I return from the barber shiny and new, ready to look for employment. But with the new legislation, nobody needs an oncologist. Overnight, we went from being the most in-demand specialty in the field of medicine to virtually obsolete.
I’ve made a terrible mistake, I see clearly. It’s just as clear I won’t find work treating cancer patients anytime soon, so I lower my expectations and search for a position in general internal medicine. Again, the market is saturated. There are six or seven doctors available for every position. Even if I took a seventy-five percent pay cut, I’d still be lucky to find a job.
Before the mirror while brushing my teeth, I make my free hand into the shape of a gun, put it to my temple, pull the trigger, and yell “bang.” Rachel witnesses this from the bedroom and is alarmed. After a long talk, where she seems more empathetic and considerate than I’ve seen her in some time, she suggests I take a vacation.
“You mean, we take a trip?” I say. “As a family?”
“No,” she replies. “You take a trip. It’ll do you good. It’ll give you time to think. Get away from your job worries, away from me, away from Julian. Just have a good time. Clear your head.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, wondering if this is somehow a trick.
“I think you’ll find it extremely beneficial.”
I make all of the objections I think a man in my place ought to, closing my case by declaring how much I’d miss her and Julian. Of course, I’m only faking it. She probably is, too, but she’d never let up. I act every bit the martyr, telling her that it will be hell for me, that I’ll suffer terribly. But if she insists, then I’ll do it. I have spoken my lines well.
I’m taking a trip!
35
It’s early morning, pre-dawn. Small birds fill the air with their song while robots clean the streets, quiet as mice, and I pack the car for my trip down the coast. It’s the first vacation I’ve taken without Rachel in over a decade.
Again, I’ve let my emotions get the better of me and invited Taylor along. It’s the epitome of poor taste, I know, to bring your mistress on vacation, but there was no chance to rescind the offer once I’d made it. For days before the trip, Taylor sent me countless photos of quaint bed and breakfasts along our route, reviews of restaurants of the highest distinction, and a list of beaches on whose sands she wants to tan her skin.
As I drive up to her apartment, I truly feel like a monster of evil inclinations. On one level, as I’m about to commit this first-degree crime of infidelity, I’ve never felt a more elevated sense of marital devotion. A part of me just wants to sit on a park bench and hold Rachel’s hand while we watch Julian play on the monkey bars. At the same time, I’m overwhelmed with desire. It’s like a guardian angel has gifted me with a key to a treasure chest of sexual pleasure. It’s been far too many years since I’ve had this sort of erotic good fortune.
Taylor is waiting on the street. This seems entirely unnatural. Surely, she can’t be keeping to our prearranged schedule. Not once has Rachel managed to get herself ready on time for anything. It doesn’t matter whether the outing is something as simple as a walk to the neighborhood diner, Rachel has a complete inability to prepare herself for what lies ahead. Always, without fail, the departure of a trip is fraught with last minute panic and dread. I can’t begin to recall how many flights we’ve missed, how many reservations we’ve lost, how many people we’ve inconvenienced, all because of Rachel’s inveterate tardiness.
Of course, I haven’t told Taylor I’m unemployed. For the first hour, I’m nervous, and I chatter foolishly. I deliver a long and impassioned speech about The Last Samurai, which I spent the last few nights preparing. Taylor listens attentively, and asks thoughtful and pertinent questions. Quite certain I’ve impressed her, I sit tall in my seat, proud as a soldier after battle. She lavishes me with praise, telling me how flattered she is by my “marvelous efforts.” I, she says, am the “sweetest man alive.” And while I’m happy she’s pleased at my attempts to engage her, I want recognition for my brilliance and ask her to comment further. Tactfully, she observes the unconventionality of some of my interpretations. It’s true I encouraged her to elaborate, and yet I am unwarrantedly defensive to her criticism. When she tries to pull back, I demand that she continue. The ability to know when one is wrong is a powerful virtue. I was mistaken, I see, as Taylor goes on. She’s as charming and smart a woman as I’ve known, and not at all pretentious. I feel silly for arguing, and tell her so. In truth, I add, I could listen to her speak for a hundred years. In turn, she apologizes for having talked so long. She understands how men of past generations are put off by being lectured to by women. But she’s wrong, I tell her, if anything, I’d love for her to continue. It’s wonderful to have instruction and guidance when navigating unfamiliar terrain.
I hold her hand and feel, strangely, a newfound sensation … fulfillment. It’s as if we’ve already confessed our love for each other, but I know that is impossible, because I’m in love with someone else, Rachel, and, despite what moralists may say, I know that we cannot be in love with two people at once. But what if I do love Taylor? My intuition says yes, but then I remind myself that one must not allow himself to be guided strictly by impulse and desire. Love? I finally conclude. Just because she’s beautiful and sweet, and cares very deeply about me, and has a brilliant mind and shares her thoughts in such an open and inviting way? That is no reason to love! Love is about duty! Love is about sacrifice! This woman is but a distraction from the hardship and everydayness of life.
At last we reach Big Sur. A bus full of camera-toting Saudi tourists are outfitted in rugged outdoor clothing. As Taylor and I prepare for a hike, I notice that none of them stray beyond the parking lot. For them, to experience the grandeur of the landscapes, the ocean, and the air is not necessary. They’re content to snap their pictures—never mind that they’ll all be full of cars and ranger stations, too.
Taylor and I set off. The first mile—our GPS says the hike is eight in all—was the proverbial piece of cake. We were surrounded by tall grass and towering redwoods, nearly all of whose bark was scorched black from the many fires across the years. Now a field of flowers appears, yellow, white, and red. I recognize the white ones as California Aster, and, to impress Taylor, I point them out. In turn, she informs me that the reds are Columbines and the yellows are Bahias. This is all news to me, but so as not to look foolish, I say, “Are you certain?” then pause before adding, “Yes, spot on. I wasn’t sure at first, but you’re absolutely right.”
The trail grows steeper and more treacherous by the yard. On several occasions, loose rocks cause me to slip. My strides have become so uneven and clumsy that I no longer want Taylor to see them, so I tell her it would be best for me to get behind, to catch her should she tumble. She recognizes my silly trick but plays along, calling me her “knight in shining armor.”
Soon we hear the sound of running water. Taylor has boundless energy, and without a hint of labor, leaps ahead. A blister has formed on my foot. Every step is agony. Summoning my last modicum of strength, I make a final push to the top, where Taylor is dipping her feet in the cold mountain stream, blissful as a monk in meditation. The sock on my blistered foot is now full of blood. Just as I thrust my foot into the water, pleased to have concealed my wound, Taylor suggests we tackle the peak ahead, as well. Not only does my foot hurt like the dickens, but I’m completely whipped by sun fatigue. Would Rachel be more sensitive to my delicate condition? I wonder. By the time Taylor and I reach our destination, my boot is drowning in blood, and I strip it off, howling with pain. Taylor rushes to my aide and tends to me as if I were her child, all the while admonishing me for not having informed her sooner of my wound. My foot bandaged, I limp toward the edge of the cliff. The sky is cloudless, and in the distance the ocean shimmers in the sun.
36
We’re now sitting on the patio of a fine Italian restaurant. It’s nighttime and the heat has dropped to a pleasant seventy-five degrees. A half-moon bea
ms overhead. A light dusting of clouds moves through the sky. My body is sore, but I enjoy the emptiness of my exhaustion. The table is set to encourage romance—a single red rose and two white candles. A bottle of red wine has been poured, and we’ve been served an antipasto of dried Italian ham and assorted roasted peppers with parmesan and mozzarella.
Taylor is wearing a white top and black jeans. This is an ensemble I’ve seen on her before. At first I’m displeased that she’s repeated an outfit and become sullen. Troubled by the change in me, Taylor strokes my cheek, and I notice again the series of scars on her arm that I’d first seen at our tryst in the Oakland hotel. This woman, I realize, is still a complete mystery. There must be a thousand peculiarities about her for me still to discover.
“What happened there on your arm?” I ask, touching her scars.
“When I was fourteen,” she says sadly, “I dated a seventeen-year-old boy with his own car, Joe McNally. I used to sneak out of my bedroom window at night and Joe would take me to parties at his friend Harrison’s. We’d get high and hangout, and it was all very fun. Joe was a good guy. He treated me nice and looked out for me, but he wasn’t that bright and eventually I found him uninteresting.
“After a few months, I dumped him and started dating Harrison, who was the hottest and most exciting guy I’d ever met. He had dropped out of high school and had a job doing coding for a defense contractor who built prototypes of autonomous robot soldiers, and on the side, he sold amphetamines to his co-workers. Plus, like I said, he had his own place. It didn’t hurt, either, that he rode a motorcycle. Pretty soon, I was sneaking out every night and coming back just before I was supposed to go to school. Then my parents caught me and placed me under twenty-four-hour surveillance.
“I heard from a friend that Harrison had started seeing someone else. I was devastated and cried myself to sleep every night. One evening, while my parents were watching a documentary about the advancements in the controversial new technology of Simulated Children, I dashed out the front door and ran the entire four miles to Harrison’s house. He was with another girl but said I was welcome to stay. I got so drunk that I passed out, and when I woke up, Harrison’s new girlfriend was burning cigarettes into my arm.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“She wanted to disfigure me so badly that Harrison wouldn’t want me anymore.”
“Some people will do anything to justify their existence.”
“I’m just glad she didn’t mar my face.”
Our handsome waiter has been flirting with Taylor since we arrived. He called her bella donna, which Taylor took as her cue to talk with him in Italian. Of course I had no idea she spoke the language. After five minutes of this nonsense, the waiter says vecchio uomo while nodding at me. Little does he know I understand him. Vecchio uomo is one of maybe ten Italian phrases I’ve picked up from old Spaghetti Westerns. It means “old man.”
“Oh, cameriere,” I say with withering condescension, “fetch us a bottle of the ’25 Barolo.”
“Excuse me, sir?” he says.
“I said be a good little cameriere and fetch us a bottle of the ’25 Barolo.”
In an instant the waiter’s expression changes from ineffable joy to pure stoicism.
“Of course, sir,” he says.
He pours a splash of wine into my glass. I give it a sniff, then a swirl, and finally a sip, and tell the kid the wine is too fruity to be a true Barolo, but because it’s a sin to waste wine I’ll accept it on one condition: he must tell the sommelier to remove the wine from his list.
I raise my glass and to Taylor, I say cin cin.
“Why were you so awful to him?” she questions. “I’ve never seen that petty side of you before.”
“He called me an old man, and you laughed and laughed.”
“Please tell me you’re not jealous of the waiter.”
“I just don’t think it’s appropriate for the two of you to carry on like that at my expense.”
The rest of the dinner is tense, and I drink too much. How is it possible I let something as innocuous as Taylor chatting with the waiter deliver a mortal blow to my character? Essentially, I realize, I’m a glutton for misfortune and catastrophe. It seems I create it at every opportunity. Every stand I take, it seems, is due to my insecurity. It’s as if the world has decided it has no more use for me, and I’m jumping up and down, screaming that it’s wrong and I am right.
37
Taylor wants to take a bath.
“I’ll join her momentarily,” I tell her, “but first I have pressing correspondence from the hospital.” Taylor’s respect for the medical profession precludes any objections. I want to write a note to Rachel. My idea is to tell partial-truths, meaning I’ll chronicle how I spend my days absent who I’m with.
Before I left, it thrilled me to think about Rachel’s reaction to my letters. Each day would bring ever-heightened anticipation. I imagined her trembling as she opened them—on real paper—and then gasping as she read. Throughout the day, she’d pour over them, even though she had already practically memorized every word, unable to believe such declarations of admiration could be inspired by her, even after so many years.
But now that I’m at the desk, with Taylor just feet away naked in the bath, I’m unable to craft even a single amorous communiqué that rings true. I don’t miss Rachel at all, actually. There is a coldness in my heart, I see, and yet I can’t accept it. For ten minutes, I struggle to write, until Taylor beckons me to join her.
The bathroom is aglow with candle light, and Taylor’s face is so utterly serene that I am delivered to the pinnacle of rapturous delight. The past is one of only many possible futures, I think. My life has been saturated with newfound significance.
There is nothing left of me but the desire to be with Taylor. Everything about her is poetry: her breath, her walk, the way she combs her hair. We retire to the bedroom, where I deliver a performance so full of passion that Taylor is left as meek and gentle as a newborn kitten. She clings to my body as if it’s her very lifeblood. It’s true—once a woman depends on a man for her sexual pleasure, she gives herself to him entirely.
For my part, however, the catharsis of ejaculation fills me only with the wish to leave. It’s as if the process of release has allowed me to recover my heroic spirit.
As I’m washing up, I realize my attitude is one that only ten minutes ago I would’ve thought absurd. Now that I’ve been appeased, I can see Taylor for what she really is. All of her unique personality traits, like her high-mindedness and erudition, which only an hour before served as an aphrodisiac, now appear paltry and insignificant. I’m disgusted with myself for having thought for the past twenty-four hours that I might leave Rachel and Julian for Taylor.
When I return to her, she’s cuddled up with a shabby stuffed rabbit. She says it was a gift from her grandmother and claims to have slept with it every single night since girlhood. Again, my feelings for her are transformed in an instant. I no longer crave her body with a ferocity verging on criminal—rather, I only want to comfort her, to make her feel safe and protected.
I’ve never shared an entire night with one of my flings. No matter what, I’ve always returned to the marital bed. Sex with a woman is one thing, but sleeping with one is a something else altogether. There are so many considerations. What if I snore? What if I fart? What happens when we wake up? She’s never seen me in the morning. She’s only ever seen me when I’m looking my very best: hair-combed, well-dressed, smelling of fresh deodorant and aftershave. And what about morning breath? I’m not immune to it, and I certainly doubt that she is either. I spend the entire night lying in bed, wide awake, paralyzed with fear.
Over the next few days, we settle into a steady rhythm. Our relationship takes the form that the truest of loves always share, a perfect familiarity with each other. A few days of continuous intimacy forges connections that a hundred dinner dates never could. Together we are an island. Hours pass without a single thought of
my unemployment, and when the realization does rise, it takes only for Taylor to make a joke or to kiss me to banish the trouble.
By the third day, I’ve surrendered my epistolary agenda for terse calls home. Rachel doesn’t indicate that she’s at all bothered by the brevity of our chats. Most of the time it’s her who rushes to hang up. She’s got reasons: charity work, Julian’s baseball games, dinner with friends. I’m nothing if not accommodating, reassuring her with such platitudes as, “Of course, I understand, don’t let me keep you,” and “I’m constantly amazed at how you manage to do so much!”
When it comes to Julian, my concerns are fewer yet. The boy has no interest to talk. Instead of using words to express his emotions, he sends me a series of hologram images, which I’m left to interpret. Usually, they’re nonsensical. For instance, one morning he sent me an alligator, the planet Saturn, and a piece of toast with jelly. I replied with a series of my own absurd images: a camel, a flame, and a box of popcorn. His response was a “thumbs-up.”
On our final day together, we ride horses along an empty beach and swim naked in the ocean. A pod of dolphins perform aerial acrobatics amongst the waves, seemingly only to make an already perfect trip even more perfect.
At the station, Taylor steps inside to buy coffee while I charge the car’s battery.
“I had my doubts about this trip, Henri,” Chloe says, “but the two of you make a remarkable pair!”
“We really do, don’t we?”
“And don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”
For the first time since forever, I understand the mechanics of happiness. It’s really not that hard. All one must do is cut himself off from the outside world. That which does not exist, cannot cause harm.
My silly notions again have gotten the best of me. I had hoped Taylor and I could continue on as we did on holiday. But Taylor has squelched this wish. In the car outside of her apartment, she explains that she is starting her classes tomorrow and will have little time to spare. I protest, of course. The mythical rigor and hardship of medical school, I say, is blown all out of proportion—it’s really quite manageable, no different than anything else that requires just the smallest amount of good planning and sensibility. Hardly have I finished, however, then Taylor kisses my cheek and steps from the car.
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