On Friday two things changed. Elizabeth arrived from Cornell, and the doctor told me that the swelling in my mother’s brain had receded a lot more than they’d thought possible. Almost simultaneously with that news, as I was holding my mom’s hand she squeezed me back and said, weakly but quite distinctly, “Can you believe this shit?”
The doctors were astonished and the therapists practically fell over each other to show me what they could do now that the patient had exhibited some signs of life. Elizabeth and I sat through my mother’s first speech therapy session. The therapist, an earnest young woman in her early twenties, said she was going to start with some very simple exercises. Sitting by my mom’s side, she explained that she was going to say a phrase or a sentence and leave one word blank; it was my mom’s job to fill in the blank. She asked if my mother understood and practically danced a jig when my mother nodded and said, “Yes.”
“I’m going to the blank to get a carton of milk,” the therapist said.
“Cow,” my mother answered.
I started to laugh. The therapist and Elizabeth both shot me nasty looks.
“That’s good,” the therapist said, smiling at my mom but managing to send one last frown in my direction. “And it’s right. But it’s not really correct. You don’t really go to a cow to get milk, do you?”
“No,” my mom said.
“Where do you go?”
“Cow.”
“How about a store?”
My mother nodded and her eyes blinked to show that she was angry at herself. “Yes. That’s … where … I … go.”
“Excellent! That was a superb sentence. That’s really, really good, Mrs. Heller. So let’s try it again. Can you just say the word ‘store’?”
My mother nodded. “Cow.”
“Okay. Let’s try another one. You’re going to make a sandwich of peanut butter and…”
“Salt,” my mother said.
“You know, that’s a very good answer but not quite right. Peanuts are very salty—is that why you answered that way?”
My mother nodded. This was clearly exhausting her.
“But you wouldn’t make a peanut-butter-and-salt sandwich, would you?”
My mother shook her head.
“Mom,” I said. “You know the word, don’t you? It’s just not coming out right.”
She nodded. “Didn’t … mean … salt.”
“So what word did you mean?” the therapist asked.
“Salt,” my mother said.
It went on like that for half an hour, until my mom fell asleep in the middle of a question. She got about fifty percent of the words right; for almost all the others there was a reasonable connection, like cow to milk and salt to peanut. She also produced some oddly esoteric, even arcane terms. The therapist was trying to elicit the word “hallway” and my mom came up with “vestibule.” For “television” she said “console.” When she missed a word, she scowled; if she could have moved her right hand, I think she would have slapped herself. But every time she got one right, she beamed like a proud third grader.
It was exhausting to listen to her and even more so to watch her work with her physical therapist, who tried to get her to uncurl her right fist and relax her right arm. The left side of her body was working reasonably well, her right arm somewhat, and her right leg not at all. The doctors assured me that she was making amazing progress.
Friday night, Elizabeth and I had dinner by ourselves. She wanted to cook, but I insisted on going out. We went to the local diner, exactly what we were in the mood for. I ate an open-faced roast beef sandwich drenched in thick, brown gravy. She ate a Greek salad. As we discussed my mom’s condition and she told me about her work, she patted my arm and touched me in ways that were intended to be comforting but made me want to recoil. By the time we got home, I was repelled by my own behavior, and at my instigation, we made love as tenderly and romantically as I was capable of. She fell asleep quickly after that, her body against mine, her arm wrapped around my chest. I stayed awake for an hour, staring up at the ceiling, trying to wipe away every single thought that swarmed inside my brain.
On Saturday, Phil joined us for dinner. We went to a decent French bistro. Phil showed some restraint and drank no more than his share of a single bottle of wine. We talked about his new girlfriend and I updated him on my mom; over dessert, Phil asked what I was going to do about Ted. I hadn’t told my brother what had happened yet, though I had called several of my mother’s friends. I’d been checking my mother’s phone machine regularly; Ted had called twice, but I hadn’t found the strength to return his calls. I knew that no matter how I handled it—called to tell him I was taking care of things; called to ask him to come right away; called to tell him that whatever he wanted to do was fine—it would get ugly. And I couldn’t handle that kind of ugly right now. Elizabeth thought I was making a mistake. Phil was in total agreement with keeping Ted away.
At some point during the dinner, Elizabeth said, “It does make you think about how we really have to seize the day, doesn’t it?”
Phil snorted and said, “Oh, please. Not that shit.”
“Excuse me?” she said.
“Don’t get him started,” I told her.
Too late.
“You know what drove me crazy,” Phil said. “After 9/11, people were going, ‘Oh, it really makes you realize how short life is … Oh, we really have to live for the moment … Oh, it really makes you think about what we’re doing with our lives.’ Give me a fucking break.”
“You don’t think 9/11 should have affected people?”
“That’s not what he means,” I said.
“People need to grieve,” Elizabeth said.
Phil said nothing. I, too, stayed quiet.
“It’s natural for people to think about their own lives when something like that happens.”
“Okay,” Phil said.
And then it just poured out of me. I tried to stop it—really I did. But I couldn’t.
“What he means,” I said, “is that if it takes a fucking plane flying into a fucking building for someone to wake up and realize he’s going to die one day, or that he might not die on his own fucking schedule, then he’s pretty fucking stupid!”
It came out just a tad harsher and more contemptuous than I intended. Phil didn’t seem to notice, however. Or maybe he enjoyed the outburst, because all he did was nod as if that was exactly the point he’d been trying to make.
Elizabeth looked down at her plate. That was my cue to leave it alone, but I didn’t. I kept going. Getting angrier and angrier. I was practically snarling now.
“Someone who smokes gets cancer, and suddenly he discovers the evils of smoking, turns into a proselytizer before he dies. Some son of a bitch gets a brain tumor and suddenly finds Jesus and wants to apologize for all the bad shit he did in his life. Somebody’s husband gets killed in a terrorist attack and wow, who knew—life’s a dangerous, tenuous thing! You’re supposed to realize that fires are fucking hot after the age of two when you stick your hand in one. But people spend their whole lives oblivious to other people’s pain or tragedy—no, not even tragedy—to just the simple, everyday fucking things that happen to every fucking one of us. We get hit by drunk drivers, we get shot by maniacs with automatic weapons in movie theaters, we get sent off to war by asshole politicians … Christ! Until it happens to them! And then people are surprised every single time! Seize the fucking day! Make the most of every moment! What the hell are people thinking? That if a plane doesn’t crash with someone’s fucking uncle on it then they’re all going to live forever? That no one’s gonna get a stroke or have a heart attack or die of stomach cancer? And no one’s gonna … gonna…”
Suddenly I realized what I was about to say, and I didn’t want to say it. But I absolutely couldn’t help myself. I was no longer in control. I did, however, manage to lower my voice, not quite to a whisper but not far above it. Let’s call it a nasty hiss. “And no one’s gonna look back at their l
ives and realize the one thing that’s sucking the breath out of them, the one thing that sucks it out of all of us, is that we wind up looking back and none of us gives a shit about what we’ve done, we only regret the things we never had the balls to do.”
I looked at Phil. All the emotion had drained out of my voice. As quietly as I could, I said, “It’s not fucking 9/11 or cancer that means anything to anybody. It’s our own regret that we wasted our own fucking lives doing things we didn’t really want to do.” I took a deep breath and lowered my voice even more. It was steady and calm when I said to Elizabeth, “That’s what he fucking means.”
I guess I must have gotten a little overwrought during my diatribe, because when I finished, several people at nearby tables were staring at me as if O. J. Simpson were dining next to them.
Phil said, “Um … I think he’s a little more stressed out than he’s acknowledging.”
“You think?” Elizabeth said. But although she tried to keep it light, the hurt in her eyes betrayed her tone.
And that’s the moment Camilla chose to finally return my calls. I stared at my cell phone as if I’d never seen it before. Then I took a deep breath and answered.
“Hello,” I said.
She didn’t identify herself, just started right in. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. I’ve been away.”
“It’s okay,” I said.
“Is everything all right? How’s your mum?”
“Better.” To say I was speaking in a monotone would be giving me way too much credit for showing emotion.
“You sound funny. Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
“I’m not. It’s fine.”
“Tell me what’s going on? Is your mother okay? When are you coming back?”
“Can I call you later? Or tomorrow?”
“I picked a bad time to call.”
“Kind of.”
“Is the girlfriend there?”
I didn’t answer.
“Call me when you can,” she said. “I’d really like to talk to you.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
I clicked off the phone and looked up. Phil was watching me, curious and confused. Elizabeth couldn’t bring herself to look at me.
“Maybe we should go,” I said. Those were my quietest words yet.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “I think we should.”
“Why do I have a feeling a plane just crashed into a building?” Phil said.
* * *
Elizabeth and I didn’t say a word to each other in the car. We didn’t speak at all until we were upstairs in my mother’s house, in my childhood bedroom.
“I genuinely wish we were having this conversation anywhere but here.”
She didn’t laugh. Or even smile. I guess it was too much to hope for.
“That was your ‘friend’ who called.”
I nodded.
“Kevin,” she said.
Another nod.
“I assume her name’s not Kevin.”
“Camilla.”
“When were you going to tell me?” she asked. She was livid and in pain but she was holding it in. There was the slightest tremor to her voice but other than that no betrayal of emotion.
“Tonight.”
“Even if she hadn’t called?”
“Yes. I wanted to all weekend. I tried.”
“And what happened?”
“Every time I tried to tell you, I … I thought about how much it was going to hurt you, and more than anything in life, Elizabeth, I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Not more than anything,” she said.
“No,” I told her. “I guess not.”
The silence that ensued made me feel inadequate, incapable of telling her what was really inside me.
“How long has it been going on?”
“Nothing’s even been going on. I mean … not really. A week. Less. A few days.”
“And you’re already in love with her?”
“I don’t know. Yes. I think I am. I hardly know her.”
“Is she in love with you?”
“No. I don’t know. Probably not. Jesus. I’m sorry.”
She shook her head and a thin, sad smile crossed her thin, sad lips. “This is kind of ridiculous,” she said, “but I actually feel sorry for you. I don’t like seeing you in this kind of pain.”
I breathed out what was supposed to be a laugh. “Thanks.”
There was another silence. This one was more comfortable.
“You know,” she said, “I understood that you never were in love with me. But I didn’t really care. I thought you would come around in time. And we were so nice and comfortable together, I suppose I forgot that it never seemed to happen. I thought perhaps we didn’t need it.”
I smiled at her. “I think you’re the only person I’ve ever met who uses ‘perhaps’ when you’re actually speaking.”
She looked like she was suddenly going to cry, so I hurriedly said, “Elizabeth, I like you so much. And I do love you. Really. I just … I need … I don’t know. I suddenly need more. I didn’t know that I did, I swear. I had no idea.”
“I was never able to make you forget Anna.”
“I can’t forget Anna. I don’t want to forget Anna. And that’s not what this is about.”
“Isn’t it?”
“It’s not about forgetting. It’s about … I’m sorry, Elizabeth. It’s about figuring out how I can rediscover the things that make me want to stay alive.”
“The thing is,” she said, “none of that mattered to me. You make me happy. I like taking care of you. I like the way you take care of me. I find you exciting. I don’t know why I find a vet who’s hung up on his dead wife exciting, but I do.”
“Elizabeth…”
“Oh god, please don’t say you want to stay friends. I couldn’t bear that.”
“I would like to. At some point, anyway.”
“Bob,” she said. “What I’m going to say is very humiliating for me, so please don’t respond.”
“I—”
“Please.”
I waited.
She took a deep breath. “If things don’t work out with you and … Kevin … whatever her name is—no, don’t tell me again, I don’t really care—I’m available. I mean that I’m available for you. I don’t have any pride about this. I’m sure I’ll be resentful and I might be mean to you for a little while but that wouldn’t last long. So … well, I guess there’s no ‘so.’ There’s just that.” She shook her red hair. “God, I’m giving women a bad name.”
“Thank you,” I said. And then: “I’ve never ended anything before. Ever. I’ve only had things”—I paused—“ended. I’m sorry.”
“What you said earlier. About looking back and regretting the things you didn’t do. Is that the way you’re going to think back on our time together? With regret?”
“No,” I said. “I treasure what we’ve had. I don’t have one minute of regret about these years.”
She waited for the kicker. She knew it was coming. So I finished:
“But if we kept going, I would. If I didn’t end it now, I’d regret it the rest of my life.”
“Congratulations,” Elizabeth said. “I think that’s the cruelest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“I didn’t mean it to be. I’m just trying to make you understand.”
“You think understanding something makes it easier to bear? It doesn’t.”
We looked at each other for a moment or two, but there was nothing more to say. She packed up her overnight bag, went downstairs, outside to her car, and drove away.
Rocky, who’d stayed away during the entire conversation, came tiptoeing into the room now and hopped up on my lap. I stroked him as he purred loudly. And I waited, trying to be as respectful as I could, although I wasn’t really sure what I was being respectful of.
I didn’t wait long. I picked up my cell phone and dialed.
“Hello,” Camilla said.
“Hello,” I said.
Neither of us spoke a word. For some strange, bewildering, exhilarating reason, we didn’t have to.
* * *
From the New York Daily Herald-Examiner:
ASK DR. BOB
Dr. Robert Heller is one of New York’s leading veterinarians. He is the author of two books about taking care of pets, They Have Nothing but Their Kindness and the fleeting New York Times best seller More Than Human. He is also a regular on the Today show with his weekly segment, “The Vetting Zoo.” Dr. Bob takes care of cats, dogs, horses, birds, snakes, turtles, frogs, snails, fish, small pigs, and many varieties of rodents. You can e-mail him at [email protected] and ask him any question about the animal you love. His column runs Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sundays in the tristate area’s most popular newspaper.
Dear Dr. Bob:
I just got a new kitten. When I took him to my local vet, she told me that Goya was a very smart cat but very, very willful. She said that I needed to socialize him as quickly as possible and that if I didn’t expose him to lots of different people, I’d never be able to control him. I told her that I didn’t really want to control him. I said, “What’s the point of having a cat if you can control him?” She said that even cats need some sort of control. She said that if I didn’t work on socializing him—“socializing” is her word—he’d be hard to play with because he’d scratch and bite me (not maliciously, just because he’d think that anything and everything was a toy being placed before him for his pleasure). She said he’d insist on being fed when he wanted to be fed rather than on my schedule. And that he’d never learn how to stop clawing the furniture or come when I called him over for a petting. I like my vet. She, too, is very smart. But somehow I don’t think she understands. I don’t want to break my cat’s will. I want him to be a cat. I will love him even more for being what he is. Do you understand, Dr. Bob?
Ask Bob: A Novel Page 24