The Eggnog Chronicles

by Carly Alexander

  2

  The plot of my novel—or the lack thereof—haunted me in the shower, on the subway, and on the street as a hansom cab eased through traffic in a chorus of horse clops and jingle bells. I was still sifting through the air for ideas as I stepped into the waiting room of Dr. Parson’s office, a chrome and glass affair with a Park Avenue address that made me marvel at the fact that my insurance would cover a tony specialist with these digs. I was a writer in need of a story, a person in need of a way out of her own life. Not that I hated writing obits for the Herald. It was just that, pardon the pun, it was a dead-end job in a stifling cracker-box environment, and writing a breakout novel seemed like the perfect route to the superhighway of financial and creative freedom.

  A well-moisturized woman in the waiting room leaned over her crossword puzzle while an elderly gentleman tried to nap in the corner. Not too crowded. Hopefully, I’d be in and out faster than you can say “sinusitis.”

  I skirted around a fanciful tree, fake evergreen branches iced with silver snow and dotted with lavender ornaments and lights, and leaned my elbow beside a menorah to sign in at the cutout leading to the receptionist’s brightly lit office. “Nice tree,” I told the receptionist, adding, “though I’m surprised you don’t give equal time to Kwanzaa. Maybe an ear of corn or a unity cup?”

  A vacant smile froze on her face. “You are so right,” she said in the blank tone of a person who didn’t have a clue. “And you are?”

  “Jane Conner.”

  She handed me a clipboard with forms and asked for my insurance card. I wondered if I could center my novel on doctors—exploit this behind-the-scenes medical drama. But as I filled in the perfunctory information, I overheard the nurses and clerks talking about where to order lunch, complaining that one deli always got the order wrong, while another was pricey.

  Hardly inspiring.

  I was stuck leafing through the magazines fanned out on the glass end tables. A nice selection, though with my headful of pain I wasn’t up for tightening my abs, eating heart-smart or checking off lovemaking dos and don’ts. Sarah Jessica Parker smiled slyly at me from the cover of Vogue’s “Age Issue” (like that’s a winning topic!) and Jennifer Aniston’s dream marriage was yet again the featured phenomenon in another magazine. I flipped to the contents pages, scanning for celebrity names who might be missing from our files. Part of my job at the Herald was to make sure we had an obit prepared in advance, a profile that we could tinker with over the years, doing the final update upon death.

  “I can’t believe you do those things before the person dies,” my friend Emma had said back when I first started filling in on the Death Squad. “Isn’t that like reading the last chapter of a thriller before you buy it?”

  “You’d be surprised at how much of the paper is written in advance,” I told her. “Don’t you remember last fall when that local paper ran an editorial about the Yankees losing the playoffs when the team actually won? The news staff tries to cover all possible outcomes, but in that case some bozo ran the wrong piece.”

  “Still, it seems weird,” Emma had said. “A little morbid.”

  Emma works in banking, and I guess the mentality there is that you do not count your deposits until the money comes in. Fair enough. I think I managed to diffuse her indignation by selling myself as a biographer: a writer who works hard to capture the essence of a person’s soul and the sweet nut of his or her greatest accomplishment. There’s truly an art to writing an obit; I’d realized my lack of craft when my mother died and the rest of the family had expected me to compose the customary death notice for the paper. I remember striking all the creaky adjectives in the form—“beloved” and “loving” and “dear” and “adoring.” None of those words described my mother, and yet when they fell out of the announcement it read like a synopsis from TV guide. I struggled with that sucker right up till the print deadline. Then there was the formal obit, the one that was supposed to indicate something of her personality by mentioning book clubs and bridge clubs, her professorship at Columbia, her raspy smoker’s voice at poetry readings. I would have failed miserably without the words from Mom’s older brother, who said: “She was a tough broad who knew what she wanted and didn’t hesitate to let you know, a real New Yorker.” If I were asked to write my mother’s obit all over again today, I’d still quote Uncle John.

  I reached into the neat fan of magazines to pick up the smiling face of Tom Hanks and wondered what he was up to these days. He seemed like the ultimate Mr. Nice Guy: spending time with his kids, giving supportive quotes about wife, Rita, appearing at charity events, stepping out of the limelight to produce films so that someone else could win the Oscar for Best Actor. Never met him, and in the office Genevieve had started the file on him so I didn’t really have the authority to chase him. But the article said he was filming a movie in New York and was planning to spend the holidays here.

  Hmm.

  If I were a supportive mush-ball, I’d pass this information on to my colleague. But I’m not, and Genevieve has a habit of stepping on the toes of my Manolo Blahniks as she minces toward the boss.

  I would see if Mr. Hanks would do lunch. That had to be the greatest perk of the job: the response that rippled through agents and assistants and development people the moment I mentioned that I worked for the New York Herald. Some obituary writers used the phone and the Web and explained their mission in dulcet tones, but I liked to meet my subjects over lunch with a cocktail and a laugh. Last year one of my lunch dates, an anchor for a major network, had dubbed me the “Angel of Death” after a whimsical exchange at a high profile restaurant that made a few columns here in New York.

  Was I flattered? Absolutely. Although I certainly didn’t grow up wanting to write obits, the Herald is known for its editorial send-offs of the dead. Überfans of obits across the country read the Herald in search of clues as to how life cycles play out—similar to the reasons people read biographies. Obit buffs also appreciate the way our profiles reveal a defining line of the deceased: the fingerprint that made the person unique, the trait that identified their soul. So for me to be dubbed one of the best of the best—even if the field was a graveyard, so to speak—was truly an honor.

  My boss, however, wasn’t too pleased at my publicity flash. “I worry that we’re getting off-track a bit,” Marty had said in the hushed tones of a funeral director. “Yes, we cover celebrities, however, the Herald has never been a publication that seeks glamour. We need to pursue a well-rounded segment of the population: politicians, humanitarians, Pulitzer Prize winners. The Cuban immigrant who changed the face of child care in this country. The anthropologist who devoted his life to finding Bigfoot. The middle-class man who soldered an invention in his garage . . .”

  Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.

  Marty and I had covered this ground before.

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” I had assured Marty, telling him about how I was meeting with the winner of a bake-off in Minnesota as well as with one of the scientists leading the way in brain-stem cell research. And that bake-off winner wanted money for a twenty-minute phone interview.

  “Jane Conner?” the woman in white jacket called. I tucked away my career stress and followed her into an office where lacquered chests holding various pointed metal devices of torture surrounded a padded chair with a headrest. I looked over at the toxic warning on the red wastebasket and let my heavy head roll back against the chair, reminding myself to ask the doctor why I kept getting these insipid infections.

  “Ms. Conner?” Dr. Parson cordially shook my hand. His dark eyes and hair were a striking contrast to his lab coat, which seemed cut extra small to make him appear taller. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. How did you hear about me?”

  Translation: Bring on the accolades.

  “I work at the Herald,” I said, peering through the black hair that feathered over my eyes, “and everyone there says you’re the master of sinuses.”

  That brought an intense stare
, but no smile. He strapped on a headband with a silver disk in the center, and I couldn’t help but think of Bugs Bunny impersonating Elmer Fudd’s physician. “And what seems to be the problem?” Did he say “pwob-wem” or was that my imagination?

  “Chronic sinus infections. This is the third time since September, and I’ve had it.”

  He slapped on latex gloves, staring at me as if I were suspect. “What makes you think it’s sinusitis?”

  “Major headaches and ribbons of green snot.” I grinned. “Charming, I know, but it’s your specialty, right?”

  “Are you in pain?”

  “Only from the neck up. I figure if you can lop my head off, I’ll be just fine.”

  He didn’t laugh. Just probed my ears without asking. “Tip your head back.”

  I did, and he shoved his white light into my nostrils and stared angrily into my orifices. “Whoa.” I pressed back into the chair. “Major boogie action, and we just met.”

  Talk about in your face. I felt relieved when Dr. Humorless moved away to make a note on my card. But then, without warning, he doubled back and blasted my left nostril with a spray—the ENT equivalent of bathroom cleanser.

  “Will that help?” I asked.

  “It will numb you a bit, while I take a look inside.”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “You actually shrink down like the Magic Schoolbus and take a ride inside.”

  “This will only take a minute, but you’re probably tender.”

  Tender didn’t begin to describe the sensation I felt as he reeled thin, plastic tubing with a white light on the end up into my nostril. I squirmed, sure that the little white probe was taking candid shots of my brain, recording all those choice labels I was forming for Dr. Parson. Humorless sadist. Looney Tunes Napoleon. And those were the clean versions. Then he redirected the probe and it dug down, down, down, clear to the toes of my Jimmy Choo boots.

  “You have a sinus infection,” he said, reeling the line out of my body, taking tears and mucus with it.

  Wincing, I pressed one hand to my face and grabbed a tissue with the other. “Glad you concur with my diagnosis,” I managed, trying to be a big girl about this and ignore the urge to slap his hands away. This required great restraint, as his hands were already on my neck, squeezing and kneading, choking. I have always believed that my neck was the way into my silk boxers. A well-placed kiss or a gentle fingertip could work wonders there—at least, it could before Dr. Parson tromped through.

  “Did you know you have a lump on your thyroid?” he asked, as if I’d reshaped my thyroid just to piss him off.

  “Did you know you have a hair growing out of your nose?” I countered.

  That did it. He squinted at me, pressing the back of his hand to his nose.

  “Kidding!” I said quickly. “I’m kidding.”

  He backed away, folded his arms and leaned back against the counter, a safer distance for us both. “That nodule on your neck needs to be investigated,” he said coolly. “I can send you for sonography, but honestly, that’s often inconclusive and usually leads to a needle biopsy, which I would recommend you start with. I’ll do it for you today, if you like.”

  I reached out to the counter for a tissue, then pressed it to my nose. “What about my sinuses?”

  “I’ll write you a prescription for that. An antibiotic and a nose spray will take care of it.”

  “But you think my neck is swollen from the sinuses?” I was having trouble piecing all this together. “Did the infection spread to my throat? Maybe that’s why I keep getting these things.”

  He shook his head. “The two are totally unrelated. You can take a few days to think about it, but don’t let the thyroid go unchecked.” He pinched my throat again. “That’s the thyroid, right here. You can call me next week and let me know.”

  At that moment, the last thing I wanted was to spend half a day trying to track down a physician, especially when that doctor was the grim Dr. Parson. “Just do it now,” I said, hoping this wasn’t just a way to jack up the insurance bill to pay for this Park Avenue office.

  As he prepared for the procedure, I felt a sting of apprehension. “Do you use general anaesthesia for this?” Why did my voice sound like I was auditioning for Alvin and the Chipmunks? “Or just a needle to numb it?” I thought of the novacaine shot I’d gotten from the dentist and wondered if I’d be able to swallow after a shot to the neck.

  Dr. Parson pursed his lips into an even deeper frown, and I wanted to tell him that if he kept that up he’d need Botox before the day was out. “Actually, if I gave you something to numb the area, it would be more painful than the needle I’m going to use. It’s called an F. N. A.—a fine needle aspiration. You’ll see that it’s very thin.”

  And very long, I thought, wincing at the lethal-looking syringe on the counter. If Keanu Reeves had a weapon like that in The Matrix, there would be no sequels. One wave of the syringe and the machines would fall to their knees.

  But I could take it. Women were so much better at tolerating. . . well, everything, and I figured if I could survive chronic sinus pain, a little jab to the neck would be minimal.

  In fact, the needle biopsy was okay—not nearly as unsettling as the image of Dr. Parson coming at me in protective goggles, gloves and reflective headband.

  “I’ll have the results in three to five days,” he said, removing his gloves with a “thwack.”

  Honestly, I was just desperate to get those antibiotics into my swollen nasal cavities. Dr. Parson had prescribed an antibiotic I hadn’t tried before; a drug “directed toward the sinuses,” he promised. I hurried through the checkout and copay, shrugged on my elegant Ralph Lauren cashmere coat and dashed into the elevator. I needed my pharmaceutical fix! The cure!

  3

  “I shouldn’t be here,” I said an hour later as I scanned the menu at Duke’s, my favorite neighborhood bar, café, and overall hangout spot. “Aren’t sick people supposed to stay in bed and drink chicken soup?”

  “You need to do whatever feeds the soul.” Emma closed her menu and tore off a piece of Irish soda bread. “Gotta have lunch, right? It’ll be short, though. I’m due back at telemarketing hell by one.”

  Once I’d returned to my apartment and gotten those wonder drugs into my system, I’d paused in the kitchen and stared into the fridge. Leftover Chinese, or Lean Cuisine? I needed cultural nutrition, which mere food couldn’t provide. So I called Emma, who was glad to escape from work for a quick lunch.

  I lowered my menu to watch Noah, the waiter, pass by with a tray of drinks for a table in the back room. “I’d kill for one of Duke’s bloody marys right now.”

  “So have one. You don’t need to go back to work.”

  “I’ve got an interview . . . which never stopped me before,” I said. “But it’s not a good idea with the antibiotics.”

  “Oh, right!” Emma nodded sagely, her maternal streak emerging. Emma Dombrowski was one of the most motherly people I know, and now that she and her boyfriend had broken up it looked like she might not get the baby she wanted. Wasn’t that just the way life kicked you in the teeth? Teenagers in high school were having these babies they didn’t want while Emma, who had bought a two-bedroom condo with a nursery in mind, was left empty-armed and unfulfilled.

  “Right now you need to focus on feeling better,” Emma went on as she pressed a dab of butter onto the bread. “I’m glad you finally saw a specialist. Did he mention a saline flush? Peggy at work had one. Said it was painful, but seemed to do the trick.”

  “He didn’t seem too worried about my sinuses,” I said. “He just wanted to stick a needle in my neck.”

  “What?” Emma’s blue eyes opened wide over her mouthful of bread.

  “He said it’s probably nothing. Apparently I have a lumpy thyroid. I’m just looking forward to feeling better. I’m feeling fragile, but I’ve got this interview that can’t wait. Then, I’d planned to do some of my own writing, but I’ll see how I feel.”

  E
mma nodded. “How’s the book going?”

  “It’s going well,” I lied, figuring that if I pretended the book was rolling along, maybe my karma would fall into line. “I just wish I had more time to work on it. I’m always stuck in the office until seven or later, then I don’t have the energy to get creative all over again. So . . . if you’ve read those pages, what do you think?”

  “I think . . .” Emma squinted, as if trying to remember. “I think it would help if I could read the beginning. I think it’s really great, what you’ve done, that you’ve done so much, but—”

  “Go on and say it,” I interrupted. “You hate it.”

  “No, not really.” She toyed with the lights on the garland. “The thing is, I just don’t understand these people. I can’t tell what makes them tick; whether or not I’m supposed to like them.”

  “You don’t have to like them. The question is, do they interest you?”

  “Well . . . I have some trouble with the guy who’s cheating on his wife, and the woman is so obsessed with her weight. The way she drinks down the boullion then weighs herself, then takes those diuretics . . .” She shook her head. “I didn’t buy it.”

  “Have you ever heard of bulimia?” I asked, feeling a little put out.

  Emma pressed her hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Don’t be mad, Jane. I know they’re real problems, but I just didn’t believe it in the story. I mean, the issues are so far from your life. Maybe they’re not the best choice for you?”

  “Write what you know,” I said. It was the mantra of every workshop for beginning writers. “You hit that one.”

  “And I wasn’t sure if it was going to develop into a romance or a mystery or . . . what.”

  I nodded. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” I’d slugged my way through without an outline or a plan. “I need to approach this with better organization.” At work it was easy to churn out pages of text, much of which was edited down to fit in the precise columns that wrapped around photos and squeezed between ads. But when it came to writing The Novel, the lack of clear guidelines and the pressure to be brilliant was overwhelming. Who would’ve thought that creative freedom could be so daunting?