by Nick Totem
Lana directed him to her apartment in downtown Los Angeles, not very far from the emergency room. Thomas mentally mapped out the road, and if he had to, he would take her back to the ER himself. They drove past the Standard Hotel.
“Remember that place?” he asked, a tad wistful.
“Yes. It was so long ago,” she said. She turned away, and then said, “Thank you for being so kind, Thomas.”
“You know I have to watch over you tonight, right?”
“You can’t be serious. I’ve caused you enough trouble.”
“It’s nonnegotiable. I have to watch over you tonight. An absolute medical necessity,” he said.
Her apartment was on the fifth floor. The building was old, and the rickety elevator made a clanking noise. The carpet in the hallway smelled of dust. Lana opened the door to what was in fact a studio. Next to the door, a small space contained a kitchen and a nook with a table and two chairs. Further on, a bathroom, a closet, and a sitting area with a sofa and a tiny coffee table made up the rest of the studio. The bed with a small nightstand had some of her clothes on it and stood next to the far wall, which was made of glass and the only redeeming feature of this dingy place. In front of the bed, a little space separated it from a bookshelf, full of books.
“Please come in,” Lana said without a hint of embarrassment. “I’m sorry it’s a bit messy. I wasn’t expecting guests. We’ll figure a way to make you comfortable.”
The smell of dust came in from the hallway and now mixed with a faint smell of food and oddly perfume. What had happened to the private jets and the penthouse and the lifestyle that must accompany them? He looked around the studio and smiled politely, but sadness for her, compiled from what he knew of her and how he had expected her life to turn out, leaked out all the same.
Even under the lone light hanging from the ceiling she seemed to see his expression clearly enough, but quickly avoided his eyes and went about tidying up, stuffing errant clothes and unruly shoes into the closet. “It’s very comfortable here. Well, it’s a bit tight actually, but I left most of my things at Dominic’s. I don’t mind. And it’s extremely convenient. The gallery is nearby. In fact, I walk to work every day. Sometimes I come back here for lunch, or just to have a rest. And it has a wonderful view. Come and take a look. You can see the street below. The view alone is worth the rent.” Then she went into the kitchen, putting some dishes into the sink. “I have no talent for housekeeping. You could already guess . . . It’s also very inexpensive. What I mean to say is that it’s inexpensive compared to other units in this building. Though the neighborhood has undergone quite a bit of gentrification and . . . you know how it is.” She suddenly raised her eyes to him and, as if seeing him for the first time, said, “Where are my manners? Please sit down. You must be hungry. That’s right, you haven’t had dinner. I’m so sorry. I’ll see what I have.” She rummaged through the old, humming refrigerator and then closed the door, standing there thinking. “I will be right back.”
Hearing her, Thomas perked up, as though he was being addressed directly by a character in a movie. He had been standing near the door next to a full length mirror, observing her, making himself invisible.
“What? What do you mean?” He went up to her.
“I’m just going to get you something to eat. I don’t have anything here,” she said.
“No, Lana. You’re not going anywhere. I have to keep an eye on you, remember?” He took her hand to prevent her from leaving. They looked at each other.
Then withdrawing her hand, she said, “But I won’t have you go hungry because of me.”
“It’s okay.” His voice softened. “Fasting will do me good. Please. Just relax.”
“Okay, it’s just you and me tonight then,” she said. “A little bunker with two comrades.”
“While bullets and rockets and mortars are flying outside,” he added to the joke.
“Worse, it’s the money, awash out there that will kill you.”
Startled as if she had read his mind, he looked at her and laughed, and almost blurted out what he had conceived about the giant money-cock pounding the world.
After much reassurance from Thomas and apologies from Lana, the light was turned off. She in her pajamas settled into her own bed, and he in his work clothes tried to fit on the sofa. He set his phone to vibrate every two hours so he could check on her. Lana, however, fell asleep almost instantly, and he could hear her, the breathing of someone in deep sleep. What luck that he was here with her—the thought came to him. But why? Why had she fallen from Lloyd’s graces and consequently his wealth? Upon hearing her name on the phone, he had been surprised, certainly anxious and worried, but one is anxious and worried only for those whom one cares deeply, and happy and hopeful. With the fact that she had reached out to him and that he was now sitting a few feet from her, hope didn't fade away so quickly. His body was tired, but his mind too alert and slightly ashamed at the anticipation of touching her. He got up quietly, took a chair to the glass wall, and sat and looked down the street. Lonely streetlights, cars parked along the deserted street, shops shuttered—he loved the midnight street. A car suddenly swooshed by, and then peace again. He sat looking out a long time. His phone vibrated. He felt a perverse excitement as he moved toward her. Under hazy light coming in from the street, he stopped to gaze at her, and then he put the back of his hand to her face. “Lana,” he called out softly. She stirred. “How do you feel?” “I’m fine. Just so sleepy,” she muttered and turned away from him. He took her hands and told her to squeeze, and pushing against her feet, he told her to push down. “Do you feel me touching you?” She murmured something like a yes and curled onto herself. Back to the chair then, with the essence of Los Angeles rising in the night air just on the other side of the glass, he kept vigil. He loved this place, this apartment, so long as she was here, too, where there was nothing to eat, knowing enough now to demand nothing more. Two hours later, he still didn’t feel the bite of sleep; what he experienced was in fact more of a high than alertness. The thrilling high he had once craved came back in full force, and underneath this was also an anxious vigilance that forced him to map the way back to the ER. During these hours he was at his best as a doctor, he was giving a most precious cargo safe passage through the night. “Lana,” he whispered to her when it was time to check on her again, not wanting to startle her from her dream. “Umm . . . love ya.” The words were carried on her breath, audibly enough when she stirred, as if she was having a conversation in her dream. He stood still to listen, if she would say anything more. But nothing else came except her rhythmic breathing and a soughing murmur now and then. He aroused her fully now and went through the routine again as best as he could. “I’m fine. Please sleep. You must be tired,” she said at last and went back to sleep. He flopped down in the chair again, but this time he was weighed down by what he had heard. Whom does she love? Certainly not him. Suddenly feeling that he no longer belonged in this apartment, he longed for daylight and departure. For a long while he sat there mulling about whom she loved, but sleep finally overcame him, and he leaned his head against glass and fell asleep. He hadn’t slept very long and his mind was on the verge of diving into a dream when his phone buzzed again. It was five o’clock. This would be the last time he needed to check on her. Maybe afterward he could leave quietly. “Lana,” he said softly as he stood by the bed. He shook his groggy head. “Lana,” he said again and was about to take her hands for a repeat of the neurological exam when she turned to him. “Poor darling. You must be so tired.” She took hold of his hand. “Come, lie down and sleep. It’s a bit tight, but lie down next to me. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” Still holding his hand as if she wasn’t taking “no” for an answer, she moved to the edge of the bed, pulling him down. He lay down, feeling her next to him, her breath, his hand being held, and feeling an incredible coziness. A strange question, however, occurred to him: What are the odds?
29
The visit to the ER had ap
parently frightened Lana enough, so she told him, that she asked him for help to take care of her medical problem, once and for all. Thomas gladly agreed to introduce Lana to several doctors, who were his friends and who offered the earliest available appointments. He took Lana to see an oncologic surgeon, Doctor Robert Chen, who specialized in breast cancer surgery. Robert agreed that the best course of treatment would be a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy and subsequent reconstruction. Lana’s ovaries could be removed later by another specialist, a gynecologist. To prepare for the mastectomy, Lana had to have a mammogram to make sure that there was nothing unexpected. Another of Thomas’s friends, a radiologist, offered to perform the mammogram. During their meetings, Lana gave the doctors the authorization to communicate with Thomas regarding her treatments, as if she did not fully trust herself to follow it through to the end.
“Thank you for helping, Thomas,” she said after the last appointment. “I hope you don’t mind being involved like this. It’s a comfort for me since I trust you, but if it’s too much, I do understand. I’ll find another way. Just let me know.”
It was all so natural, all unthinking, to insert himself into her business, a terrible ordeal. “I’m happy to help,” he told her.
She squinted at him, thinking, crinkling her face, and said, “I’m sorry. It’s not fair for you. I hate to burden you, but I really don’t have anyone else like you.”
“Don’t think anything of it. I’m happy to help.” And then he remembered and said, “Oh, we’re having a dinner at my house. As a matter of practicality, I think it’s a good idea to meet my partner, his wife, and my mother. Just in case I’m held up, they can be of help.”
“I’d love to, Thomas. Maybe I can even make onion soup for them. The one dish I know how to make.”
By early evening the following Saturday, everyone had gathered at Thomas’s house. Mike brought his family—his wife, Theresa Nguyen, and his two children, Daniel and Samantha. Lana was particularly taken with the children, especially the girl, asking her name, hobbies, and joking with her, almost ignoring the adults. Thomas chatted with the boy, talking to him like his own son or a good friend whom he had not seen for a long time; they told each other jokes, though amid the laughs a sharp stab of guilt hit him as he suddenly realized that the Iraqi boy and Daniel were about the same age.
When they offered to help, Grace Wilde shooed Thomas and Mike from the kitchen. So they sat in the backyard drinking Dos Equis, and looked on as Grace gave instructions to Lana and Theresa on how to prepare ropa vieja, a family recipe.
Mike scrutinized Thomas. His eyes flicked about; it seemed as though he wanted to say something, but he was afraid that he might offend.
Thomas noticed this and said, “I was wrong about her. She’s a very good person. She had nothing to do with Chau the Dog. He was hired by someone she once knew to keep an eye on her.”
“Is that so?” Mike didn’t seem to completely believe his friend.
“Yeah. Pretty incredible, but the guy is a rich hedge fund manager. He throws money around. He even wanted to pay me the twenty grand.”
“Let me guess. You didn’t take it.” Mike snickered.
“How could I?”
“I got you.” Mike took a sip from the beer bottle and then said gingerly, “So you’re helping her with her surgery.”
“Yeah. Her sister had it done. Robert agreed with a prophylactic mastectomy.”
“All right. Let me know if I can be of help.”
“Thanks, bro.”
“What about Charli?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I mean, I’m just dating her right now. Nothing serious. I don’t see a reason to tell her about all my friends.” Thomas suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Charli in the past week. In fact, he had made excuses every time he received a text or a call from Charli.
“Now the real thing is back, you’re getting rid of the lookalike,” Mike said facetiously.
“What are you saying?”
“What? You don’t see it. Now that I’ve got a good look at Lana, I can see why you like Charli. They’re a bit alike. Well, Lana is much more beautiful, of course,” he said firmly.
“Nah, I don’t see it.”
Just then Grace called them to come in for dinner.
Lana began the dinner by serving onion soup. Ropa Vieja, a Cuban steak stew that Grace had cooked the day before, was the main course. For dessert, Theresa had prepared flan. The clanging of dishes and utensils, the voices of adults talking and of the children asking for more, and the smell of onions and stew, were, for Thomas, happiness, a strange sort and fleeting as it may be. But Thomas’s mind was not on the food; instead he tried to study everyone’s expression, especially his mother’s, and hoped that the dinner would be successful. Now and then, he couldn’t help gazing at Lana, who was wearing a simple yellow dress with pink roses, and thinking how graceful she was.
After the kids excused themselves, the adults sat and talked. Everyone except Grace, who refused alcohol, drank reisling. Observing and probing, Grace tried with the utmost tact to engage Lana. Mike related his story of immigrating to America as a refugee, growing up with Thomas in the same neighborhood, and later attending UCLA together. He asked Lana about the places in Vietnam that she had visited during her travels. Theresa was most gracious in extending her friendship and invited Lana to have lunch the following week. As for Lana, she talked selectively about her past when she had volunteered to do charity work in third world countries while leaving out the salacious parts of her life, and she would only say that she had left Stanford because of a family situation. As she told her story, she would look to Thomas and smile, as if they were co-conspirators.
Just then, there was loud knocking on the front door. Everyone turned to Thomas.
“Hmm, be right back,” he said.
As he opened the front door, Charli’s voice, loud and excited, rang out. “Hey, baby. I thought I’d surprise you.” She wore a leather mini-skirt, boots, and a tight fitting T-shirt, and with a bottle of wine in one hand and a purse in the other, she went in and leaned into Thomas to give him a kiss.
“Oh, hi,” Thomas blurted out.
Charli turned to the dining area that was in full view from the entrance, and took a few automatic steps, to size up everyone, to tabulate, and to assign roles. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?” She shrieked sharply, her face flushed with anger, and her eyes focused on Lana, who must have stood out prominently in her tabulation. “Is this why you’ve been ditching me?” She spoke rapidly and furiously. “Just look at that thing.” She glared at him. “Are you fucking her?”
Everyone stared, speechless. Thomas stood still, unable to speak.
The shocked look on his face only confirmed her suspicion, and she shrieked, “Unbelievable. Motherfucker.” In a flash, the bottle of wine flew straight to the painting and was smashed into bits. Pieces of glass fell to the floor. Red wine splashed all over the painting, dripping down in sinuous carmine lines. “Urggghhh,” Charli bellowed a long howl, took a deep breath and said, “You know he’s a serial killer. Beware!” And she ran out the door.
“Oh, the young people today,” Grace said calmly and got up.
Everyone followed her lead. The kids came out of their room and were told to go back in. The adults picked up the pieces of glass. The rags came out. In a few minutes, they cleaned up the mess, except for the painting. Lana was deemed the only one who knew how to clean the painting. She cleaned off the wine with a wet towel and quickly dried it.
“Arthur applied a thick layer of varnish to the painting. It doesn’t appear damaged in any way,” Lana said when she was done.
The way Lana said “Arthur” so casually struck Thomas instantly, and later on the drive to her apartment, it was strangely the only thing on his mind, not Charli’s tantrum, not the painting, not how his mother saw them, not anyone else, so occupied was he with this thought that he answered her with quick, short responses.
“I
f you want me to talk to her, I will. Did she say you’re a serial killer?” Lana said after inquiring about Charli.
“No, no. Of course, not. Don’t call her,” he said. Now having seen Lana and Charli in the same room, he grudgingly admitted that Mike had been right; the two women had similar features, though Lana was more beautiful by far.
“I’ll be happy to.”
“Of course not. How do you know so much about the varnish?”
“It’s standard practice to apply a layer of varnish to protect the painting.”
“Do you know that the shapes in the center of the painting make up a woman?”
She turned to him and caught on. “It’s an abstract painting. You can make out almost anything, but you’re right. It’s a woman. I modeled for him a few times, including that painting. That one and some other realistic portraits.”
“What a coincidence. Darn. I bought a painting of you and didn’t even know it.”
“It doesn’t look anything like me, you should see the other portraits, more lifelike.” She stopped suddenly.
A perfunctory good night preceded the drop off, the watchful waiting as Lana disappeared through the front door. A muse for the artists, Thomas considered this new revelation about Lana as he drove home through the midnight streets that had become more tortuous than ever.
30
A call from Robert Chen interrupted Thomas’s morning clinic the following Monday. As he himself had often done, he knew that doctors would only call when they had bad news. Robert informed him that Lana would need to have a biopsy before the mastectomy. The mammogram indicated an area of calcification on her breast. Then Thomas called Lana about the news and said that he would come to her apartment to discuss it in person.