My Famous Brain

by Diane Wald

  Nevertheless, I was all but overcome. It was worse than losing Sarah because, for one thing, there was no one else I could blame, nowhere to direct my anger. I fought despair as long as I could, but then a time came when I could do nothing for a week or more but sigh intermittently and think about Eliza. It was then that my mother died. When the telephone rang late at night, I was still awake, nursing a headache. I knew in my heart it could not be Eliza, and yet a faint hope rose. It was my Uncle Perry: Mother had died in her sleep, he said; I was needed at home.

  I sat there on the couch until morning; I think I hardly moved. I tried to will myself to die right then, and I think the fact that my body was truly paralyzed with fatigue and sorrow was the only thing that kept me from seriously considering suicide. When I heard some school children chattering on their way to the bus stop, I was pulled back to the world. I got up and took a blistering shower. I called Frances and asked her to inform the boys of their Nonny’s death, and asked her whether she thought I should take them to the funeral. She was, thank heavens, very kind. She said she would take them herself and offered to call Perry to get all the details—of course I had not thought of anything so practical as that. She called me back in an hour or so and filled me in; I was to meet her, Mark, and Harry at Perry’s house later that afternoon. Perry’s enormous house would have room enough for all of us to stay a few days, and, she said, in anticipation of my question, of course he knew we needed to have separate rooms.

  Naturally I could not drive, but I did not ask Frances to take me. I called my student chauffeur, who was happy to oblige; when he learned why I was going to Connecticut, he insisted on making the trip for free. I promised myself I would find some way to repay him; I regret I never did.

  Harry and Mark had seen me often since I’d moved out, and so I suppose they were used to the way I looked, and accustomed to the thickness of my glasses and my strange new half-blind habits, but I’d been able to avoid meeting Frances for many months. When she saw me get out of the passenger side of the Caddy, she was obviously appalled. She came up to me and took my arm in a painful grip.

  “Jack,” she said. “What the hell is wrong? I mean I know you loved your mother—and God, Jack, you know I did too—and I expected you might look a little under the weather, but this is ridiculous. What’s going on with you? You’ve lost almost all your hair! How did that happen so fast? You’re white as flour. You’re positively skin and bones. And those glasses! My God, I’ve never seen anything like them!”

  “Thank you, Frances. It’s good to see you too.” I unhinged her from my arm. Then, in a quieter, menacing tone, I said to her, “Don’t ask so many questions, okay? I’ll talk to you later, alone. I’ll fill you in. Please just keep your mouth shut for a while.”

  I guess that scared her, as had been my intention. “All right, Jack,” she said and marched off in front of me to shepherd the two boys towards their father. After the three of us had hugged and Harry was heading back to Perry’s house with my overnight bag, I heard Frances ask him why he’d never told her Dad looked so poorly.

  “He doesn’t,” I heard Harry say. “He just looks a little different, that’s all.” Love almost choked me.

  People were kind to me that day, probably chalking up my unnerving appearance to my mother’s death and my constant “overworking.” So many people, in fact, referred to this overworking of mine, that I soon deduced that Frances was spreading a story about me to cover up what she must have begun to suspect to be a terrible truth. I did not love her anymore, but she was not stupid or unkind; in her way, she was trying to spare me any more stress on this horrible day. And, except for the boys, she was the only one there I really knew anymore. I decided it wouldn’t be so bad to talk to her.

  After dinner, she drove us to a lounge she’d seen from the highway. It was so dim inside I couldn’t see a thing and was forced to take Frances’s arm and be guided to our table. Once seated, I was able to make out the glow of a candle in the centerpiece, and, thinking it would be encased in one of those bumpy little globes, I reached out both hands to cup them around its warmth. But there was no globe; I got all candle and burned the fingertips of one hand painfully. Frances called the waiter and demanded a bowl of ice. She plunged my hand into it and held it there, hard, with her own.

  “Now,” she said her voice low and calm. “What’s going on?” I could hear naked fear in her voice under the toughness. I felt sorry for her, sorrier for the boys. I realized she was the first person since Eliza that I’d had to tell about my illness. I hadn’t had enough practice.

  “Brain tumor,” I said curtly, cruelly. Then for some reason I couldn’t say more. I think I smiled a little.

  She pressed my wounded hand so viciously into the freezing bowl that an ice cube cracked. She jumped back at the sound. I wondered if it had been a finger breaking—my hand was so cold I couldn’t feel it at all. She said, finally, sounding stupefied, “What?”

  “Frances, I have a brain tumor. Not malignant, but slowly growing, and inoperable. My vision is slowly getting worse. I’m sorry to break it to you like this, but there just hasn’t seemed like a good time to tell you. The boys don’t know. I don’t see any reason to make them suffer until the end is near. That’s what I want to talk to you about, Mark and Harry. It will be rough on them, Frances, but I’m glad they’ll have you. You’re a good mother. Don’t worry about me; I’m all right. I’ve known about this for a long time, and I’m learning, as they say, to live with it.” I paused, removed my frozen hand from the bowl, and dried it on a napkin.

  “How long?” she said.

  “No one knows,” I told her. “Probably quite a while yet. It seems that the type of tumor I have can wax and wane a bit and even move around some at times.”

  “No,” she exclaimed, impatiently. “I mean how long have you known about this?”

  Her agitation was palpable. I felt the air around us heat up with the effort she was making not to scream or shake me or overturn the table. But there was no way around it.

  “Before I moved out, if that’s what you mean.”

  The waiter came and took our orders. Frances was sweet to him, even a little coquettish, I thought. I wondered how we looked together to this man, what he thought about us. When he left, she let out a huge sigh and drank a whole glass of water.

  “I’m sorry, Jack,” she said. “I just can’t believe it. I can’t believe you knew before you left home either.” Her voice was shaky. “You could have stayed, you know. I’m not that bad, am I? Did you think I’d turn you out when you were ill?” She’d begun to cry. It made me angry, but I tried to be nice to her.

  “It wasn’t that,” I said. “I just had to be alone. I didn’t want pity, and I don’t want it now. What I want to talk to you about is the boys. I know this is a shock to you and that I probably should have told you sooner. I just couldn’t, that’s all. Frances, there have been a lot of complications in my life since I left you, not just the sickness. I’m pretty well exhausted, body and soul.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I hear you.” We had a drink (orange juice for me) and talked about Mark and Harry. We mapped out a strategy for informing them of their father’s serious illness. We went back to Perry’s friendlier than we’d been in a long time. In the car, I could smell the familiar scent of her favorite perfume, and it made me nostalgic.

  “Frances,” I asked her, “can I ask you something?”

  “Ask away.”

  “I know this will seem bizarre to you, but please don’t make fun of me, and don’t ask me any questions. When we were really in love, you and I, did you ever rate me as a lover—in your mind, I mean?”

  She laughed, but not callously. “I get it,” she said. “I wonder who she is. I guess you’re not going to tell me?”

  “I told you not to ask any questions. If you don’t want to answer mine, just say so, and that will be that.”

  “No, I don’t mind. Let’s see. On a scale of one to ten I’d say—in your sa
lad days, mind you—you were about a thirteen.” She laughed again. “Sorry. I guess that’s an unlucky number.”

  “Thanks,” I said, in an exaggerated way, to cover my embarrassment. “I needed that.”

  The funeral was sweet and dignified and, of course, emotionally draining. I had loved my mother well, and I would miss her. Somewhat consoling was the thought that she did not live beyond me, did not live to experience the crippling pain of witnessing her own child’s death. And, as far as she had known, I had always been a success: perhaps I had brought her some comfort, though at the time it was difficult to imagine myself ever having comforted anyone. I spent the rest of the day after mother’s burial with the boys, strolling through the pleasant acres surrounding Perry’s house and reminiscing with them about Nonny. They did not seem to mind leading me about by the hand; perhaps it was not odd to them anymore, or perhaps the peculiarities of the funeral-day had obliterated all normal reactions. My many recent sorrows had blended into one overpowering cloud. I fairly sleepwalked, feeling little. I did not even have a headache that day. I did not even feel exhausted, although I must have been.

  Everything was suspended. It seemed as if all I did was breathe now and then. That feeling of suspension stayed with me for several days, but eventually my loss of Eliza surfaced. I felt I had to call her one last time, just to hear her voice. I had no intention of trying to see her, or even of letting her know that it all was over. She would come to that knowledge herself sooner or later, if she had not already. I knew it was wrong of me to call, but I thought it might save my life. Getting over Sarah had been hard, but I was whole then. My mother’s death had been hard too, but that was natural. Eliza had been my lifeline for so long. I needed help with this one.

  It had been perhaps three weeks since our last encounter. I called her mother’s house, where I knew she was likely to be spending the weekend, hoping against hope that Eliza would answer the phone. She did. She sounded vague and far away, and it seemed to take her a few seconds to identify my voice. Then she sounded frightened.

  “Oh, Jack,” she said. “I was just dreaming about you.”

  “You were? In the middle of the afternoon?” I was so taken aback by her opening statement that I’d forgotten why I called.

  She sounded terribly excited and spoke in a rush of words. “I know it’s afternoon—I can’t explain it. My mother went out to do some errands, and I thought I’d help her out and vacuum a little and things like that, but all of a sudden, I got so sleepy, Jack, I could hardly stand up. I lay down on the couch for a minute, and I must have fallen instantly asleep. For a while, I didn’t realize I was dreaming; I thought I was just here in this very room and thinking of you and how long it’s been since I’ve seen you, and then I heard a car drive up in front of the house. I looked out the window and there was a long black Cadillac—the same year as yours, but much longer, like a limousine—and you got out of the back seat and started walking up the driveway. You were walking the way you used to walk, so quickly and with such purpose, and I guess that’s when I realized it was a dream. You were different. You knocked on the door, and when I opened it, you looked at me as if you’d never seen me before.

  “You were so distant, and I was frightened. Then I realized it was a funeral car—not a hearse—I mean it didn’t have anything to do with your dying, Jack—but the kind of car people ride in when they’re being taken to a cemetery to attend a burial service. Jack, I’m sorry this all sounds so crazy, but please tell me you’re all right. It really scared me. Then the phone rang, and it was you.” She was starting to sound panicked. “Oh God,” she said, “Jack, this is really strange.”

  I wished I could put my arms around her. “Eliza, listen, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’m okay, really. I’m sorry I haven’t called you. My mother died last Friday; I just got back from Connecticut. I had to deal with Frances and the boys and a whole bunch of other relatives and when I got back, I just had to be alone for a while, that’s all; I’ve been very tired.”

  “Your mother? Oh, Jack, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” Then she stopped and I heard a little intake of breath. “That must have been the car in the dream,” she said.

  I was stunned. Of course, she was right. Instead of feeling spooked, for some reason I just felt loved, but I didn’t know what to say to her. She was right; it was very strange indeed.

  I said, “It does seem that way.”

  “Amazing,” she said.

  “Not really so amazing. It seems like we communicate even when we don’t try. I like that. I hope it doesn’t frighten you.”

  “No, I’m not frightened. I’m just a little shocked. This time it was so obvious. But anyway, I’m glad to hear your voice. Will I see you soon, or are you still tired?”

  So she didn’t know yet. I would have to be careful. I wanted to say, Eliza, you’ve already left me, and I know you’ve done the right thing. But all I said was, “I really am, love. I think I just need to be alone for a while longer. I was just calling to hear your voice.”

  “I understand,” she said. “Shall I call you Saturday? That way you’ll have the whole week. Would that be okay?”

  “Saturday would be perfect, “I said, trying to sound normal. “Until Saturday then.”

  “I love you, Jack. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m sure. I love you too.”

  “Bye.”

  “Eliza?”

  “Yes?”

  “Never mind. It’ll keep. Take care, love.”

  “You too,” she said.

  Saturday came and went. On earth, I never heard her voice again.

  But that very same day an odd miracle did occur. At twilight, my worst time of day for seeing, I ventured out for a little walk on the grass. There was a park of sorts behind the apartment complex with a couple of benches and some greenery and such. I thought I should get out of the apartment for a while. I was as sure as I could be that Eliza would not call, so I wasn’t worried about leaving the telephone. I walked slowly along the little fence to one of the benches and sat down, thinking of Eliza, my head bent backwards towards the sky. I imagined I saw her face among some stars, but it was purely imaginary, since I could not really see the stars either. Suddenly I began to feel cold, then just as suddenly warm. I wondered if I were having some kind of attack connected to my illness, but then I felt a curious sensation of expectation. It reminded me of something I’d read once about certain psychics who experience an “aura” before some other-worldly occurrence. I told myself that that was absurd, that I was probably just getting sicker.

  Then I heard a roaring noise—internally, somewhere inside my head, but more distant and detached than that—and what sounded like trees falling. For some reason I looked down at my feet. Some dried brown oak leaves were swirling there in a little eddy of wind, but the sounds were magnified enormously. The leaves were beautiful: they crackled and scraped along the ground in a graceful wind-dance; their edges were delicately curled, and their stems still lined with traces of jade and acid green. I was seeing them. I felt a rush of joy that almost knocked me off the bench. Not only could I see them, but I could see them better than I had ever seen anything before: everything was perfectly clear, perfectly beautiful, perfectly outlined in shadow and light like a photographic masterpiece—a stirring, wind-roaring film of astonishing grandeur.

  But as soon as I realized I could see, I could not; in fact, my vision, by contrast, seemed even a little worse. The leaves were still there, dancing. I could feel and hear them. But my moment of clarity and brightness was gone. A last gift, perhaps. Whatever it was, it had happened. It was over. I made my way back to the apartment and got into bed, still wondering about it. I had no one to tell now. I wanted to call Eliza, but I did not let myself. I fell asleep quite bitter. If this one last chance to see had been a gift from the gods, why could it not have been Eliza’s face in front of me, and not a bunch of leaves?

  29. A Twirling Nosedive

  Don
and I arranged to dine at a small but elegant seafood restaurant in the Village. We’d both reached the conclusion that the black-tie idea was really a bit much and decided we’d be happier celebrating in a more comfortable way. Driving into the city, I wondered why I had a headache again and decided I was probably just hungry and overtired. Don seemed tired too; in fact, he looked rather sad. This is great, I thought: some celebration. I’ve got a whopping pain in the head, and Rath looks like his cat just died. But as we neared the restaurant, his face brightened considerably.

  “I think this will be just what we both need,” he said.

  We were given a very good table, secluded behind some bamboo plants and near a thinly curtained window, so that the city lights were softened for us. Don ordered a double Campari with lime, and I followed suit. I loosened my tie; I began to feel better. We both ordered trout and asparagus. When our cocktails arrived, I downed mine speedily and sat back to listen to Don rattle on about some student confrontation he’d had that day. I was in no hurry; I knew we’d work up to the Mussel stuff in due time.

  The waiter brought our salads, and then the trout. I looked down at the grilled fish, split down the middle and spread-eagled on the plate like a Picasso print, and felt suddenly very ill. The waiter was asking me something, but I couldn’t make it out. I decided to make a dash for the men’s room and put out my hand to steady myself on the table, but then everything began to go black and sparkly. I remember thinking, so this is what fainting is like, and then the next thing I knew I was waking up on a leather sofa in somebody’s office with Don’s face looming over me and his hand on my wrist. He seemed to be taking my pulse, which I thought very odd. When I opened my eyes, he started.