CLUB MEDicine: A Novel

by Jack Kinsley

  "I guess we'll have plenty of time for all this later," Betsy said, then gave the doctor a cold stare as if to say, let's go buddy, have your look at me, and let's get you on your way. She'd spent a fair amount of time with the doctor before; it was apparent she wasn't a fan.

  While the doctor led her away to her suite, Travis and Chef Tom assisted the chauffeur in bringing in the rest of her bags. They lined them up in the hallway outside her door. It had been an understatement when Betsy had said she was bringing a lot of things with her. Some of her bags were unexpectedly heavy, stretching their handles to the near-breaking points. Metal clunking noises could be heard in one of them.

  Chef Tom came in with one cradled in his arms, forgoing the handle altogether. When he passed Travis heading out for another, he asked, "You think she brought her rock collection?"

  "That and the kitchen sink." They shared a quick laugh.

  Travis met the chauffeur at the front door, where he was handed the last bag, working together as if they were in a brigade line passing sandbags. He felt the pump in his biceps and chest and made himself a promise that if he actually survived life's current predicaments unscathed, he would hit the gym again on a regular basis. Unlike their other newcomer at Crystal Heights, Travis had always exercised for the benefits of mental clarity, rather than for the vanity of being cut like a diamond.

  — — —

  Travis and Sarah waited impatiently in the office for the doctor to finish with Betsy. It took much longer than anticipated, and their imaginations were running wild.

  "It can't be good news," she told Travis.

  "I thought we just agreed not jump to any conclusions. She didn't look well, like we've said three times each now, but you never know... The damn doctor could just be milking his hourly rate."

  Sarah gave him a bored look. Her apprehension had sucked all the energy from her.

  "No matter what the results are, she's not going anywhere," he told her.

  "Yes, agreed."

  Then a click at the door drew their steadfast attention. It was the doctor coming in. He had a real poker face, providing no initial clues as to how it had gone. He didn't even sit down. And so Travis stood up.

  "Well, she's definitely on her way out," the doctor said. He was nonchalant, as if delivering news of little importance. His lack of sincerity infuriated Travis; he wanted to throttle him on the spot.

  "That's it?" Sarah joined them standing. He could see she also wanted to tackle him.

  "Yes, unfortunately." The doctor altered his tone, noting the irritation in their expressions. "She has a pre-existing condition that was recently diagnosed as malignant. It's pretty well advanced—"

  "You mean you knew about this already?" Travis asked.

  "No, no." The doctor chuckled a bit, impossibly finding some kind of humor in this revelation.

  The likelihood of Travis punching him square in the face was becoming more real by the second, and he caught himself digging under his nails, working the reverse half-moon shapes. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets

  "She only told me about it after the examination," the doc continued. "She waited until the end, hoping I would tell her something different. I've had a lot of patients do this in hopes there was some terrible mistake in their diagnosis. And without x-rays, I would have never found it anyway — the symptoms, yes, but not the real reason."

  "And the real reason is?" Sarah asked anxiously.

  "Brain tumor. Benign for many years, inoperable, and now malignant. It's terminal."

  "And how long does she have?" Sarah sat back down in her chair with a thud. Her gaze went to a blinding ray of sunlight striking the office windowsill.

  "It's hard to say. I'll need to speak with her doctor, have a look at her MRI, but it could be a week, maybe two. And that's only if she's relaying accurate information to me."

  A moment of silence hung in the room before the doctor excused himself, saying he was late for another appointment. After leaving the office, Sarah and Travis continued to stare at each other in disbelief.

  "What are we going to do?" she asked.

  Travis absently took a seat across from her, where he remained fixed in thought.

  "She'll die here with us," he concluded. "It's why she came here. She doesn't want to die alone, and we're the closest thing to family she has left."

  — — —

  Travis knocked quietly at Betsy's door. All of her luggage was still lined up outside her door. There was no answer. He knocked lightly again. "Come in," he heard a thin voice called out.

  Inside, the drapes were closed, the room dark except for a nightstand table lamp that threw a harsh cone of light across Betsy's face. She lay on top of the bed, half propped up on a hill of pillows that supported her back.

  "I must have drifted off there for minute," she told Travis. She tried to lift herself.

  "Just relax," he told her and put a hand on her shoulder to ease her back down. He slid the table lamp to the furthest corner of the nightstand, removing the light from her face, and pulled up a chair next to her. He sat down.

  "I'm so sorry, Travis. I know I shouldn't have come," she tried to apologize.

  "Don't you say that again. You hear me? Not another word of it." He readjusted the pillow behind her head. "You made the right decision coming here, and don't you ever question that again. Are we clear?"

  Betsy's eyes watered a bit, reading the candor in his face. Then her gaze sharpened at him and she said, "You've become somewhat of a tyrant since I've seen you last."

  "Only when it means something dear to me," he replied and smiled at her. "Now, we're going to do whatever possible to keep you comfortable, and don't you hesitate to let us know if there's anything you need. Capiche?"

  "Capiche," she patted his arm. "I just hope it won't be long."

  "Are you in pain now?"

  "No, no... I'm just looking forward to seeing him again. I hope, Travis. I hope," she held Travis's forearm tight.

  "Your husband?"

  "No," she said without hesitation and laughed. "The Lord knows he actually put me on a long vacation when he took him. But I hope to see him too — just as long as they're not serving twenty-five-year-old Macallan in heaven."

  After they shared a laugh, she grew serious again, and one of her fragile hands searched around her speckled chest for the pendant around her neck. She found it and gave it a kiss. Travis could just make out the inscription: A mother's love is forever.

  "Jacob," Travis said.

  She nodded. "I would do it all over again...even if I knew he would one day take his life."

  Last winter, during one of Betsy's visits (where it truly was a retreat to replenish the soul and be pampered), Betsy's son Jacob had committed suicide in the kitchen of her home. The thirty-two-year-old drove a knife into his heart in order to make the biggest statement possible to his recently divorced wife. Travis hadn't known it was even physically possible to do so, but her son had managed to cut through his chest plate with a boning knife and reach his right ventricle.

  Betsy had never forgiven herself for not being there in his desperate time of need. Travis was the only person at Crystal Heights who knew her son had been adopted.

  "Children are the most precious gifts," Betsy said, and kissed her pendant a second time. Travis couldn't have agreed more.

  Betsy nodded, and then started shaking her head no as if to rid herself of some terrible realization. "Oh Travis, I can't believe what I've done. This will be the second time I've brought death into your home." Her eyes watched him in desperation.

  "No, that isn't true — and it wouldn't make any difference if it were." Travis believed Betsy to be the closest thing to a living saint, an absolute gem of a woman.

  He watched her face grow dim. She looked at him with the air of one revealing an undeniable truth. "God buried this tumor deep inside my brain for a reason," she told him. "It's inoperable because He wants it there."

  "What? Why would he do such a th
ing?"

  Betsy remained quiet and stared across the room at the narrow, bright light where the drapes split.

  Travis waited for an answer that never came. He didn't ask again, knowing that this was only one of several conversations they would have in the scant light that remained.

  Chapter 7 / Cut Like A Diamond

  After Travis left Betsy to have an afternoon nap, he sat back down at the patio and looked out over the stretch of the Pacific Ocean. He popped a blue V and watched as a large cloud gathered around the sun. A few bars of light penetrated its belly and touched the sea. It was a sight that crossed all language barriers and could fix anyone's imagination, no matter what country or creed. The horizon line was a crisp hard edge, split in two, dark and light, and it forced Travis into an unwanted moment of introspection.

  The wheels of his memory began to rewind and play out a piece of history that still haunted him. Seven years had passed, but the pictures were still as bright and white as the hospital lights and the long coat of the doctor who walked over to him and delivered the news.

  "I'm afraid Marilyn will never recover. Only the machines are keeping her alive," were the echoing words from the surgeon's pale lips. It was an out-of-body experience; a horrible distant dream, almost as if it had been another Travis getting the news.

  The worst part was that he had been spared from any real life-threatening injuries. The car accident had sobered him temporarily. It had been his reality crash, or rather what was left of his reality. But it still took him two additional months after the incident to seek professional help, during which he made a last final attempt to drink himself into a deadly poisonous state.

  His body had been on the brink of permanent hibernation, and while being rushed in an ambulance, he believed the random act of flipping a coin could have well described the odds of whether or not he'd live or die. There was the sloshing around in the back, feeling the slalom of the van and hearing the siren cry above him, when the faintest of light emanated in the cellar of his mind and reminded him of one wish that had eluded him up to that point. He held onto that weak glow in the dark, seemingly an eternity away, like a distant star blinking behind a long passing cloud; unattainable but yet a possibility. It was nothing more than a distant nightlight in an unborn child's room, but it carried enough wattage to fire up a few synapses and bring his lifeless body back into waking existence. He credited his survival to this seemingly simple desire — the desire for a little girl he wouldn't meet for another seven years.

  The doctor proclaimed his recovery nothing less than a miracle. Travis casually dismissed it, waving a don't-be-ridiculous hand at the doc, but he secretly held the notion as a sacred, undeniable truth. He had been spared, saved, and given a second chance — in order, he believed, to experience one of life's greatest gifts.

  "Travis!" Sarah called him a second time from the kitchen slider, her voice coming in as if from down the street. "Hello? Can you hear me?"

  The horizon line finally cut him loose and he looked behind him to see Sarah glaring at him impatiently. Dallas stood just behind her, towering, also staring at him.

  If only Bella were in my arms now, he thought. He joined them in the kitchen.

  Inside, Chef Tom's knife was chopping at lightning speed and it put him further on edge, but he knew the Valium soon would drive the sound, and all the other irritants, miles away from him.

  Dallas took a seat on one of the kitchen barstools and the wood let out a tremendous crack under his great weight. Sarah jumped a little; Travis half expected the legs to splinter and give way.

  "So, Dallas, I have good news for you," Travis began with the air of an owner in full control, surprising himself. "Helen Ross will be able to meet with you this evening. I'm sorry for the delay, but your arrival was a bit earlier than we had expected and she's booked solid this morning. It just goes to show you that she's one of the best. I promise you it'll be worth the wait." He looked over to Sarah. "Doesn't Helen have the most incredible way of pinpointing our issues and elevating us in our most troubling times?"

  "One of the best," Sarah told Dallas, but kept her eyes on Travis.

  Travis was rolling, at least in his mind, and now he just needed to come up with something to keep the beast distracted for the afternoon. "Until then, we thought we could order you some movies, anything you like. Or maybe a series, if that's your thing. I believe there are a few new releases on Pay Per View." He shared a hopeful glance that was reciprocated by Sarah. She was at his side and at the ready.

  The giant's face was void of emotion, incarcerated in the dark stirring black waters that ran beneath.

  A silent tennis match of glances was exchanged around the room between Chef Tom, Travis, and Sarah, all of them waiting with bated breath for a reply — any reply.

  "No," was his only word. He repositioned himself on his barstool and it cried out a second time. It was a miracle it still held together. The giant tried hooking his heels onto the lower foot rest of his chair, but his colossal feet wouldn't fit. He gave up and then proceeded to stare into the dark grain of the maple kitchen table.

  Travis watched as Sarah pulled up a chair and rallied. "What do you say we get the hell out of here, then? Get some fresh air." She rested her hand on his hairless forearm. It looked like a razor had found every inch of his visible skin, except for his thin eyebrows. "I say a scenic drive will do you some good. Go up the 1 to Point Mugu and then back down. There are phenomenal ocean views and beautiful homes, and coming back down PCH is the best bit because you're on the ocean side of the highway." Dallas flicked his beady eyes at Sarah, a faint sign of interest, but then he found a familiar alley in the grain of maple once again.

  "I've got it!" Her eyes widened, undeterred. Travis was hopeful again; even Chef Tom flashed a smile from behind the rising steam of his fire-roasted tomato soup. "We can skip the long trip and just head straight to Duke's. They have a great outdoor patio, the views are awesome, and the food is outstanding." She looked over to Chef Tom. "No offense, of course — we know you're the best."

  Chef Tom smiled. "I'm not, and that's okay." He threw her a wink and proceeded to stir his soup. The aroma of tomato and hints of spice began to fill the kitchen.

  "It'll be our treat," Sarah added to sweeten the deal.

  While waiting for him to come to a decision, Travis alleviated the pressure by going over and looking into the Chef's pot. "Are you going to have a little fresh cream with that?"

  "Don't you worry your pretty little self," he responded lightly, creating an atmosphere of calm and normality. It was all about putting on a good face for the clients, something even Chef Tom knew well. Everything is all right in the world and you are too. Keep calm and carry on.

  Travis slapped Chef Tom on the shoulder. "You know, if I was gay you'd be the first man I'd hit on the list."

  "Let's quit talking about your fantasies." Chef Tom sprinkled some salt into his pot. "The owner of this place is liable to walk in here any minute."

  Sarah holy-rolled her eyes at the two of them and turned to Dallas, who had actually been listening. She took advantage of the possible light in his tunnel. "So, what do you say, Dallas? Ready to make a jail break?"

  Dallas looked squarely at her, initially lost, and then seemed to remember her proposition through a series of coming-back-to-reality blinks. They could have also been the early signs of withdrawal. He kicked his heels back again, forcing them onto the wedge of wood this time, and another shout came from the suffering joints of the barstool.

  "I don't want to go nowhere." He shook his head and pulled his arm free of Sarah's hand.

  "I can make you an early lunch if you'd like?" Chef Tom suggested. "The soup still needs some time but I'm making turkey wraps with a sweet ginger sauce. It wouldn't take but ten minutes to get a plate together for you."

  Travis slapped another hand on Chef Tom's back, showing him appreciation for his attempt to placate the morose giant.

  Before Dallas could answer, Nath
alie walked into the kitchen in mid-sentence, only getting to "Sounds good to me, I'm starv—" before her eyes found Dallas; the sight shut her up faster than a poked clam. She was wearing only a bathrobe and instinctively tightened her robe around her naked throat. Dallas was just as quick to turn away and get back to reading the lines on the table again.

  Nathalie tried to act natural, but Travis saw her look over at Dallas from the corner of her eye. She was obviously in awe of his size, his bare thighs like tree trunks. There could have easily been two Nathalies shooting out the leg holes of his shorts. Dallas was an impressive figure, which made his current pout even more remarkable.

  "This is Dallas," Sarah introduced them. "Dallas, this is Nathalie." They only nodded at one another.

  "So, this little one is hungry?" Chef Tom asked Nathalie.

  She hesitated for a moment and then slipped back into the reason she'd come to the kitchen in the first place. "Whatchu got?" she asked and tippy toed to look into the pot. She really is just a little thing, Travis reflected. No bigger than a minute, as his grandma use to say.

  "I thought you were with Helen?" Travis asked Nathalie.

  "She had to do something in the office. And I told her I was hungry," she replied.

  That was business as usual with Helen: already late and even later now. Travis wished he could ask Nathalie to simply give up her session with Helen today and let Dallas take her place, kind of like how the order of operations go in an emergency room — Hey, you there, with the screwdriver in your head, we're going to treat you before the girl with the dog bite.