Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  “Does that mean that I’m going to be okay for the Olympics? They did arthroscopic surgery on me, didn’t they?”

  “Yes, they did,” G.W. says reassuringly. “But you’ll have to ask the doc about the Olympics. He should be in soon.”

  “Jago wouldn’t be buying me exercise equipment if I wasn’t going to be in the Olympics, would he? I mean, if I’m not going to be in the Olympics, it really doesn’t matter how fast I get back into shape, does it?”

  “I just don’t know, honey. I mean, that all sounds like it makes sense, but I just don’t know.” He reaches out and strokes her hair. She closes her eyes and feels like she’d purr if she could. “I hate to see you getting your hopes up until after you’ve had a chance to talk to Doctor Patel. You might be getting yourself all worked up for nothing.”

  “I can handle it, Daddy,” she murmurs. Somehow, the gentle, rhythmic clanking of the technician’s tools at the foot of her bed seems strangely soothing, and she feels herself drifting back off to sleep to the strains of a metallic lullaby.

  3.2.9: Frisco

  The next time, everything is much clearer. It’s not like she’s drifting out of an anesthetic haze, it’s more like she’s waking up after a delightfully long nap.

  And it looks like there’s a party going on in her room.

  G.W. is there, and that sure looks like Sunshine, and there’s somebody else – Carla? – and they’re all trying to whisper so as not to wake her, but they kept chattering, and then someone laughs, and then someone else says SHHH!, and then it gets quiet for a minute, but then somebody else says something…

  Everyone is so engrossed in trying not to wake her that Jillian’s the only one who notices when someone opens the door and tentatively steps into the room. “Flowers for 213?” he says, but without much force, and nobody seems to hear him. He clears his throat and seems to be about to try again when he catches Jillian’s eye. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he says. “Are you Miss Kendal?”

  “That’s me,” Jillian admits, reluctantly revealing her conscious status to the other occupants of the room.

  “Jill! My God, you’re awake!”

  “How do you feel, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, Jill, we didn’t mean to wake you…”

  “Will y’all shut up for a minute?” Jillian says, trying to sound cross. “The flower guy’s trying to give me some flowers, and I can’t hear a word he’s saying.”

  “Oh, shit,” Carla says. “Go back to sleep.” Everyone laughs.

  The Flower Guy looks around the room, appraising it like he’s measuring it for renovation. “I can bring some of them in here if you want me to,” he says.

  “How do you feel?” Sunshine asks, solicitously.

  “Some of them? What the hell,” Jillian says, “bring ‘em all in. We got lots of room. And I feel pretty good, Sunshine. Under the circumstances. How’s your knee?”

  “There’s a whole mess of flowers,” the Flower Guy says. “I don’t know if they’ll even all fit in this room. Seriously.”

  “It’s okay,” Sunshine says. Her eyes flicker downward, and Jillian can tell that she’s embarrassed. “I mean, compared to your knee… I guess you were right about what you said.”

  “I’ll handle it,” G.W. says. Jillian raises a hand in acknowledgment. That’s one less thing to worry about – when Daddy says he’s handling something, it gets handled.

  “Sunshine,” Jillian says. Now she’s a little embarrassed. “I don’t remember exactly what I said to you, but I seem to remember being pretty nasty. I guess I owe you an apology. I wasn’t thinking too clearly at the time.”

  “Holy shit, Jill,” Carla says. “If you’re going to start apologizing every time you say something nasty…”

  Sunshine shakes her head. “No,” she says sadly, “you were right. I did quit. I wasn’t really injured, I was just a little sore. After seeing what you went through… I’m very disappointed in myself. I let everybody down.” She speaks in a small voice, and she sounds like she’s going to cry.

  “Oh, cut it out,” Jillian says. “I don’t need any depressed people in my hospital room.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m just kidding, Sunshine.” Joking with Sunshine, Jillian realizes, is not an easy thing to do. “And besides, you made the Olympics, didn’t you? In fact – holy shit, we’ve got the whole goddamn U.S. women’s long-distance triathlon team right here in this room, don’t we?”

  “Do you really think you’re going to make it?” Carla looks skeptically at Jillian’s knee, swaddled in its protective cast. “I mean, even if your knee heals in time, you’re going to be a little out of shape, don’t you think? Maybe you ought to let somebody else take your place. You probably won’t be able to put in a really good performance for a while.”

  “Good enough,” Jillian says, “considering the competition.”

  Carla laughs. “Jesus, Jill. I was feeling so sorry for you that I almost forgot what an asshole you are.”

  Jillian smiles. “Hey, I’m an invalid. You’re not supposed to insult me.”

  “Jill, I’m gonna bring some of these in here.” G.W. holds two enormous floral arrangements, one in each arm; the Flower Guy carries a huge, wreath-like garland that looks to Jillian like it belongs around the neck of the winning horse at the Kentucky Derby. “But like the man said, there’s no way all of ‘em are gonna fit in the room. So we’re either gonna have to get you a bigger room or give some of ‘em away.”

  “Why don’t we give them away to some of the other patients?” Jillian suggests. “Just save me the cards, so I can read all the nice things that everybody says about me.”

  “This one’s from Stan Kennedy,” G.W. announces, waving one of the floral arrangements that he’s carried into the room. “The card says, ‘Jill, you continue to be an inspiration and a source of amazement to us all. You will always be a true champion in my eyes. All my love, Uncle Stan.’”

  “Jesus.” Jillian rolls her eyes. “Sounds like a eulogy.”

  “And this one,” G.W. continues, pointing out the enormous, almost grotesque, wreath that now dominates the room, “is from Jethro Blasingame in Oak City, Utah. He says…”

  “Who?”

  “Jethro Blasingame,” G.W. repeats. “Oak City, Utah. His card says…”

  “Who the hell is Jethro Blasingame?”

  “Jill, I don’t have a clue about who the man is,” G.W. says, exasperated. “But I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you’d shut up for a minute so I can read you his goddamn card.”

  “Now, is that any way to talk to my patient?”

  “Dr. Patel,” G.W. says. “Good morning.”

  “Please, G.W., I asked you to call me V.J.,” the doctor answers. “But I didn’t come here to talk to you, anyway.”

  Jillian had noticed him enter the room as her daddy was attempting to read Mr. Blasingame’s message, but because he was wearing a knit shirt, blue jeans, and running shoes, she hadn’t paid him any attention. And he appears to be in his late twenties or early thirties – which, she realizes, is younger than she was expecting.

  “How’s the patient?” the doctor asks cheerfully. Carla and Sunshine start to rise from the bed, but he waves them back down. “Sit,” he orders. “I’m only going to be a minute.”

  “I feel pretty good, Doc… V.J.,” Jillian says. “Am I…”

  “You can call me Dr. Patel,” he says, smiling. “I didn’t go through three years of medical school so some teenager could call me by my first name.”

  Jillian laughs. “I’m hardly a teenager.”

  “Well, when you get to be your father’s age, you can call me V.J.”

  “Okay… Dr. Patel. But listen, am I going to be able to go to the Olympics?”

  The doctor shrugs as if she’s asked a ridiculously trivial question. “I don’t see why not,” he says. “I didn’t spend three and a half hours operating on your knee so you could watch the Olympics on TV.”

  “But… I mean, the
race is only… gee, less than two months from now.”

  “In six weeks,” Dr. Patel says, “your knee will be the strongest part of your body. You had only a minor tear, it didn’t look nearly as bad once we got inside as it did from the outside. And the way I repaired it, with all due respect to the Creator, it’s a heck of a lot stronger than it was the way God gave it to you.”

  “Jesus,” Jillian says, “you’re not exactly lacking in confidence, are you?”

  “I do good work. And I did an especially good job on you. You’re in superb physical condition, which made my job a lot easier. Incredible muscle tone. Almost no body fat. You really are a remarkable specimen, as I suspect you know.”

  Jillian feels herself start to blush. “Why, thank you, Dr. Patel.” She giggles to hide her embarrassment. “But what I…”

  He puts his hand up. “No, now it’s my turn to ask some questions. Let’s start with the easy ones. How do you feel?”

  “I feel pretty good, Doctor. But…”

  “Don’t be so glib. Tell me how your knee feels. Try to be as precise as possible.”

  Jillian frowns. “I guess I’ve been trying not to think about it. It’s pretty sore.”

  “Sore, how?”

  “It sort of throbs, is I guess the best way to describe it. It’s not constant. It’s almost like a heartbeat, on and off. Pretty steady.”

  Dr. Patel nods. “Well,” he says, “now that we know what it feels like, let’s take a peek at it and see what it looks like, shall we?”

  And to Jillian’s surprise, he reaches over and begins to unwrap her cast – which turns out not to be a cast at all, but rather a tightly wound, white bandage. As she watches, fascinated, the doctor quickly unbinds her leg, until only a large, bloodied gauze pad covers her knee.

  “Holy shit, Doc,” Jillian says, “I could have sworn that sucker was a cast. You know, like plaster or fiberglass or something.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the doctor says, pleasantly, as he peels back the gauze. “Why ever would we have put you in a cast? You didn’t break anything, did you?”

  When her knee is finally revealed, Jillian tries, but fails, to suppress a gasp. “Oh, God, it looks terrible,” she moans. Her knee is considerably more swollen than it was before surgery. And it’s swollen unevenly – it’s lumpy, as if she has some kind of strange growths beneath the surface of her skin, pushing her knee into grotesque shapes. “It looks like something out of a horror movie.”

  “I guess that goes to show that beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” Dr. Patel says, still studying his handiwork. “Because I happen to think that it looks pretty darn good. One of my better pieces of work, if I may say so myself. In fact, I’d be happy to autograph it for you, if you’d like.”

  Jillian is only slightly mollified. “You mean, that’s the way it’s supposed to look?”

  “Oh, my goodness, no. It’s much better than it’s supposed to look.” He chuckles. “After what you did to it, and after all the poking around I did under your skin, I would have expected it to look a lot worse than that. What do you think?” he asks, looking across the bed at Sunshine. “How does it look to you?”

  “I… it…” Sunshine is caught completely off guard. “I really wouldn’t know,” she says seriously. “I don’t have anything to compare it to. I’ve never seen anybody’s knee after an operation before.”

  “Well I think it’s pretty slick,” Carla interjects. “That’s got to be one of the all-time best-looking knees I’ve ever seen in my whole, entire life. I mean, it looks so damn good that I’m thinking about having you operate on my knee, too, Doc.”

  Dr. Patel grins. “Well,” he says, “I’m glad that someone has some taste around here. I’ll buzz the nurse and have her prep you, Miss… Kwan, I believe? This’ll be the first time I’ve ever operated on two members of the Olympic team on consecutive days. I’ll be written up in all the medical journals.”

  Carla laughs. “Over my dead body, Doc. These knees are going to win a gold medal just the way they are, thank you very much.”

  The doctor smiles back at her. “I think that Miss Kendal here might have a thing or two to say about that.”

  “Really, Dr. Patel,” Jillian says, “do you really think that my knee will be okay for the Olympics?”

  “Oh, my, I’m sure of it.” He holds out his hands, palms up, and shrugs, as if to say: What’s the big deal? “Absolutely certain. Forget about your knee. What you need to concentrate on is your conditioning. Getting yourself back into shape – or maybe I should say keeping yourself in shape, as you’re obviously in superb condition right now. But keeping yourself in shape is going to require a lot of hard work.”

  “I’m willing to do whatever is necessary.”

  “Don’t speak so quickly,” Dr. Patel cautions. “You don’t have any idea of what you’re in for. I’m talking about what will undoubtedly be the most grueling work that you’ve ever done in your entire life. Not to mention more than a little pain. I’m not trying to discourage you, you understand. But I think that you ought to have a realistic idea of what’s ahead of you.”

  “I’m willing to do,” Jillian repeats, emphasizing every word, “whatever is necessary.” All humor has drained from her face. She fixes the doctor with an icy stare. “You just show me what I need to do and get the hell out of my way.”

  The doctor laughs. “I guess I’m not the only one around here who’s not exactly lacking in confidence,” he points out.

  Jillian smiles. “So,” she asks, “when do we start?”

  “We start this afternoon. That’s when I’ll make you take a little walk on your new and improved knee.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m deadly serious,” the doctor says, and Jillian can’t help but notice how earnest he’s suddenly become. “Out of bed this afternoon, and we’ll start you on an aggressive PT schedule tomorrow morning. We’re going to hook some equipment to your bed so you can exercise. We have a few machines here in the clinic, and your coach is out rounding up all sorts of esoteric contraptions for you. It almost seems like a waste of money, buying all that expensive equipment when you’re only going to be here for a few days…”

  “Just a few days? You’re kidding!”

  “…but I guess that’s one of the advantages of having a father who owns an oil company,” the doctor continues. “Isn’t that right, G.W.?”

  “Damn straight.” G.W. stands in the corner by the door, slouching against the wall. “What’s the point of having all that money anyhow if you can’t spend it on the people you love?”

  “Oh, Daddy…”

  “Don’t let your father know this,” Dr. Patel says in a conspiratorial stage whisper, “but he’s going to donate the equipment to the clinic when you’re through with it.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Jillian shrugs. “I’m sure never going to have any use for it again.”

  “We’ll store it in a special room in the G.W. Kendal Wing,” the doctor continues, still whispering, but loudly enough to be heard throughout the entire room, “which we’re going to build with the generous donation your father’s going to give us for taking such good care of his daughter.”

  Jillian laughs. “But seriously, Doctor. Even if my knee heals as well as you think it’s going to, and even if I’m able to keep myself in shape – realistically, do you think I have any chance of winning a gold medal?”

  “Do I think you have a chance?” Dr. Patel appears to be stunned. He looks around the room, glancing at Carla, Sunshine, and G.W. in turn, with sheer incredulity written on his face.

  “Jillian, I don’t just think you have a chance of winning a gold medal,” he says. “I absolutely insist on it.”

  3.2.10: Kiroly

  Savoring the comfortable silence, Dimitri Boronov swirls the remaining liquid in his glass, as if trying to make it appear that its quantity is greater than it actually is. When they have drained their drinks, he knows, the old man will announce his departure an
d the visit will be over. As if on cue, Ivan Petronovich leans his head back and downs the remains of his drink, marking the end of the evening with two quick gulps.

  “Stay the night, Commissioner,” Dimitri urges, anticipating the inevitable announcement. “Our sleeping quarters are comfortable, if not luxurious. And I guarantee that our breakfasts are the heartiest you have ever seen.”

  “I appreciate your generous invitation, Dimitri, but I am afraid that I must, once again, decline,” Petronovich says, as Dimitri knew he would. “There remains so much to do before I leave for Qen Phon. So much to do…” He shakes his head sadly. “Despite your inhospitable weather, I have enjoyed my visits here a great deal, and I am saddened that they have come to an end. The next time we meet will be in Qen Phon, and after that… who knows?”

  The old man’s meaning is clear: If Dimitri’s protégés fail to live up to their expectations, Dimitri will immediately become persona non grata in the Russian athletic establishment, and Petronovich will have to sever all ties with him immediately, in a desperate – and possibly futile – attempt to save his own skin. But if Dimitri returns to Russia boasting a couple of gold medals, his standing will be abruptly elevated to such heights that he will no longer have to lead a Spartan existence in this desolate outpost. Dimitri will either be exalted or precipitously scorned. There is no middle ground.

  “The weather has been magnificent today, Ivan,” Dimitri protests. “I think that you have become so accustomed to complaining about it that you did not even notice how exhilarating it was.”

  “And yet you still have to light a fire the moment the sun goes down. In June, Dimitri. A fire in June.” He shakes his head in disgust. “But we speak too much of the weather, yes? It means that we have no more to say. I must go.” And yet, not only does he make no move to rise, he actually appears to sink more deeply into the plush cushions.

  Dimitri stands, stretches, walks to the fireplace, and stirs the embers. Unaccustomed as he is to such late hours, even the dying warmth of the nearly extinguished fire makes him long for bed. “To a safe and pleasant journey, Ivan,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast. “And a victorious one,” he adds, although the old man’s incessant preoccupation with victory irritates him. He quickly downs the remains of his elixir and places his glass on the mantle.