for a dozen years, haven't had to face a tearful twelve-year-old or an angry parent for that long.
It seems like just yesterday.
How we used to mock our parents and grandparents for using that phrase. And for you it doesn't seem like yesterday, but today. Now.

Anyway, we bought our hummus and baba ghanoush and walked slowly over to the park. We found an empty bench near the zoo. A glorious day. The park bursting with joggers, babies, and dogs.

One ambitious young father had an infant strapped to his back, a dog leash wound around his belt, and was helping his four-year-old fly a kite. You were not as conscious of your state as I've seen you on other occasions. You didn't seem to grasp that you were impaired. Interesting how that self-knowledge comes and goes. But you were operating at a high-enough level for it not to be a problem that day.

Perhaps for that reason, you wanted to dwell in the past. I had an inkling—just an inkling—of how it must feel when you asked,
Do I use
this?
and held up a plastic spoon with the plastic container of tabbouleh.

We talked about Peter and James, nothing much, did our usual complaining about their foibles. What women do when they're bored and have nothing to say really but like the sound of their voices responding to each other. First me, then you, then me again. As satisfying as a good tennis volley.

For once I didn't set you right. I usually won't indulge you—it's the thing I really argue with Fiona about—but I had to keep correcting myself when I slipped into past tense.
Yes, James was a bit of a dandy. No,
Peter wasn't that hard to live with.

One moment was out of step with the rest of the lazy good feeling of the day. At some point one of the animals in the zoo let out a cry. I don't know what it was—an elephant? A big cat? It was really more of a mournful wail, over quickly, but you got upset.

Give that child back her blanket!
you yelled loudly, startling everyone around us.

You certainly startled me, and I dropped my soft drink and soaked my pants. You seemed to have forgotten your outburst as soon as it was out of your mouth. I was reminded of what Magdalena says about how you can change so suddenly. It's not something I had ever seen before. You are either in a slightly better or slightly worse state.

I know there have been what everyone refers to as
episodes.
I tell Magdalena and Fiona to call me when they need help. So far they haven't. I think there's some sense of possessiveness, some rivalry there.

If nothing else, the day reminded me of how we gradually inure ourselves to tragedy. For it is a tragedy, my old friend, what is happening to you.

I am very selfish: I am more concerned about myself than you in this regard. You'll get past this stage of awareness, and the disease will be its own pain-management regime. But me. These little outings remind me of how much anesthesia I'm going to need. Like the topical sedative that goes in before the big needle, everything I've done to prepare myself is going to be too weak to withstand the pain of separation that's looming.

The end of my marriage is nothing compared to the end of our friendship—if that's what you want to call it. It's enough to want to burn the bridge and leave you on the other side. Too many good-byes lie ahead. How many times have you had to endure the death of James? How many times will I have to say good-bye to you, only to have you reappear like some newly risen Christ. Yes, better to burn the bridge and prevent it from being crossed and recrossed until my heart gives out from sheer exhaustion.

I am performing a complex brachial plexus procedure where the total plexus lesions have permeated all the nerve roots. The patient is under general anesthesia. His (her?) face is covered.

Things are not going well. I am attempting an intraplexual neurotization using the parts of the roots still attached to the spinal cord as donors for the avulsed nerves. But I miscalculate and hit the subclavian vein. Horrifying quantities of blood. I put pressure on it and call for the vascular surgeon, but it is too late.

I think about the faces of the family members in the waiting room. I also cannot help thinking, ashamedly, of the lawyers, of the internal hospital investigation that will inevitably follow. The tediousness of the paperwork that accompanies blunders large and small.

Then the room undergoes a sort of seismic shift and I am no longer in the OR. No patient anesthetized on a table. Instead I am gazing down at a bed with rumpled floral sheets. I am still perspiring, there is still an irregular drumming in my chest, but my hands are no longer encased in rubbery gloves, they no longer hold sharp implements. It's a large bed with an oak frame. A matching dresser. An ornate red Oriental carpet. Nothing familiar.

I want the OR back, the soothing green walls, the steel instruments reflected large in the steel cabinetry. Everything placed just so. But this. This richly furnished, unsterile environment. It makes me uncomfortable. I want to wash my hands, suit up, try again. I close my eyes, but when I open them I am still in the same room.

Then I hear voices. With difficulty, I find the doorway to the room. I must scrutinize every inch of every wall before it finally materializes. Outside the doorway, a long hallway, painted a deep crimson, hung with photographs. And at the end of that, the way down. Soft plush material under my feet on top of polished wood, patterned with blue and green intertwined flowers.

I walk carefully, watching my feet and holding on to a long smooth piece of wood. I go down and I count. Twenty times I extend my right foot, place it on a lower surface. Twenty times I pull my left foot down until it is level with my right. And then again. The voices grow louder as I descend. There is laughter. I hear my name. I will proceed carefully.

There are two of them, a man and a woman, sitting in the living room, on the mission oak sofa. The woman has shoulder-length yellow hair, clearly dyed. It does not suit her. She is heavyset. Her pants are too tight to be comfortable, I can see the top button cutting into her belly.

The man stands up when he sees me. An older man. An old man. He opens up his arms.
Jenny!
he says, and without waiting, his arms envelop me. He smells good. His plaid shirt feels soft against my check, but his beard scratches. Snow-white hair with a bald spot on top. A gray, not white, beard. It looks dirty in contrast, gives him a slightly disreputable look.

Aren't you glad to see your old friend Peter?
asks the blond woman.

Oh yes, I say, and smile. Peter. How are you
?
I infuse my voice with warmth. I even force myself to take his hand. One must be cunning. One must play along.

Quite well
, he says.
Enjoying the sunshine
.
As you know, I was never a fan of
Chicago winters. Although this one seems to finally be over. Here, sit down, sit
down. Over here.
He pulls over a beige chair, and I sink into its softness. He takes my hand again.
It's been too long, Jen.

How long has it been?
asks the blond woman. She doesn't wait for an answer.
Your ears must have been buzzing!
she says.
Peter's done nothing but
talk about you!

She smiles. He smiles. I smile too.

Yes, they have been, I say. Indeed they have.

There is silence, rather awkward. Then the man speaks again, less heartily, more gently.

You don't really remember me, do you?
he asks. But he doesn't have that pleading, hurt look that people generally have when they ask me this. That look that begs me to lie, to reassure them.

I immediately like him better. No, I say. Not a glimmer.

I'm in town to wrap up affairs,
he says
. I was here for the funeral, but everyone
thought it best not to bother you. Unfortunately, things are a little tangled.
Amanda never updated her will after the divorce. The estate has to go into probate.
It's going to take months to resolve, to find the next of kin who will inherit
the house. That was really her only asset. But even in this market, it'll be a
substantial sum. For now, my hands are tied.

What divorce? I ask. What funeral?

He pauses.
Well, I'll just remember for both of us
, he says, smiling. Then he turns sober.
I understand you're in a bit of trouble,
he says.
I wanted you to
know that I believe in you. Without reservation. You clearly don't know what
I'm talking about. You probably won't remember this. But on the chance that
some things stick, I wanted to say it.

The blond woman makes as if to get up from the table.

No, no. There's no need for you to go,
he says.
This isn't a private conversation.
It's just something I wanted to get on the table. For myself, mostly, as it turns
out. Otherwise, I would like to talk about good things,
he says.
Maybe it will
spark something.

I'll be the secretary,
says the blond woman.
I'll write it all down. That way she
can read it over when she's in better shape. It might make more sense to her that
way.
She leaves the room, comes back with a large leather book, opens it to a blank page, picks up a pen. She writes something at the top of the page, pauses, and looks at the man expectantly.

Where shall I start?
asks the man.
Once upon a time. Yes, that's the way to
handle it. A myth-making event. Filled with archetypes.

I am interested. Go on, I say.

Once upon a time there were six people. Four adults and two children. Two
married couples. One couple, older by about a decade, childless. The younger
couple had a girl and a boy. The girl was very small, maybe two. The boy seven.
Although not close in age, the two couples are close in friendship.
He stops and thinks.
What shall I tell you about them? No generalities. But one specific
event.
And he continues.

One day they decide to go to the beach. They pack some ham sandwiches, some
hard-boiled eggs, apples, pears, and bottles of wine for good measure.

They decide to drive out of the city. Far north. To a state park on the lake that
features large sand dunes that are mostly deserted on beautiful summer Sundays
like this one.

There is a reason for this, of course. A huge nuclear power plant looms over
the sand dunes, spills its excesses into the shallow water. It casts a pall on the
scenery for anyone faint of heart. Which the adult members of these two families
definitely are not. They joke about the relative warmth of the lake water, about
mutant fish and the oversized shorebirds.

The two-year-old, relieved of all her clothes except her diaper, is taken to the
edge of the water by her mother to wet her toes. The boy takes his shovel and
bucket and begins digging random holes in the sand. The older woman and the
two men settle themselves on beach chairs and talk. All is calm. An uneventful
day at the lakeside. When they start feeling hungry, they break out the food, eat
a few sandy mouthfuls, wash it down with red wine. An idyllic afternoon at the
beach among dear friends. Everything is perfect. More perfect than it will ever be
again.
He stops, apparently in a reverie.

The blond woman is writing furiously.
What a lovely gift, this story,
she says.
Jennifer will enjoy reading about it later.
But I am getting a glimmer. More than a glimmer, a Technicolor movie. It comes in bursts of images. Invoking all the senses. I speak quickly before it dissipates.

Yes. The sandy ham that crunches between our teeth. The acidic wine. The power plant looming overhead. The grown-ups perhaps drinking a little too much. Voices are raised. Laughter comes easier. The older man abstains: He is the driver but continues pouring. The other three drink past the point of pleasure. Past the point of honesty. To somewhere more primal.

That's right,
says the man. He opens his mouth as if to continue, but I push on, following the movie in my mind. I can feel the heat of the noonday sun on my bare arms. The sand against my thighs. Hear the cries of the mutant birds.

The older woman starts it. She asks the younger man if he has noticed anything different about his wife.

Different how?
the younger man asks.

Her hair. Her clothes. A general glow.

I can't say that I have. She always looks terrific.
And he gives his wife an affectionate smile, gestures to the older man to top off her glass of wine.

The younger woman is startled. Something is happening that she has not expected.