The Last Word
Page 22
I picked up the phone and dialed, while my sister pulled another towel from the drawer and clamped my father’s nostrils shut. She must have been pinching really hard, because he was moaning in pain.
“Where’s Mom?” Rae asked.
“I think she went to the store.”
“Call her,” Rae said. Her hands were busy trying to stanch the bleeding.
Ten minutes and what looked like a crime scene of blood later, the paramedics arrived. They put my father on a gurney and checked his vitals while my sister provided the relevant details.
“His name is Albert Spellman, he’s sixty-nine years old. He’s just been diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia.”
PART III
LAST WORDS
VOICE MEMO
2:23 A.M.
We don’t have any secrets anymore. Everyone knows that Dad’s sick, that Isabel is in serious trouble, and that the bottom could drop out of the business any day. “The truth will set you free” is bullshit. I still can’t sleep.
I know I can’t cure Dad. But the other stuff, I know I can do more. I’m not sure I can sit back and watch it all fall apart. This is mine as much as it’s hers. At least it used to be. I let a piece of it go and watched her run it into the ground.
I don’t want to take anything away from my sister. I just want to take back what’s mine.
SICK
Dad was immediately admitted to UCSF Medical Center at Mount Zion on Divisadero Street. While Mom was filling out the paperwork, Rae debriefed me on the trajectory of events.
The unit was fighting because Dad was ill and refused to see a doctor. Dad eventually relented, had a checkup with his family doctor, and played down his symptoms, and Dr. Smiley dismissed Dad with a clean bill of health. Mom insisted that Dad get a second opinion. When he refused, she told him that he couldn’t come home until he went to a specialist. After two nights without Mom, Dad capitulated and went to another general practitioner on his HMO plan, who ran some tests and sent him to an oncologist, Dr. Chang, who ran a few more tests and diagnosed Dad with acute myeloid leukemia and strongly encouraged my father to check into the hospital and begin treatment immediately.
Dad said he needed a few days to absorb this life-altering information, and that’s when I found him in the kitchen with the nosebleed.
“And how do you know all this?” I asked Rae.
“I put a listening device in their car.”
“And my car?”
“Yes.”
And I found that bit of information soothing. So goddamn wrong.
“This way I knew what was going on, and if I needed to intervene it wouldn’t be too late.”
“In the future, I would like us to cut back on interfamily audio surveillance,” I said.
“I think we can see Dad now,” Rae said.
Once Dad was stabilized and his nose was no longer a fountain of blood, we were allowed to visit. The three Spellman spawn converged on room 857.
“You have some explaining to do,” David said.
“How could you keep this from us?” I asked my parents.
“Let’s not get into this now,” Mom said.
“When were you planning on telling us?” I asked.
“After I beat this thing,” Dad said.
I studied Mom’s guarded reaction while Dad held court, boasting of the great nursing staff and bemoaning the limited cable TV options. Dad said he’d give the hospital an overall three-star rating on Yelp. I suggested David and Rae stay with Dad while Mom and I got coffee across the street at Peet’s.
“How long has this been going on?” I asked after we found a table.
“I’ve been trying to get him to go to a doctor for over a month.”
“When were you planning on telling us?”
“I’d never seen your father so terrified. The last time anyone went into the hospital, it was when Uncle Ray got sick.”
“But he can be cured, right?”
“With leukemia you hope for remission,” Mom said. “And he can go into remission for years. They don’t use the word cure.”
• • •
Dr. Chloe Chang, Dad’s oncologist, came by his room later that day and debriefed the family about Dad’s treatment. With AML, the first phase is induction chemotherapy, in which the patient remains in the hospital for up to four weeks: intensive chemotherapy for about a week and then palliative therapy, including antibiotics, antifungals, whatever is required to offset the damage done by the chemo. After the induction phase, 70 to 80 percent of patients are expected to enter complete remission. If complete remission is achieved, then the patient is allowed to go home and rest, usually for about a week, before starting the second phase, which includes consolidated chemotherapy and possibly an autologous (using the patient’s own bone marrow) or allogeneic (donor) bone marrow transplant.
When Dr. Chang was done explaining Dad’s treatment plan, Rae said, “If he needs bone marrow, he should take mine. It’s definitely the best.”
“Why would you have the best bone marrow?” I asked.
“Because I’m the youngest and healthiest.”
“Youngest, maybe. Healthiest, that’s debatable. Your bone marrow might actually be made of marshmallows,” David said.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Any one of us will do it,” David said.
Dr. Chang said, “We need to make sure we have a match first.”
“What if more than one of us is a match?” Rae asked.
Mom cradled her head in her hands. “Kids, that’s enough.”
“That would be good news,” Dr. Chang said. “But, once again, we’ll continue with chemotherapy and see how that plays out. I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Spellman.”
“Don’t forget your boyfriend’s Social Security number,” Dad said, winking at his doctor.
Chang departed and Rae stayed her course.
“So, Dad. Let’s say all three of us are a donor match, which one would you choose?”
“I’d have a talent competition first. And then I’d decide,” said Dad.
• • •
Dad’s the kind of person who makes friends fast, and since Mount Zion was going to be his home for the next month, he made the best of it. His Jamaican day nurse, Tralina, and he hit it off like gangbusters. Especially after he had Mom locate the whereabouts of an ex-boyfriend she’d never quite gotten over. Mom managed to find a current photograph on a website from a tech company where he was working. And then, just as quickly, Tralina was over him. Dad, after discovering Hayley’s Fortune, Tralina’s favorite soap opera, would leave it on his television every afternoon, so she could watch when a patient didn’t require her tending or he could at the very least debrief her when she was away. Occasionally Tralina would bend the rules and let more than two Spellmans in the room at a time, until Dad told her that he really couldn’t handle more than two of us at once.
“You haf a lovely family, Mr. Spellman,” I overheard her say as I was lingering by the door for a visit. “Da little blond one, is she yours?”
“My youngest,” Dad said.
“I’d keep an eye on dat one,” Tralina said without a hint of humor.
I really liked Tralina.
David created a daytime schedule to make sure that at no time was Dad alone and bored in his hospital room. Even with Tralina, we knew there would be moments when he might start thinking about his illness and mortality, and David knew that there were few people on the planet more distracting than a Spellman. At the end of David’s first shift, he debriefed me.
“His pillows seem to drive him crazy. He’s going to make you adjust them every ten to fifteen minutes. And he really likes reminiscing, so sit back and get used to it.”
“Did you leave a flask?”
“No, Isabel, we’re in a hospital.”
“Right. They have drugs.”
“They give him a container of Jell-O with every meal,” David said. “He’s partial to cherry, but sometimes he li
kes to mix it up with strawberry, blackberry, and lemon when he wants a palate cleanser. He hates lime. If they give him lime, he’ll tell you a very long story about a bad margarita he had.”
“Are you going anywhere with this story?”
“If you see lime Jell-O, try to swap it with another patient’s meal. They leave the trays in the hallway when they’re serving.”
When my shift with Dad began, he asked me if I had made peace with Robbie Gruber, our computer repairman, who’d been playing a cyber-game of cat-and-mouse with me. I told him I was working on it and Dad offered this gem of advice: “I think a magazine subscription would be nice. You might think he’s a Penthouse kind of guy, but Robbie is a romantic, deep down. Go with Playboy.”
Dad asked me to fetch a Popsicle. I grabbed a cherry-flavored one from the stash. When I returned to his room, Tralina was on her cell phone.
“Allo, Mr. Lorre. I been tinking about moving. I would like a quote. How much ta move one bedroom from San Francisco to New York? Let’s say tree tousand pounds. Okay, okay. How much t’ move two bedroom from San Antonio, Texas, to Dayton, Ohio? I am not wasting your time. I am calling for different people who want to move two different places. Also, can you give me a quote for a move from Seattle t’ Montego Bay, Jamaica, a tree-bedroom house? You don’ do any moving to Jamaica? That’s crazy. Do you have a problem with Jamaica? You need an airplane. You should get an airplane. Is there anything else you can help me with? I don’ tink you’ve helped me at all. Good day, Mr. Lorre.”
Tralina disconnected the call and smiled at my father. “So I can tell my daughter that today I was a detective?”
“Today you were a detective,” my dad said.
“She’ll like that,” Tralina said, breezing out of the room.
I gave Dad his Popsicle.
“Is this cherry?” Dad asked when I returned.
“Yes. It’s your favorite Jell-O flavor; I could only assume it was your favorite Popsicle flavor.”
“I like strawberry Popsicles.”
I kept the cherry Popsicle for myself and fetched Dad a strawberry one.
“Thanks, dear,” Dad said with a sweet smile. “You were always my favorite.”
“I overheard you say that to David just three hours ago.”
“I think my pillow is slipping.”
• • •
Edward sent a health basket filled with green drinks and macrobiotic energy bars that no one in my family would consume, except maybe David out of nostalgia. Still, I called Edward and thanked him.
“It’s nice of you to send a gift basket to a man you’ve never met.”
“Maybe we could remedy that soon.”
“At least these days if you met him in bed clothes, it would be appropriate.”
“How is the patient?”
“He’s great. He’s being waited on hand and foot. He doesn’t even have to pour his own water if he doesn’t feel like it. This has never happened before and will never happen again.”
“How are you doing?” Edward asked.
“Other than those pesky embezzlement charges?”
“Isabel, just take care of your father. I’ll deal with that.”
“How’s Ethan?”
“He’s Ethan.”
“Anything new with him? Is he planning to go away any time soon?”
“You mean like a vacation?”
“Something like that.”
“Not that I know of. He did mention that his visit here would eventually come to an end.”
“I see.”
When my shift ended and Rae took over, I phoned Ethan from the parking lot.
“Why haven’t you told him yet?” I said as soon as he picked up.
“I was thinking it might be better not to tell him.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I want him to remember me fondly.”
“Too late. You’re a gambling-addicted con man who has already done seven years in the slammer.”
“This is a family matter, Isabel. You should stay out of it.”
“You have an hour to tell him or I’ll do it. Don’t make the mistake of calling my bluff.”
• • •
I love my father. Most people who meet my father eventually grow to love him, but spending six-hour shifts with him as he reminisced, brought me up to speed on Hayley’s Fortune, and demanded his pillows be adjusted repeatedly could be trying. And then when he ran out of his usual material, Dad took to tossing out a series of random personal and impersonal questions:
“So, when’s the last time you went out on a date?”
“Are you thinking about finding an apartment that’s not in your brother’s basement any time soon?”
“What the hell are these bath salts everybody is talking about?”
“Have you ever listened to Justin Bieber’s music? I mean really listened?”
My point is, I was glad to keep Dad company, but it was exhausting, and some days I came to dread my shift. Then, one day, I arrived and Rae had somehow managed to induce a soporific state in my father.
“What did you do to him?”
“I asked him to read my term papers for the last three years. I wanted his honest opinion about whether higher education was worth the cost. I think they’d like another lawyer in the family; it makes up for having one child with only a high school diploma.”
Dad’s illness had derailed, well, everything, and I’d never had a chance to voice my concerns about my sister’s “report.”
“When I’m done here,” I said, “we need to talk about your caseload.”
“Looking forward to it,” Rae said. “One more thing: If Dad needs a bone marrow transplant, he agreed that I get to be the donor.”
“Really? How’d you swing that?”
“First I had to rule out David. Being the primary caretaker of Sydney, he really couldn’t afford to be out of commission for any time at all, and every operation has its risk. And then we discussed the impact of your alcohol consumption on your general health, and we both agreed my bone marrow was less contaminated.”
“There is no scientific evidence that beer contaminates bone marrow.”
“And there’s no evidence that it doesn’t. My point is, I win.”
“Don’t you always?”
THE SPECIALIST
I scheduled an official meeting with the conflict resolution specialist. Straight after my shift with Dad at the hospital, Vivien and Rae met me at the office. Rae was working on one of the computers, and Vivien, after many attempts, was carving a tiny little derringer out of a bar of handmade lye soap—apparently much sturdier than any store-bought brand.
“Sit down. Both of you.”
They were already sitting, so my directive lost some dramatic effect.
“Let’s talk about your side project, Rae.”
“Before you say anything, Izzy, you need to know something. This is the future of private investigation. Although we’ve got to lose that tired moniker.”
“What you’re doing isn’t PI work, Rae. It’s preschool vigilantism.”
“I’ve already had one positive outcome, and if you met Greenblatt’s girlfriend, you’d know she was a lost cause. I did him a favor. Once I complete the Lightning case, I’ll be two and a draw, which is like two-point-five out of three. If I can stay at those numbers and advertise anything over an eighty percent success rate, we can grow this business and finally start making some money. But don’t take my word for it. Let’s ask the client. Vivien, have you been satisfied with the work we’ve done?”
“Very satisfied so far. All we need to do is finish the job,” Vivien said, still playing with her soap-bar sculpture.
“What does ‘finish the job’ mean?”
“I think it’s time to give the photos of Lorre and his girlfriend to his wife,” said Rae.
“Agreed,” said Vivien.
“Why don’t you just show the photos to him and firmly suggest he pay Vivien what he owes her?”
“So what is your brilliant plan?” I asked.
“That man is dead inside,” Rae said. “The only way to get through to him is to speak his language. The only way to make him stop extorting money from people is for him to realize there are consequences. We’ve completely unsettled him. But it’s not enough.”
“No,” I said. “The Lorre case is over. If you want to file a small-claims suit, I’ll get behind that. Otherwise, we’re done here.”
“I’m not going to threaten you and say that I won’t handle the billing or the payroll; I’m just going to ask a favor of you,” Rae said.1 “Pay one visit to Marcus Lorre and try to reason with him. After that, if you still want me to shut it down, I will.”
We sealed the deal with a handshake.
“Take me with you,” Vivien said. “I’ll stay in the car and listen on my cell phone. Please?”
I agreed to their terms, since I was only agreeing to having a talk with Marcus Lorre.
Rae gathered her belongings and reminded me to call Robbie.
“Robbie and you are in a cyber-war and he’s winning. You need to throw in the towel. Do you know how to do that?”
“Apologize?”
“With a porn gift basket,” Rae plainly explained.
• • •
Vivien and I made the thirty-minute drive to the bland stucco headquarters of Lighting Fast Moving Company in San Bruno. The shingle of the company hung just over a single door up a short flight of steps (surplus charge, I think). Aside from three moving trucks, a cluster of practical cars were parked in the lot. Lorre’s impractical Porsche Boxster stood out like a debutante in a biker bar.
“Don’t key his car or write any words on it, even with a harmless whipped-cream substitute, got it?”
“Got it,” Vivien said.
“Keep your phone on.”
I opened the door to the pungent fragrance of burned coffee and old rug. The receptionist was smoking, I suspect to cover the unpleasant odor.