A Stitch of Time

by Lauren Marks

  It was so hard to convey what it was like for me at this moment to Jonah. I felt so off-balance, even a small gust of wind, from any direction, could shatter me into pieces. I did want Jonah to come to California, but I couldn’t let him be the linchpin either—because I had to be fine even if he didn’t come, too.

  Though my friend who had also gone through a craniotomy extolled the virtues of denial, I found this forced forgetfulness impossible. I desperately wanted to seek out the comforting order of the Quiet. But I wasn’t even sure what that was anymore. Delusion? Invention? I wasn’t even sure if I should want to want the Quiet. Jonah became a convenient scapegoat for my helplessness. After yet another conversation had gone wrong, he tried to apologize via text, but I furiously scribbled my frustration about him in my journal, and tried to find the words I should have told him when I could.

  “I’m sorry i was short with you. I’ll try to call later.”

  a text from Jonah

  He was short. In a conversation about travel plans to L.A. I said he could book a ticket with putting it on hold, instead of pay for it up front. This is because I haven’t decide on the date of the surgery, because I haven’t decide my surgeon. I he said something about “not able to be to flexible” and a glib “I have to make a living over here.” His curt comment leave me hurt and angry. I’ve told he doesn’t need to go come.

  But I need to say is plainly I will not bedgrudge if you do or you don’t. But if you are going to be here, you must support me. Visualizing the punk rock haircut, the long bandaged scar. Visualizing the room in the hospital and the view outside. Visualize an extremely successful surgery. Walking, unsteadily, down halls of the From the I.C.U. Visualizing me parentsTell Tell me if I should in corporate in the landscape.

  The journal didn’t much help with my visualizing exercise—all I wanted to do was create an image of myself waking up from surgery. And the more detailed the better. But when Jonah and I were arguing, I kept inserting and removing him from this image, which frustrated me to no end. Whatever, I thought. Fuck. This.

  25

  In many ways, Dr. Russin had become the axle of my medical wheel in Los Angeles. She was the first person to be on my “team,” before the neuroradiologist, neurosurgeon, neuropsychologist, or even Justine signed on to the case. My surgical deliberations had been hugely counterproductive thus far, as I continued like a windup toy, hitting the same wall over and over, maddened by the amount of information I could so easily find online but not so easily interpret. It seemed you needed to study brain science before you could actually select a brain surgeon. I walked outside into my mother’s rose garden in full bloom and called Dr. Russin.

  I had my second opinion, I told her. At UCLA.

  And?

  Still can’t decide.

  Listen, Lauren, she said. The surgery is a given. And these are both very reputable surgeons, so you just have to choose between them.

  I just don’t know what I am supposed to do.

  And I really didn’t. This is what I knew about my two potential neurosurgeons: They were both placed at high-profile universities. They were both the chairmen of their respective programs. They had world-class reputations. And I had to trust one of them with my life. The stakes couldn’t be any higher. Their credentials were undeniable, but the problem was that I didn’t especially like either of them.

  USC or UCLA. USC or UCLA. I waffled back and forth. USC and UCLA had a famous rivalry, known since birth by kids who grew up in Los Angeles, where allegiances were declared through shirts and bumper stickers. On game days, flags would be unfurled in neighbors’ yards. Even children in elementary school were expected to choose sides. I didn’t care about sports at all and I had no fixed allegiance, but since my father had pursued a master’s in theater at UCLA, it was my default school when pressed for playground fealty. Could I actually let a university rivalry inform my choice of a neurosurgeon? Irrationally, I caught myself doing exactly that. I was even weighing the values of the schools’ mascots against each other. Bruin versus Trojan: cheery teddy bear versus Roman soldier. At least a Trojan had experience with sharp instruments, and had opposable thumbs. That was a plus.

  I hoped Dr. Russin could be more practical.

  The doctors won’t even look me in the eye! I complained. How am I supposed to trust my life to someone who won’t even meet my gaze?

  That’s hard, I know. But you don’t choose your surgeon because of his bedside manner, she said. You choose him for his hands.

  What would you do?

  Dr. Russin sighed. Well, I have a cousin out in Nevada. She had a neurosurgery botched out there, and I brought her to LA because it was clear she needed another operation. Lots of people vouch for the excellence of the UCLA team. But when it came down to my own family member, I went with USC and sent her off to Giannotta. Afterward, I saw the video of his surgery. He’s ambidextrous, just as good with his left wrist as his right. A pure artist.

  Finally, I was getting information that seemed relevant to me.

  And, she added, Dr. Giannotta doesn’t mess around with drugs or booze. I am certainly not saying that Martin doesn’t either, I just don’t know him that well. Surgeons are just people, like all of us. You’ve got to consider all the factors. And I know Dr. Giannotta better.

  I started to hyperventilate. Jesus—it never occurred to me before then—but there were neurosurgeons who might come into the operating theater drunk? Or high? In addition to investigating their professional credentials, should I be asking about their personal lives too? Did anyone have a sick parent—or a wife who was leaving him for a younger man? It was too much to take in. If I were a windup toy, this was a ham-fisted turn of my key.

  It was the first time I had allowed myself to cry since I found out about the craniotomy, and I started to weep. I didn’t want to be too emotional in front of my family because it might bring out their own hysterics. But the confusion, the distress—it all became salt water. My heaves made the phone slick with my tears.

  Dr. Russin softened her voice. It’s okay to cry, she said. If it were me, I might be crying too.

  This made me cry even more.

  But by the end of the call, I had finally made my decision.

  •  •  •

  It had been hard to explain to Krass why I wanted to go to the Paris catacombs in the first place, especially since he had been initially reluctant. It seemed to me that it was as big a draw as any other tourist site there. So much of Parisian existence celebrated life, but it was one of the few major cities that preserved such a profound reminder of death, too. Also, there was something I had always loved about transitional spaces, from buildings in construction to long-abandoned ruins. Their history and potential was intoxicating. After some convincing, Krass begrudgingly decided to join me.

  When we arrived at the red brick entrance, we descended the winding stone staircases into the dimly lit underground. Krass translated the plaque before us, which warned us not to take, or touch, anything.

  Six million dead Parisians were housed in the catacombs, resting three stories below the city. The first items we saw were some large bones, specimens tucked away in dim enclaves. We had to peer through bars to observe them. But after that, there was a major transformation of space. There was a huge volume of bones that were no longer kept in separate rooms; they were just stacked. There were skulls everywhere, skulls without bodies attached, ceiling-to-floor skulls. They were piled on top of each other, creating the very walls of the tunnel, sometimes assembled in geometric shapes and aesthetically constructed rows like mandalas of human parts.

  I slowed down to a reverent pace. I started to crouch every few yards to imagine flesh on the skeletal remains, reminding myself these were people, not wallpaper. This man, I imagined, was a merchant who died from influenza and was survived by his plump wife with a goiter. This was a girl who had been skipping by the Seine in a rainstorm and had tumbled unnoticed under the water, her body not found for weeks. H
ow many people died together, in war or fire or plague? I was especially drawn to a skull on the floor with a hole inside of it, slightly larger than a kernel of corn. It was a smallish specimen. I decided it was a woman, and there was no reason to concoct the cause of her death—the desiccated bullet wound an inch above her right eye socket was explanation enough. With no docent hovering nearby, I slipped my pinky finger into the skull. I didn’t lift it from its place, but could feel its ridged and dear weight, like a ring on my finger.

  Nothing about this touch felt like a trespass. But for a few short seconds, the woman and I were as closely linked as any human beings could be. Her life and death were suddenly part of me, too, and with such an allegiance between us, contemplating my own eventual death didn’t seem so horrible.

  Krass was no longer beside me, but I knew there was no chance of us losing each other. In spite of the labyrinthine turns of the sepulcher, there was only one way out, if you were getting out. When I finally climbed the winding stone stairs, I found him in the gift shop. He looked pale as he fiddled with the music boxes.

  We sat down for a drink at the nearest bar where he proclaimed that he would never take that trip again. Not for all the oolong in China, he swore.

  From his red barstool, I could tell he was waiting for a tacit agreement from me. When I didn’t offer it, he prodded. Oh, come on, Lauren, he said. You can’t just tell me that you felt absolutely fine in that place.

  But I had been.

  Sometimes I wonder if the peaceful sensations I had experienced were somehow related to the pressure building so quietly in my brain. Physiologically, my life was in imminent danger when I was in Paris, I just was not consciously aware of it yet. I had been rummaging inside of a woman’s skull and in a couple of weeks, others would be rummaging through mine. But how utterly strange to think of it like that. Part of me wants to believe I was preparing myself for things to come, and the reason I felt surprisingly comfortable in the catacombs was a pre-recognition, or some kind of prescience.

  Still, I know that hindsight can be sneaky that way. Every event that starts as random and disconnected is later drawn to have direct links in the minds of those recalling it.

  The magnitude of the tomb did stir something in me, but what was it exactly?

  And I wanted Krass to understand. I felt solemn, I said. Sort of . . . safe.

  26

  The evening after my neurosurgical discussion with Dr. Russin, I slept soundly. Deciding on USC and the date of the procedure had helped, too, and the nightmares that had been plaguing me since my consult with Dr. Giannotta relented a bit. Gratefully refreshed the next morning, I told my parents that I’d join them on their morning walk, as soon as I had jotted down the details of the dream I’d had the night before:

  Dream

  Mom buys a new house, but doesn’t have the money do t it. It could be an huge investment but with rixks. I wonder over the rooms, inspecting the newness—built up to the qualifications.

  I have to remove my books from my treehouse. All paperbacks. Illustration with caption—two kids on the tricicylues talking about the Odyssey and (Illid?). I want to ge with a my books out of the treehouse in one trip. walking up the slide.

  an older mustaschioed man tries to help me but he can’t climb the slide. I catch a foot into a step, and the other leg in perpindicular fashion, a ferry the books this way. upside down. right side up. upside down. right side up.

  The dream didn’t bring up a lot of reactions in me. In fact, it was somewhat straightforward, symbolically. Treehouse = head. Book = knowledge. The risks of moving to a new house = brain surgery. When I finished writing it all down, I joined my parents outside. But today we were also picking up our friend’s dog, so our route changed slightly. On the way down the street, we passed a sun-bleached red Toyota, parked not far from our own driveway. From behind the car, I could see the driver’s head slightly bowed. Sleeping? Listening to the radio? A red book was on the dashboard, bouncing pink light against the windshield. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary or out of place, really. And then I saw his mustache. That changed everything.

  That guy, I told my parents. That guy was in my dream last night.

  He looks like someone from your dream, my mom said. Huh. That’s weird.

  I faced the car again. No, I told her. It doesn’t look like that guy—it is that guy.

  Are you really positive? she asked, intrigued.

  Hate to burst anybody’s bubble here, my father interrupted, but Lauren isn’t positive because she can’t be positive about something impossible. This is just one of the many ways the mind can be suggestible.

  Though these people were our neighbors, I hadn’t met them before. My parents didn’t know them well either, but they explained to me that this group had an early-morning prayer breakfast once a month. My parents had always found them to be kind and cordial, but that was basically the extent of what they knew.

  The dog down the road was eagerly awaiting our arrival, and I helped my parents put him on a leash. When we passed the red car again five minutes later, the man was getting out of it. I rushed over to meet him.

  Hi, I said, extending my hand. How are you?

  Oh! The man was surprised, but shook my hand immediately. He then searched my face for any sign of recognition. I am . . . quite . . . well, thanks. And you?

  My parents apologized for my abrupt introduction and introduced themselves as well.

  My folks think I’m crazy, I said hesitantly. And maybe you’ll think I’m crazy, too. But you were in my dream last night.

  To my great relief, he wasn’t put off by the comment. Instead, it seemed to tickle him. His laugh was warm and welcoming. I guess I should be honored! he said. He introduced himself as Reverend Meyers, and I asked him about the morning meeting. Was it some sort of prayer group, like my parents said?

  Not exactly, he said. Wednesdays are oatmeal days. He explained that the group was nondenominational and consisted mainly of peace and justice workers, some of whom worked in religious groups, others in more secular environments. But they were all people of faith.

  You are welcome to join us any time you’d like.

  I looked to my folks and the panting dog and made the split-second decision to give up on the walk and join this stranger’s gathering. It was clear that Reverend Meyers didn’t expect me to join them right away. His kind expression was infused with an equal mix of confusion and amusement.

  My mother leaped in to save me any potential embarrassment. Unless of course you’d rather just have your regular meeting without distractions, she said.

  Not at all, the man said. Your daughter should definitely come in. The more the merrier!

  I can’t say what moved me to be so forward, but my mind had been mired in the sludge for weeks, and the excitement of being exposed to something a bit uncanny was intriguing. Inside the house, everyone made room for me at the table. A group member grabbed a chair for me, another gave me a bowl and a spoon, and someone else poured my orange juice. Most of them were around my grandma’s age and several conversations were already underway. A woman in dangly earrings was talking about the housing crisis in Los Angeles and how she was letting a homeless man stay with her until he was placed in a proper care facility. A couple at the head of the table—my neighbors, I later discovered—were discussing the decades of strife after the CIA-driven coup in Guatemala. A bald man detailed his upcoming trip to the Palestinian territories, and the people around him were debating whether Israeli actions in the area amounted to prosecutable war crimes. The subject matter made it all sound more like a political science class than a prayer meeting.

  A huge pot of pecan oatmeal was resting on the table, and Reverend Meyers offered some to me. I thanked him but told him I was allergic. He wasted no time grabbing a smaller pot from inside the kitchen.

  You are in luck, he said. Sister Pat doesn’t take nuts either, so we’ve got our bases covered here. He gave me a ladle full of porridge.

&n
bsp; He nodded to the woman beside me, her grey hair in a boyish cut. After our bowls were filled, I tried to engage the nun in conversation, asking how everyone in the group knew each other.

  Oh, us? We’re just a ragtag group of troublemakers, she said, giving me a wizened wink. Let’s see, some people met at divinity school at Harvard, some during their missionary work in Central America, and others were picked up at human rights protests, or events like that.

  But you are a Catholic nun, aren’t you? I asked.

  Until I hear otherwise! Her throaty, joyful voice resounded in the room. There are usually a couple of Catholic nuns at this gathering, she explained. But there are also Presbyterians, Lutherans, Anglicans. We don’t have any priests in attendance, though we’ve got several retired pastors.

  When the group got around to asking me questions, I felt strangely comfortable telling my story, from the surgery in Scotland to the upcoming operation. Even in my very short time in this room, I had already heard stories from people who had survived kidnappings, rocket launches, and bomb blasts. I only felt easy sharing my personal experiences when I could trust that it wouldn’t make me the center of attention or a source of pity. My story was hardly the most interesting or the most perilous. Everyone listened attentively, responded graciously, and then they all moved on to the other items of the day. It couldn’t have gone any better.

  It was an informal affair, without Bible verses or sermons. Instead, they discussed urgent community concerns, some local, some global, and the members decided among themselves what resources could be committed to what causes. As the conversations wound down, and the bowls were returned to the kitchen, I leaned over to Sister Pat again.

  I didn’t know what it was about her that made her easy to talk to. Perhaps it was her weathered look that reminded me that she had endured all manner of things already, a face that looked like it had a talent for keeping confidences. Also, I had let a dream guide me into this space, so it seemed important that I make the best of my time in here. I told the nun that since the paperwork at the angiogram required me to state my faith, I’d started thinking about religion again.