by Alli Curran
“Not bad,” she says, winking at me after a few basic swing steps.
When the followers rotate, I’m paired off with a polite older gentleman who could be in his eighties, but moves like a much younger man. I’m always impressed by this phenomenon—the way that dancing equalizes individuals of different ages and physiques. Sometimes people who are quite overweight, for example, glide like pros once the music starts. The reverse is true, as well. Someone who looks promising might turn out to be a total fiasco on the dance floor (i.e. me). Dancing and sex are similar in this respect. Whether it’s on the dance floor or in bed, until you take someone out for a spin, you never know how he/she is going to perform.
“Okay, everyone,” says the teacher. “For the next rotation, we’re going attempt a more challenging step…the eight-count whip.”
Whips? Hmm. This could get interesting.
Speaking of sex—or rather, sexy—my partner for the whip is a youngish guy with sandy-blond hair and gray-blue eyes who appears to be prematurely balding. It’s nice to know that I’m not the only 20 (or 30?)-something person in the city with hair problems.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” says my new partner. “What’s your name?”
“Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, Emma,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.
His grip is warm and reassuring.
The teacher then begins calling out the rhythm, clapping on every beat, “One, two, three-and-four…five, six, seven-and-eight.”
Perhaps hair loss corresponds to dancing ability, as the balding blond is the best leader yet. Somehow, this complete stranger manages to direct my entire body through several turns of the whip without dislocating my arms or crushing my toes. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same about his toes. I probably step on all ten of them, some more than once.
“Oops!”
“I’m sorry!”
The words rush out my mouth, over and over again.
“No problem,” this kind soul replies repeatedly, with a smile that is both charming and forgiving.
Before I can ask the man his name, we’ve moved on to the next partner. Soon the teacher throws in some great old swing music, like “Rock Around the Clock,” by Bill Haley and the Comets, and Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog.” As we rock, tuck, spin, and whip our way through the class, I feel invigorated and a bit disinhibited, similar to that night in the Pelourinho, when dancing in the street inspired a kind of contagious, joyful recklessness.
By the time I’m standing next to the friendly blond again, I’m convinced that dancing regularly must be an excellent way to prevent mental illness.
Blondie interrupts my thoughts.
“What are you smiling at?” he asks.
“Dancing is just so much fun,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “That’s why I come here.”
“Have you been dancing for a long time?” I ask.
“Not really. When I was a kid, my parents forced me to take some ballroom classes, but I gave it up after a few years. Now I wish that I’d pursued it more seriously.”
“And the swing dancing?”
“I’ve only been coming here for about six months, so I still consider myself a beginner,” he says.
“You’re a terrific leader,” I say. “I would’ve guessed you’ve been ‘swinging’ for much longer.”
“Depends on your definition of the word.”
Ooh.
“Thanks for the compliment, though,” he adds.
The teacher interrupts our conversation.
“Good job everyone,” she says. “Once again we’ve run out of time, but I look forward to seeing everyone next week, same time, same place.”
As the class files out into the larger ballroom, I capitalize on my daring state of mind.
“You never told me your name,” I say to Twinkle Toes.
“Sorry about that,” he replies, smiling at me. “All that rotating makes it hard to finish a conversation. The name’s David.”
“Well, it’s been very nice dancing with you, David.”
Once again we shake hands, and I love the feel of David’s grip. The skin on his palm is a little rough, presumably from calluses. I wonder how he got them.
“Do you think you’ll come back next week?” David asks.
“Definitely. This was terrific.”
“Great. I’ll see you then, Emma.
Oh, my. That almost felt like he was asking me out on a date. Or maybe I was asking him out on a date. Perhaps I should dye my hair purple every day. As I leave the studio, I’m already excited about the upcoming lesson, least of all because of the dancing.
Following the subway ride home, I start to feel hypoglycemic and swing by the local Korean deli for my usual buffet-style, pseudo-Chinese food. While chugging a can of A & W Cream Soda, I load up my plastic container with deep-fried general Tso’s chicken and saucy broccoli.
“Hey, you suppose to pay faw dat fust!” shouts the manager, who smiles at me and laughs.
For the last three years, I’ve bought something from this shop nearly every day. The manager knows I’m good for it.
Though not particularly healthy, the food is quite tasty, and today I don’t feel a bit guilty about indulging myself. In fact, in the elevator I’m so hungry that I pop open the plastic and grab a piece of sticky orange chicken with my fingers. The first piece is so delicious that I quickly grab another. Arriving at my apartment, I nearly start choking when I find a little girl sitting outside my door.
“Aimee! What are you doing here?” I splutter.
“I need your help.”
Attempting to wash down the food obstructing my throat, I chug some more soda.
“Does your mother know you’re here?” I say, after swallowing.
Aimee smiles ruefully.
“She thinks I went home to Maria.”
I raise my eyebrows questioningly at her.
“My mom stuck me in a cab outside the hospital a few minutes ago.”
“We need to call her—soon—to let her know where you are. But why don’t you come inside first, and tell me what’s going on. Then we’ll give your mom a ring.”
“Okay,” she says, standing up.
“How did you find me, anyway?” I ask.
“It wasn’t too hard, since you already told me where you live.”
“I did?” I say.
“Yes, you did. Remember last week, when I used your address to tell your fortune?”
“Oh, yeah,” I say. “I’m surprised you remembered it.”
Aimee shrugs her shoulders.
“I’m good with numbers.”
As I unlock the door, Aimee follows me inside like a little shadow. Since Helen is out somewhere, we’re the only ones home.
Though I’d like to continue shoveling food into my mouth with my fingers, I take the time to grab a fork, trying to set a decent example for the kid. Settling into a chair at the kitchen table, I motion for Aimee to join me.
“What kind of help do you need?” I ask.
Aimee drops down into another wooden chair and looks at me wistfully.
“You said you’re a medical student, right?”
“That’s right.”
“A medical student is almost a doctor.”
“Almost, but not quite,” I say.
“Well, my dad is very sick. I was wondering if maybe, since you’re almost a doctor, you might know about some medicine that could help him.”
“Aimee, I wish that I could help you and your family, but I’m sure your dad’s case is really complicated, and I’m just learning the basics. I don’t think there’s much that I could….”
I don’t finish the sentence. Aimee’s chin has started quivering, and I can see that she’s close to crying. Sensing that words aren’t going to help, I pull open the freezer, grab a chocolate fudgesicle, and shove it into Aimee’s mouth. This immediately calms her down.
One point for Emma, meltdown averted.
“What kind of illness does your father have?” I ask, while Aimee sucks on the pop.
“He’s got cancer, and it’s spreading everywhere. For a while they were giving him medicine to make it go away, but the medicine isn’t working anymore. I think he needs a new kind of medicine.”
“What kind of cancer does he have?”
“I don’t know the exact type,” she says.
“Do you know where it started?” I ask.
“His arm.”
“Okay. Can you give me some details about the cancer?”
“What kinds of details?”
“Like was it bone cancer, or muscle cancer?”
“Oh, neither of those,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it was skin cancer.”
“How do you know?”
“My dad had a big, dark freckle on his arm near his shoulder, and he went to a skin doctor, who cut out the freckle. Then the skin doctor figured out that the freckle was cancer.”
“Okay, skin cancer. Do you remember hearing the words ‘squamous cell cancer’?”
“Nope,” says Aimee, shaking her head.
“How about ‘melanoma?’”
The word must’ve rung a bell, because Aimee nearly jumps off the chair.
“That’s it!” she says.
Now my heart rate starts accelerating, just a little bit.
“You know what’s really interesting about that?” I say.
“What?” she asks.
“When I was in Brazil last month, I worked on a project studying melanoma.”
Aimee’s eyes are suddenly so wide that she looks like a patient with Grave’s disease.
“Did you find medicine to make it go away?”
“Well, we found something that helped mice with melanoma. When I came back to New York, we still didn’t know whether the medicine would help people. Also—and this is really important—the medicine only worked for one type of melanoma. I’ve got no idea whether your dad has the right type, but chances are he doesn’t.”
Aimee leaps out of her seat, grabs my arm, and begins pulling me toward the door.
“What are we waiting for?” she says. “Let’s get going. We have to find out whether he’s got the right type.”
“Whoa, slow down there,” I say.
Her fingers are clenched so tightly around my forearm that I’m unable to unwind them when I try.
“This is really complicated,” I say, giving up on extricating myself from her grip. “We could get into big trouble if we do something wrong. The first thing we need to do is call your mother. You wouldn’t happen to know her phone number at the hospital?”
“Yeah, I memorized it,” she says.
Of course she did.
Aimee relaxes her fingers somewhat but doesn’t let go of my arm. As she recites them, I dial the seven numbers.
“Hi, Mrs. Santos,” I say, when Aimee’s mother picks up the phone. “This is Emma, the tutor you fired today.”
“What do you want?” she says, sounding annoyed.
“Well, first off, when I got back to my apartment a few minutes ago, I found Aimee waiting for me.”
“What? I told her to go directly home. Is she still there?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” she says. “Put her on the phone.”
I pass the phone over to Aimee, who reluctantly takes it with her free hand.
“Hi, Mom. Yes, I know you said to go home.”
She pauses for a few seconds.
“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me go to Emma’s. I’m sorry I lied, but I wanted to ask her for help….Since she’s a medical student, I thought she might know about a new medicine for Dad….Yes, Mom, I know she’s not a real doctor. But guess what? She studied a new medicine that she thinks might work. Do you want to hear about it?”
Aimee smiles, handing the phone back to me.
Over the next 10 minutes I explain the Brazilian melanoma project to Mrs. Santos.
When I’m finished she asks, “So you’re saying this drug only works for one type of melanoma?”
“That’s correct.”
“How would we know whether my husband has the right type, genetically speaking?”
“His oncologist might know,” I say.
In the moment that I pause to think about it, I recall a key conversation with Grace.
“Or maybe, if I looked at his pathology report, I might be able to tell,” I say.
Mrs. Santos asks, “Where would the pathology report be located?”
“It’s probably in his medical records. Where was your husband first diagnosed?”
“The dermatology clinic at New York Hospital.”
“Since I’m a medical student at New York Hospital, I might be able to access his records through the hospital’s computer system. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to go poking around in there because of HIPAA regulations; but with your permission, I’m okay with it. Do you want me to try?”
“Yes, please,” she says. “As soon as possible.”
“Okay. I’ll head to the hospital right now.”
“Before you hang up,” says Mrs. Santos, “I need to ask you a couple favors.”
“Sure thing.”
“First, keep Aimee with you at all times, and bring her straight home when you’re finished.”
“No problem,” I say, while watching Aimee’s face, which is brimming with nervous excitement.
“And second, please forgive me for acting the way I did at the hospital. I’m not usually like that. Seeing Aimee at Memorial today just took me by surprise. With my husband getting sicker every day, I…I’m just not coping well with anything right now. I’m sorry for the way I handled things.”
“It’s okay,” I say. “I know your family is going through a rough time. I didn’t take it personally.”
“Good. You know, Emma, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to in a long time who’s had anything hopeful to say. I really appreciate what you’re doing…even if doesn’t make any difference in the end. So thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll call back soon and let you know what happens.”
I hang up the phone and study Aimee, who’s still clinging to my arm. She looks so familiar. Where the heck have I seen this kid before?
“Okay,” I tell her. “I really can’t believe we’re about to do this. Are you ready to go?”
“Ready.”
She’s already tugging me out the door.
“Unless you’re planning on taking my arm home with you, without the rest of my body, I wouldn’t pull quite so hard,” I shout, as we hit the pavement outside my building.
Ignoring me as usual, the child zooms the two of us through oncoming traffic on York Avenue, barely avoiding collisions with two buses and a taxi cab. Minutes later we’re focused on Connie’s computer in the tuberculosis lab. Aside from Aimee and myself, the place is deserted, status quo for the weekend.
“Alright, Aimee,” I say. “Just be patient for a minute, while I boot up the computer.”
As the screen flashes to life, I wonder whether Connie’s at home now, arguing with her son about his haftorah.
“Is it ready yet?” she asks impatiently.
“Just about,” I say.
Over the last few months, New York Hospital has been converting from paper charts to electronic medical records, and I’m not sure whether the data we need is currently in the system.
“Now is it ready?” Aimee asks, about 20 seconds later.
“Almost.”
“How long is this going to…?”
“Okay, we’re in,” I say. “Tell me your dad’s full name.”
“Roberto Santos.”
“What’s his middle name?”
“Juan.”
“Roberto Juan Santos.”
I type the information next to the flashing cursor.
“Would you happen to know his birth date?”
She doesn’t hesitate before answering, “June third, 1957.”
I hit the enter button.
“Cool!” I exclaim.
“What’s cool?” Aimee asks.
“It worked. See, here are your dad’s records.”
The two of us stare at the screen. Under her father’s name is a listing of all the clinics that Roberto has recently visited, including general internal medicine, dermatology, urology, and hematology-oncology. I cross my fingers, hoping I’m not about to violate any major HIPAA regulations, as I click “dermatology.”
“Oh,” I sigh.
“What’s wrong?” asks Aimee.
“The file’s empty.”
Clearly this new system isn’t perfect. Perhaps we’ll need to dig the paper chart out of medical records after all.
“Can we look someplace else?” she asks.
“Let’s try a different icon.”
Under “clinics” is another section labeled “results,” with the subheadings “labs” and “radiology.” When I try clicking “labs,” a box labeled “pathology” appears. One more click, and we finally hit pay dirt.
Some wonderful pathologist, whom I will probably never meet, has recorded the following:
“Skin biopsy specimen #4943, received in formalin, histology consistent with melanoma. Genetic testing positive for homozygous Mts745.”
“Oh, my,” I say, trying to remain calm.
“What is it?” she asks.
“He has it.”
“He has what?”
“The right mutation. The one I studied in Brazil.”
“So you have medicine that will help him?” Aimee asks.
“I don’t know. Probably not….I mean, I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything. The drug worked in mice, but it might not work in people. I also don’t know whether we’ve got enough medicine to treat someone your father’s size. He’s a lot bigger than a mouse, you know.”
“Yeah, but he’s lost a lot of weight recently,” she says.
“Aimee, I’m just not sure whether….”
My diminutive companion cuts me off.