A Step of Faith (5 page)

“All right,” I said. “That’s good advice.”

My father looked content. Few things pleased him more than people liking his advice.

I started feeling dizzy again, so I took a Dramamine and slept through the entire next leg of our flight, which touched down in LAX around six o’clock. We picked up our luggage, then I waited with it at the curb while my father brought his car around. We stopped on the way home at a Jack in the Box. I wasn’t hungry, so my father ordered his meal to go. Then we continued on to the house of my youth.

Even without her, McKale’s home is still a memorial to my first and only love.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

I hadn’t been back to Pasadena for more than four years. I was surprised by the depth of emotion I felt at seeing McKale’s childhood home next door. The house looked serene and unchanged, as if no one had informed it that its former occupant had passed away.

My father carried my pack to the guest room. “I think you should stay here,” he said. “It’s bigger than your old room. And it’s got the connected bathroom. This way I’ll be close if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Can I get you anything now?”

“Dad, I’m home. I can take care of myself.”

“Right. Sorry.” He carried his hamburger into the front room. “I’m going to watch some TV. They’re re-airing the
’74 Ali and Foreman title fight. The Rumble in the Jungle. You’re welcome to join me.”

Out of habit, I stopped in the kitchen and lifted the lid of the cookie jar, but there was nothing inside. Probably hadn’t been for a decade. “The Rumble in the Jungle?”

“You haven’t seen it?”

“Nineteen seventy-four? I wasn’t born yet.”

“Great. You can bet on Foreman. I’ll give you a million-to-one odds.”

“That’s very generous,” I said. “Let me put some laundry in first.”

“Let me—”

I raised my hand. “I got it, Dad.”

“I was just going to say I need to empty the dryer.”

“I’ll take care of it. Eat your burger and watch your fight.”

I retrieved my pack, dumped the contents on the laundry room floor, then put my whites in the washing machine and went to the front room. A crescent of a hamburger was lying on its wrapper on the end table next to my father’s La-Z-Boy chair and he was eating a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. In spite of all the internal turmoil I felt, or perhaps because of it, the scene made me smile. My father was a man of habit. He had the same routine when I was a boy—TV and a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.

I got myself a bowl of ice cream, then sat down on the sofa. The fight was in its third round. Truthfully, watching two guys pound each other when your own head is aching isn’t terribly amusing. During the sixth round the washing machine’s timer buzzed and I got up.

“I’m going to finish my laundry,” I said. “Then go to bed.”

My father didn’t look up. “We need to leave tomorrow a little before nine. We’re going to hit traffic.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I moved my wet clothes to the dryer, put my darks into the washing machine, then went to my room. I didn’t sleep well and got up the next morning around 5
A.M
. I went down the hall to my childhood bedroom, which looked exactly the way I had left it fifteen years earlier, with my Jurassic Park, U2 and Red Hot Chili Peppers posters still on the wall.

On top of my dresser was a sizable cluster of prom pictures of McKale and me. With the exception of one girls’-preference dance during my junior year, McKale was the only one I had gone with to the school proms.

I sat down on the avocado-colored shag carpeted floor in front of my bookshelf, and pulled out my high school yearbooks and began leafing through the pages. In my senior yearbook there was a picture of McKale and me eating lunch together in the school cafeteria with a caption underneath that read “Most Likely to Marry,” which, like the “Most Likely to Succeed” nod, is usually a harbinger of future disaster, but in our case was prophetic.

My father got up an hour later. He went out for his daily two-mile jog, then did calisthenics in the garage. When he’d finished exercising, he showered and dressed, then came out to the kitchen and made oatmeal. The doctor hadn’t said whether or not I should eat anything, so I skipped breakfast.

We left for the hospital at a quarter of nine. The
registration process was interminable, and it was an hour and a half before I met my neurosurgeon, Dr. Schlozman, a bald, skinny man wearing a bright red bow tie. He greeted us warmly as he walked into the room.

“Sorry for the wait. You’d think that foursome in front of us had never golfed before.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Dr. Schlozman.”

I smiled. “I’m Alan.”

“I’m Alan’s father,” my dad said.

“Nice to meet you both—let’s jump into this.” He turned back toward a series of MRI scans posted on light boxes mounted on the wall. “According to exhibit A, you have a tumor.” He set his finger on a golf-ball-sized mass on the film. “. . . Either that or you’ve got a golf ball growing on the outside of your brain.” He turned back and looked at me. “I don’t know how much they told you in St. Louis, or, with their accents, how much you actually understood, so I’ll begin from the beginning. The twenty-four-thousand-dollar question is, ‘Is this tumor malignant or benign?’ And the answer is, I don’t know. We can’t be certain without a biopsy.” He turned back to the image, running his finger along its edge. “Meningiomas are classified by where they are located. As you can see, yours is located on the surface of the brain—it’s called a convexity meningioma. If it were located in New York, it would be called a book agent, but we’ll stick with your scenario.

“Your type of tumor often doesn’t produce symptoms until it gets big, which is, holy cow, exactly what you’ve got going on in your head. I read in the Cliff’s Notes that you’ve been suffering from headaches and dizziness—is that true?”

“Pretty much every day,” I said.

“Which is why five out of five doctors would recommend a craniotomy as the next step. The good news is that because of the tumor’s shape and location I believe we can remove it safely in a procedure called a gross total resection, which is appropriately named because it is totally gross. Trust me, you don’t want a souvenir video. The surgery will relieve the pressure on your brain, which should alleviate your symptoms. This procedure has a very high success rate and afterwards you’ll be able to continue on with your life
and
play the piano.”

I could tell his personality was off-putting to my father, but I liked him a lot.

“Will I need radiation or chemotherapy afterwards?” I asked.

“If the tumor’s completely resected, then there’s no need for further treatments. That’s not to say you’re forever home free. After surgery it’s best that we monitor the area with periodic MRIs. Like crazy ex-girlfriends, meningiomas have a nasty habit of coming back, so it’s best if you have annual scans throughout your life.”

“This craniotomy,” my father said. “Does it have any risks?”

“No surgery’s without risk, but in this case the risks are quite minimal. The greatest risk, though it’s about as likely as me finding true love, is stroke. Also, some neurological functions like motor strength or coordination may become impaired immediately after surgery, but in most cases those issues are resolved with time and rehabilitation.” He turned to me. “Mostly you’ll just feel really, really crappy for a while.”

“How soon could we do this?” I asked.

“The soonest we can schedule your operation is the
nineteenth. Then you’ll need to plan for at least six to eight weeks of recovery time.”

“Six weeks,” I repeated. I hated the idea of that much downtime, but it could be worse. I had spent nearly five months recovering at Nicole’s house.

“Six to eight,” my father said. “At least.”

“All right,” I said. “Let’s do this thing.”

“Good,” Dr. Schlozman said. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve been looking at a new boat.”

The drive home from the hospital was quiet. My father was the first to speak. “That doctor was weird.”

“I looked up his credentials. He’s brilliant,” I said. “Brilliant people usually are a little weird.”

He shrugged. “Want to stop for pancakes? The IHOP is still there.”

“Love to. Let’s get pancakes.”

CHAPTER

Seven

Sometimes it seems as if my life has been more intermission than show.

Alan Christoffersen’s diary

Nicole called the house later that afternoon. It was good to hear her voice.

“Hey, handsome. How’d your appointment go?”

“Well, I think. They’re going to operate on the nineteenth.”

“Why are they waiting so long?”

“That’s their first availability.”

“Then how long is your recovery?”

“Six to eight weeks,” I said. “If everything goes well.”

“I’m sure it will go well,” she said. “But you’ll go insane waiting.”

“Probably.”

“So, may I come down and take care of you?” she asked. “Please.”

“I would love for you to come,” I said. “When are you thinking?”

“I’d like to come before the surgery. How about the sixteenth? Two weeks from today.”

“That would be great,” I said. “Now I have something to look forward to.”

“Me too,” she said.

We talked for a few more minutes before saying goodbye.

My father walked into the room after I hung up. “Was that Nicole?”

“Yes. She wants to come down for the surgery.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I’d love to see her.” I frowned. “Do you think I’m leading her on?”

“She’s a friend and she cares. Where’s the crime in that?”

I shrugged. “I just don’t want to hurt her. She means too much to me.”

“She’s a big girl,” he said. “When is she coming?”

“The sixteenth.”

He nodded. “It will be nice having a woman around.”

The next two weeks were miserable. As my surgery date neared, I started sleeping more—sometimes as much as fourteen hours a day. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that I would likely become more fatigued, but I think it was more than the tumor. I was also fighting depression. There was just too much around to remind me of McKale, too much time to think, and too little to do. You don’t realize how many memories of someone a place can hold until they’re gone.