Monday Mornings: A Novel

by Sanjay Gupta

  Now he wondered about perception and reality. As he considered the invisible beams doing damage at a cellular level inside his head at that very moment, he thought of other aspects of his life that were invisible yet vital to his well-being. Love, for example. Surely, he knew his wife loved him, and he loved her. If Pat were gone, his life would be diminished. She was vital to his well-being. His children, too. His mother had died the previous year of a stroke, and he had experienced a profound sense of loss even though he talked to his mother only a few times a year. There was a love and bond between them, now forever severed.

  With the lights dimmed night after night, Park’s mind wandered as Mozart’s “Violin Concerto no. 5 in A Major” played. He’d requested the song in part because it roused him at some spiritual level. He thought the music might trigger the release of dopamine and might help with his healing. Also, the song had played a profound role in his life. He was scheduled to play this piece at his tryout for Korea’s most prestigious music academy. His inability to master it had ended the violin career his parents dreamed he’d pursue and turned Park to science.

  Park had always been a linear thinker. Input and outcome were directly correlated. If you applied more effort, you got more results. Life could be broken down into a series of simple algebraic equations. If x yielded y, then 2x would equal 2y. In this way, you could produce the results you wanted. Park’s dogged work ethic was the product of this belief, and he had used it in Korea, rising above his humble upbringing to receive admission into medical school and then being accepted into its most challenging field, neurosurgery. He had done it again in the United States by going through a second neurosurgical residency.

  Lying on his back, the invisible beams striking his brain, Park was beginning to rethink this linear mind-set. His life had not followed a logical path. His inability to master a piece of music written for violin 250 years earlier in Germany had shunted his life from one track to another. His cancer, too, was the result of no direct input. His diet was good. He was fit from walking. He had not been exposed to high doses of any known carcinogen. One day he was living one life. The next day he was living a different one. He had undergone a profound change, and not as the result of any simple formula.

  As a doctor, he’d heard other glioblastoma patients talk about how their lives were transformed the instant the cancer revealed itself. One minute, they were driving in a familiar neighborhood, and the next they didn’t know the way home. One minute, they were cleaning the garage. The next, the left side of their body ceased functioning. One minute, they were holding a conversation and the next, they found it difficult to speak.

  Park had studied quantum mechanics as part of his undergraduate education at the University of Seoul, but he had been skeptical. How could one thing become something completely different under certain circumstances? Now he was beginning to view himself under this light. Maybe life wasn’t as much levers and pulleys that could be manipulated as it was a series of switches that turned on and off.

  When Park rose from the gurney each night after the radiation machine stopped humming, there had barely been enough time to hear a single movement of the concerto. Still, he had spent the brief time pondering questions he had never even considered thus far in his life, and he left the hospital feeling oddly refreshed.

  CHAPTER 30

  S

  ydney stood next to the makeshift stage and jumped up and down to ward off the cold. She was wearing shorts and her CHELSEA GENERAL 10K T-shirt, even though the temperature was only in the high forties. ABBA’s “Mamma Mia” pulsed from large, overmodulated speakers set up on either side of the windblown stage, and a woman stood in front of a group of runners, leading them in pre-race stretching. The song ended, and the DJ flipped on his microphone.

  “Mamma Mia, it’s cold out here. Everyone keep moving! Before you head to the starting line, I want to hand the mike over to Morgan Smith, he’s the big cheese, le grand fromage, at Chelsea General, the sponsor that’s made this race possible. Put those frozen mitts together for Morgan Smith.”

  Smith took the microphone to a smattering of applause.

  “Thanks. My name is Morgan Smith. I’m the CEO at Chelsea General. Just want to welcome all of you here. Chelsea General is proud to sponsor the race. This is the eighth year of the Chelsea General 10K. Even though it’s cold, you all need to stay hydrated. There will be water stops along the course. Chelsea General will be with you every step of the way. And that’s the kind of hospital we are, too. From the best neonatal unit in the Midwest to outstanding geriatric care.”

  Smith looked over toward Sydney, who gave him a wave as she hopped up and down on one foot, then the other.

  “We’ve got a young doctor here—” Smith put a hand over his microphone and leaned toward Sydney with a look that made it clear he had forgotten her name.

  “Sydney Saxena,” she called.

  “We’ve got Dr. Sydney Saxena here. She’s going to tell you a little bit about saving lives.”

  He turned and handed the microphone to Sydney. She blew on her hands, stiff and red with cold, and took the mike.

  “Good morning. I’m Dr. Sydney Saxena. We’re all excited to run and get the blood moving. Just want to tell you, if you ever find a loved one, a friend, a stranger who’s not breathing or whose heart has stopped, you can help. Anyone can help. And it’s simple. Don’t worry about mouth-to-mouth. That’s good news, right? Chest compressions alone will keep the blood moving to the brain and heart until help arrives.”

  Sydney remembered training as a lifeguard in high school, the dreaded fear of having to perform mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on something other than the rubber dummy, really only a head and chest. That was bad enough, its creepy pupil-less eyes staring straight ahead, its skin-colored lips tasting like the Listerine used to clean the “mouth” between would-be lifeguards.

  Sydney looked out at the large pack of runners, jumping up and down to stay warm, stretching, talking. It was hard to know if anyone was listening. As she scanned the small group in front of her, she saw him. Bill McManus. He smiled and nodded at her. He still looked exhausted, but he looked more athletic in shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt than he had in a wrinkled lab coat.

  “So if you come upon someone who has stopped breathing, first, you or someone else needs to call nine-one-one. Then you need to see if there is a defibrillator nearby. If not, all you have to do is chest compressions. That will keep the blood flowing to the heart and brain. Find a spot between the nipples and push, arms straight, one hand on top of the other.” Sydney put her hands on top of each other, and straightened her arms to demonstrate. “And don’t be shy about the compressions. You want to push hard. Break a sweat. Keep going until medical help arrives. Any questions?”

  Sydney looked around. McManus had his hand up. Sydney ignored the fellow doctor and tried not to laugh.

  “Okay then. You’re all heroes in waiting. Good luck with the run today!”

  There was a smattering of applause.

  Sydney looked around for someone to take the microphone. She found the DJ bent under his table of electronics, wolfing down a powdered doughnut. He brushed the confectioner’s sugar from his hands. As she handed off the mike, she heard a voice behind her.

  “You didn’t call on me,” McManus said. “I had a question.”

  “I can only imagine what your question is, Dr. McManus,” Sydney said, emphasizing the word doctor. The hint of a smile played at the corner of her mouth.

  “I was going to ask if you could do mouth-to-mouth if you wanted to.”

  He grinned slyly, a fan of wrinkles framing his light blue eyes. Sydney shook her head, bemused, although she had an image of kissing this wiseass doc standing in front of her. To her surprise, she found the thought attractive. Kissing this Dr. McManus might just be enjoyable.

  “You know,” McManus said. “When I was a lifeguard I dreamed of saving a beautiful girl in need of mouth-to-mouth. Someone like you.”

&
nbsp; “I guess that makes you an optimist. When I was a lifeguard, I feared halitosis grandpa after a massive MI.”

  McManus laughed. “I guess that makes you a realist.”

  Grinning, the two doctors stood fidgeting in the cold for a moment. Something about this doctor sparked something deep inside Sydney. It was a feeling she had walled off after Ross had dropped her cold after their near-engagement dinner. Sydney knew if she waited a minute, she would be mad at Dr. Bill McManus for evoking this feeling in her. She viewed men who distracted her, who tempted her to expose her feelings, as duplicitous—malevolent plotters out to derail her professional life. She did not want to invest emotions in a relationship that was doomed to fail.

  McManus leaned closer. He was squinting with an inquisitive look on his face.

  “If I was a neurologist maybe I could guess what’s going on in there.” He pointed to her head.

  “Dark thoughts, Dr. McManus, dark, dark thoughts,” she confessed.

  “What could be so dark?” McManus asked. Sydney shrugged. “You’re young. You’re smart. You’re beautiful, you’re in great shape.”

  “And you’re full of shit.”

  “Not at all! If you need a dummy for your demonstration, I’m your guy,” McManus said, seemingly emboldened by his own words.

  “A dummy? I doubt that.”

  “But just to be clear, I’d be disappointed if you don’t include mouth-to-mouth.”

  Sydney shook her head.

  “Dr. McManus!” she said, pretending to be shocked. It had been a while since a man flirted with her this way. To be fair, she had put up a force field of professionalism to ward off any untoward thoughts. Now, though, she could almost see her defenses dropping. There was something attractive about this gangly, puffy-eyed doctor. What, exactly, she had no idea. He looked like he hadn’t slept more than four hours a night in a very long time. His skin was pale from far too many hours under fluorescent lights. His body was all oddball angles, and his hair apparently hadn’t seen a comb in days. She couldn’t explain what it was with Dr. Bill McManus, but she felt very safe with him. The feeling made her far bolder than she had been since she couldn’t remember when. Up to a point.

  “Tell you what,” Sydney said. “You beat me today and you can be my dummy.”

  “Really?” McManus had another idea. “If you win, will you make sure I haven’t collapsed on the course trying to beat you?” He paused for a moment. “And if you find me prone on the pavement, in respiratory distress…” Sydney saw where this was going and smiled despite herself. “Will you resuscitate me—you know—using mouth-to-mouth?”

  She laughed. “You’re bad.”

  The PA system interrupted them: “Runners, please make your way to the starting line.”

  “Good luck,” Sydney said as they joined one of several streams of participants flowing together in front of a large starting banner.

  “Hey, thanks.”

  “Let me rephrase that. Moderate luck.”

  McManus laughed.

  Across town, Tina Ridgeway punched the gas on the family minivan as it strained uphill. Mark sat fuming in the passenger’s seat. He wore a sport coat and tie. The girls and Ashley were in the back, dressed in their Sunday best. Tina always thought of them that way: the girls and Ashley, as though cerebral palsy put her youngest daughter in a category by herself.

  “Does going to church have to be a crisis?” Mark asked.

  “I cannot leave the house a mess.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather be on time?”

  “It’s not either-or, Mark. How many children do I have? Jesus.”

  “Nice talk on a Sunday.”

  “Don’t be an ass.”

  “Mom! Dad!” Madison called from the back.

  “I’m glad you could find the time to read the paper while the house is a disaster,” Tina said.

  Mackenzie started crying. Mark reached back and touched his daughter’s cheek.

  Tina turned into the church’s driveway. She shook her head and said nothing. She pulled into a spot and slammed the car into park.

  Mark hopped out and opened the sliding door as Tina opened the hatch to get Ashley’s chair. Madison and Mackenzie started walking toward the large brick church without them. Mark helped Ashley into her chair and strapped her in.

  Mark began singing through gritted teeth: “I’ve got joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart. Where? Down in my heart.” Hearing a melody, Ashley started happily banging her tray.

  “You’re a real prick sometimes,” Tina said quietly and walked ahead to catch up to Madison and Mackenzie. She didn’t look back. If she wasn’t so mad, she might have started crying herself, something she hadn’t done in a very long time.

  CHAPTER 31

  T

  y sat by the pool of the Delano Hotel, reading a paperback thriller, with a half-emptied bottle of SPF-30 sunscreen sitting next to him. The fate of the free world depended on a gruff loner who had been expelled from the CIA for insubordination. It was always the outsider who was the hero in the airport newsstand thrillers. The Miami sun and salt air had put Ty into a blissful, half-dazed soporific state.

  He looked up from the book and enjoyed the undulating, curved lines of the pool’s edge, the geometric tile work on the deck, the flickering pattern beneath the water’s surface. The Delano was known for its whimsical art deco styling, including a round pool house with portholes, and Ty found the throwback design somehow soothing. Around him couples fringed the pool, their chairs arranged in pairs like dominoes. Younger couples reclined around the water, soaking up the sun facedown, arms across the other’s back, or partially reclined reading or drinking mojitos, another signature, brought out by mocha-skinned waiters in long white pants and white guayabera shirts. Older couples opted for tables shaded by umbrellas the blue-green of 1950s kitchen linoleum.

  Some of the women were topless, and Ty marveled how he could fly to a place so foreign and exotic without ever leaving the United States. Seeing the nearly naked women and the intertwined couples made him long for companionship, a woman close by his side, sleek and available. His thoughts turned to Tina Ridgeway. She was married, of course, but Ty always felt a singular connection with her. And of course, there was no denying the stunning brunette possessed a classical beauty undiminished by age. Right now, Ty imagined he and Tina swimming in the pool, or the ocean beyond, and then heading up to the room for a shower before getting in bed, light streaming through the sheer curtains across the two of them in the small, sparsely furnished room.

  The fantasy engaged Ty’s mind briefly, but then a wave of fatigue washed over him as the rays of the South Florida sun drained his nervous energy. Ty reclined his chair all the way. He put the book down on the pool deck, closed his eyes beneath his sunglasses, and began drifting off. For some reason, Monique Tran suddenly entered into his mind. She’d looked different somehow when he had seen her in the parking deck with her grandmother. A rosiness to her cheeks, and a slight fullness in her face. Hmm…is she pregnant? he thought as he finally fell completely asleep.

  Dr. Sanford Williams stood at the front of the courtroom next to Monique Tran. He wore a suit. She wore a satin evening gown, even though it was eleven in the morning. The courtroom was empty except for the judge and their two witnesses.

  Of course, Monique and Sanford didn’t have to dress up. There was no dress requirement for a courthouse wedding, but they still wanted the occasion to be festive.

  “I don’t want to be the knocked-up chick in the T-shirt and the tattoo, getting married at the courthouse,” Monique had said a couple of weeks earlier.

  “’Cause you already have the tattoo,” Sanford said, teasing. It was true. Monique had a small peace frog on her shoulder. She and her BFF from high school had gotten matching tattoos the summer after graduation. At the time, the peace frog somehow seemed the embodiment of what they were all about.

  Sanford adjusted his navy-blue suit coat and took Monique’s small hands in his. He
hadn’t worn the suit since the day he finished medical school. He was relieved it still fit, though barely. As a resident, he ate when he could, which sometimes meant Pop-Tarts from the vending machine. He also ate knowing he couldn’t predict when he might eat again, which meant he’d get the shortbread cookies to go with the Pop-Tarts, just in case. He’d gobble them down before his stomach knew what hit it. It was ironic that even Chelsea General offered fat-laden, high-sodium food in the cafeteria, which he and his cardiac patients often purchased. That his suit pants were only moderately snug was a break.

  Monique’s sheer gown, the color of eggplant, strained at the midsection. Now in her second trimester, she had started showing in everything but scrubs.

  Coming from a good Baptist family, this evidence of premarital intercourse embarrassed Sanford even though the modern courtroom was empty except for his bride-to-be; her cousin, a goth college student who called herself Marilyn and served as their photographer; his roommate and fellow doctor Carter Lawton, their second witness; and the judge.

  Washtenaw County judge Ann Mattson, in her black robes and tennis shoes, stood between the couple. She was squeezing the wedding ceremony between a landlord-tenant dispute and a theft-by-kiting case.

  The decision to get married at the courthouse in Ann Arbor took both Monique and Sanford some time to reach. Both were used to large family weddings presided over by a man of the cloth. Sanford, in Baptist churches. Monique, in the Catholic Church. But given the distinct possibilities that their families would approve neither of the union, nor of the pregnancy, the couple had weighed their options. The first option was to end the pregnancy and then worry about their future. Monique had considered this as a way to save face with her strict Vietnamese family. Sanford, though, had never been enthusiastic about that option. “How could you be?” he had asked Monique. But for a time, they didn’t know what else to do. Even though both were raised in households where abortion was morally wrong, they viewed the pregnancy as a mistake that needed to be addressed.