Flawless

by Joshua Spanogle

  I sat, waiting for the drug to file down the edges in my brain. These were the dangerous times, the times when I could think too much. About Brooke, about Dorothy. About the bastard who got me involved in all this in the first place.

  I should have pressed my thumbs into Paul Murphy’s eye sockets when I had the chance. I should have punished him when I was able to. As if losing his eyes, ears, and tongue wasn’t enough.

  God, what have I become?

  I slumped in the chair, trying to quiet my thoughts while the narcotic wormed its way into my blood.

  That day, like the three preceding it, would be spent like this: morning with coffee and OxyContin, then to Dorothy’s mother’s house to greet Tim when he got home from school. A half hour of homework, some reading, then Tim, his grandmother, and I would go to meet Daniel Zhang at UCSF to visit Dorothy.

  Her finger had been reattached, and she’d had the first of many reconstructive surgeries on her face. Reconstructive surgery was it for now, since—another blessing to count—the doctors hadn’t found any evidence of distant cancer spread. For whatever reason, though, Dorothy did not want anyone sitting vigil with her all day. Our visits were relegated to the late afternoon, which was fine with me. The narcotics in my system would be largely flushed out by then and the drive across the city would be reasonably safe.

  At the Zhang house, I sat down on the green fabric couch in the living room, listened while Tim and his grandmother conversed in the kitchen in a language I couldn’t understand. Dumplings had been offered to me, but I didn’t think my stomach—having just survived a battle with too much coffee—could handle them now. A grandfather clock ticked in the corner. Pictures of Dorothy and Daniel, their late father, dozens of extended family members, hung against the wall next to the window, their frames as close as tiles. Years of Chinese cooking had given the room a thick odor.

  After Tim finished his dumplings, he settled on the couch next to me, and I opened The Hobbit. We’d made good progress through the book, and the day before, Tim had started yammering about getting started on The Lord of the Rings trilogy. Though I’d protested the heft of that undertaking—“Tim, you know how long those books are?”—I have to admit the prospect of reading to this kid offered one of the few bright spots in my life. It gave me something to do, some reason for being. The rest of my life was waiting: waiting until my bruised and broken tissue knitted, waiting until Dorothy finished her surgeries, waiting until Brooke gave me the green light to see her, waiting until something happened to make me feel like me again.

  I began to read the book, doing my best to assign different voices to each of the characters. The task was daunting, however, and I always ended up hoarse after our sessions.

  We’d arrived at the big climax, where Smaug, the dragon, gets a bellyful of black arrow. I was really getting into it, and hadn’t noticed that Tim—who usually sat rapt next to me—was staring into his lap.

  “You okay?” I asked in Nate McCormick voice.

  “Why’d they have to kill him?”

  “Who? Smaug? Well, because he—” And I realized then that the boy wasn’t talking about the dragon at all. “Kill who, Tim?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Though the boy had been doing an amazing job of readjusting to normal kid-dom—back in school already, grooving on science and reading, tolerating math and social studies—there was still a bevy of demons floating around in his tiny head. I’d spent a good amount of time talking about Uncle Paul, about Uncle Tony, about how sometimes good people do bad things and vice versa.

  “I did really bad things,” the kid said, rehashing the conversation from the previous day. “I hurt Uncle Tony.” He looked up at me. “So, am I a good person?”

  “Like I said before, you’re good. You did the right thing. You had to protect me and your mom.”

  “But maybe Uncle Tony had to do what he did. Maybe Uncle Paul, too.”

  Good people do bad things. Bad people do good things. So who’s bad and who’s good? And what does it matter, anyway? In the end, I figure it’s all just gray on the moral ruler. Best you can hope for is, when the final judgment comes down, you’re a little farther toward the bright end of the stick.

  This, however, is not how I wanted things to be.

  “Come on, kiddo,” I said. “Let’s round up Grandma and go see your mom.”

  Daniel, Grandma Zhang, Tim, and I stayed with Dorothy for an hour. The surgeons had already removed her tumors, and were realigning what was left of her face, now covered by bandages so that not much more than one eye peeped out. The conversation was light, revolving around Tim’s studies, Daniel’s work schedule, and Dorothy’s recovery. There were a few “mommy-mummy” jokes tossed about. Before I knew it, it was time to leave.

  As we filed out of the private room, however, Dorothy called my name. I stopped in the doorway and let the family file past me. “He’s doing okay, isn’t he? Tim, I mean.” Her voice was muffled and indistinct from the bandages and the surgeries near her lip.

  “He’s doing great. We’re flying through The Hobbit.”

  “And you?”

  “I need to work on my dwarf voices. Other than that, I’m fantastic.”

  “Sure you are.”

  “This is healing nicely,” I said, and picked at the bandage on the left side of my face.

  “That’s not what I mean. You look worse than I do.”

  “That’s because the bandage only covers half my face.” The joke fell flat. “What can I say? It’s hard. I’m still trying to wrap my head around what happened. What I did and didn’t do. Trying to figure out why Paul did what he did.”

  “What’s to wrap your head around? You did your best. Paul became a rotten guy. End of story.”

  “Right. End of story.” I touched her bandage. “You’re in here. Brooke was in the ICU. Paul really did us a favor, didn’t he? Oh, and let’s not forget that I did things that make me sick to think about. I did awful things, Dorothy.”

  She pushed herself up on the pillows. “Things aren’t that complicated, Nate. Try to see the situation clearly.” This from a woman who could only see out of one eye. “You’re an imperfect guy who fought an imperfect fight against an imperfect world and who still wants everything to be perfect.”

  “That’s an oversimplification.”

  “Is it?”

  “I should get out of here. Got to drive back to—”

  “Nate,” she interrupted, “listen to me. There’s no perfection out there. Not in the world, not in a face, not in a relationship, not in the resolution of what we just went through.”

  “I know nothing’s perfect.”

  “But you still can’t handle things when they’re not. I don’t mean to be harsh, but you’re like a child. You want everything to be so tidy and clear-cut. Learn to live with the mess, okay? It’s like you either run away from the mess or you insist on getting in way over your head, trying to clean it up.”

  “Thanks for the psych consult.” I looked into the hallway, to where Grandma, Tim, and Daniel were waiting. Daniel was speaking with a doctor he’d cornered. I turned back to Dorothy, back to that one clear eye staring out at me from the gauze. “I really should go.”

  “Running away?”

  I smiled. “Of course.”

  “Well, Nathaniel McCormick, I am not running away. I’m diving headfirst into the mess.” She sighed. “Think about it. Think about who I’m falling for.”

  “Dorothy—”

  “Yes. I’m falling for you, as if you didn’t know. So, there it is. I’m falling for a man who has to work things out with his ex-or current girlfriend. Who has to deal with what happened and with what he’s going to do next. Who has to come to some peace with Paul. Maybe that guy will figure all this out, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll just run, or decide he doesn’t want anything to do with an out-of-work reporter who looks like the Bride of Frankenstein. Maybe I’ll be left sitting at my mom’s with Tim, telling him that Uncle Nate dec
ided to go back to Atlanta, telling myself you’re a jerk for not calling me. It’s messy. But, guess what, McCormick? The mess is what life is all about.”

  I took her in for a second, this person who was a jumble of bandages in front of me. “Messy, messy, messy,” I said.

  “Learn to live with it.”

  “I don’t want to live with it.”

  “God, you really are like an eight-year-old. Not even eight. Six.”

  I pulled a chair next to her bed. I felt a tremendous closeness to her then. And though I wasn’t sure the feeling would last beyond this moment, I wasn’t sure it would fade, either. “I would kiss you now, if I could.”

  “Well, nothing’s perfect,” she said. “Not even moments like this.”

  I pulled her hand to my mouth and touched my lips to the skin.

  That night, I sat on the bed in my rented room. In addition to the bed, there was a chair and a small table. A guy who just got out of rehab lived next to me. This is what three hundred bucks a week gets you.

  I cradled the cell phone in my hand. I was sober now, weaned temporarily off the narcotics. My head was clear.

  An imperfect guy fighting an imperfect fight against an imperfect world. All this to make things perfect. The equation just don’t add up, now, do it?

  I dialed the number, listened to the ring cut the silence four times. Then, her voice.

  “Nate?”

  And though my mouth hung open, ready to utter the next sentence, I had no idea what it should be.

  “Nate, is that you?”

  I pressed the phone to my ear so hard it hurt.

  For my family

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am deeply indebted to:

  Those who sifted through Flawless and gave me pointers on everything from databases to the intricacies of Chinese names: Chantal Forfota, Michelle Hlubinka, Danielle Bethke, Mark Holtzen, Robert Cook, John Spanogle, Daniel Sullivan, Yohko Murakami, and Alberto Molina. I’d especially like to thank Eli Cooper, Austin Bunn, and Jennifer Sim, who read through multiple drafts and engaged in endless conversation to inch this book closer to completion. Every writer should be so lucky to have such skilled and energetic friends.

  Dr. Julie Parsonnet, Dr. Pennan Barry, and Dr. Vik Udani for their expertise and advice regarding medicine and public health. I would also like to mention my debt to Stanford Medical School for fostering an environment conducive to all forms of intellectual inquiry and expression.

  Jim Granucci of the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Office, and Inspectors Jameson Pon and Henry Sito of the San Francisco Police Department. For someone who has spent much more time in medical school than at the police academy, their input was invaluable.

  Alice Martell of the Martell Agency. A writer could not ask for more in terms of advocacy and support. Every day I trudge to the computer for another round, I’m thankful I have Alice in my corner.

  Kate Miciak at Bantam Dell. I hope Kate knows how lucky I am to have an editor as brilliant as she is. It is through no fault of hers that this book is anything but, er, flawless.

  My family and friends. Though the phrase “there for me” may sound trite, it is appropriate here. I am truly humbled that these people have always been there for me, through all the ups and downs that characterize the lives medical and literary.

  ALSO BY JOSHUA SPANOGLE

  Isolation Ward

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JOSHUA SPANOGLE is a graduate of the Stanford University School of Medicine and Yale University. He has also served as a researcher at the University of Pennsylvania’s Center for Bioethics. His bestselling debut medical thriller, Isolation Ward, is available in paperback from Dell, and he is at work on his next thriller, which Delacorte will publish in 2009.

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