by Alli Curran
“Can you take me there?” she asks.
I nod.
“You should know, Aimee, that being a tutor isn’t my only job. I’m also a medical student. My hospital identification badge will get us past security at Memorial, but at the moment we don’t even need it. It’s almost noon, right in the middle of visiting hours. This is the perfect time to go.”
Aimee practically jumps out of her seat.
“Well, let’s get going!”
“Not so fast, kiddo. Hold on there, for just one second.”
I stand and meet her gaze.
“We’re not going anywhere until you finish your math worksheet.”
I pull the folded paper out of my jacket pocket.
“From here on out, I want your solemn promise that you’re going to finish all your schoolwork.”
“I promise,” she says, and this time I hear the truth in her voice.
Aimee sits back down, grabs the sharpened pencil I hand her, and rapidly polishes off the remaining problems. I don’t bother checking the answers, since I’m sure they’re all correct, down to the last decimal place.
Chapter Fifteen
Memorial and Metaphysics
Minutes later the child is pulling my arm out of its socket, dragging me up York Avenue. As we weave in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding collisions with automobiles, pedestrians, and dogs, I try not to have a heart attack.
“Sorry,” I shout over my shoulder to an old woman pushing a grocery cart whom we nearly mow down.
I yell at Aimee’s back, “You won’t be spending much time with your father if you get us—or someone else—killed on our way to the hospital.”
Like a typical New York City cab driver, the child completely ignores me.
Pausing at Memorial’s main entrance, I flash my ID, just in case. When the security guard nods, Aimee dashes ahead to the elevator. Clearly she knows where she’s going. In fact, after the elevator dings on the fifth floor, I’m the one who’s lost. This ward is new to me, and I need to move quickly to keep up with my charge.
Not that I’m thrilled to follow her. Of all the hospitals I’ve ever visited or worked in, Memorial is my least favorite. A pall of sadness and gloom seems to hang in the air, warning visitors to think twice about traversing its ghostly halls.
When we finally arrive at room 509, I’m completely winded from chasing Aimee. An orange sign hanging over the door reads “contact precautions.” Pausing to locate a gown and gloves, I’m unable to prevent Aimee from bounding into the room.
“Don’t forget your gown….,” I call after her, barely able to get the words out.
Since my alveoli are still having difficulty accomplishing basic gas exchange, this seems like an excellent moment to catch my breath. As I’m leaning over my knees, trying to recover, an angry-looking middle-aged woman whom I recognize as Aimee’s mother from the tennis picture storms out of the room.
“What on earth were you thinking, bringing her here?” she yells.
At this juncture, I can’t help noticing that the woman’s hands are tightly balled into fists, just below her very muscular forearms. Mrs. Santos looks like someone who works out a lot. Hopefully she’s not going to punch me. Suddenly I’m too afraid to say anything.
“Umm….”
“Well?” she demands, raising her fists to the level of her hips.
“I—I’m sorry,” I say.
“You should be! Aimee was coughing when she woke up this morning. Do you realize what could happen if her father so much as catches a cold right now?”
She takes one step closer to me, lowering her voice.
“Aimee’s father is a very sick man. He’s practically dying.”
Her face is near enough now that I can distinguish all the dilated blood vessels lining her bulging, bloodshot sclera.
“I know. Aimee told me that already.”
The woman pauses for a moment, looking confused.
“She did?”
“Yeah, she did. Are you surprised that she’s aware of what’s happening here?”
“What kind of a question is that?” she asks, starting to look angry again.
Uh, oh.
“Who are you, anyway? No, wait….”
Mrs. Santos holds up her hand, shaking her short, dark, curly hair.
“I know who you are. You’re Emma, right? The tutor? Maria told me you were taking Aimee out of the apartment.”
“Right.”
“She said that you were taking her to your office, to work on practice tests.”
“Oh, yeah…I’m sorry about that. Aimee lied about where we were going, but I didn’t realize she was lying until later, since I don’t speak much Spanish.”
“Well, Emma…as of right now, you’re fired.”
She spins on her heel, turning back toward the room.
“Wait!” I call after her.
Aimee’s mother turns around again, looking exasperated.
“What do you want?” she asks.
“I had to bring her here,” I say. “It was the only way to convince her to do her schoolwork.”
As Mrs. Santos stares at me, her fists relax ever so slightly, and I plunge ahead.
“I’m sure that Aimee hasn’t been doing her homework to get your attention. She misses you. Do you know that she’s been scratching her arms—on purpose—because she’s been so upset about being left alone at home?”
“She’s…hurting…herself?” whispers Mrs. Santos, leaning against the wall, as though needing support.
The remaining color in her already pale face fades away. I hope she isn’t going to faint.
“Yeah. I noticed the marks on her arms last week.”
“Why would she do that?”
“I think to make herself feel better.”
Mrs. Santos bends her knees and slides her back down the wall, until she’s almost sitting on the floor.
“She really misses you and her dad.”
Glancing toward the hospital room, Aimee’s mother says, “This isn’t the way I wanted her to remember her father. I’ve been keeping Aimee at home to protect her from all of this sickness...and death.”
“Look, I’m not a family member or anything, and I know I’ve only spent a little time with Aimee, so forgive me for being so forward. But from what I’ve seen over the past two weeks, I think that keeping Aimee cooped up at your apartment is worse for her than being here. Why not let her stay at the hospital, so long as she promises to do her work?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “This is a very difficult time for our family, and I’m having trouble thinking straight right now.”
“What about the tutoring? Am I still fired?”
Mrs. Santos stands up, shrugs, and shakes her head indecisively. Then she turns back toward the doorway leading into room 509.
As she disappears inside, I can’t help peering over her shoulder. In the poorly lit space, small details are difficult to distinguish, but I can see that Aimee is lying in bed with her father. One of her arms is draped protectively over his skeletally thin torso, and their faces are pressed together, cheek to cheek. I can just make out the soft sound of her crying.
Taking a few steps backward, I inhale deeply and turn toward the elevator. To my surprise, when I finally escape from Memorial into the sunshine of the afternoon, the sweet smell of spring is in the air. I hadn’t noticed it on the kamikaze journey uptown, but dogwood, magnolia, and cherry blossoms are bursting open on every street corner. The heady aromas and brightly-colored flowers are a healing balm following the gloomy darkness of the cancer hospital, innervating my senses as I begin walking home.
Then my feet stop moving. It suddenly occurs to me that while time has stalled in room 509, outside the seasons are changing, and Mother Nature couldn’t care less about all the suffering patients stuck inside the hospital. Despite all the terrible things happening to Aimee and her family, spring has arrived. The contrast is surreal and confusing. The vicissitudes of human life se
em so random, and utterly cold. Though it feels unfair, I suppose it’s a good thing that the Earth keeps spinning, despite all the problems that humans are forced to deal with on a daily basis.
Walking more slowly now, enjoying the warm, afternoon sunlight on my face, I recall a trip that my family took many years ago, when I was about Aimee’s age. One summer my parents rented a cottage on the North Fork of Long Island. Situated on the banks of a creek that flowed into the ocean, the location was great for watching sea birds sail over the water and tiny hermit crabs scuttle across the sand. After spending the day kayaking and enjoying the bountiful wildlife, the three of us sat together on a little dock behind the cottage, watching the sun descend. Facing westward, we had a perfect view of the sunset. As the sun hit the horizon, a few fluffy cumulus clouds hovering on the edge of the sky projected a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors.
“Now there’s an example of why you don’t have to go to Hawaii to see a great sunset,” said my dad.
“It’s so pretty,” I agreed, amazed by the red, orange, and yellow hues emblazoning the atmosphere. “What do you think, Mom? Is it the best one you’ve ever seen?”
“It’s definitely up there,” she said. “And I agree with your dad. You don’t have to travel far to see some incredible sunsets.”
“Is that what the rabbi was talking about, when he said that you can see God all around us?” I asked.
“You mean during his sermon at temple last week?” said my dad.
My mom hadn’t come with us that evening, since she rarely attended synagogue.
“Yeah. The one where he talked about God, and all of that stuff about nature.”
“I think this is the perfect example of what he was trying to say.”
“Larry, with all due respect,” said my mother, “I think you should be careful about giving Emma those types of ideas.”
“What types of ideas?” I asked.
“Yeah, what types of ideas?” he repeated, looking curiously at my mom.
“The types of ideas where you start chalking everything up to God.”
“Why?” he asked.
“Because they’re misleading,” she said.
“How so?” said my dad.
“People are always attributing natural phenomena to God. Take my Aunt Millie, for instance. If a baby was born with a birth defect, she’d say something like, ‘Too bad, it must’ve been God’s will;’ instead of, ‘That woman really shouldn’t have taken thalidomide during her pregnancy.’”
“But Cecile, sunsets and birth defects are two different…”
“Or, if a tree fell through somebody’s roof, she’d say, ‘God must’ve been angry with them;’ instead of, ‘They should’ve taken down that rotten old tree years ago.’”
“Don’t you believe in God, Mom?” I asked.
“When it comes to God, I’m not sure what to believe. But I’ll tell you what I do believe in,” she said, moving closer to me on the dock.
“What?” I asked.
“I believe in people. I believe in you, Emma,” she said, putting her arm around me, “and your father. I believe that to some degree—not totally, mind you—but to some degree, we all have the power to control what happens to us, and the world around us.”
“But why don’t you believe in God?”
“Remember, I said I’m not sure what I believe about God, not that I’m a complete atheist. Keep in mind that I’ve worked as a chemist for nearly twenty years. If nothing else, working as a scientist for a very long time has taught me one important lesson.”
“What’s that?” I asked, leaning my head against her shoulder.
“That most ideas—even ideas that sound perfectly reasonable—fall apart without hard evidence, or proof,” she said. “Believing in God, on the other hand, has nothing to do with scientific evidence; believing in God has everything to do with faith.”
“But when you’re looking at the ocean, or a beautiful sunset, don’t you sense that there must be a higher power, or some grand design to the universe?” asked my dad, gesturing toward the sky.
“If by ‘higher power’ you’re referring to the big bang theory, then sure. Otherwise, not particularly,” said my mom.
“But isn’t that a scary way to look at things?” I asked.
“What do you mean?” said my mother.
“Well, if there’s no God, then what happens to us when we die? Do people just disappear, forever?”
“I’m not sure, honey,” said my mom. “No one knows what happens to us when we die. But yes, I think that disappearing forever is a very real possibility.”
“Cecile,” my dad jumped in, “how can you say that to Emma? You’re going to give her nightmares, or some kind of death complex.”
“You can’t go wrong telling the truth, Larry, and I’m just being honest about my opinions. Believe me, the world would be a better place if more people felt the way I do.”
“What are you saying?” he asked.
“I’m saying that most of the time, religion does more harm than good. Look at all the people who’ve committed murder in the name of God, or religion in general. Religious fanatics think that killing innocent people will get them a ticket to some exalted afterlife, so they don’t care about wreaking havoc on earth. Honestly, the world would be a better place if people didn’t believe in God, or the devil, or any of that ridiculous nonsense. In fact, if I were God, I wouldn’t want people worshipping me at all.”
“You’re such a heretic, you know that?” said my dad, kissing my mom on the cheek. “Good thing I’ve always loved your rebellious side.”
“It’s true, though,” she continued. “If people weren’t focused on getting to heaven or worrying about he—if they weren’t afraid of eternal da—oh, you know what I’m trying to say here, Larry…then we could all just live in the moment. If the concept of an afterlife didn’t exist, then people would behave themselves because treating one another decently is the right thing to do, period. Even though I’m not particularly religious, that’s something I’ve always liked about Judaism—the lack of a strong heaven/hell concept. Sorry, Emma. It’s impossible not to say the word.”
“But you’re always complaining about Judaism,” I said.
“I am?” she said.
“Yeah, you’re always saying stuff like, ‘Of all the religions in the world, Orthodox Jews treat women the worst.’”
“It’s true that I’m not a fan of extremely religious groups, Orthodox Jews included, and discrimination against women is just one reason why. But I like that fact that Judaism doesn’t motivate people with a reward and punishment system.”
“I’m not sure I understand that last part,” I said.
“It’s like John Lennon sings in his song, Imagine. You know, the one where he says, ‘Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try, no hell below us, above us only sky….’ And then he says, ‘Imagine all the people living for today….living life in peace.’ I do imagine that, all the time.”
“I’m still not sure that I get it,” I said.
“Did I lose you, sweetheart?” she asked, giving me a hug.
“I think so.”
“The bottom line, Emma, is that as a human being, you are the architect of your own destiny. Moreover, you should try to enjoy the gift of life while you have it, and treat others the way you’d like to be treated along the way.”
“Cecile’s Philosophy of Life, 101,” said my dad.
“But I’m still confused about God,” I said.
“Confused is a good way to be. When you’re confused about a difficult concept, it means you have a brain, and you’re using it to think, rather than blindly following the masses.”
She kissed my forehead.
“Someday, when you’re older, you’ll understand what I’m saying. And if you don’t agree with me, that’ll be just fine.”
Walking home along York Avenue, I reach two conclusions. One, I’m finally old enough to understand that whole conversation. A
nd two, I don’t totally agree with her. In particular, the “architect of your own destiny” concept seems flawed. Maybe I’ve been influenced by my brief foray into the world of medicine, but I’m convinced that when it comes to health, the whims of fate are random and all powerful. Despite our best efforts, many illnesses aren’t preventable or treatable. After all, even vegetarians who run marathons die from cancer sometimes.
Incidentally, if fate is playing a role in human health, then it might be controlling other aspects of our lives as well. Just look at Aimee. If a different family had adopted her, she might’ve turned out to be a totally normal kid; or at least somewhat normal, considering that her brain is a calculator. For the sake of Aimee and her family, I really hope there is a God—an entity strong enough counteract the indiscriminate cruelty of fate. Judging from Mr. Santos’s physical appearance, nothing short of divine intervention could possibly save this unfortunate man’s life.
Chapter Sixteen
Epiphanies
Perhaps it’s witnessing the shadow of death, or maybe the impetus is the hopeful breath of spring, but suddenly I’m feeling compelled to make the most of my time on this planet. Who knows? Maybe the “death complex” that I acquired at age 10 will turn out to be beneficial. Hopping on the number six train at 72nd Street and Lexington Avenue, I’ve got just enough time to make a swing dancing class in Midtown. After a quick subway ride downtown, I enter a warehouse-sized ballroom, hand over my 15-dollar admission fee, and dash into the class. The lesson is being held in a smaller version of the main ballroom, mirrored walls and all.
Like the big city itself, the room is a melting pot of ages and ethnicities. No one seems to have brought a partner. Lovely.
“Okay, everybody,” says a perky, muscular blonde woman standing in the center of the room. “Let’s make two lines. Leaders to my left, followers to my right.”
Most of the men shuffle off to the left, while the majority of the women head right. Several confident-looking women, however, break ranks and join the “leaders,” while a bunch of men line up as “followers.” Since I’m a beginner with less than no leading ability, I take my place in line with the followers. Moments later I reach out my hand to my first partner, a middle-aged (perhaps older?) Asian woman, who turns out to be a competent leader.