All the Ways the World Can End

by Abby Sher

  I had no idea how to get him to say anything close to that, though. So I sat down and tried to start over. “Sorry. I meant to ask, how are you?”

  Dr. Ganesh did laugh a little at that. “Thank you, Ey-leah-nor. This is small talking, I see. I am fine. Now, how can I help you?”

  “Okay, you’re right. Except it’s small talk. Not small talking.” He nodded. I took my rare-diseases book out of my knapsack and handed it to him. “It’s a work in progress,” I said.

  “For me?” he asked. When I nodded, he gave it a quick glance, thanked me, and rolled it up so it fit in his lab coat pocket. I wanted to tell him that it took a lot of hours to make and maybe he could read it now as an icebreaker, but he was looking more and more impatient. So I took a few more gulps from the second bottle before trying to form words again. This time Dr. Ganesh closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “That’s the last sip. I’m just very thirsty and confused. Are you saying you agree with Lowenstein?” I asked. Then, because my tongue was getting so slippery and impatient, I added, “Lowenstein rhymes with jellybean. And spleen machine. And rowing team. Or teen. Or…”

  Dr. Ganesh waited for me to be done. Then he said, “Yes. I agree with Dr. Lowenstein. Unfortunately, the trials you have spoken about have either been filled or your father would not be eligible at this advanced stage. I thought it would work—”

  “You said it would work!” I jumped in.

  “But because of the aggressive metastases this is no longer viable.”

  “Then we’ll find another trial. There’s a gazillion of them.”

  “Drug trials are not always the answer.”

  I stood up. And fell down on the chair. And stood up again. “You were the one who brought up the trials in the first place. You said we were going to cure my dad!”

  “Yes.” Dr. Ganesh was eyeing the door now. “And this is where I owe you an apology, Ey-leah-nor. I said … I said too much. I should not have told you all those personal things. I should not have made this promises.”

  “These promises.”

  He looked so claustrophobic and sad. “I don’t like to say this, but there is nothing else we can do.”

  I stamped my feet to show him I meant business. “Define nothing,” I said.

  “No treatment that we think could prolong your father’s life without excruciating side effects.”

  “No treatment at all?” He didn’t answer. “None?!” I screamed. I wanted to cry. I wanted to wail and beat my hands on his chest. But I could barely breathe and my mouth felt so sticky with apple syrup. “So that’s it?” I asked feebly.

  “I am sorry.”

  The silence afterward choked me.

  “Tell me how long we have,” I heard myself croak. “I know you know.”

  Dr. Ganesh hung his head and mumbled, “I think anywhere from a few months to a few weeks. Or less. Your father is actively dying, Ey-leah-nor.”

  “Actively dying?” I had my voice back now. “Is that like jumbo shrimp or freezer burn? You know what that’s called, right? In English, it’s an oxymoron, which I think translates to ‘sharp’ and ‘dull,’ but you’d have to check. Or don’t check. You’re a busy guy. Who has time for etymology, right? Did you know there are some languages that are going extinct? Mostly in Morocco. I always wondered, if there was only one person left who knew how to talk in some language, what if she said ‘Help!’ and no one else knew what it meant?”

  Dr. Ganesh shook his head again. He looked like a little boy getting in trouble. Which reminded me that I had to apologize also.

  “I’m sorry too,” I whimpered. “I’m sorry I sent you those pictures. I didn’t mean to. I mean, I did, but…”

  “Yes, this was compromising.” I waited for him to explain. “That phone number is just for patients, so I use it in the hospital, and unfortunately this is not a private area.”

  I had visions of Mariel and Saffi huddled around his cell phone, scrolling through my pucker series. I pulled the wine cooler to my lips and just kept guzzling until bottle number two was done.

  “Thawassupposed to be your personal number,” I whined.

  “It is not,” said Dr. Ganesh faintly. Everything was moving too fast. I couldn’t get my mouth to put together the words I wanted to say.

  “Wait! Did somebody else see? Did you get in trouble because of what I sent?”

  He made that tight line with his mouth again. “I will meet with Dr. Lowenstein and the patient advocacy board tomorrow and I will explain.”

  “Noooo,” I moaned. “Can I come to the meeting? I’ll be very respectful. Or I can just write a note on good stationery and tell them it was completely my fault.”

  “No,” he said quickly. “Please. It will be okay, I hope.”

  “Yes it will. Of course it will. My mom is a judge, for what that’s worth. But you don’t need to be judged. It’s all because of me. Really it’s a testament to how great a practitioner you are, but I won’t say that. I won’t say anything unless you need me to, and then I can testify in court. But it’s going to be okay. Yes, it is. Can you just let me know it’s okay after the meeting? Somehow? You can text me … ugh. Sorry, I mean, maybe we can come up with some code. Or…?”

  Dr. Ganesh waited for me to talk myself into a sweat and then asked, “How will you get home now?” I shrugged spastically. “Can I get you a cab?”

  “Sure.”

  We went downstairs and out into the world, where it was just edging toward evening. Dr. Ganesh put two fingers in his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. The first cab that stopped was playing the Beach Boys and the driver had on a turquoise Hawaiian shirt.

  Dr. Ganesh leaned into the passenger window and said, “Please take this young lady to—” Then he looked back at me for a destination.

  His face was long and soft and already so far away. I couldn’t have this be goodbye. I couldn’t end it all or watch it end through a cab window. The world getting snuffed out with his lips in the lamplight. I knew it was so wrong and too late and couldn’t make anything better. But if we were all catapulting into oblivion on a rowboat of sour apples, I had to act now.

  I held on to both of Dr. Radhakrishnan Ganesh’s shoulders and pulled him in closer.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. Then I pressed my face into his, clenching his lips with mine. Squeezing everything that was about to disappear.

  Alien Invasion

  Compelling arguments for alien invasions:

  1. There’s now a panel at the United Nations investigating extraterrestrial intentions.

  2. Stephen Hawking just paid millions for the CSIRO Parkes radio telescope so he can scan the 100 closest galaxies.

  3. Emma’s best friend lost her virginity while watching E.T.

  Chapter 15

  MOST LIKELY TO BE AN ALIEN

  When the cab pulled up to Grand Central Station, I tried to give the driver my four leftover wine coolers, but he just shook his head and said, “Ramadan.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said. “I don’t know what I believe in anymore.”

  I got out on the corner of Vanderbilt Avenue and Forty-Second Street. It was Thursday night and the sidewalks were thick with people. Commuter pubs were shuffling cocktails and business suits. I was shaking so much from the talk and face-mashing with Dr. Ganesh, I felt like I needed to kick over all the newsstands or scale a tall building. Nobody would notice in this city. Everybody was so busy being rich or homeless, beautiful or crazy. In front of the entrance there was a sweaty couple making out, twisted around each other like vines. Also an Asian man playing the pan flute; a bunch of five o’clock shadows talking about the last time they saw Kirsten Dunst at the gym; and half of Holland, all looking for Radio City Music Hall. I wanted to smash them all together and scream, Do you know how much time you’re wasting?! This could be your last day on Earth!

  It wasn’t my dad’s last day on Earth. I was pretty sure of that just from the useless string of texts I’d been getting from Mom
.

  Pls B s8fe

  Wanna talk?

  Just got Emma can pick u up 2

  Meet @ Kaling for sup?

  Pls just write S for s8fe

  I wrote back, S. Spending pm w/Juln, and elbowed my way into Grand Central. It was the first time I’d lied about where I was sleeping, and I felt my arm hairs lifting in shock. I didn’t have a plan per se, I just knew I couldn’t go back to the hospital and hear about Emma’s coed trickle-down escapades and admit that even the Remover of All Obstacles conceded there were no more medical options.

  I kept my head down and pretended I knew where I was going. There were hundreds of people so alive and loud in here—laughing, shouting, pushing, eating. Not one of them knew that I’d just been told my dad was going to die soon. Not one of them would know if he was dead right now.

  I opened a third wine cooler—because why not?—then took a sip and wandered to the Grand Concourse. The next train to Mountainside didn’t leave for another forty-nine minutes. It felt like it was two in the morning, but the big clock said it was only 8:25. Time stops flying by when you’re miserable. So I leaned against the information booth in the middle of the room and tipped my head back and tried to get lost in the constellations painted on the ceiling. I’d read once that the stars were drawn out of order and that Orion was the only one in its proper place.

  I used to look at these same stars with Dad on our date nights at Lincoln Center. He loved coming into the city to hear live jazz. I loved the smell of hot dog carts on every corner. After each concert, he’d buy me a big pretzel and I’d lick off the chunks of salt extra slowly. Or else we’d go to our favorite deli on Broadway and request a table by the window for optimal people watching. I always ordered a potato knish with an extra side of pickles—the first bowl was complimentary. Dad got a tuna melt with slaw, and we split a vanilla milkshake. Then we walked the twenty-five blocks down to Grand Central, picking out “best dressed,” “best tourist,” “best evangelist,” and “most likely to be an alien sent here on a reconnaissance mission.”

  I had no idea if Dad and I could ever go on a date again. The last one we’d done was when I was twelve and I wore my first training bra, which gave me a rash. I’d wasted so much of that night complaining about how itchy I was and texting people who never really cared, like Becca and Sylvie. Now I wondered what pickles would taste like when Dad was gone. Or if I’d even be able to listen to jazz.

  “Don’t be stupid,” said a curt voice.

  “Sorry?” I answered. There was a thick police officer holding his belt and standing in front of me.

  “Don’t be sorry and don’t be stupid. Just get rid of it before I write you up.” He nodded at the wine cooler in my hand.

  “Oh, this was just…” He didn’t wait around for the explanation. I headed down one of the corridors because I knew Grand Central was teeming with thirsty people and I hated to throw away unopened drinks, even if they tasted like sour apple slop.

  I circled the floor over and over again. “Best dressed” went to someone who could’ve been a man or a woman in a strapless sequined number and calf muscles that looked like rocks. “Best tourist” was a tie between this couple in matching Izods reading one of the plaques on the wall about how Grand Central was constructed. “Best evangelist” was easy—there was a woman with straight dark hair pulled back in a banana clip and a ruffled pink blouse belted into hip-hugger jeans. She also had an open cat carrier at her feet, which was stuffed with bright pamphlets.

  “You can be saved!” she said chirpily. She was the only person who was excited to see me that day. According to her, Jesus was thrilled about my prospects too. He was going to love me unconditionally and wash away my sins and show me absolute truth. Until I told her I was a born-again Quaker and sort of drunk and felt very conflicted and horny for my dad’s doctor. She handed me one of her paradise-colored pamphlets and said, “Time is running out.”

  “Duh!” I yelled at her. “That’s what I’ve been saying all along!”

  I was about to drop my syrupy wine coolers in the trash when I found my true comrade-in-arms. He was a droopy-looking man sitting with his saxophone by track 19. He had a sign on his lap that said PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME PLAY ALIEN MUSIC.

  “Oooooh yeah!” he growled, followed by some atonal saxophone riff.

  “Can I ask you a question?” I said. As I walked toward him I saw he had only three fingers on his left hand.

  “Please,” he answered.

  “How do you know it’s alien music?”

  “Yup,” he said. “They’re out there. Kepler-62, Kepler-186. Who’s getting the water onto Mars? Some supersonic telescope in Austria now.”

  “Australia,” I said. I actually knew what he was talking about. The sixty-four-meter Parkes telescope that Hawking had just commissioned to look for extraterrestrial life.

  “That’s what I’m talking about!” said my new one-and-only friend. He started clapping his hands and rocking back and forth.

  “Thank you,” I said. I put a dollar twenty in change into his open saxophone case and the coolers next to his sign.

  “Hoo ha!” he said. “You want me to play something for you?”

  “No, that’s okay. I have to get home.” Then I turned back to tell him, “My dad’s dying.”

  “Nooooo!” he howled.

  “Yeah,” I said. Saying and hearing it for the first time. “It’s true.”

  * * *

  The 9:14 train up the Hudson line was packed. Everyone pushing and yammering. Even the posters felt obnoxiously loud. There was one for direct flights to Singapore and another for some high-speed monorail they were building in New Jersey. I hated everyone for wanting to be the fastest. As if we had somewhere better to be. I thought we’d already proven that if you were extraordinarily speedy you would either have to wait for everyone else to catch up or you’d get tested for steroids.

  Just before the doors closed, a swarm of sweaty college-aged guys shoved each other into the row across from me. They each wore different versions of the same Michigan State T-shirt and they were playing “Would you rather?” in booming, slurry voices.

  “Would you rather get caught masturbating or lose one of your balls?”

  “Easy—I get caught all the time!”

  “Would you rather sleep with Rosie O’Donnell or Rosie Perez?”

  “O’Donnell’s a dyke!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Hot!”

  “Would you rather eat a raw onion or a raw … something else.”

  “Dude, you’re so drunk.”

  “I know!”

  I thought about changing cars at the next station, but I really needed to sit near an emergency exit and I didn’t know how crowded it was in the rest of the train. It was easier to stew in my fury than to get swallowed up by all the heartache, shame, and rapidly replicating tragedies of the past twelve hours.

  I also really needed to find my house keys. I checked all the pockets of my backpack twice, but they weren’t there. I checked my jeans pockets, the train seat, and the overhead rack. Not that I’d been climbing up there, but because at this point everything was hopeless and nothing was impossible.

  “Would you rather lick an electric socket or your dad’s—”

  I plugged my ears and started chanting a new mantra for myself: This is not happening. This is not happening. If I didn’t find my keys, I had no idea where I would sleep or how I’d see the next day. I’d lost our spare key over a year ago and never replaced it. If I tried sleeping on the train, I was sure this clan of cave idiots would get bored and try to molest me.

  “Would you rather eat a shit sandwich or take a shit on a sandwich and then make…”

  “But what if the sandwich isn’t shit, it just tastes like shit, and then, would you rather…”

  These guys were more stupid than scary, but I just wanted out. I bit the inside of my left bicep until I tasted blood and felt tears pooling. The sharp sting gave me somewhere to br
eathe at least. I thought of how pounding on my head used to do this for me, before Oscar Birnbaum made me stop.

  Oscar. I could maybe call him. Except I didn’t have his number. Or really anything to say except Helllllllllllp!

  I pulled out my phone and saw that I’d butt-dialed Julian three times. I guess my body knew I was feeling desperate even if my brain couldn’t admit it.

  Julian had texted me after the third call: You ok?

  I wrote back: Never better. Out with Ganesh. Followed by a screen full of heart emojis and smiley faces.

  I had three nasty-looking self-inflicted arm welts by the time we got to the Mountainside station. The Would-You-Rather’s didn’t even look up when I left. Which should’ve given me relief but actually only made me feel lonelier. I walked directly to the Unicorn, just on the off chance that Julian was there waiting. Plus, I was starving and still had no idea where I was going to spend the night. I hadn’t come here in four days—which was a record for me, though I’m sure nobody else noticed my absence. I stared at the rusty blue Dumpster in the parking lot with the spray-painted unicorn, feeling homesick, not for a place but for a time. Timesick.

  Walking to the entrance, I knew something was wrong. There was a pot of fake roses on the second step and a bristly welcome mat that read FINE DINING in loopy letters. Then I opened the door, walked straight to our booth, and saw what was really going on.

  Don Juan Crustaceo was gone.

  The whole fish tank was gone too. All that was left was another plastic palm tree in the corner. Trying to fool us into thinking we were on some island where unicorns and lobsters could run free.