“Sam, I . . .” The doctor blinks widely.
“You know me, Bogey. Just say it.” Sam wants it over with. He grasps at ways to remain in control of his destiny. Maybe he will go from here to a pawn shop and trade his own memorabilia for a .45 automatic.
Dr. Bogart removes his glasses and brushes a knuckle past his eye. He opens a folder. This takes all of .04 seconds, but it feels like an oration of War and Peace. “This is amazing,” the doctor says. “While it’s not unheard of, it is rare to see numbers respond like this . . . Quite something.”
Jesus, maybe he is already dead, and this is some kind of after-life penance. On longer nights, Sam has considered how much penance he has coming his way—the people he owes an apology to, one live-wire violinist in particular. Crunching his fingers into his thighs, Sam feels just enough pressure to ensure live nerve endings.
“It’s, um . . . it’s fantastic, Sam. Every test came back better than anything we expected. The bloodwork, the bone marrow biopsies—your white count is within the perfectly normal range, 7.0. I am so very glad to report that your initial remission is holding steady.”
For a moment Sam thinks he will pass out. He tells himself to breathe. The batter has, somehow, miraculously, missed a shitty pitch. The ball smacks with a life-jarring thud into the catcher’s mitt. Sam steadies himself, thinking this is the brain compensating for horrific news. But looking at the unlikely smile on Dr. Bogart’s face, Sam guesses he’s heard right. “I . . . How can that be? You said the success rate was . . . That bone marrow donor would be . . . You said I should be prepared.”
“All medicine is an educated guess, Sam. We talked about that. While the odds were not in your favor, you beat them. You’ve achieved remission. It’s extremely encouraging.”
Dr. Bogart continues on, about further monitoring, reiterating the meaning of remission. Sam hears him, but he doesn’t want to think about it. Not this second. All Sam wants to think about is the fact that he’s going to live.
After unhooking the canvas top on the Jeep, Sam drives home. The sun is shining on his peach-fuzz head. It’s the first time he’s ever removed the ball cap outside his house. Sam has always believed in luck. But now he wonders if he believes in God. This seems like too much luck for one man. For the first time in ages, he doesn’t walk into his luxury condo wondering how many more times he will do so under his own steam. He has gone as far as projecting leaving in a body bag, almost feeling the bump of the gurney over the front door’s threshold. Instead, he is thinking about maybe selling the condo and buying a house—one with a thirty-year mortgage, just for kicks. The stack of unopened bills and investment statements looks like fine reading material; he will deal with them later. Sam takes a turn around the granite-clad kitchen with its stainless-steel appliances and sunny golf course view. He bought the condo a few years ago because . . . Because he had to live somewhere.
After a live-in relationship with Charlene, things ended and Sam moved out. She wanted stability, marriage, maybe a dog. He wanted to keep the party going for as long as he could. Charlene came by, called a few times while he was sick. He thought it was nice of her. Now Sam can’t remember if he thanked her. He should do that—tell her the good news. She’d want to know. She’ll be nearly as thrilled as him.
Inside his condo, Sam takes the steps two at a time to his bedroom. That morning he dragged himself downstairs like a dying man, thinking he barely had the energy to lift a coffee mug. Dr. Bogart explained this has more do with the lingering side effects of the last treatment phase. In time, Bogey insists, Sam will be feeling more like his old self.
Catching a glance in the bedroom mirror, he looks forward to life getting back to normal. During the past six or seven months, Sam found he didn’t necessarily know the man in the reflection. After a while, he avoided looking. Now he strips off his T-shirt. The mirror’s image further reminds Sam of his reversal of fortune. His once muscular physique has withered like a dying tree limb. He is thin and pale and hairless—a disturbing contrast to the Sam Nash photos and plaques that hang on the wall of his condo—a parting homage to the Angels ace closer. He can still hear the announcer. “Now pitching, number forty-four, Sam Nash . . .”
His career with the Angels was a wild ride, and Sam enjoyed every minute of it. During his illness, Sam tried to come to terms with unresolved issues: his father’s death, his glory days, his own demise—or maybe it was the incredible mistakes he made with Livy. Which thing did he have the most trouble getting his head around? He still doesn’t know the answer. Mostly, Sam is stunned that he’ll have a chance to think about it.
He might have a future, a second career in coaching if he wants it. Of course, the Cal State job is long gone. Gazing at the memorabilia and photos on his bedroom wall—a good-looking guy who had it all—Sam reconsiders the idea. Surely there are other coaching positions out there. But before he gets too far ahead, Sam looks back to the mirror. There is something to be said for posterity. He picks up his cell phone and aims it at his gaunt reflection. The device clicks, capturing the startling image of what no longer is a dying man.
Charlene lives only three miles away, in a town house Sam bought her as a birthday gift one year. Her car is in the driveway and Sam assumes she is home. His luck continues. She could have been in Japan or Orlando today. Charlene is a catalog model turned flight attendant.
Before leaving his condo, Sam traded his T-shirt for a long-sleeved button-down, one he’d recently purchased in a smaller size. He thought they might bury him in it. Now it’s just a shirt with a better fit, enhancing the Sam Nash that was fading from view.
He rings the doorbell. He hasn’t been to Charlene’s town house in two years. Even so, it is odd to ring the doorbell. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know if Charlene is dating someone or maybe living with someone else. The couple of times she visited, Sam didn’t ask. Or he didn’t remember what she said if he did ask. He feels uncomfortable and glances back at the driveway. There’s only her car, so it’s likely that no matter her relationship status she is home alone. He doesn’t have another second to think about it as the door opens.
“Sam.” Her fair eyes pulse wide. “What are you doing here?”
For a moment, the question flummoxes him. Since they broke up, he has seen Charlene four times. First to collect the big-screen TV he couldn’t take upon exiting her town house, having camped out in a Residence Inn until closing on the condo. The second time he ran into her in the frozen food aisle in Trader Joe’s. Her cart was filled with all the healthy junk she used to force on him—organic everything, fresh fruit, the various ingredients required to make some god-awful green shit she would pour into a glass every morning. The other two times Sam saw Charlene he was sick, lying on his sofa with his head over a bucket. He is prodded by the imagery and reason for his visit. “I wanted to tell you my good news.” She looks curiously at him and holds the door wider. He goes inside. The interior hasn’t changed; maybe a new sofa or paint. He doesn’t remember.
“I’m getting ready to leave. I have a flight at one.” He sees her tidy luggage packed and sitting near the door.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, suddenly aware of the lack of gesture—she doesn’t offer a hug or even a “How are you?” “I just came from the hospital. I got some really great news. Against all odds, the chemo worked, Charl. Doc says I’m in full remission. I’m going to live!”
She nods deeply. “That’s wonderful, Sam. I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah, it was pretty grim for a while—I mean, it looked like I was in the permanent checkout line. At first, Bogey—that’s Dr. Bogart, he tried to be positive, but I knew the odds weren’t great. It was, um . . . working the available options,” Sam says, recalling the diplomatic way Dr. Bogart phrased things. They stare at one another and silence grows awkward—more the feeling of telling someone you were ill rather than the astounding news of a recovery. “Anyway . . .” Sam says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to tell you. I thought yo
u’d want to know. Thank you,” he says quickly, “if I didn’t say it those times you came by.”
“You’re welcome.” Charlene folds her arms across her blue airline blouse. “But the first time, I only came by to get the key you never returned. That’s when you told me you were sick.” Sam nods. He doesn’t exactly remember it that way. “The second time, I admit, I felt guilty, or maybe like I owed you.” She gestures around the generous gift of square footage. “I came by . . . Well, I knew you didn’t have anybody else. I couldn’t imagine anything sadder than having to fight that kind of fight or worse . . .” Charlene purses her pink lips.
“Worse what?”
She runs a hand through her blond hair. He remembers the antsy tic. Charlene did that when they fought; she did it the day she told Sam she wanted him to move out. “Worse than dying alone,” she answers. Sam tugs on the ball cap, though he doesn’t remove it. Charlene is being dramatic. That was part of the problem. She was always making a big deal of shit. Sam wasn’t alone. He’s kept in touch with a handful of guys from back in the day. Sure. He hasn’t exactly been in a social mood lately. Hell, he was kind of busy trying to save his own life. But Charlene is wrong about him being alone. Sam was the charmer on the outpatient list at Hoag Hospital—uber-friendly with every nurse on staff, not to mention a guy he met while in treatment. He had some sort of cancer and was a huge fan of Sam’s. The guy even worked his chemo schedule so they came in at the same time. Then, just as they were forging a friendship, the guy died.
“Is that all?” she asks.
“Uh . . . I guess. Geez, Charl . . . I thought you’d be happier for me. We were together for three years.”
“Yes. But it’s been over for more than two. And if you want to know the truth, they were three of the hardest years of my life.”
“Wow,” Sam says, his eyes drawing wide. “Where the hell did that come from?”
Her expression turns a little squirrelly. “From you—mostly.” She sighs and examines the carpet beneath their feet. Then she looks right at him. “What were you expecting, Sam? Yes. You were always a fun guy—the life of the party. The problem was the party never ended. I spent three years putting up with your come-and-go friends, glory days, and poker nights that lasted into the next day. Of course, it was nothing compared to your inability to accept everyday responsibility. That included everything from your laundry to paying your car insurance.”
“Wait a second. If I recall, everyday life was something you also wanted to avoid. Sure, you had free flights to just about anywhere. But if I remember, I was the one paying for the fun in the sun . . . or the spur-of-the-moment trip to Vegas or the Kentucky Derby. ‘Sam, I’ve always wanted to go to Monaco—live Grace Kelly’s life for just a weekend.’ Who the fuck do you think funded all that, Charlene?”
“You did.” She coughs up the answer like it’s been a bitter pill, stuck in her throat for the past five years. “I’m not saying I wasn’t an enabler. It worked while it worked. I’ll always be grateful for the town house,” she says, glancing around her home. “But I did offer it back to you. And I don’t think a desire for normalcy, maybe even kids, was such a crazy, off-the-wall idea.”
“Seriously, Charl? You seemed to have a damn good time globe-trotting with me. That’s what I remember.”
“Of course it is, Sam. I understand that it’s just me who remembers us getting pregnant and your reaction—something like the IRS was moving in to do a lifetime audit.”
Sam swallows. He hasn’t forgotten that part. He just doesn’t dwell on it. It all happened so fast, more like a blip on the radar screen of their relationship. “It wasn’t my fault, Charl.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she admits. “It was more about your words afterward. They kind of stick with a person. ‘Hell, Charl . . . we can get that dog now, if you want.’”
In hindsight, Sam’s remark does strike him as thoughtless. On the other hand . . . “The only conversation we ever had about kids was that neither of us was interested in any. I’m not sure why not changing my mind makes me a prick?”
“You’ve got me there,” she says. “And if I was the one who changed, so be it. Look, I’m not going to stand here and rehash history so old that I’ve forgotten your birthday. We were fun. When the fun ran out, you couldn’t deal with any alternative. Things got ugly, and I asked you to leave.”
Sam’s never thought about it quite like that. What he recalls about Charlene and the downside of things is someone yelling at him to pick his shit up off the floor or demanding to know why he and his poker buddies couldn’t use a few fucking coasters. Sam veers his glance toward the dining table. A number of overlapping rings are visible. Charlene is rambling now, more reasons about why they broke up—none of it, in Sam’s mind, has anything to do with a baby that was a two-second fact, or Charlene being so upset by his reaction. The truth is, when he thinks of a circumstance like a miscarriage, it’s not Charlene’s pregnancy and loss that comes to mind.
“Yes,” she says. “I felt sorry for you when I found out you were ill—it’s called human emotion, Sam. I don’t know, maybe your illness was a good thing. Maybe it will give you some perspective about life and the tremendous way you’ve managed to waste yours so far.”
Was she always so angry and bitter? Time has changed Charlene. And waste his life? Sam strongly disagrees—he has a World Series ring and the memories to prove it.
She grabs the handle to her suitcase. “I have to go . . . and so do you.” She walks out the front door and he follows. At the edge of the walkway, she turns. Tears cloud her blue eyes. “When we met, most of the things about you dazzled me, I won’t lie. And our breakup wasn’t all your fault. But the way you’re wired, there’s something missing. It’s not the Tinman and his heart—you have a fantastic capacity to love. It’s more like a ring around it that won’t let a damn soul get too close. I tried to find a way in, to fix it. I don’t think it’s fixable. So if you’re not going to die, my advice would be figure out how you can do a better job at living.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Olivia
Sasha removes her sunglasses—her eyes never fail to attract attention, even mine. Their amber hue reminds me of the actors who wore contact lenses in those famous vampire movies. Had a casting director passed her on the street, she would have been hired on the spot—part destiny and part luck. Despite Sasha’s choice of significant others, which includes me and Jeremy Detweiler, she lives that sort of charmed life. The breeze blows back her hair, enhancing the camera-ready shot. Sasha looks from the passing crowds to me. She hasn’t said so, but she’s tagged along to the Starbucks near Braemore to ensure I keep up my end of the bargain. Today is my first day as a music educator assistant.
“So, how are things with Rob?” she asks. “Is he still sleeping on the sofa or the futon in his man cave? However it is you two handle things in your brownstone.”
“He never spent a night on the futon.” Of course this is not to say I’ve done more than allow him his side of the bed. “He claims he’ll maneuver a deal that keeps the Wellesley house off the table.”
Sasha nods. “For your sake and your mother’s I hope so. By the way, did the symphony front office ever mention your, um . . .”
“Unfortunate brush with the law, temporary incarceration?” In reply, Sasha splays her hands into the open air. “No. Lucky for me, it seems they missed it.”
“Good. That’s one less thing to worry about.” I make a face at her. “Like or not, Liv, playing the violin earns you a nice salary, as opposed to, say . . . dog walking.” She pauses. “Not that there’s anything wrong with dog walking. It’s a perfectly respectable job.”
“If you can’t play the violin,” I counter.
“I only meant most people would see your job as enviable. As for Rob, aside from this recent misstep . . .”
“And the last one.”
“And the last one,” she admits. “He’s . . . Just don’t be so
quick to dismiss either thing.”
“Uh-huh. As in, my options are limited.”
“I didn’t say that.” It’s a staring standoff. “Okay, do you really want to argue your flexibility quotient?”
“Not so much.” I sip my coffee. “So, tell me, how is our moody resident writer, Jeremy?” I smile widely, cuing a sharp turn in topic.
“Working hard at his . . . craft.”
Craft is new to Sasha’s vernacular. It’s a word she picked up on about a year ago. That’s when Jeremy, a writer who wears pajama pants to Whole Foods where he regularly runs up Sasha’s credit card, moved in with her. It’s also my observation, and Rob’s, that since then, Jeremy has no need for employed in his vernacular. “And what kind of progress is the burgeoning author making these days?”
Sasha clears her throat and shuffles in her seat. “Let’s see. There were the magazine pieces he sold earlier this year.” I nod at old news. “Writer Unleashed even asked for a second. Did I mention that?” I stare harder as Sasha alludes to his fifteen-cents-a-word income. “Writing is a full-time job,” she insists. “And while you don’t appreciate it, Jeremy did win the highly respected Pushcart Prize.”
I lower the cup, which was halfway to my mouth. “Two years ago!”
She bristles, her ongoing reasons for supporting Jeremy sounding more like excuses. “Good writing takes time, Liv. And success isn’t necessarily about monetary reward.” I hear more a parroting of Jeremy’s words. “You of all people,” she says, “should appreciate how tough it is to make a living with anything in the arts.”
Unstrung Page 8
