Alice & Oliver

by Charles Bock

  “If you want visits from a minister or rabbi, I’ll sign you up. Social worker comes by on Mondays if you want a session. We got art therapy, light yoga, massage, you can even learn to play the guitar.”

  “It all sounds wonderful,” I say. “Like I’m going away for a vacation.”

  “I know the music therapy dude was around earlier. He mighta left for the day. Kinda weird, that boy. Supposed to be on schedule two days a week. The fool here way more.”

  “I do have a request,” I say. “When the treatments start, I will be trapped in this room, correct?”

  “They’ll take you back and forth for radiation, but pretty much—”

  “Could I walk the hallway? While I still can?”

  Maggie looks uncertain.

  “My friend will go with me.”

  “Let me call the attending.”

  Within minutes, a put-together woman knocks on the door. Hair in a bun, with similarly tense bearing, she introduces herself, shakes my hand, and firmly advises against a walk.

  “Is there a patient’s bill of rights?”

  “There is.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Alice?”

  “I’m okay, Tilda. I just want to know.”

  “Mrs. Culvert, if you go for a walk, obviously, we are not going to call security. You’d be back in the room before they got up here. But a lot of people come through the hallways. You could have someone sneeze on you and, who knows? Once I had a patient who had the flu when he came in here. He didn’t tell us, and died two days after the transplant.”

  “How many people haven’t died?” Tilda snaps. “Bring that up.”

  The woman shoots Tilda a sobering look. “What if I told you I was that patient’s doctor? Or maybe that’s just one more scary story we use to keep the halls clear. Either way”—a polite smile—“I’d advise against that walk.”

  —

  Having lugged her suitcases and bags into a messy pile outside her room, Oliver found the area with a patient pantry, where he went to work, labeling and dating the Tupperware bins—TURKEY LOAF, BAKED CHICKEN, STEAMED BROCCOLI. Making sure Alice’s name and room number were legible on the strips of masking tape, he wrote down the next day’s date, buying more time before the food got cleared out. He prepped Alice’s protein shake, nuked her turkey dinner, did the same for her lentil soup. He backed the food tray into her room. Conversation went dead. Tilda fixed him with a stare.

  Why wouldn’t she know? Who else would Alice tell?

  Oliver put down the food. He started hauling in luggage, asked if Alice wanted anything else. Then he told her that a wall of the break room was filled with pictures of people who’d had successful transplants and went on to live normal lives. He told Alice that at Christmastime the ward had an anniversary party for survivors, and that the break room wall had a giant photo record from the party, showing all the survivors who came back. Everyone looked so happy. One really caught Oliver’s eye, this beaming black guy, head perched next to his daughter and above his two granddaughters. “They have photos up of people who’ve survived four, six, nine years. They’re all still going.”

  Swollen cheeks went rich, the crimson shade spreading until appreciation swallowed her face. Arranging her meal on the rolling tray, Oliver was close enough that she could easily touch him. But her hands remained clasped atop her bedsheet. Oliver finished prepping. Avoiding any possibility of eye contact, he walked away from the bed, unzipped the smallest suitcase, and withdrew familiar trappings: their framed wedding photo; Alice holding the newborn, seconds into Doe’s life; six weeks; nine weeks. He took out inspirational sayings from their other stays—they didn’t have the energy or time to start over—along with that unfolding, giant, taped-together sheet: CANCER SCHMANCER. Tilda let out a little whoop and grabbed one end, which made Oliver feel even more alone. Grim determination had him. He didn’t ask what the deal was with this cramped little room but instead walked around the length of the bed and examined the small, plaid lounger. He pulled and lifted its seat, folding out the sections, into the long cot he would sleep on. The end of the cot kept bumping the bedside table. By the time Oliver successfully repositioned it, Tilda was rubbing moisturizing cream onto Alice’s forehead.

  —

  With a knock, Blasco entered, the attending physician and Bhakti following right behind. The doctor looked around, winced, and ordered Bhakti to work on getting Alice a new room. He washed his hands, checked Alice’s port, mentioned the skin was red, asked the nurse to get a cleaning kit and saline. The room’s natural light was on the wane. Blasco scooted a chair next to Alice and plopped down, setting his hands in his lap. He wanted to know how she was feeling. First days were horrid, he agreed. He also told her she couldn’t shower for the next twenty-four hours. “But,” Blasco added. “Wash off your skin cream in the morning. Having skin cream on before getting radiation? Do you put on tanning oil before walking on the sun?”

  —

  Lights go on and I am dragged out of sleep. The clock says five. The nurse is a short Asian woman; she moves and talks with an alacrity that overwhelms me, checking my face. “Already the drugs are working,” she says. “Red cheeks and forehead are one of the effects.” She asks if I still get my period. When was the last time? I guess: “Maybe two weeks before I was diagnosed?” The nurse has me fill out a breakfast card, reminds me to pick from low-micro-meal selections, calls in the order, says it should be delivered between seven and nine. She has me push my arms against hers to check my strength. She does the same with my legs. Helping me up, she again lets me know I can’t shower for twenty-four hours. She weighs me; just over one ten. Oliver is stirring as the nurse is putting my mask on for me. Donnay—my favorite—enters with a wheelchair. In what I have come to recognize as his no-sweat fashion, he unplugs the IV battery packs. I am deposited into my chair.

  “So here you go.” Oliver clasps my hand.

  “Marathon of sprints,” I say. “Here I go.”

  When Oliver leans in to kiss me, I offer my masked cheek. He holds my hand for an extra beat. Then my nurse drops, into my lap—boink—a large blue three-ring binder containing my case file. I shoot a pained look. What’s wrong with you?

  Halfway up the IV pole, thin metal branches stretch vertically to hold a second layer of fluids. The second layer makes the pole trickier to move, its balance uncertain. Donnay takes his time making sure no lines or plugs get tangled beneath the heavy rollers. We move slowly down, through the second floor. I get distracted by a series of windows, thin branches on the other side, blue sky peeking through random spaces. We head down another corridor, into what seems a different zone. The walls are painted in thick, primary colors; a glass window looks into a separate, brightly lit, and also happily-colored area. Here kids are playing. Some have patchy heads, others pates clean as pool balls. They chase each other across the giant, fuzzy map of carpet. They climb on beanbags, play with dolls and blocks, just sit on couches, reading, working on puzzles. Some have IVs. I see a child spring to a corner, bend over, and vomit into a bucket. Without pause, he comes back and rejoins a chase.

  Leading up to the radiation waiting room, the hallways begin to line with the unwell. Right outside of the radiation room, a man stands out: upright in his slate-gray, three-piece suit, head so bald it looks spanking clean, his health is obvious. Some part of me thinks I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place where. I notice his meaty right hand has a tasteful gold wedding band. Now the door to the radiation room opens. A bald boy is wheeled out. Can’t be more than seven. The suited man’s smile is enormous. “Hey, buddy.”

  I would happily give myself to him right here and now.

  —

  Door hinges groan, heavy with reinforced weight. Inside, the walls are thick with lead. I am wheeled to some sort of mechanism: a metal stand with a bunch of levers, pipes, and padded handlebars. All the pipes are at different levels and locations, and, as I near, I see that each pipe has measurement markings. Belo
w them all is a bicycle seat. One of the orderlies starts positioning me, helping me toward the stand.

  Maybe five yards away, the radiation machine waits, dormant. It looks like alien weaponry, a space cannon, eight or nine feet tall. At the end of what seems to be the weapon barrel, a chrome eye is angled, looking down unblinking. I can’t take my eyes off it, either, which makes me less sturdy than anyone’s happy with.

  Once the orderly has guided me to the stand, two techs approach and split off, each heading to a side. They start applying these, these things, I don’t know what, but they’re foamy and big. Half-spherical, they go onto my shoulders with a clomp. Apparently they are clamps. Their purpose is to keep me in place.

  The second orderly starts arranging my custom-made lead shields over my lungs and kidneys and internal organs. Using the few small holes in the lung guard to check on where the tattoo is, he makes sure everything’s properly lined up.

  So long as I breathe, I will be all right.

  Now black straps go over my breasts, making an X, belting me in. They’re looped through the poles and pulled, and it’s so tight I can’t move, can’t so much as twitch. The first orderly positions the bicycle seat directly beneath my bottom.

  “Just in case,” he says.

  I’m told if I pass out, the straps will keep me in place until the session is over.

  —

  So okay, Goddess, the first day wasn’t so bad.

  I need to keep letting go. Maybe I just need to sleep. Here is not so bad. Here is where I am. Just keep focusing on what I can do in here—I can write, I can read, I can meditate, I can draw, I can knit, I can paint in my limited, clumsy fashion. I know that I want to be a clear channel. The truth is, I’m not miserable. This little part of me nags, a dog nipping at heels, yipping, wanting me to be sad, to worry. Remember, you’re miserable! Remember, this is terrible! But haven’t I lived with the black box on my chest for so long? When I’m at my best—which is not often but sometimes—I know I don’t have to live inside my fear, but can carry its weight. I wonder what happens if I open the ribbon to my black box and pull off the lid? What happens if I put soil inside, plant seeds, add water and regular light?

  Look at how life has surprised me today. Look at all the ways I was taken care of, all the ways I had fun.

  After the second treatment blast, after I was wheeled back to my room, I was greeted by the wondrous surprise of Jynne, Susannah, and Patty, as well as a double shock of a treat—Geeyan, straight here after flying all night from the coast. I hadn’t been able to finish my second round of radiation without sitting on the bicycle seat, and was tuckered out, but it felt so good to see them. Geeyan was a glamorous and wonderful mess after her red-eye, and had finagled a screener that even out-of-the-loop me knows is the hottest movie in years, something ridiculously violent and cutting-edgy that won everything at Cannes.

  “The director’s supposed to be some geeky savant. He uses pop culture in a way that’s both low and high. Dude’s got all of Los Angeles repeating lines about what you call a Quarter Pounder with cheese in France.”

  In another life I’d have been beyond interested. In truth, I did feel tinges, that familiar desire not just to know but to be inside, not just to see this film but to have seen it. And I could tell that my friends—all of them plugged in—were excited. Geeyan wanted to get a video machine and watch the film all together. She promised insider gossip about the district attorney’s preparations for the Simpson trial.

  “Give it up,” said Susannah.

  “Everything,” said Jynne.

  “What’s taken you this long?” said Patty. “Spill.”

  They continued with the third degree, but I felt myself shrinking, and started playing with the letters on the magnet board—one of the presents that Susannah brought me. Soon enough Jynne noticed. She’d brought poetry, took out a paperback, read out loud to us. It was wondrous, and if I could not keep my attention through parts about a grasshopper—I think, washing her face, snapping open her wings—we still took some of the poet’s lovely phrases, made affirmations on the whiteboard (“I do know how to pay attention! I do know how to be idle and blessed!”). We also tried some drawing and painting exercises. I still can draw, quel relief, but have never been great with a brush, and was surprised that making thin straight lines had such a powerful effect on me. “It’s funny,” I said. “I’m having such a hard time painting while trying to address my fear of imperfection. I think it brings up my desire to be perfect. But also a counterinstinct, the feeling that it’s okay, I don’t have to be perfect.”

  I laughed. “This is the perfect medium for me.”

  I want to paint small pictures for Sue and Susannah and Julie for Christmas. That’s my project for this week. Who else? Tilda? Debb? On small pages, I can draw a little heart or flower in pen, then paint it. It might take practice. But this afternoon was a joy. My friends talked about their problems, their lives, and I got to escape myself a bit, fluttering in and out, my naps and fugues. My friends gave me loving looks. They whispered around me, their fixed gazes and quiet words acting as my blanket. I heard them updating one another: Jynne’s promotion, Geeyan closing on her new house, weather, omelets.

  And Patty is so good! Coming back from the pantry with something to munch on, she asked, “What’s the guy in the next room have?” She didn’t know this ward’s for cancer patients only.

  “I know,” I said. “Depressing, right?”

  Jynne told me the same thing: everyone else here looks like they’ve given up.

  I get these incredible women every day! These incredible visits each afternoon!

  Let Oliver be miserable. I hope his conscience is eating him alive. I’m more than fine each afternoon when he sulks away, I guess to his office, who knows? Maybe this is just our personalities. He’s tortured and miserable a lot. I often am not. He should be miserable for what he’s doing to me. I’m not large enough to be at a place where I feel anything but fury and humiliation. I just can’t let these feelings sink me.

  Jynne also read us some Thoreau, and I wrote down the line: “as if I were mere flesh and blood and bones.” Yes, I said. That’s how every doctor sees me. Thoreau also wrote of his prison: “I did not for a moment feel confined.” I also felt that today. If I died, would it really be so bad for my consciousness to be released into the universe? I feel myself closer to making peace with this, even while I plan on keeping going, staying here, and raising my Doegirl. It’s a contradiction, I know. The other times I’ve been in here, I wanted pictures of other people’s strength; now I’m grooving on my own. I want to go into the mountains and have someone take pictures of me naked, posing on a rock, a pillar of strength.

  The big specter looming is the transplant. But that is not today. That is not today.

  —

  Each time he picked up the phone and called the number on the card and spoke carefully in terms of what kind of flower he might like—a little bouquet from the Far East; something busty and Russian—Oliver knew he was breaking a covenant. Still, he placed his orders, and made sure to avoid asking for a Friday appointment, for they were always fully booked, filled by jacked-up businessmen from out of town, or bosses emptying and readying themselves for that long weekend at home. (Just thinking of what a full schedule meant made Oliver squirm, especially when you were offered a later time.) The booker always talked in terms of flowers. Delicate Asian flower, very young, full on top, very special, in bloom for just next week. Only three hundred flowers.

  If Oliver didn’t ruin himself by getting too excited and jacking off the night before, or didn’t chicken out—canceling with some obvious excuse, emphatically busying himself with some task—then he’d begin that dreary set of rituals: placing withdrawn company cash into a plain white envelope; calling back for the location; spitting out his gum and entering that saloon at the appointed hour; setting eyes upon the tastefully dressed woman alone at the end of the bar. And still. Every time he was buzzed inside some
designated building and headed up or down a stairwell while his heart raced; every time an apartment door was opened ever so slightly, beckoning; whenever he went through with all these small moments and kept heading forward, doing all the ridiculous work of scheduling and running around, through every passing second, he understood the magnitude of his betrayal. Oliver understood he was failing her.

  He also understood that he was failing his own idea of himself: the decent and upstanding husband doing right by his woman, the best person he’d ever known.

  Although, again, she had insurance. The transplant was happening, wasn’t it? The child was more than cared for. And he was here each day, destroying his spine and throwing his company in the crapper, all to take care of her. Whether he was having sex behind her back or owning up to it, how did that measure against being by her side, devoted to getting her better?

  Except he felt his dishonesty. Because he hadn’t given her a choice. He’d deceived her until it was too late for her to do anything. She was already helpless.

  He couldn’t talk about this—not to Ruggles, not to Jonathan, certainly not to his poor father (halfway across the country, barely conscious at the crack of dawn, working just to follow along with each medical update). He couldn’t live with them knowing. So, Oliver admitted his feelings to the prostitutes. Afterward, when they were sweaty and lying on the bed and still breathing hard, Oliver unburdened himself. The women listened, usually: lying on their sides and staring at him, or with backs flat while looking at the ceiling, or with their eyes shut, their faces ruminative and placid. Some didn’t understand enough English to follow along. At least one said her mother went through something similar not all that long ago.

  Then it was just after dawn. Once again he’d compartmentalized, was back at Whitman, stumbling through the corridors, taking a right, getting himself reaccustomed to not using the bathroom in their room.

  Oliver flushed, washed his hands. Returning down the hallway, he garbed and masked once again. When he entered, Alice was motioning for him.