Probation (25 page)

Yes, Gina, I know that.

I’ve got a hole where my heart used to be.

“You wouldn’t understand” is my feeble response. I could ask her how she would have felt if I had called her a fatty or teased her about peeing her pants. But I know that I did—many times—and she’s either forgotten or forgiven the careless cruelties of childhood.

“You’re right,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “I don’t understand, you asshole.”

But you’d understand even less if I followed you back to the kitchen and tried to explain that I don’t hate you. You’re being punished for all those things you know about me that I want to forget, for having a front-row seat to all the humiliations, usually self-inflicted, I endured. Sorry, Regina, I hate that little boy you loved and you’re collateral damage. You try to talk to me about your sad little son, thinking I’ll understand, maybe offer some insight or at least some friendly support. Why would you think I have any insight into that pathetic kid? Don’t you remember your wedding day, how you confronted me about my reprehensible behavior, not understanding how or why I could be so mean to Randall Jarvis? He’d gotten shamefully drunk, reeling from my cruel remark, intended to wound.

“Come on, he’s rich. He’s famous. He’s a big boy,” I said, defending myself.

“Yeah, but he remembers what it meant to be the little boy he was back then,” she said, the one and only time she went for the kill. “Obviously, you’ve forgotten.”

Not if you won’t let me, Regina. And you’re not getting another chance, I think, retreating to the sofa and my television, remote control in hand, ready to crank up the volume in the all-too-likely event my sister has some further afterthought she feels compelled to share.

Help!

“Gina!” I scream, jumping to my feet, forgetting until it’s too late the hole in my hip.

“What? What?” she shouts, panicking, running in from the kitchen and stopping dead in her tracks to gasp at the unexpected sight of the Fab Four cutting up on the Alpine slopes in their goofy cloaks and funny hats.

“Oh my God,” she says.

We’ve seen it a dozen times. A hundred. Maybe a thousand. No, a million!

“Oh, Paul,” she says, swooning like a little girl again.

I love cable. Thank God there’s plenty of beer and wine in the house. It’s a Beatles marathon. After
Help!
,
A Hard Day’s Night
.

“It’s the better movie.”

“It’s black and white,” she argues.

“So?”

“Why couldn’t they have made it in color?”

“Black and white is better. It’s more expressive.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is. Color is too literal.”

“Oh just shut up. I love this song,” she says, still insisting, despite the visual evidence otherwise, it’s Paul, not John, singing lead vocals on “If I Fell.”

“I do too,” I say, not wanting to argue.

Suddenly it’s four in the morning and I’m up in the attic, tearing through boxes, not bothering to reseal them when I don’t find what I’m looking for. I won’t be deterred. I know they’re up here somewhere.

“Ta-dah!” I shout.

“Did you find them?”

“Yep.”

And, praise God, they aren’t warped after decades of hibernation in this sweatbox of an attic. Leave it to my mother to pack them so tightly, so expertly, that moisture and heat hasn’t destroyed them. I have a moment of drunken insight. This is what she preserved them for. Tonight.

My sister and I argue over which record to play first. Finally we compromise and drop a stack on the spindle.

“Oh, God, do you remember…”

As my mother would say, no pun intended, we sound like a broken record.

Do you remember this?

Do you remember that?

Do you remember him?

Do you remember her?

And so the night passes, nothing resolved, nothing settled. But for a few hours, we blast
Rubber Soul
and
Revolver
loud enough to wake the dead and stay pleasantly smashed and I am the ten-year-old she loved and she is eight and I can love her back and all the years of polite estrangement still lie in the future.

B
y noon the heat will be blistering. The county’s on crisis alert. The scorched earth is a fire hazard and Smokey the Bear has orders to arrest anyone tossing a lit butt to the ground. The Department of Public Works is rationing water and the drought guidelines recommend flushing only “when necessary.” I turn the dial to news radio. The death toll is nineteen and rising. Luxury imports speed by me in the passing lane, tinted windows protecting their pampered passengers from the intense sun, while some poor old lady suffocates in an airless room because she can’t afford a cheap electric fan. Robin Hood ought to loot the aisles of Kmart and Wal-Mart and bring relief to the needy and deserving.

The overnight low was a record ninety-four degrees. My sister has summoned her husband from Florida and they’ve moved to the best hotel in Charlotte: twenty-four-hour room service and fresh towels and bed linen feel more like necessities than extravagances under current conditions. Alone now in my mother’s house, I turned off the thermostat and let the Monument to Heat and Air bake all day in the sun. I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning on my stripped bed. I’m exhausted and fight the urge to doze at the wheel. Exhaust fumes caress my face and carbon and sulfur char my nostrils and throat. My bare legs are branded with grill marks, seared by the vinyl upholstery. I could close the car windows and crank up the air, but the heat is a respite from interminable waiting with no end in sight. The vigil goes on. I don’t measure time in days and weeks, but by hot and cold.

I park the car and enter the deep freeze of the hospital. The frigid air creeps into my loose shorts. The cold keeps me awake. My phone is vibrating. I don’t recognize the number. Sabotaged! My counselor is calling from his cell. I tell him I just arrived at the hospital and can’t talk. Surprise, surprise! He’s at the hospital too, only three floors away. He insists that I meet him. Now.

“You did get my message, didn’t you?” he asks, bounding out of the elevator as if it’s a matter of some urgency.

“Yes. I did.”

Hello, Andy. It’s Matt McGinley. I’m sorry for the short notice but I need to reschedule Friday’s appointment. I know this is a difficult time for you, so please call me. Perhaps we can find some time before my flight on Thursday. I’m back late Saturday morning. I can do Saturday afternoon or evening. I can even try for Sunday. Call me.

“Why didn’t you call?” he asks.

“I forgot.”

He looks skeptical.

“Four times? I’ve tried you four times since Monday afternoon.”

“Seriously, Matt. I forgot. I just plain forgot.”

He tries to put his arm around my shoulder, but I push him away.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I don’t need to start crying.”

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Not now. Not here.”

“Here” is the harshly lit Critical Care Unit, a place designed for observation and expediency, not privacy. I ask why he’s chasing after me. He says he was in the hospital anyway. There’d been a little problem with one of his admissions to the psych unit. I thank him for taking the time to check on me, tell him he shouldn’t have bothered. He should go back to the psych ward, the kid’s problems seem more important.

“No. Not more important, just more emergent,” he says.

Little does he know.

“Why did you cancel?” I ask.

“I told you. I need to go out of town. It was unexpected.”

“Where are you going?”

“Washington.”

“Why?”

He’s clearly uncomfortable being questioned.

“We can talk about that when I get back. If it’s necessary.”

“I think it’s necessary.”

“It may not be.”

“Is it an emergency?”

“No. It’s not an emergency.”

“Then why couldn’t you have planned ahead?” I’m surprised by how shrill I sound. “You know you’ve violated the cancellation policy, don’t you? Payment in full for cancellations with less than forty-eight hours’ notice. I’m enforcing it. It’s only fair. Here’s my price. You have to tell me why you’re going. Tell me what’s so—how did you say it?—important but not emergent. You cancelled too late. Now you have to pay.”

“Andy, I gave you plenty of notice and tried to reschedule.”

“I’m a very busy man, Matt. Can’t you see that? Take a look around. You think I don’t have anything better to do than sit around and watch the monitors?
Hey, nurse, what’s a flat line mean?
Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t have anything better to do. That doesn’t mean I’m not very busy.”

This time he forces me to accept the arm around my shoulder.

“Come on,” he says. “I can take a later flight.”

He knows the shortest route to the nondenominational chapel where the anxious can seek comfort in the Crucifix, the Star of David, or the Crescent Moon. Hindus are shit out of luck. The room is spartan and austere and feels about as devotional as an interfaith public service announcement on late-night television.

“Thanks for coming today,” I say.

“Sure.”

“You still owe me, though.”

“Come on, Andy.”

“I’m not letting you off the hook.”

“Technically I am off the hook. But because I’ve inconvenienced you, I’m waiving the fee for this session.”

“I’ll pay. Now tell me.”

“Look Andy, it’s a bit premature. There’s no point discussing it until, no, unless and until, it’s necessary. I don’t want to risk upsetting you for no reason.”

I don’t like the sound of this.

“Now you really have to tell me.”

“I’m in discussions with Georgetown. They’ve made me an offer. They need an answer by next week. I’m meeting other members of the department tomorrow, then dinner with the chair and the dean and the president of the hospital. I don’t know if we’ll be able to come to an agreement.”

This is perfect. Just what I need. Probably what I deserve. The final, gratuitous kick in the stomach. You fucker. Three weeks ago I was ready to walk out the door. Adios, amigo. These boots were made for walkin’. Up and over. Out from under. I would have ended it in a heartbeat if you hadn’t duped me with your silver tongue, hadn’t pacified me with your fucking case study. I see your agenda now.

Can’t take being rejected, huh? Keep me dangling a few more weeks, just long enough for you to be the one who walks away.

Fucking priest.

“Congratulations” is all I say.

“Like I said, Andy, it’s a little premature.”

I stand up quickly and extend my hand. “Well, good luck.”

“Andy, sit down. We were going to talk.”

“Matt, I have to go. I really do. My sister’s waiting for me. I’m late.”

I find the closest toilet, bolt the door, and vomit. I try lifting my head, but I’m dizzy, too dizzy to stand. I thought I could at least count on him. I thought I could at least rely on paying someone to keep me from being completely alone. Everything’s collapsing around me. Even my money’s no good anymore.

Regina is furious. She looks at her watch and hisses. She doesn’t understand why the unit is freezing. It’s like a meat locker in here, she says. What do you expect, I want to ask, where do you think you are? Don’t you see all these limp bodies, all these lives hovering just above the baseline, a weak pulse the only line of defense against the onset of bloat and rot? Face facts, kiddo, you’re in an abattoir.

Good morning, folks.

The army is descending on the Critical Care Unit. They’ve come to hear the announcement of my final decision.

Do not resuscitate.

DNR.

They’re sensitive to the palpable tension.

Pardon me, Mr. Nocera, Mrs. Gallagher? Are you in agreement? We like to have consensus within the family. Of course, Mr. Nocera, you have the power of attorney. The law says the decision is yours. However, it’s our experience that it’s better if everyone’s in agreement.

The pulmonologist has determined my mother is to be transferred from critical care. Other patients, ones with some hope of survival, deserve this bed. All of this expertise, this attention, cannot be wasted on comfort care. The hospice unit is perfectly capable of ensuring she feels no pain. The hospital has summoned the troops. They’ve been kind enough to provide us with our very own social worker, right out of Central Casting. She’s thin, tremulous, horse-faced. Why is her lower lip quivering? It’s not her mother lying there with her face covered by a thick plastic breathing cup. She oozes empathy and compassion, compensating for the let’s-get-on-with-it demeanor of the pulmonologist.

Regina and I retire to a small waiting room. We’ve been through this twenty times in the past week. She knows I won’t change my mind. She knows my mother’s last wishes. So she fixates on the oncologist, accusing her of having an attitude. She mistakes the good doctor’s dog-tiredness for lack of concern and impatience. I tell her she’s not being fair, that the woman could have chosen the safety and distance of communication by telephone line instead of a face-to-face confrontation with the consequences of the failure of the transplant.

My bone marrow has been swept away by an avalanche of white blood cells.

All further treatment to be limited to keeping her comfortable.

Do not resuscitate.

No mechanical respiration.

No tube feeding or invasive form of nutrition or hydration.

No blood or blood products.

No form of surgery nor any invasive diagnostic procedures.

No kidney dialysis.

No antibiotics.

No codes.

No extraordinary efforts to sustain life.

Do whatever you like, my sister shrieks, running out of the room, battered and defeated, only to reappear seconds later. She insists on a feeding tube. Memories of
National Geographic
and the bloated babies of sub-Saharan Africa haunt her. She can’t bear the thought of our mother starving to death. I agree and put my arms around her, letting her sob into my chest. I can always change my mind later, if this misguided act of mercy prolongs the agony.

The oncologist hugs me when I tell her our decision. She doesn’t offer any bromides, no it’s-for-the-best, it’s-what-she-would-have-wanted. She leaves that for the social worker. I thank her for being here, tell her it means a lot to us. She wishes she could have done more. She lets me comfort her, knowing the soothing effect my own kind words have on me.

The social worker says my mother should be settled in her new room in an hour. She suggests we get something to eat, we need to keep up our strength. My sister and I trudge down to the cafeteria and forage the steam tables. We carry our plastic trays, scratched and pocked from a thousand forks and knives, and find a table where we sit, silently. I squeeze a dry scoop of mashed potatoes through the prongs of my fork. My sister watches, disgusted. She drinks bottomless cups of black coffee and plays with the salt shaker. Then she starts tapping the table-top with her lacquered fingernails. She knows the rat-a-tat-tat is driving me crazy. I push my plate away from me and set down the fork. She stops drumming the table.

Truce.

“Sorry,” I say.

“Same here,” she says.

I need to piss and she needs to call her husband. Duties finished, we meet at the elevator and ride to the fifth floor. Gina pauses before she enters the room and our eyes lock. We share the same thought: our mother will never leave this room alive. She lies perfectly still on the bed, asleep, no, something deeper, more profound than sleep.

“Mom? Mama?” my sister says.

She pulls a chair close to the bed and holds one of my mother’s hands, talking to her in a low voice, sharing the latest news of the grandkids back in Florida. I don’t recognize the three model citizens in this family update. Neither would my mother if she could hear. My sister will not concede our mother is far beyond the sound of her voice. She’s read a half dozen paperbacks on death and dying and every pamphlet and brochure in the social worker’s arsenal.
Mama? Mom? Can you hear me?
She swears by the reflexive twitch in my mother’s fingers.
See, Andy, she knows we’re here.

My feet are sweating despite this freezing room. I slip out of my sneakers and press my toes against the cool tile. The funky scent corrupts the antiseptic sterility of disinfectant. I look down and see my father’s feet. Middle age, decades of pavement pounding, years of being bound in tight leather wingtips, have taken their toll. When did the tiny nails on my little piggies splinter and crack? I tuck them under the chair, out of sight. My mother, lying prone an arm’s length away, is confirmation enough of my mortality. The blinds are drawn so the sun can’t penetrate the room. The only light is electric and is kept as dim as possible, the darkness perpetuating the illusion she’s just asleep. We keep our voices low and step softly so we don’t disturb her. She needs her rest. We don’t acknowledge an explosion wouldn’t rouse her now.

My mother, by Caravaggio, dark tones suffused with mortuary light, anguish revealed, humanity triumphant.

My legs are stiff and I need to stretch. The staff doesn’t mind my pacing so long as I stay out of their way. It’s three o’clock. The shifts are changing. Bloods are being drawn. Doctors are rounding. One last flurry of activity before evening. Barring a code, the only crisis will be the late arrival of a cold dinner tray. I hear conversations, actual and televised, in the other patient rooms. I reminisce, thinking back to the many Oprah hours my mother and I have shared during this ordeal, comforted and reassured by the tragedies of others. Please, the nurse says, pointing at my bare feet. I apologize, embarrassed. She smiles and says she understands my mind’s elsewhere.

Yes, it is. Where, though, I don’t know. Anywhere but here. I want to leave. I want to stay. Time seems to drag, yet races away. I look at my watch. Almost seven o’clock now. It might be seven in the evening or seven in the morning. It’s all the same, night and day, nothing to do but wait. Thank God for the cold. I feel it, so I must still be alive.

Snap out of it. It’s mashed potato time again. My sister asks me to bring her something from the cafeteria, tuna on white toast, maybe some skim milk.