Ask Again Later

by Jill A. Davis

This will be the last conversation I have with my mother before she goes in for the lumpectomy. It is the closest I may ever come to knowing her. This strikes me as the conversation is happening. I know this is a window—a space in time that won’t be duplicated. Perhaps she’s been more vulnerable or frightened in her life, but in this room, in this gown, with this IV in her arm—she can’t conceal it or walk away from it. Jokes don’t work.

  A clear plastic tube hangs down from her wrist. It runs up to a bag of liquid. There is blood on her hand from where they missed a vein—or two. There is a streak of brightly colored blood on the sheet, too. I roll it under, in hopes that she doesn’t see it.

  She reaches out for my hand.

  “When you were born, you were a fussy one,” Mom says. “Oh, you screamed and cried until your father held you.”

  I smiled at the recollection, which is not actually a recollection at all but a created memory. A story I’d been told so often when I was very young that I remember it as if it happened a week ago.

  “Some babies are just that way; they have a preference. Your father always said it was because he talked to you so much when you were in the womb. He read to you. Performed for you, really. I mean, when he told a story he was dramatic, animated. I was busy sewing. Getting things ready. I didn’t talk to you until you were born. And by then it was too late; you already preferred him. You were his little girl.”

  In twenty-five years, the topic of my father never came up. Until now, we’ve observed a code of silence. We weren’t just avoiding talking about him, it was deeper than that: he didn’t exist. He was as absent from thought and conversation as he was from our lives. But now there is a certain longing in her voice.

  “That’s just not true,” I say. But the tears were already in my eyes. It is something I’ve always felt guilty about; I never needed her that much, not the way mothers need their children to need them.

  “Now,” Mom swallows hard, trying not to cry, “now I can’t help wondering if you didn’t like me to breast-feed you because, I don’t know, it was almost like you knew something was wrong. That something in me was poisonous. I think maybe babies know those things.”

  A few tears run down her cheek. I reach for a tissue, but she’s already unrolled the sheet with the blood on it. She is about to dab her eyes when she sees the blood. I hand her some tissues, and reroll the sheet.

  “How’d you like to be responsible for all of the laundry in this place?” Mom says, with a laugh.

  As she’s lying there waiting for surgery, I imagine a cancerous Pac-Man—or Lady Pac-Man—running through her body eating up her healthy tissue, her life, expanding its mass and taking over. Devouring the flesh that nurtured me, or longed to. I want to scream. And I’m mad that I’m of a generation that can best relate a parent’s cancer to a video game.

  Pay Phone

  AN HOUR HAS COME and gone. I drink some tea. I look inside my wallet for some quarters.

  I walk down the hall to a pay phone and call Sam.

  “Hello?” Sam says.

  “Hi,” I say. “It’s me. Emily.”

  “Hi. Where are you?” Sam asks. “A friend is here for brunch. Can I call you back?”

  Still there and having brunch? Or has just come over to have brunch? Either way, it doesn’t sound good.

  “No. I’m at a pay phone at the hospital,” I say. “I got your note.”

  “Good. How is it going with your mom?” Sam asks.

  “She’s in surgery right now, and it was supposed to take an hour…but it’s been almost two hours. I’ll let you go,” I say.

  “No, don’t do that, I can talk,” Sam says.

  “I used all of my quarters,” I say. “We can talk later. I mean, we should talk later.”

  “Let me know how things go,” Sam says.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Brunch. A friend. They seem like a distant luxury right now. In the fantasy version of this, Sam leaves his guests at his apartment and races to the hospital to be by my side. He is toting a honey-colored wicker picnic basket. It’s lined in a lovely toile pattern. No, too girlie. It’s lined in plaid. A handsome, manly plaid. Inside are assorted cheeses and fresh fruit and real china plates and silverware. Cloth napkins. The works. When Mom wakes, I’d introduce her to Sam. She’d make some comment about what a refined man he is—owning his own picnic basket and all. And everything would be okay.

  But the reality is, he’s moved on to brunch and regular life. He’s not a dweller. His wife left him, and he didn’t wallow. He lived his life. It’s healthy. But it scares me. If he can move on from marriage and divorce, he can move on from the on-again, off-again relationship we had.

  I call Marjorie.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “How is she?” Marjorie asks.

  “It’s taking longer than it’s supposed to,” I say. “I’m feeling kind of panicky.”

  “Do you want me to come there and keep you company?” Marjorie asks. “You know I think hospitals are disgusting. They are filled with germs and people coughing. But I’ll come over if you want me to. I really think she’s going to be okay. Mom’s tough. Dr. Kealy does that operation a few times a day.”

  I start to imagine the torture of spending any time with Marjorie in a “disgusting” hospital. The price is too high.

  “Oh, wait, I forgot. I have a cooking class with Marcella Hazan,” Marjorie says. “She’s the god of Italian cooking. Impossible to get into her class. I can’t miss it. If you miss one, she bans you for life.”

  “That’s the only kind of cooking class you’d ever take. But please, send flowers or something. I just needed to talk to someone. Everything will be fine, and I’ll call you after I see her,” I say. “By the way, thanks for that rant about dirty hospitals. Now I feel like I need to burn my clothing when I get home.”

  I think Marjorie is right. Everything will be fine. But sitting here alone makes me feel like I don’t have a family. I’m lonely and helpless all at once.

  I see now how useful some of my mother’s traits are. If she were here, waiting to see me, she’d be dialing through her archival phone books. She’d elicit sympathy from strangers. She would not go uncomforted.

  I dial the phone.

  “Hello?” Jim says.

  “Hi. It’s Emily. What are you doing?” I say.

  “Jumping on a trampoline,” Jim says.

  “Yeah, me, too,” I say.

  “Good for the heart,” Jim says.

  “Want to come and have coffee at the hospital?” I ask.

  “The surgery was today?” Jim asks.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s taking a long time, though, and I keep thinking she’s going to die. That’s crazy, right? It’s a simple procedure. One lump.”

  “Your mother wouldn’t die there; she doesn’t like hospitals. Thinks they’re dirty. Besides, dying in a hospital is convenient. Expected. That’s just not her,” Jim says.

  Games

  MY FATHER AND I drink coffee in the waiting room.

  “I kind of wish I smoked at a time like this,” I say.

  “Me, too,” Jim says.

  We stare at the floor for a while. There is a TV hanging in the corner. Some people are watching The Price Is Right. How does Bob Barker do it? How does he play the same game every day for thirty years and still manage to smile and remember people’s names and appear interested?

  My father looks up. “I’m going on a trip. The first thing I’m going to pack in my suitcase is a bowling ball,” Jim says.

  I stare at him blankly. Did he just have a stroke? Is that what I’m witnessing?

  “Now it’s your turn,” Jim says.

  “My turn?” I ask.

  “What are you putting in the suitcase?” Jim asks.

  I sip my coffee.

  “What suitcase?” I say. Do I need to have him admitted now? Or do I wait to see if things right themselves? I pray they do. I really can’t see myself bouncing back and forth between oncology and whatev
er the stroke wing is called.

  “You don’t remember this?” Jim says. “We used to play it on car trips. It’s your turn to put something in the suitcase. Then you have to say what I put in the suitcase and so on….”

  I have no memory of this game. I have no memory of road trips. He could be making this up, and I wouldn’t know the difference.

  “A bowling ball and…a number two pencil,” I say.

  “A bowling ball, a number two pencil, and an anemone,” Jim says.

  “Oh, I see. That’s how you want to play it? Okay. A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, and a hot shoe,” I say. “I’m taking you down, old man.”

  I regret the last part after I say it, because I said it in a way that could have been taken seriously. When I was actually grateful to have someone there with me.

  “A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, and a hot shoe—what is a hot shoe?” Jim asks.

  “It’s a groove on a camera that holds the flash attachment,” I say.

  “I’ll take your word for it—under protest,” Jim says.

  My plan is working. He protests. He forgets the order of the words. Victory is closer than anticipated. In this moment life is simple.

  “Oh, and you see people putting anemones in suitcases on a regular basis,” I say.

  “It’s not a literal game,” Jim says. “A bowling ball, a number two pencil, an anemone, a hot shoe—under protest—and a tension column,” Jim says.

  “A bowling ball, number two pencil, an anemone, a hot shoe—under protest—a tension column, and a carboniferous reptile,” I say.

  “Good one,” Jim says.

  Dr. Kealy is walking toward us. I wave. I get up from the waiting area and walk toward him. Jim is still talking.

  “Bowling ball, number two pencil, anemone, hot shoe, tension column, carboniferous reptile, and hydraulic brake hose,” Jim says.

  “To be continued,” I say.

  “Things are looking great,” Dr. Kealy says. “It went very well. We don’t see any reason she shouldn’t make a full recovery. All very textbook. She’s sleeping now, but you can see her as soon as she wakes up.”

  The fear I had just a few hours ago when the surgery seemed to drag on is already becoming a distant memory. It’s replaced by relief and gratitude and the way things used to be.

  “Since everything’s okay, I’ll take off and let you have your time with your mom,” Jim says. He throws away his coffee cup and makes his way to the door. He waves.

  “See you Monday morning,” Jim calls.

  “Thanks for keeping me company,” I say.

  “Of course,” Jim says. “Tell your mom I said hello.”

  Neat Little Mass

  “THE CANCER DIDN’T spread. Neat little mass,” Dr. Kealy continues, still standing in the hallway. “As a precaution we’ll follow up with radiation twice a week for two weeks.”

  “Neat little mass. She’ll love that description! How long before she wakes up?” I ask.

  “There was an issue with the anesthesia. She had an allergic reaction, so we had to give her more fluid and change the type of anesthesia we were using. So she’s a little bloated, and she has a rash.”

  “But everything’s okay? Can she still go home tonight?” I ask.

  “Everything is okay, but she’ll have to wait until tomorrow. We just want to watch her for a few more hours,” he replies.

  Everything is okay, except the part where it took twice as long as it was supposed to. And my mind started to imagine all of the horrible things that could have happened.

  “Great,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

  He starts to walk away.

  “Excuse me,” I call to him. “Who’s going to explain the bloating part to her? I’m not sure I want to be in the room when that happens.”

  He laughs and keeps walking. His work is done. He’s off to the next patient. Really, it’s not funny.

  I walk into her room. She’s already out of bed studying her face in the mirror.

  “I didn’t see anything in the presurgical waiver about a fifteen-pound weight gain in the face,” Mom says.

  “You look fine. The swelling will go away quickly,” I say. “Dr. Kealy said it couldn’t have gone better. He said it was a neat little mass, and he got it all.”

  My mom is silent. I stop to appreciate the rarity of the moment. Then I look at her. Tears are streaming down her face.

  “Honestly, Mom, it’s just an allergic reaction,” I say.

  “It’s not that,” Mom says, crying again. “I’m so relieved to have that thing out of me. I hated knowing it was there.”

  My mom wipes her tears and starts making the bed.

  “Why are you making the bed?” I ask.

  “A room just looks so much nicer when the bed is made,” Mom says. “Even this room.”

  “Hello?” I hear a familiar voice in the hallway. My mother looks shocked.

  “Hello?” I hear Nana’s voice again. She walks into the room. “Joanie, is that you?”

  “No, Joanie checked out twenty minutes ago,” my mother says. Then her face changes. For the first time in weeks she looks relieved. She takes her mother’s hand. “I was just thinking about you. I really was.”

  “Oh, Joanie,” Nana says. She studies her face. “You need to reduce.”

  My mother laughs. She doesn’t let go of Nana’s hand.

  On the windowsill is a flowering plant and two vases of fresh-cut flowers.

  “Who sent the flowers?” I ask.

  “The plant is from Marjorie. The tulips are from Mavis,” Mom says. “I feel terrible she’s spending her money on me.”

  “You have cancer…she’s known you for thirty years. It’s okay for her to spend her money on you,” I say. “Who are the other ones from?”

  “A friend,” Mom says.

  “Which friend?” I ask.

  A nurse comes in to go over post-operative procedures. No heavy lifting. No making any important decisions for forty-eight hours. She’s nothing like the stripper on The Passionate & the Youthful.

  The Facts

  I PAY SOMEONE to listen to me. That someone is Paul. It was a big stumbling block standing between me and therapy. I am a good listener. Would I be a better listener if someone paid me? Maybe. Probably not for the long haul, though. I’d pay attention, then start to lose patience as soon as my insights didn’t lead to changes in behavior.

  In the real world, I don’t like it when someone tells me something about myself that I haven’t yet realized. If I lack the courage to tell myself something revealing, I’m not ready to hear it from someone else.

  “How did you know,” I ask, “that she’s very treatable…that she wasn’t dying?”

  Paul uncrosses his legs, shifts his weight, and crosses his legs again. It’s a stall tactic of his. Since upping my sessions to twice a week, I’ve realized it’s what he does when he’s deciding if he’ll tell me the truth, or wait and see if I’ll figure it out on my own.

  “I don’t remember saying that,” Paul says.

  “You didn’t,” I say. “Not really. You said I should talk to her doctor, but the way you said it made me think you didn’t believe she was dying.”

  “From everything you’ve told me, your mother is a real…storyteller. She’s entertaining, but she’s rarely accurate,” Paul says. “Why were you so willing to believe she was dying?”

  “If I imagined myself in her situation, and I received her diagnosis, I could very easily convince myself I was dying,” I say.

  “Only because you’re empathetic and you’ve been conditioned to assume the worst-case scenario,” Paul says. “Most often the worst-case scenario doesn’t happen.”

  “She couldn’t imagine a positive outcome,” I say. “I can relate to that.”

  “See, that’s really useful,” Paul says.

  I don’t like the way he says it, though. As if her cancer is helpful. Or a tool for us to use. It’s not. It’s something
awful she has to go through. We’re vultures waiting to take what might be useful.

  “Why is she like that?” I ask.

  “We can’t know that without her sitting in this room with us. We can only learn about why you respond the way you do,” Paul says.

  “I really didn’t like the way you said that—that this is all really valuable. It sounded really selfish,” I say. “And kind of mean.”

  “What we’re doing here is selfish. Or it’s supposed to be. There’s no other way to approach this,” Paul says. “Wouldn’t it be far worse if she were to go through this experience and nothing was gained?”

  Somewhere inside of me, that’s what I’ve thought all along, of course. That nothing would change between us, there would be no gain. That the opportunity got away—again.

  “While we’re being honest,” I say, because revenge will be mine for his calling my mother a liar before I had the chance, “where’s your wedding ring? Did you get divorced?”

  “Why would you think I got divorced?” Paul says.

  “No wedding ring,” I say.

  “When did you notice that?” Paul asks.

  “I don’t know, a few weeks ago. But when did you get divorced?” I ask again.

  “I’m interested in why I must be divorced if I’m not wearing a ring,” Paul says.

  “So you’re not going to tell me if you’re divorced or not?” I ask.

  “Not until we explore what this means to you, and what your fantasies about this are,” Paul says.

  “So annoying…” I say.

  “What?” Paul says.

  “I’ve been seeing you once a week—or more—for two years,” I say. “You think it’s not appropriate that I’d ask about why you aren’t wearing your ring?”

  “I didn’t say it wasn’t appropriate. I think it might be useful to ask about why you have leapt to the divorce conclusion?” Paul says.

  “If your wife died, I think you might have taken a few personal days. If not, you’d be a heartless bastard, which you’re not. If you’d lost your ring, you’d have a new one by now. That leaves divorce. There are other things, too. You’ve made your office look nicer; you were kind of forgetful for a month or two, that must have been when it happened,” I say.