Schrödinger's Dog

by Martin Dumont

  It was almost seven in the evening. I stood up and walked over to the window. The sun’s last rays were lighting up the walls of the hospital. A shimmering orange veil settled over the buildings. I’ve always loved the fading light of day. The final parade, a lap of honor, and then the night.

  The nurse came in to tell me that visiting hours were over. I could come back tomorrow; the operation was scheduled for the early morning. I thanked her and leaned down over Pierre. He’d woken up and was silently observing me. I wanted to hug him, but I restrained myself. I never do that sort of thing—I’m afraid it might be too solemn.

  I ran my hand through his hair. There was a gleam in the depths of his eyes. Not fear, no. Maybe a little apprehension. I thought he was pretty damn brave. I told him so, and he blushed slightly.

  “Good night.”

  Out in the corridor, everything seemed smaller than it had when we got there. I took a little tour to see if I might be able to find the doctor. All I saw were a couple of nurse’s aides, two women who were clearing away the meal trays; they smiled at me as I passed. I went downstairs with an old man. In the elevator, I realized that he hadn’t even noticed me. Everything seemed so familiar to him; he must have been coming here for a long time.

  It was cold outside. The night had won in the end. I walked to my car. Not far away, the main thoroughfare was roaring with traffic as people left work. Since I didn’t want to go home, I turned on my roof light. I felt better at once—my taxi often has that effect on me.

  As I was pulling out of the parking area, a woman raised her hand, and I stopped.

  She didn’t wait long before starting to prattle away. Ordinarily, I like passengers who talk. But in this case, I was sorry I’d picked her up. I wanted to concentrate on myself, on my hopes and fears. I needed to let my brain analyze the situation, fabricate the future, reflect on what could happen to us. Rising to the occasion would require some imagination on my part.

  Of course, there was no way that the woman in the back seat could know any of this. She just kept on telling her story. Her husband was the reason why she was there. “It’s hard to recover from a heart attack at his age.”

  I understood completely, but I didn’t give a damn. I muttered, “Yes, yes,” as experience had taught me to do. Her voice was too loud. I couldn’t think.

  “He will recover.”

  As to that, I should have no doubt. A sturdy fellow, her Léon. And besides, his time wasn’t up yet. “The problem is physical degeneration. He’s always been a force of nature.” My own father too, that’s the type of guy he was. A bear. My mother liked to call him that. But Léon didn’t like anything about losing his strength. “It’s terrible, you know? He needs a nurse to help him relieve himself. That’s what’s wearing him down, having to depend on other people…”

  When we reached her destination, she left me a big tip. I thanked her and wished her good luck. She walked away. I watched her go, because there was an incredible dignity in her step.

  10

  I hardly slept at all. Because of the operation. Also because I often work at night. I got up at three a.m. to switch on the television. There wasn’t anything on, but I stuck it out for an hour. When I went back to bed, I picked up Pierre’s play, which was lying on the night table.

  I don’t read, or when I do, it’s newspapers. I had trouble following. It was the story of a kid going off in search of his mother, who died during the war. He makes his way to a village and conducts an investigation. I smiled when I read that the boy’s father was a taxi driver. I wondered if that had been Pierre’s idea. It was possible, and the idea gave me pleasure.

  I imagined him, alone in his white room. Tomorrow, a stranger would cut his stomach open. I don’t know whether I was nervous about that. Maybe just awestruck. A hospital is a hell of a thing, all by itself. It radiates uncommon power. I’m a guy who’s always had confidence in medicine.

  With Lucille, it was a different story. Conspiracy theories, that sort of thing; she trusted neither doctors nor medications. When she talked about the pharmaceutical industry and its lobby, she’d work herself up into a terrible state. The interests advocated by Big Pharma were the diametrical opposite of hers. She was crazy about acupuncture—she taught me the word while sticking a cactus needle into my skin. “It’s good for you,” she said.

  I never had any doubt about my Lucille’s good intentions. If she could have relieved all the suffering in the world, she would have.

  I just wish she would have started with herself, at least a little.

  * * *

  —

  At the hospital, they told me Pierre wasn’t awake yet. He hadn’t even returned to his room, so I had to wait. A nurse’s aide promised that the surgeon would come by and see me.

  There was a smell I couldn’t identify in the waiting room. A remarkable smell, but without the least character; there it was, it could be perceived, and yet it wasn’t anything. Clean and impersonal.

  I don’t often go into hospitals. Not more than the average, I mean. Once or twice with Lucille, when her crises were at their peak; but she hated the hospital scene too much. In the end, I stopped trying to persuade her.

  The more I think about it, the more I realize I gave in a lot. I couldn’t say no. That’s why it was my fault too.

  The doctor wasn’t showing up. I understood, of course; emergencies take precedence. In my case, I didn’t have any valid reasons—or yes, maybe I did, but not reasons like that. There were surely some fractures he had to deal with, likewise some hemorrhages. As for me, all I had was distress, anxieties racing back and forth through my brain. I couldn’t hold that against them; the ache I felt inside was already too far gone.

  * * *

  —

  The hours were passing, and I was going crazy. Just before I got up to yell at the receptionist, the doctor arrived. I said nothing, of course. A hand was extended, and I gripped it. The surgeon smiled the way you’d smile at nobody in particular. It didn’t mean anything. I had to make an effort, because my heart was beating too hard.

  “Will you follow me, please?”

  I thought he was going to his office, but instead he accompanied me to the room. When he stepped in, he looked all around, as though surprised to find it empty.

  After a few seconds, he invited me to sit in the armchair while he leaned against the wall. I was very uneasy. His body loomed over mine. This position—him above me—made him look like some kind of professor. He began to explain the situation. Pierre was doing well; he’d wake up in an hour. Then they’d bring him back to the room. The operation had gone smoothly, except that they hadn’t been able to take out the whole tumor.

  “Which means?”

  I saw that he wasn’t used to this. His patients surely never interrupt him. My voice had sounded aggressive, involuntarily. His reply was a little curt. “The tumor is less well placed than we thought. It’s complicated to remove the whole thing without risking serious tissue damage. We’re dealing with a very fragile area, you understand?”

  I understood, but I didn’t like it. I mean, that wasn’t the agreement. The previous day, the terms had been set out clearly: they would remove the entire tumor. I had said yes, I’d turned over my son to him, and he’d split him in half. Did he realize?

  Of course, I said all that to myself. The surgeon hemmed and hawed. He’d been able to extract a significant portion of the tumor, and that was the most important thing. Pierre needed rest. He was going to have some more tests, and then they’d decide.

  He paused. He stared at the door, looking impatient. Fear and panic took hold of me. Was I supposed to say something at this point? Maybe it was up to me to ask good questions.

  In the end, he stood up straight and consulted his watch. “What can she be doing? We said one o’clock…”

  He wasn’t talking to me; I didn’t ask for clarification. I
looked at the door and understood that clarity would come from there. I didn’t know what it would be—and moreover, I didn’t want to know. I wasn’t ready. I stared at that door and prayed it wouldn’t open. Ever.

  I felt a sudden urge to throw myself at it. To hold it shut, to break the handle that shone against the white background. It was stupid, but as long as that door stayed shut, everything remained possible. I mean, out in the corridor, there was still uncertainty. All conceivable futures were there, dancing on the other side of the door. A crowd of eventualities with their probabilities. Yes, as long as no one opened the door, reality remained free: it could head in any direction at all. Parallel worlds. I could see them distinctly, the beautiful ones, and then others a bit uglier. It was normal; balance is necessary everywhere. No, what counts is hope. One word too many, one expression, or one opening door—and the conditional is dead.

  If only the handle wouldn’t move. If only the door would remain closed forever.

  * * *

  —

  Obviously, the hospital didn’t see things the same way. There was a sick man, and there was his father, waiting for him. There was the truth. Physicians are rational people.

  A woman came in. A brunette in her early forties. Little round eyeglasses, perched halfway down her nose. She shook my hand. “Hello, I’m Dr. Ward, the oncologist. I apologize for being late—I was with another patient.”

  I didn’t react right away. The surgeon most probably thought I hadn’t understood. “She’s a cancer specialist,” he explained.

  I blinked. I was just in time to see the futures breaking apart on the horizon.

  She told me there would be other tests. She was pessimistic about the diagnosis. “It’s pancreatic cancer.” The cells were metastasizing, and there was a risk of propagation. “We’re going to have to discuss what treatments to consider.”

  The surgeon wished me “Good luck for the rest” and slipped away.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be in charge from here on,” his colleague reassured me. “We’re going to take good care of your son.”

  She gazed at me steadily, and I wasn’t sure where I should aim my eyes. A nurse came in to announce that another patient had woken up. Dr. Ward made a sign with her hand, and the young woman went out without closing the door again.

  “We’ll talk about all this again with Pierre. You can mention it to him, but don’t feel obligated. I’ll be there to accompany you. Don’t hesitate to ask us for help.”

  She was smiling. I had trouble understanding her last words. I said “Thanks,” but that wasn’t what I was thinking.

  You do what you can with your lips.

  * * *

  —

  They brought Pierre back to me at one o’clock sharp. He seemed conscious but completely lost. They explained that he was still under the effects of the anesthetic. “He’ll snap out of it in the afternoon.”

  I stayed by his side. He opened his eyes from time to time. When his eyelids fluttered, my whole chest tightened. “Pierre? Say something. Anything at all.”

  I spoke to him several times without success. He had to wake up soon, I thought, because I could see him stirring. He was in pain. His forehead betrayed the signs of a desperate struggle. He was trying to turn over, but a groan escaped him with every movement. It killed me to see him like that, pinned down on his back, I could tell it was bothering him. I wanted to act, but I had no idea of what I ought to do. Once again, I felt terribly powerless. I prayed that it wouldn’t become a habit. Finally, a nurse looked in and changed his IV bag.

  He came to an hour later. With his eyes on me, which made me feel good. I smiled at him and asked how he was doing. He made a face. I said, stupidly, that his discomfort would go away, and I put my hand on his forehead. It relieved me to see him wake up. It was as if my guts untangled themselves under my navel.

  I thought back to what the oncologist had said. The cancer, the treatments. How could I have the slightest discussion with him now? He fell asleep again, and I slumped in my chair. Sleep was invading every cell in my brain. I closed my eyes and let it come.

  The oncologist came back toward the end of the afternoon. She nodded to me in greeting and woke up Pierre. She asked some questions. As he repeated that he was hurting, she promised to increase his dosage of painkillers.

  I was on the sidelines, feeling insignificant. My mouth was furry from my nap, and I cast my eyes around for a bottle of water. While the doctor gave us some details about the operation, I saw Pierre try to sit up straight in his bed. She spoke clearly and slowly. Pierre didn’t look as though he understood her very well; I saw him nodding his head mechanically. His features grew more and more tense. I wondered why she didn’t run off and find something to make him feel better.

  As soon as she left the room, he closed his eyes. I could tell he was concentrating on his pain; I was sorry I wasn’t suffering too. I waited a little while, and then I stepped out into the corridor. A nurse was busying herself around a cart. She was in her thirties, a blonde with her hair pulled back. I didn’t like making a fuss, but Pierre was hurting too much. I explained that as well as I could. I thought she was going to get annoyed, but she smiled and said, “I’ll be there right away.”

  11

  Of course, there’s only one doubt. I’ve often wondered whether I was the only person it occurred to. Could her parents have considered it as well? I’ll never know.

  It didn’t come all at once. In the beginning, when they called me, I didn’t realize. Lucille, car crash, tree. At first, shock dominates everything else. It takes over your brain, and your heart starts beating hard.

  “No…no…no…”

  That’s what I said, for sure. With my head wedged between my hands. Squatting down, my back flat against a cold wall. But in fact, I don’t remember.

  * * *

  —

  Everything went too fast the first few days. There was Pierre to take care of. I did a lot of running around, without really understanding. I didn’t have a single moment to myself.

  My memory of the funeral isn’t very clear. Some silhouettes, some overlong silences. I remember being surprised to see all those people crowded around the coffin. With her illness, Lucille had cut herself off from the world. Many former friends had turned their backs on her, but death surely smooths over everything. The dead are all good people, as someone sang.

  There were speeches I didn’t listen to. I felt François’s hand on my shoulder. I was glad to have him with me. I was sobbing like a child. I’d lost the love of my life, and that’s like dying a little yourself.

  I pulled myself together quickly. There was my son. It was terrible for him too, but he didn’t realize that. In any case, growing up without a mother is an awful thing. Maybe that was the reason why I became so close to him. Was I trying to compensate for his loss? I have no idea.

  The inquest was what plunged me into the thing. Or maybe it was just that by then I’d had time to reflect. There was a witness; he said that the car had been going too fast. It had gone into a skid and left the road.

  Lucille detested speeding.

  Later, they told me she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt, and I didn’t believe them. That wouldn’t have been at all like her. They were positive, so then I thought she was probably under the influence of some of her pills. The experts assured me she wasn’t.

  A police captain curtly announced his conclusion, namely that the crash was “a stupid accident, the kind that happens often.” I had a ton of questions, which I failed to ask. I felt like an idiot. They weren’t needed anymore.

  I’ve never talked about this before. Is it important? Well, it continues to haunt me. Always this feeling of helplessness, this sense that I could die of guilt. Pierre knows only the official version. I don’t want him asking the same questions as me.

  I don’t often speak to him about his mother
. It’s not that I refuse, it’s just that I’m not sure what story to tell him. There’s a love story, of course, but that’s none of his business. As for the rest, I’ve never been capable of putting it into words.

  12

  This evening I had a rendezvous with François. There’s a bar we sometimes meet in. It’s a little bistro on a narrow street not far from the main square. It’s a practical choice, because it stays open all night. Drivers often go there for a break, and also lots of other guys. I think they don’t have any better places to go to. Sometimes men turn up angry because they’ve got themselves kicked out of their houses. They drink two-three beers, grumbling all the while, and then, once they’ve calmed down, they leave.

  On the weekends, random groups of young people descend on the bar. They’re already drunk, and they’ve come to prolong the party. Not very interesting. We meet there only on weekdays, often in the middle of the night. We drink coffee or beer, depending on the mood and the hour. The place is a bit small, but we always find a table. I don’t like sitting at the counter, it makes me feel like my conversation’s being overheard. And besides, you look like a drunk, sitting there with your elbows on the bar.

  When I came in, I saw François sitting in the back. He was waiting for me with a double espresso on the table in front of him—alcohol is for after the shift’s over. I looked at my watch: it was two o’clock in the morning, an early time to take a break. I told myself I’d go back to work after this little pause. In any case, I had nothing better to do. When I’m working, I forget the rest for a little while.

  I’d seen François on the day after the operation. I’d told him about the pancreatic cancer. At the word “cancer,” I’d watched his face tense up.