Pascal's Wager (13 page)

“Can I take her home?” I said.

“After I convince psych that it wasn't a suicide attempt. I think
we ought to give it twenty-four hours anyway.” Fenwick was watching me. “Jill, do you think it's wise for you to try to keep her at home? If she's a danger to herself, you almost have no choice.”

Don't tell me I have no choice, pal
, I thought.
That's
the worst thing you can say to me
.

“You need a ride home?” he said.

I glanced frantically at my wrist, but I hadn't even put my watch on.

“She's going to sleep for a while,” he said. “Why don't you go home, get cleaned up. I'll have someone give you a lift.”

“No, I'll just catch the shuttle to campus,” I said. “I've got to get to work.”

Mindless that I'd thrown on sweats over my pajamas and had shoved my feet into a pair of sandals, I thanked Dr. Fenwick and ran for the parking lot. I arrived just in time to see the shuttle pulling away.

The idea of standing there waiting for the next one was unbearable, so I started to jog for the next stop. That lasted just long enough for me to realize that it was pointless to try to run in sandals, and I reluctantly slowed to a walk and tried to sort myself out.

Okay, Mother's fine. We'll lock up all the medicine. We'll put a padlock on the bathroom door
.
That's
all I can do for now
.

Think work. I can get some of my own work done this morning, then run home and shower before class at eleven. No, all my stuff's over at Mother's. Okay, I'll drive there
.

In what? The Miata's already over there—

“Need a ride?”

My head jerked up, mouth ready to snap out a refusal. It was Sam Bakalis, peering out of the window of some foreign-made Jeep wannabe.

“Are you okay?” he said.

I wanted to say, I
will be when you move on
, but I just didn't have the energy.

“I've been better,” I said. “I'm trying to catch the shuttle.”

“Why don't you let me give you a lift? It's the least I can do.”

I don't know whether it was because I was stunned or because I already had a large blister forming on my instep, but I nodded. He pushed the passenger door open for me and dumped a stack of folders into the backseat so I could sit down.

“Car trouble?” he said.

“No.”

As he eased back into traffic, his glance went from the rearview mirror to me. “Look,” he said, “I don't know if you got my message. I tried to call you at the math department because I didn't know how else to get in touch with you.”

“Uh-huh,” I said.

“I wanted to apologize.”

I had to stare at him. He did look slightly droopy—shoulders curved, eyes not quite so bright behind his glasses.

“For what?” I said. “You have a right to your opinion.”

“But I don't have the right to insult you with it.”

“I wasn't insulted,” I said.

“You don't do this often, do you?” he said, laughing through the words in that way he had.

“Do what?”

“Lie.”

I “wasn't—”

He was grinning.

“Okay, I was insulted,” I said.

“So was I.”

“Why? What did I do?”

The sparkle was back in his eyes. “Actually, you started the whole thing,” he said, grinning. “But that didn't prevent me from being the bigger person and calling to apologize first.”

I wanted to put him in his place. I really did. But I was just too tired. All I could do was halfheartedly tousle my hair and sink back into the seat.

“You're not okay, are you?” he said.

“No, I'm not,” I said. I pasted on a smile. “I will be as soon as I can get organized, but right now, I'm in a bit of a muddle.”

He didn't say anything, which I appreciated. At least, until he had to ask me where I wanted to be dropped off.

“I'm going to the math department,” I said. “Sloan Hall.”

“Sure you don't want to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee first, before you get organized?” he said.

I shook my head, and for some reason that I still can't figure, I started to talk, my voice wooden. “My mother was recently diagnosed with Pick's Disease. It's a rare dementia—it'll take away her mind and everything else with it,” I continued, voice toneless. “In the wee hours this morning, when I was supposed to be watching her, she got into her pain medication and overdosed on codeine and had to be rushed to Stanford Hospital, where they pumped her stomach. Now I practically have to have a court order to get her out of there. Meanwhile, I have just enough time to decide whether to continue this fiasco of taking care of her at home. Just drop me off at the corner there—”
Because I feel like a complete idiot. Why did I just dump all of that on him?

Sam pulled the car up to the curb and turned to look at me. There wasn't a trace of pity in his eyes. He merely looked sad.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “You must be in a ton of pain.”

“I wouldn't call it pain—” I started to say.

He put up his hand. “Look, I see why you came to me with questions. Now that I have more information, I get it.” He reached inside the tweed blazer he was wearing over a knit shirt and pulled out a card and a pen.

“I want to give you my home phone number,” he said. “So in case you want to start that conversation over again, you know where to reach me, day or night.”

I didn't have the urge to toss it back in his face when he handed it to me, so I took it. “Thanks,” I said.

“Just call me if you want to talk.”

For lack of anything better to say, I muttered another thanks and climbed out of the car. As he drove off, I crumpled up the card. After all, what was the point? We had tried to carry on a discussion twice, and we'd ended up at the same place both times—in the pulpit.

I looked around for a trash can, but I didn't see one, so I stuffed the crumpled card into my purse.

The first person I saw when I got to my office—avoiding the front desk altogether and going in the back door—was Tabitha. There was no eluding her. She was leaning against my office door.

“Uh, hi,” I said.

I barely looked at her as I drove the key into the lock. She was very definitely looking at me, however.

“Hi,” she said. “I know I don't have an appointment, but I thought if I caught you early enough—”

“Tell you what,” I said, “we'll go over the homework in class today before you turn it in so you don't have to worry.”

“It's not about that,” she said. She tilted her head sideways, hair spilling over her cheek. “I just wanted a chance to thank you for everything you've done for me. I told my parents all about you, and my mom sent this for you.”

I was so preoccupied that I hadn't noticed she'd been holding something behind her back. She presented it to me with a flourish, face beaming. I half expected a bouquet of dandelions or a drawing for my refrigerator door. But it was a box, and whatever was inside emitted an incredible aroma.

“Oatmeal raisin,” Tabitha said. “They're the best. You like raisins, don't you? I mean, some people don't, but I thought since you came from California you probably did. But if you don't like them you can pick them out—”

“I have no intention of doing anything of the kind,” I said. To prove it, I stuffed half a cookie into my mouth and closed my eyes as I chewed. It was so moist and flavorful that I knew it had to be made from scratch. I had experienced enough of Max's
cooking to know homemade when I tasted it.

“You like?” Tabitha said, her big eyes shining.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

I reached for another one, and her face broke open into a wide smile.

“Come on,” I said, motioning toward the box. “Take one. I hate to eat alone.”

“No, these are for you.”

“Take one. I'm your teacher. I'm ordering you to. Your grade depends on it.”

She snatched one up and sank into the chair I pointed to. I sat on my desk and munched.

“Ms. McGavock, could I ask you a question?” Tabitha said. She was nibbling daintily—in sharp contrast to my gluttonous consumption.

“Yes,” I said. “That's why they pay me the big bucks.”

“This isn't a math question. It's a personal question.”

“Oh,” I said. “You can ask it, but I can't guarantee I'll answer it.”

“Well…are you okay?”

“Yes,” I said. “Particularly since I'm on my third one of these. Doesn't your mother just want to come here and live?”

“I just thought…you look way tired.”

“It's the outfit,” I said. “I haven't showered yet. That'll teach you to come in here without an appointment.”

“I just thought the last couple times I've been in here—”

“That I've been a witch. Sorry.”

“No, it isn't that,” she said.

Okay, time to nip this little bleeding-heart session in the bud
.

“Why don't you tell me what it is, then?” I said.

“It seems like you're upset—only you don't want anybody to know it. I don't think that many people around here care what their teachers are going through, just as long as they get the grades, but, like, I can't help seeing stuff, you know?”

“You know what, Tabitha?” I said. “You really ought to reconsider your major. I have just the department for you. Why don't you check out philosophy?”

The concerned expression she always wore transformed into bewilderment.

“Forget it,” I said. “Bad joke. Thanks for the cookies and for the concern. But I'm fine. A little stressed out, but nothing a hot shower won't cure.”

She seemed reluctant to accept that. In fact, I wasn't sure she was actually going to get up and leave, even though I had the door open for her and was all but waving her out of the room. She did finally stand up and roll her way slowly toward the exit. But she stopped in the doorway and looked back at me.

“I'm going to pray for you anyway,” she said. “God knows what you need.”

It's an epidemic around here
, I thought when she was gone.
Is this still Stanford, or did we turn into Notre Dame when I wasn't looking?

They released Mother the next day. Fortunately, it wasn't a teaching day for me, so I could take her home. Freda II was there waiting for us, earrings in full bobbing mode. When she'd gotten Mother settled in the downstairs guest room, I summoned her to the kitchen. “Look, uh—” I blanked on her real name and went on. “I bought a lockbox to put all Mother's meds in. You and I will be the only ones with keys, and we'll keep them on us while we're in the house.”

“That's an incredible idea,” she said, “but—”

“Can I finish? I also think it's ridiculous for us to keep her on the second floor when getting up and down the stairs is such a huge ordeal. I suggest you move her things into the guest room. She might fight you at first—”

“She won't fight me because—”

Because you'll be chanting the entire time, I know
.

“Don't let her out of your sight, even when she's asleep during the day. I was in the same room with her when she overdosed, so we just can't be too careful.”

“No,
you
can't be too careful,” Freda said.

I finally stopped, and I could feel my eyes narrowing as I looked at her.

“We can't
be too careful,” I said.

“Not me anymore.”

“What are you saying?”

She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If she went into some kind of transcendental moan, I knew I'd lose it for sure. But she opened her eyes and focused them on me in a way so deliberate that I thought she was going to attempt hypnotism.

“I can't work here anymore, Jill,” she said. “I'll try to say this as gently as I can. I love Liz. I think she's incredible, I think we're kindred spirits, and I think I could have had a tremendous impact on her healing. But you—” She closed her eyes again and shook her head. “Your energy and mine just don't mix. I leave here with my whole aura so disturbed. I think you're toxic for me.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “So you're giving your notice.”

“No, I have to leave now, before my psyche is poisoned any further.”

“You're leaving
right now?
” I nearly shouted. “You're not even going to give me twenty-four hours to find somebody else?”

“I'm sorry.” She pressed her hand to her chest. “I feel it in here. I won't have any peace unless I leave immediately.”

“You're right about that,” I said. “Nobody's stopping you. Leave.”

“I'll just go in and say good-bye to Liz.”

“Fine, and don't forget to collect your crystals while you're at it,” I said with more than a hint of sarcasm.

Her “aura” was noticeably ruffled. “Do you see what I mean?
You have no respect for other people's beliefs. I encourage you to find healing for that.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I said.

Then I stared her down until she retreated from the kitchen. When she was gone, I leaned back in the chair and gazed at the ceiling.

“Okay,” I said to it. “What do I do now? Just
what
am I supposed to do now?”

A
fter Freda II left, there was nothing else to do but call the social workers' office and get another Freda. There was no telling how long it would take, so I phoned Deb and asked her to spread the word that I wouldn't be in until late afternoon.

“Don't sweat it, Jill,” Deb said. “Jacoboni never comes in before noon and nobody says a word, so why should it be a problem?”

If you're lumping me in with Jacoboni, I'm doomed already
, I thought.

Doom
was a word I thought about a lot over the next few days. It took that long to interview enough Fredas to find one who didn't show signs of overdosing on the Zen lifestyle or who spoke a little English. I had grown up in a multi-cultural society, but I drew the line at having to use sign language when it came to my mother's care.

Finally—after having Max bail me out to watch Mother while I taught a class and rescheduled my office hours and Tabitha-tutoring sessions so I could conduct interviews—I found a Freda III I didn't think would burn down the house. She was middle-aged and motherly, and she patted my arm at every possible opportunity and called me “hon,” but I was beginning to prioritize what I couldn't deal with, and that was falling to the bottom of the list.

It wasn't until I felt sure Mother was once again taken care of and got myself back to my office that the sense of doom really
settled over me like a layer of smog. I did everything I could to diffuse it.

I redoubled my efforts on my research, spending so much time in the computer room that Jacoboni threatened to sublet my side of the office. I focused on the teaching seminar I was giving, talking it up so much that forty-five out of the fifty grad students in the department showed up for it. I threw myself into teaching my class. I even held a review session before the November exam and gave Tabitha a double dose of tutoring. But nothing I did blew the smog away.

About three weeks after the pill incident, when we were well into November, I was feeling like a piece of frayed rope. As she was leaving one night, Freda III gave me the inevitable pat on the arm.

“You get some rest tonight, hon,” she said. “Mother should sleep through. She was awake most of the day today.”

“Really?” I said. “What did you do, slip her No-Doz?”

“No, she had a visitor. He stayed quite a while.”

“He who?” I said.

“Burl somebody. Nice man, about my age. Gray hair. He said he worked at the lab with her, and she seemed to recognize him.”

“Really?”

“He fixed the back screen door and those broken stepping stones that go out to the koi pond.” Freda III shook her head. “Then the two of them sat in the living room for the longest time.”

“I hope that does mean she'll sleep tonight,” I said.

She patted my arm yet again. “Now that she has that cast off, I think things are going to be much easier.”

I took her suggestion and headed straight for the cot I had set up for myself in her room. I woke up once to the thought that I hadn't put the usual barricade in front of the steps, but I sat up and looked over at my mother, and she was sleeping soundly, so I flopped back down and conked out myself.

I was awakened later by a hard thudding sound. Who, I wondered, was dumping a bag full of watermelons down the staircase?

I rolled over, intent on going back to sleep, when it struck me. I bolted up. Mother's bed was empty.

The stairwell was not. There was a pile of books there, and several more on the steps as if they hadn't quite made the tumble to the bottom. From above, I could hear rustling around.

Tripping over several volumes as I went, I tore up the steps and looked around frantically. Mother's bedroom door was open, and the light was on. There was my mother, leaning out the front window from the waist down, with one knee hiked up on the sill.

I bit my lip so I wouldn't yell and startle her. When I got to her, she jumped back, and then she put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

I grabbed her by both shoulders and yanked her inside. The air was chilly and damp, but she wasn't even shivering. She was just giggling.

“What the heck were you doing?” I said. “Do you want to break your neck, too? What do I have to do, tie you to the bed?”

For a moment, her eyes flickered. It was the first emotion I'd seen her show in weeks, and it was fear. I felt a rising wave of nausea.

“Look, I'm not really going to do that, all right?” I said. “All right, Mother? I wouldn't do that. You just—come on, let's go back to bed.”

The fear left her eyes, and she began to giggle again. She chortled like a five-year-old all the way down the steps. I found myself tucking her into bed like she was about that age.

“Get some sleep,” I told her.

She nodded, and then proceeded to sit up and try to throw off the covers.

“No! Mother, it's night. See—darkness? Time to get some good REM sleep. You lose all perspective without it, remember?”

She settled back onto the pillows and watched me. There was nothing in her eyes, but she kept them focused on me.

“Okay,” I said. “See, we're talking sleep deprivation here. I'm referring to myself. If I don't get some sleep, I'm not going to finish my dissertation.”

She didn't move, didn't make a sound. But she watched me. Her eyes went from my lips to my eyes and back again. As long as I talked, she did that. When I stopped and tried to go back to the cot, she was immediately up and scrambling out of bed.

So I sat there and rambled on until four in the morning when she finally drifted off. Even then I couldn't let myself sleep. She was likely to shinny up the chimney or something if I did. But if I just sat there, I would either tumble off the bed into a coma or smother in the cloud of doom.

I got into a comfortable sitting position beside her and kept talking. I rattled on about K-theory and vector bundles, coefficient functions and Tabitha's mother's oatmeal cookies. I'm sure I fell asleep midsyllable.

When I woke up around seven, I could feel something warm pressing against me. I had to pry my eyes open to see what it was. Beside me, Mother was still asleep. Her head had lolled to the side and was nestled against my arm.

I closed my eyes and didn't move. I couldn't move. I was paralyzed with grief.

When Freda III arrived, I forced myself out of bed and avoided her eyes as I got dressed and headed for Sloan. I got as far as the coffee hut between two of the libraries, and I knew I couldn't go to the math department that day. I couldn't do anything. I sank into a wrought-iron chair at an outside table and stared at the fountain.

“You want coffee?” someone called from the counter.

I shook my head.

“Sure looks like she needs coffee,” I heard her say to her coworker.

I didn't need coffee. I didn't need work. I didn't need to get organized. What I needed were answers—and who was going to give them to me?

Interesting, I thought vaguely. I'd always thought the only person who helped me was
me
. Maybe I did need a coffee.

I opened my purse and dug through it for money. There were a couple of dollars hiding in the bottom under a crumpled-up card. I pulled it out and smoothed it on the tabletop.
Samuel Bakalis, Ph.D., Associate Professor, Department of Philosophy, Stanford University
. The phone numbers swam in print too small to read in my present condition. I turned the card over, and there was a bigger number scrawled with a pen.

Call me anytime if you just want to talk
, he'd said. And then there had been something about apologizing and hoping I would want to start the conversation over.

I stuck my hand back in my purse and fished out the cell phone.

“I
will
have a Café Borgia,” I called to the girl at the counter. I was probably going to need coffee after this phone call.

At least his voice didn't ice over when I identified myself, and he didn't make a joke about wearing armor if I wanted to get together. He was, in fact, warmly calm, as if he'd been expecting my call.

“We've had a couple of false starts,” he said. “They say insanity is doing the same thing the same way and expecting different results, so why don't we practice some sanity here and not try to just sit down and have a conversation. You want to meet on the Loop? About four? We could run and talk—then maybe grab some juice someplace. By that time we should be too worn out to argue.”

I want to talk now
, I almost screamed into the phone. But the gal behind the counter was waving to let me know that my Borgia was ready, and I was already feeling a little more in control, so I said, “Okay, but under two conditions.”

“One.”

“We stay on the legal paths.”

“Fine. Two.” “No God talk.”

I held my breath. To my surprise he didn't even hesitate.

“Deal,” he said. “I'll meet you at the guard booth at four. If we can get past the Gestapo, we're good to go.”

I actually almost laughed.

That evening, I timed myself so I wouldn't show up at the guard booth early. Looking as if I was too anxious would get us off on the wrong foot. He was there when I arrived, arms crossed lazily over his chest as he chatted with the Deputy Dog on duty. She was laughing with him.

So he's used to being Mr. Charming with the ladies
, I thought. I
hope
he's not expecting that kind of response from me
.

Sam looked up just then and saw me. “Hey, you!” he said. “Jill, did you know there's actually a new rule up here that you can't leave the paved paths?”

The guard threw her head back and howled. “Try to keep him under control, would you?” she said to me.

“Don't worry,” I said to her. I nodded to Sam. “You ready?”

“You're gonna run me into the ground, aren't you?” he said.

“You're the one who wanted to do this here. I came to talk.”

“All right, then, let's go.”

He took off, leaving me standing there for a moment.
The arrogance
, I thought.
I can't deal with the arrogance
. I considered getting back in my car and going home. But I'd come this far, and besides, I needed answers.

I caught up with him and made sure I had about a stride and a half on him before I said, “You sure you can run and talk at the same time?”

He grinned. “Who's running? First question.”

“You already know the first question. What is the consensus in philosophical thought—do we have a soul or not?”

He considered it for a few more strides. I noted that he was barely breathing hard, and we were halfway up Killer Hill. I willed myself not to breathe hard either, though I wanted to chug like a tractor.

“I'll stick with the philosophical tradition since that's your ground rule,” he said. “So the question isn't ‘Does your mother possess a soul?' but ‘Does she possess the kind of soul that can transcend death or, in this case, a serious illness that takes away what has always been her life force?'”

“All right,” I said. “So why is that?”

“When we're talking about soul, we're actually talking about what the Greeks called the psyche. It's the life principle, and in the Greek tradition, anything alive had a soul.”

“That's the Greek tradition,” I said. “What about now?”

“In today's society, a lot of people say only humans have a soul, which means they live in accordance with reason.”

I only nodded until we got to the top of the hill, because, frankly, I was dying.

Sam looked at me and said, “I lied.”

“About what?” I said.

“About talking and running at the same time.” He grinned. “I thought we'd be starting off discussing the stock market or something. You like to get to the point.”

“I do,” I said.

He grinned again. “Okay, then we better walk.” We set off at a brisk pace. I still had to half run to keep up with his long strides.

“Where were we?” he said.

“You were admitting that the rational self is actually the life force of the person,” I said. “It makes sense—I mean, that's observable, measurable.”

“Is it?” Sam said. “If you open the brain, you won't find ideas
in there that you can count and categorize.”

“But the brain has a chemistry that enables the person to
have
ideas. As we now know, my mother's ability to have ideas has been curtailed.”

I was surprised at the bitterness in my voice. It didn't escape Dr. Socrates.

“I wouldn't throw up my hands yet,” he said. “If you're asleep, or you're unconscious, you still possess a rational soul.”

“I do, because when someone wakes me up, I can think again.”

“But while you're asleep, it's just inactive. Inoperative, if you will—impeded—”

“All right, I get it. What's your point?”

“The same thing is true of your mother. Because of whatever damage was done as a result of her disease, her rational soul has been impeded. That doesn't mean it isn't there anymore.”

“It doesn't mean that it is.”

“So who bears the burden of truth?”

“In my view, you do,” I said.

“Then let's ask the real question,” he said. “Is there a spiritual principle that says the soul transcends a muting illness?”

“Great. We have the question,” I said. “Now answer it.”

“I can't,” he said. “You won't let me.”

“What?”

“You said no God talk. This question—the question
you
are asking—is directly linked to a belief in God—or a disbelief, depending on how you look at it.”

“Then let's look at it from the disbelief standpoint.”

He slowed his pace a little. “Take Epictetus.” Then he grinned. “Please.”