“Jesus.” Taylor shakes his head.
“My first on my own,” she continues proudly. “Caught the bird and snapped its neck. Plucked the feathers myself.”
Taylor looks nauseated. “Is that really necessary?”
Margo sniffs at him. “You’re willing to eat it, no problem, but you don’t want to hear where it came from. That is so typical.”
“Typical what?” he takes another bite of chicken, resting his cutlery on his left leg. We eat our supper on the ground, in a clearing.
“Typical spoiled American. Did you think meat came from the grocery store?”
“Yup.” Taylor grabs some bread from a plate nearby. Margo’s group bakes it fresh every morning. “From the supermarket, on those little white Styrofoam trays. It’s grown like that in labs and shipped out.”
Margo scowls. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Yeah, well, at least I don’t think I’m at summer camp,” he says under his breath.
“Excuse me?” Margo puts her plate down. “What, exactly, is that supposed to mean?”
Taylor shrugs. “Just that we’re here in this shitty, war-torn country and you’re cheerfully going on about killing chickens.”
“I’m trying my best to help,” she snaps. She looks angrier than usual; this is more than the usual Taylor-Margo banter. He’s hit a nerve.
“Whatever. I’m just saying, this is fun and quirky for you, but for these people, it’s their life. They don’t get to go home after ticking it off their med-school application checklist.”
“Excuse me.” Margo stands up, looking furious. “At least I’m not afraid to get in and get my hands dirty. You’re sitting at a fucking computer all day, for God’s sake. What is it you do, exactly? Check your Facebook page?”
“Actually, I’ve learned a lot,” says Taylor quietly. “From Eduardo, and from the social media work. These people are suffering.”
“You don’t think I know that?” Now Margo just looks upset. “They could live a month on your allowance, I’m sure, Hotel Heir Boy.”
“You’re full of shit, you know that?” He shakes his head. “Your parents are doctors.”
“I’m Canadian,” she shoots back. “Doctors there are practically civil servants.”
I don’t say anything. While they fire insults back and forth in a verbal match of Ping-Pong, I stare at my plate. Do I think I’m at summer camp, sneaking off behind trees with Rafael? Am I not doing important work in the infirmary? Does the fact that I get to leave, whereas Anna and the others have no way out, change the value of what I’m doing here?
Taylor is about to fire off another retort when Rafael eases into a spot next to me, holding a plate.
“Hi,” he says. “I am not interrupting?”
I look over at him and blush as I think of Anna earlier, dancing with her mop. His longish hair is curling from the humidity, and his cheeks are dark with a five-o’clock shadow. He crosses his legs, and our knees touch, briefly. I feel a sensation in my belly that has nothing to do with the chipotles in the chicken.
“No,” Taylor assures him. “We were just discussing…income inequality.”
Margo snorts derisively and stalks off. Rafael pauses, unsure of what to say. “Is everything okay?”
Taylor and I exchange a glance. “Yeah,” he says. “I was just telling Cat how much I’ve learned about Calantes doing the social media work.”
Rafael brightens at this. “That is great,” he says. He cuts carefully into his chicken, but doesn’t begin eating. “That is what we need. Americans to understand, to get involved. We need change.”
“Change?” Taylor asks casually, and I can see he’s listening closely.
“Yes, change,” says Rafael. His face glows as he continues speaking. “We are networking with other groups. If we can all get together, we could make a difference.”
I’m finished eating, and push my plate aside. “What kind of difference?” I ask. “Like protests? Uprisings?”
“Yes!” he says, grabbing my hand excitedly. I’m surprised, but I don’t pull away and neither does he, not even after he settles back down. I feel the warmth from his hand travel up my arm.
“Like the Arab Spring,” he continues with enthusiasm. “It could work for us. We could overthrow the government! It worked in the Middle East.”
Rafael’s eyes flash with exhilaration; they are like lava in the light of the setting sun, bright and liquid and full of heat.
“Arab Spring ended in ISIS,” says Taylor quietly, almost under his breath. He looks skeptical.
Rafael doesn’t answer. His cheeks are flushed with excitement.
“But you aren’t soldiers, Rafael,” I say, worried. We are still holding hands, which at this point is both pleasurable and awkward. I look around at the village, at the disproportionate number of women and youth. This is not a military training camp. It’s a place for the dispossessed, the sick, the hungry.
Rafael nods in agreement, his enthusiasm unchanged. “We aren’t,” he agrees. “But others—some of them are.”
What others? I want to ask. The ones who come to our base with guns in search of Pepto-Bismol? I drop his hand, feeling uneasy, and notice my plate is crawling with insects. A swarm of ants cover the flatbread until it is unrecognizable, black and quivering and alive. I look away, nauseated.
“There’s a meeting a week from today,” he says. “We’ll know more then. On the thirtieth.”
“The thirtieth?” I say suddenly, doing the math. “So today’s the twenty-third?”
“Yes.” Rafael looks puzzled. “Why? What’s wrong?”
The twenty-third. My mother would have been fifty today. I feel my insides churn. I picture her at her last birthday, which we had celebrated, thinking she was done with cancer. Her hair in a pixie cut, laughing happily over a cake that she had actually admitted tasted like chocolate.
“I’m going to go see Anna,” I say, standing. “I don’t feel well.”
I rise, turning my back slightly to him as I look out into the vast expanse of the jungle. It’s more familiar now, but no less terrifying. In the distance I catch sight of fast-moving creatures, too quick to identify as more than flashes of bright color. Somewhere, a bird sings shrilly and an army of cricket-like insects chimes in, taking up their song.
Rafael rises and hovers, uncertain. “Do you still want to study later? Spanish?”
My stomach cramps, and an image of my father floats in front of me, hunched over and dressed in black. The day of my mother’s funeral. For reasons unknown, the worst memories come fast and furious when I’m in pain. “I don’t think so.”
“Cat,” he whispers. He’s close now—very close. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck, warm, even in the heat of the jungle air. His arms brush up against mine, our fingertips touching. No one has touched me like that in so long. For a moment, I forget everything but the sensation of his skin touching my own. Conflicting images sail across my mental vision like words on a teleprompter: Rafael, bending in to kiss me; my mother, bald, cold, and shivering in the throes of chemo.
The pain intensifies as I stumble away from Rafael. “I can’t now,” I stammer, even as my heart beats faster. Hugging myself around the middle, I rush for the safety of the Enfermería.
Chapter 15
Before
“Mr. Marks?” A guy in scrubs appears in the doorway of the waiting area. He doesn’t look much older than I am, and is fidgeting nervously with a stethoscope so expertly placed around his neck that it actually looks staged. I figure he’s probably an intern, a recent medical-school grad. I briefly wonder if he really needs the stethoscope around his neck, or whether it’s more of a security blanket, making him feel like a “real” doctor. I don’t judge him for this. I can’t imagine it’s easy getting people to believe you’re a doctor when you look like you’re a high-
school student dressed up for Halloween.
“Yes?” My dad rises, clutching the ancient Time magazine he’s been staring blankly at for the last hour. I slip my phone back into my pocket and stand up too, knotting my hands together behind my back.
“If you’ll come with me, please.” Intern Boy glances at me and straightens his stethoscope again. I resist the urge to grab it from around his scrawny neck as Dad and I follow along behind him.
“Just in here.” He motions for us to join him in a small corner office with a breathtaking view of the Golden Gate Bridge. Even in my panic, it’s a beautiful thing to see. The desk is cluttered with medical journals and, oddly, a copy of Vogue. I check the name on the door: Dr. Margaret O’Sullivan.
“I’m not Dr. O’Sullivan,” he blurts out, noticing me reading the sign.
I raise my eyebrows. He’s both male and Asian. “Clearly,” I say, as politely as I can.
“Dr. O’Sullivan is away,” he says. He lowers himself awkwardly into her chair, looking uncomfortable. “I’m David Lee, her Chief Resident.”
“Chief Resident?” My dad looks surprised. Apparently I’m not the only one who’s noticed the doc looks like he’s barely old enough to drive.
“Yes,” says Dr. Lee, somewhat defensively. Then he looks down at the desk and his face changes. His features soften and he looks up at us somberly. I wonder if they teach that as some kind of lame bedside-manner exercise in med school.
“So, as you know, the patient—your wife, Mrs. Marks,” he begins, folding and unfolding his hands.
“It’s back, isn’t it,” I interrupt.
Dr. Lee looks flustered—I’ve probably interrupted a practiced speech of some kind.
“The cancer,” I say, my tone matter-of-fact. “It’s back, and it’s spread to her brain.”
I’ve already come to this conclusion. I came to it hours ago, when they first wheeled away Mom for testing and left us sitting in waiting-room purgatory. I’m not a doctor, fine, but I do have a smart phone and Internet access. Seizures in a former breast-cancer patient almost certainly means the cancer is back, and not just in the boobs. I promptly vomited the shrimp I’d eaten earlier on the pier, a disgusting fishy pink mess. Stinking of old seafood, I’d then cried in the bathroom until my tear supply was exhausted. I didn’t tell my dad, and he didn’t ask why I was in the bathroom for an hour. I’m not sure he even noticed I was gone. At that point, I busied myself playing Solitaire on my phone. I avoided Google, so I could spend at least an hour or so in denial. I let the numbness sink in, anesthetizing my anxiety.
Dad makes a small noise that sounds like a mewling kitten. Dr. Lee looks increasingly panicked; this is not going the way he planned.
“Now, please,” he says nervously. He’s back to fidgeting with his stethoscope. “Please, let’s all calm down for a moment.”
“Am I wrong?” I demand, staring at him. He can barely meet my eyes.
“Well—”
“Am I wrong.” I say it again, flatly, and lean forward on the desk. My eyes bore into his, and I refuse to look away.
Dr. Lee takes a deep breath and sits back in his—Margaret O’Sullivan’s—chair. “No,” he says quietly. “I’m so sorry. The CT scan shows there is evidence of tumor infiltration in the brain.”
Dad slumps over in his seat. He buries his face in his hands and his entire body shakes with sobs, reminding me of the wobbling sea lions at Fisherman’s Wharf. Was that really only hours ago? I shake my head. It feels like a lifetime.
“What next?” I ask tonelessly. I ignore my father and open up the notepad app on my smart phone. Someone has to be responsible here.
I type quickly as Dr. Lee runs through the list of treatment options and outcomes. He fidgets a lot through our conversation, repeatedly referring to the fact that we will need to confirm the diagnosis and treatment plan with our oncologist back in Ohio. He says it so many times I briefly consider telling him off or dispensing with words altogether and just throwing a pencil holder at him. I bet it must have something to do with fear of being sued, and that this is even a concern for him, in this moment, enrages me.
“Can you take us to her now?” I snap when he’s done. “Is she awake?”
“We gave her a sedative to stop the seizures,” he says. “She might be awake by now, but she’s probably groggy.”
“So she hasn’t been told?” I grip the edge of the desk, hoping she didn’t have to get that news alone in a strange hospital bed in a strange city.
“Not yet.” He stands up. “We wouldn’t give that kind of news to someone without proper social support.”
Proper social support. This guy is definitely parroting Bedside Manner 101. His grades in college must have really been something, because he clearly didn’t get into med school on his stellar people skills.
We trail behind Dr. Lee again as we navigate the hospital corridors. My mother is in a semi-private room, but thankfully the other bed remains unoccupied. She looks tiny under the thin, blue hospital blanket. I stare at the IV pole, the slow drip in the tube, and feel a sinking sense of déjà vu.
“Mom?” I kneel at the side of the bed, touching her hand. It’s cold. Her wedding band feels like it’s been dropped in snow. I reach for another blanket from the bedside table and gently place it over her.
“Cat?” Her voice is hoarse. With a considerable effort she struggles, and fails, to sit up.
“Careful,” I say, reaching over to support her. “They had to give you a sedative.”
She blinks, looking fearful. Her eyes dart back and forth. “I don’t remember,” she says helplessly. She turns her head slowly and notices Dr. Lee. “We’re in a hospital,” she says, and I watch as her expression changes from one of puzzlement to resignation.
“Tell me,” she says, gripping my hand. “Please.”
I break the news, and she says nothing. Beside me, my dad begins his stifled crying again. Dr. Lee lurks awkwardly by the wall, wearing his best Sympathy Face. I ignore him.
“Lie with me here, Cat,” she says finally.
I crawl into the narrow hospital bed and gingerly settle in beside her. “I love you,” I whisper, flinching as my arm brushes the IV catheter. Don’t leave me, I add silently. Please.
We lie there together for ages. Through her thin hospital gown, I feel my mother’s heart beat against me, and I grip her tighter. Neither of us cries.
...
I sit outside the doctor’s office and fidget with my phone, repeatedly hitting the refresh button on CNN.com and then not reading any of the headlines. I haven’t told Tess about this appointment; even my mother doesn’t know. It was Mrs. Marino, the school guidance counselor, who gently but firmly insisted I seek counseling, and I resentfully agreed. Not that I’d had much choice, of course, if I wanted to avoid suspension. Turns out smashing a hockey stick into pieces by repeatedly thwacking it against the concrete gym walls is frowned upon at Warren G. Harding High. Who knew?
It was Alison Dean who set me off. Not that she had any way of knowing I was going to go all Incredible Hulk on the gym equipment, but she just wouldn’t shut up about her shopping trip to Chicago with her mom. On and on, while the rest of us were just trying to get through gym class, chasing a blue plastic ball while half-blind in a pair of sports goggles. When she mentioned going to buy an American Girl doll “for old time’s sake,” I lost it completely. I don’t really even remember what happened. One second I was pretending to be guarding left wing, hoping Mrs. Fox wouldn’t notice I wasn’t actively participating, and the next, I was near the bleachers where they hang the banners and pennants, gleefully smashing the hockey stick against the wall. Over and over again, I hit it, enjoying the sensation as the wooden stick eventually cracked and splintered. At some point, I vaguely recall Mrs. Fox blowing her stupid whistle and shouting my name, but apparently it took three people to forcibly remove the frag
mented remains of the stick from my hands.
I shake off the memory and cross and uncross my legs, wondering if I have time for another trip to the Ladies’ room. Hospitals didn’t used to send me running for the nearest bathroom stall, but since my mom’s diagnosis, they evoke a flight-or-fight response. Just the smell of the place—that unmistakable aroma of antiseptic mixed with microwaved meatloaf—is enough to make me reach for the Imodium.
Since returning from San Francisco, I’ve been here with Mom four times, all to meet with different specialists and consider what the experts call the “options.” Referring to them as options is a bit of a joke, imbuing them with a false sense of hopefulness, or promise. It’s like choosing between the chicken or the fish on an airplane—they’re both going to make you scramble for the airsickness bag, so why not just drop the illusion of choice?
“Ms. Marks?” The secretary, an older woman with a kind smile and Little Orphan Annie red curls, pokes her head out. “The doctor will see you now.” She gestures towards the door, motioning for me to go ahead and open it.
I pocket my phone and take a deep breath as I reach for the doorknob. Dr. Shapiro comes highly recommended from my family doctor. She says he’s one of the top adolescent grief psychiatrists in the state. I wonder how many “adolescent grief psychiatrists” there could possibly be, but I don’t say anything. I imagined Dr. Shapiro would look like old sepia-toned photos of Sigmund Freud: grave, stern, and smoking a pipe.
Dr. Shapiro is none of these things. I can’t say for certain he doesn’t smoke a pipe—smoking is not permitted at the hospital—but he looks as though he’s definitely smoked something in his time. His thinning curly hair is scraggly-long, and he sports a bushy beard. He isn’t wearing a suit, like I’d pictured, but instead a tie-dyed shirt and jeans. Something about the shirt annoys me, like he’s trying too hard on the one hand—doesn’t he know tie-dye hasn’t been cool in, like, fifty years—and is not being serious enough on the other. My mother has cancer; why the hell is this fool dressed like a Ben and Jerry’s commercial?
Undiscovered Country Page 14