Every Body has a Story

by Beverly Gologorsky

  “I’m not used to you being so intense.”

  “You want funny and light?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Can’t do it, Lena. It’s taken too long to gather the courage to say any of this to you. If I turn you off in some way, which I’m too conceited to believe, tell me that, and I’ll back off.”

  “Oh, Christ, Stu, I have no idea how to respond.” Her eyes are on the back-lit window, Mary beneath a halo.

  “I want to be with you.”

  “Well, you’re with me right now,” is all she can think to say. But his persistence feeds scarily into the dark, unexplored place where her old unfulfilled wish for adventure resides. Once she stole a lipstick, not because she needed it, but to see if she could. She downs the rest of the wine, knows she’ll have another. Merlot in the afternoon on an empty stomach, no good can come of it.

  39.

  It’s nearly five when they pull into the small motel parking lot. More drinks, more talk, plus a few too many confessions gobble up the afternoon. A real marathon of words came out of her. It’s as if she’s been shut down for ages. Clearly she shared too much, but he shared, too. More than she had known before. His attachment to his mother and her wish for him to lead a life different from the one he’s now living. When she died, he said, he wasn’t prepared for the future emptiness or the surprise finality of it. Something, she admitted, she didn’t feel about her mother’s death. He knew about her mother’s death, but not why she married so young. Too much, she thinks, she told him too much, but it felt like release.

  The motel is new, he tells her, part of trying to make the Bronx matter. They laugh. She likes that he can make her laugh, likes that he isn’t too corny or silly, likes the way he takes charge, leaves her in the car to register, then walks her to the room, his arm tight around her waist as if he fears her disappearance. If only her brain would quiet down, but it’s on full throttle, warning her not to be here, even though she’s already here.

  The room is small and functional: bed, dresser, small TV, padded chair, and a bathroom. A window overlooks small, cloned houses that advance up the street to the Whitestone Bridge, of which only the highest arches can be glimpsed.

  He snaps the blinds shut, the light in the room dims. Her brain records each action he takes a second after it happens, then continues to caution her to leave. She likes the way he leads her to the bed, his fingers circling her wrist. Likes the way he gently lays her down, carefully, then slowly, eyes steady on her, hand on her back, raises her some to remove her dress, then back down to peel off her panties and leans over to softly kiss her belly. She likes the precise way he undresses himself, not with excitement but deliberately, eyes steady on her, wearing an expression of pleasure or is that happiness? He’s proud of his body, his erect penis, that’s clear, and she’s proud of it, too, noting how much he wants to be with her. How is it possible to take him in this way while her brain continues to warn her to go home? It’s a dissonance she’s never experienced. It makes her feel both crazy and lazy. She needs her brain to shut down, to stop its yammering. She likes how he remains beside her and not immediately on top of her, the way he takes her hand to his mouth, nibbles each finger, then his lips gently roam her body, a butterfly lick, here, then there, places he needs to explore. Slow, everything slow. Her skin next to his warmth feels cool, silky, sensuous. But her brain won’t stop sending messages. Once she was trapped in an elevator; the alarm didn’t ring; the squawk box was static. Her eyes located a panel that led onto the roof of the car, just as the elevator began moving again. There’s always an exit, she tells herself, and searches the pale-blue ceiling, a poor representation of the sky.

  She notes his body on hers, the muscled weight of his chest, the wiry hair and surprisingly pliant belly. His mouth on hers tastes of beer and chocolate and spearmint. She notes the way he holds still for a beat as if he, too, can hear the litany in her head and is giving her time to quiet. Her brain orders her to push him off. So she makes the deal, the only one possible: let it happen and accept that she’ll be forever tainted, and at that moment her body rises to invite him in and her brain finally goes silent. He murmurs words she doesn’t try to understand. His grateful moans mingle with the deep, satisfying, indecipherable sounds coming from her. His hunger feeds hers and how long later, she can’t say, her body shudders so violently she fears to let go, her arms tight around his back. After a minute or two, his breath brushing her cheek, the acrid scent of beer still there, her heartbeat thrumming against his chest, her arms relax, and he slides off, but remains close at her side. He lifts her hand, kisses her palm, but thankfully says nothing. For a while they lie side by side. She listens to the deafening silence in her head, stares at a framed photo of horses unfettered by saddles in a field of wildflowers and wonders if they’ve been set free or put out to pasture.

  “This didn’t happen,” she whispers, then scoops up her clothes and heads for the bathroom.

  She turns on the shower but stands near the sink. The room steams up. And she admits it this once, if only ever to herself, the day was glorious, not just the loving but the previous hours together. He’ll never know this because she’ll never tell him. The memory is hers and hers alone and so is the guilt. She steps into the shower. The hot water runs down her back. Her brain in severe judgment remains frighteningly quiet.

  He listens to the staccato beat of the shower. Her last words repeat in his head: this didn’t happen. Her tone held no anger. It denied no minute of their pleasure. It was intimate, a secret between lovers understood without further explanation. Is he reading too much into her voice? No. He won’t go down the Stu path from elation to doubt and then misery. This did happen and the taste, smell, and feel of her are tattooed on his body forever. He wants to be able to call it all to mind in the middle of the night, on his way to work, before the first sip of bourbon. It’s his, all his. Someone once told him that most people live their entire lives without knowing true passion. He’s no longer one of them.

  The noise of an overhead jet shakes free a memory. As a kid he was obsessed with flying. He’d go out to the airport just to watch the big birds come and go, longing to be inside one. It didn’t matter where it was headed. Then his mom won some raffle for a weekend in Florida and instead of taking his father, she took him. Finally, he was in a plane. He savored every minute of it. He looked out the window, walked the aisle. It was terrific. After the trip, the obsession dissipated, but never the memory. It’s how he feels now. The fantasy of Lena satisfied, but not his feelings for her. Anything more is up for grabs, including his future.

  40.

  After another MRI, which the doctor insisted on, she finds herself in the waiting room of the Brain and Nervous System Health Center of the hospital. She phoned for the appointment because she needs a prescription for the nausea, which has become hard to ignore. If truth be told, at least to herself, the whoosh in her ear has gotten louder, too. Yesterday’s momentary vertigo at work could be a fluke, but medicine for nausea will help, that much she knows.

  Padded chairs along a mirrored wall face a kidney-shaped reception desk, behind which two women talk to each other in low tones, between typing into computers and answering constantly ringing phones. She envies them the normalcy of their day with its routine needs and problems. To be at work and not sitting here would be a gift.

  She filled out a million-page questionnaire, mostly checking “no,” except in the little section, so disturbing, that homed in on everything happening to her, and to which she found herself checking each box “yes.”

  Her eyes are drawn to the TV-like monitor on one wall featuring a 3-D cartoon of a rotating brain. As a kid she always found cartoons frightening. Things happened in them without rhyme or reason.

  With four prescriptions in her purse, she walks slowly through the hospital lobby, out the gliding door, into the parking lot, and beeps open the car. Sliding behind the steering wheel, she takes off her sunglasses and stares out the window
. She can neither accept nor reject the facts. A strange limbo indeed. This time her mind locked in each word from the doctor’s mouth. A tall, imposing man, he named the tumor. It’s an acoustic neuroma on the eighth cranial nerve, which connects the inner ear with the brain and has two parts. One part transmits sound, the other sends balance messages to the brain. Depending on the size of the tumor, it can press on nearby cranial nerves that control the muscles of facial expression and sensation. Deficits will continue to increase as it grows, which it will, nobody knows by how much or how quickly. When large enough, the tumor will press on the brain stem and be fatal. In the months between both MRI tests, he said, the tumor had grown quite a bit, large enough to make surgery difficult. If she considers going that route, however, which is the one he’d recommend, there’s no guarantee the entire mass can be excised without causing unpleasant side effects. Radiation is a possibility, but it would have unpleasant side effects, too, and they’re likely to persist. His voice, neither cold nor warm, was firm and clear. Only when he was pointing at the MRI film, explaining the origin of each deficit already there or likely to develop, did her mind shut down, and even if she looked as if she were listening she wasn’t, though he kept talking. Her charges may be years older than she is, but she’s watched many of them get that glazed look that goes with the what’s-the-use-of-hearing more? They already know their comfort zone has been breached, never to return. So why bother pondering more details? It’s how she sees it now. To operate, to radiate or not, it all seems irrelevant. Either way, her life will change drastically and not for the better.

  The SUV in front of her pulls out to reveal the white brick hospital building, where patients wait to heal or die, spending endless hours wondering when the next blood will be drawn, the next meal will arrive, and who if anyone will visit tonight. She’s not ready for any of that. She’s also not ready for the future the doctor laid out. But what would ready feel like? No answer. She feels distant from herself, as if space has grown around her that can’t be bridged. Maybe she’s in shock. Maybe not. Maybe it’s how she copes, or maybe she hasn’t absorbed the news. Or like an earthquake, maybe it’s a tectonic shift, lifting her out of her life to an altitude high enough from which to view it. Or maybe deep down—and this is the strangest thought of all—she doesn’t care.

  Stu’s car is in the garage when she pulls in. They must be back from the sale of Lena’s car. There’s no point in keeping the tumor a secret any longer. She’ll cook dinner, and then after dessert tell everyone. Hearing the news in the company of friends will give Stu time to process it. Telling him alone in bed would overwhelm him, send him to the nearest bar, though either way he’ll probably end up there. He can’t handle unfixable problems.

  Zack’s in the kitchen, her striped apron around his waist, every pot in the house simmering with something, the table already set.

  “This is unexpected,” she says.

  “I like to cook. I raided your freezer, defrosted the small turkey. It’s in the oven, along with sweet potatoes. I’m heating stuffing and vegetables, too.”

  “Sounds like Thanksgiving.”

  “Yeah, sort of.”

  “Okay, I give up. What’s going on?”

  “I’ve decided to never work in construction again. No, actually I decided that a while back, but today I decided to announce it.” He grins.

  “Is that a decision to celebrate?”

  “Absolutely. Concrete decisions are liberating.”

  “Why no more construction?” She can’t help asking.

  “I don’t want to explain. It’s how I feel. That’s it. That’s enough.”

  Maybe she ought to adopt Zack’s approach. I have a tumor, I don’t want to discuss it. That’s it.

  “Well, you seem to be …” she pauses, “certain.”

  “I got a job in the back room of one of the warehouses in the meat-packing district, counting and weighing sides of beef and keeping records of same. Seven hours a day by myself, no lifting, no carting, no heights, everything simple and done mechanically.” He turns back to the stove and opens the oven door to check on the turkey.

  “Well, good luck.” It sounds awful, but why say so? “I’m going to wash up.”

  41.

  In bare feet and comfortable caftan, fresh from a shower, Dory pads down the hallway not the least bit hungry, but calls Lena and Casey to dinner. Her voice sounds hoarse to her. Words move quickly through her head like those streaming across the bottom of a TV screen.

  Beer and wine are on the table. She’ll drink. Why not?

  “Where’s Mom?” Casey asks, emerging from the basement.

  “Go get her. Tell her we’re waiting.”

  Lena comes out of the bedroom and follows Casey to the table, an odd expression on her face.

  “The car sold?” she asks. Her voice sounds far away, as if someone has put earmuffs on her ears.

  Lena nods.

  “Dig in,” Zack orders, setting down the last platter.

  “I didn’t know you liked to cook,” Lena comments, deadpan.

  “How could you? When it comes to the kitchen, ‘no entry’ is stenciled on your forehead.”

  Lena purses her lips but doesn’t respond.

  “So, listen, my friends. I have an announcement and here it is: I’m never going back to construction work.”

  Lena glares at him. “Why not?”

  “Because it’s what I want. Do you have a problem with that?”

  “This isn’t the time or place.”

  “Yes it is. It’s time you knew, and we have no other place.”

  Casey stares at his father. “But, Dad, what else can you do?”

  “A mighty good question, son, and the answer arrived today. I got a job in the backroom of a meat market. It pays above minimum and I’ll be by myself, weighing sides of beef. Anyone have a problem with that?” Zack looks only at Lena.

  “Well, congrats,” Stu says. Though he sounds less than enthusiastic.

  “Lena? What do you think of my job?”

  “Does it have benefits or a union?” Lena asks.

  “Nothing satisfies you, my angel, nothing.”

  Lena seems about to leave the table.

  “I, too, have an announcement,” Dory hears herself say. Heads turn to her. All thoughts on how to share the information instantly fall away. “I have a brain tumor.” Crap.

  “For real?” Stu asks, breaking the stunned silence.

  “For real,” she replies quietly. Then, her gaze fixed on the platter holding the sliced-open sweet potatoes, their orange insides exposed, she fills them in matter-of-factly on what she’s learned from the doctor. No one interrupts. When she looks up, Lena is crying.

  “Lena, you never cry.” Her friend begins to sob. It unnerves her. “Lena, please stop. I’m sorry.”

  “What do you have to be sorry about?” Zack shouts. “It’s your life on the line. Lena’s crying, big fucking deal, a normal response for a change.”

  Lena moves quickly down the hallway.

  “Dad,” Casey says. “Everything is wrong.”

  Stu’s silence feels heavy, disapproving. He’s staring into his plate as if he’s about to be sick. Except, surely, he can’t blame her for the illness? Of course he doesn’t. He’s overwhelmed. She expected that. He’s undoubtedly processing, which takes time.

  Zack heads down the hallway.

  He finds Lena face down on the bed, no longer audibly crying. “You’ve upset Dory more than she already is. Do you hear me?”

  No response.

  He stands over her. “I’m talking to you. Turn around, damn it, and answer me,” his voice unnaturally loud in his ears.

  “I have nothing to say to you, maybe ever again.”

  She finally does turn around, her face wet with misery.

  “Now listen closely. I’m sick and tired of your poor-me attitude, the woman wronged by her loser husband. You’re not the only one in the house whose feelings matter. I’ve spent weeks thin
king through feelings of my own. So let me enlighten you, angel. I will no longer put up with being pushed away in bed. You do that to punish me, but, my beauty, I’m not a child, and I won’t be treated like one anymore. I’ve spent more years than not adoring you, and this is how you respond to me in a crisis? Are you listening to me?” His anger is rising with each word. “Answer me, god fucking damn it!”

  She nods.

  “I want you to say ‘I’m listening.’”

  “Get out, Zack.”

  “Not on your life. I’m staying here, and we’re getting this wagon back on the road.” He likes his combative tone.

  “I’m not sleeping with a man who I find …” she hesitates.

  “Say it, you’ve always wanted to. Say it for fuck’s sake.”

  “Irresponsible.”

  He ignores her response. “Does fucking me make you nauseous?”

  “Why are you being so vulgar?”

  “Vulgar? I’ll tell you what’s vulgar. Having to pay a whore to hold my balls, that’s vulgar.” Oh damn.

  She gets off the bed.

  “Don’t leave this room.” But already his anger is cooling.

  She sits in the rocking chair and stares at him. He knows that expression. She’s deciding exactly what to say, because that’s her, precise.

  “I’m waiting.” He hovers. He won’t back off now, no matter what.

  “You have been zero available to me and the children as a husband and a father since the foreclosure. Understand? I blame you for Rosie leaving. She didn’t want to be part of a family without a father. While you lay there in the basement waiting for the world to come to your aid, Rosie was gallivanting around with some older guy in the South fucking Bronx, and you never even asked ‘where is my daughter?’ What kind of father …”

  “Stop, just stop, Lena. Rosie’s not a baby. In fact, she’s too wise for her age. She was begging for trust and you were smothering all her impulses. She hated that.”

  “Her absence is an open sore for which I hold you responsible. Responsible, understand? I should be able to enjoy watching her first date, the prom, whatever.”