Cookie's Case

by Andy Siegel

  “Branislav,” I say, “for two decades I’ve been Mom’s wheelchair Sherpa so no need to depart from tradition now.” He gives me an uncertain look.

  “I’ll wheel her out.” Cough, cough.

  “Cover your mouth!”

  “I did.”

  She turns to him. “Good-bye, Branislav. You’re quite a gentleman.”

  He’s about to leave since he’s no longer needed.

  “Wait,” Mother says. He stops and turns stiffly like a robot. “Remember what I told you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Zabar has best gefilte fish in city. Doviđjenja.”

  “Doviđjenja.” He turns and leaves.

  Mom looks up. “That means ‘good-bye’ in Serb. Let’s go.”

  “We’re going. Do I have to race you out of here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s not important. Let’s go.”

  “Okay. When did you learn to speak Serb?”

  “There are a lot of things you don’t know about your mother. Now wheel me.”

  I shrug and begin wheeling her down the hall past the nurses’ station. When I press the elevator down button, Mom looks anxious.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. I need a smoke.” Her addiction to cigarettes has kept her alive this long. Ding. The elevator arrives.

  “Come on. It’s the one over there.” She points. I wheel her over as a guy pulling a big cart carrying all sorts of food trays comes out of the elevator. We wait just to the side, and he engages us.

  “Sorry, you can’t use this elevator. It’s the freight elevator.”

  “Okay, thank you,” Mom says as he clears the entry and continues on his way. “Push me in.”

  “You heard the guy; we can’t use this.” She juts her foot forward. The closing door hits it and retracts.

  “Push me in or I’ll make a scene.”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll go freight. No scenes please.”

  As we descend she asks, “How’s business?”

  “Good and bad. I resolved one pretty big case but was fired from another with a large offer on the table.”

  “People don’t fire their lawyers without good reason. I hope you learned your lesson.”

  “I did. Thanks for your support.”

  “No problem. But at least you did good on the other.”

  “Yeah, I did good.” A good deed—no need to tell her it was pro bono. She has this idea I’m a good businessman, but I’m not. I’m a committed lawyer, that’s all.

  At this moment, I attempt to clear my throat starting way down in my diaphragm. The tightness goes that deep. Mom looks up as I’m um-humming. The glare says don’t get me sick.

  When the doors open on G, I turn my mother toward the main exit. She says, “No, that way,” pointing in the opposite direction.

  “Mom, the front entrance—”

  “I said that way.”

  You have to pick and choose your battles when dealing with a terminal cancer patient. Besides, there’s an exit sign hanging from the ceiling in the direction she wants to go. I wheel her down the hall into an open area where nurses are standing, sitting, eating, drinking, and talking. It’s clear this is where they gather for breaks.

  “Shit,” Mom says. “Back the other way.”

  “Listen, I’m not going back the other way. The exit’s right there.” I nod to the doors just past the collection of nurses.

  “Back the other way or I’ll make a scene.”

  “So make a scene,” I say, as I wheel her forward. She leans down and shields her head with her left arm the way people do when they don’t want to be discovered.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Germs. Nurses have germs. You know that. I have a depressed immune system. You know that, too. So stop coughing, for God’s sake. You want to get me sick?”

  “I didn’t cough.”

  “You did before. And you sound like you should be home in bed having a bowl of hot chicken soup. She knows how to make soup, doesn’t she?”

  “If by ‘she’ you mean Tyler, then the answer is yes.”

  “Well, that’s something. Are you dating anyone?”

  “No, I’m married.”

  “Well, just keep your options open, that’s all.”

  Once outside, Mom takes a deep breath, which turns into a sigh of relief. “Ah, fresh air,” she says. Glancing to my right, I see Robert in the exact same place where I left him, his finger still moving slowly across the page. Mom catches my glimpse.

  “Who’s that?”

  “The client whose case I just resolved.”

  “The big one?”

  “Yeah, the big one.”

  “How injured could he be if he’s riding a bike?”

  “Oh, he’s injured, believe me. It’s just that he won’t let it get in his way.”

  “Admirable.”

  “Very,” I say. I feel the same about how my mother has handled her diagnosis.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He’s attempting to serve me with process.”

  “He’s suing you?”

  “Yep. It’s a long story.”

  “You’ll tell me some other time. Let’s go.” She points to the left. But after I’ve wheeled her five feet, she says, “Hold on. Stop.”

  “I’ll stop up ahead.” There’s a guy down on his luck sprawled on the sidewalk leaning against the wall with all kinds of bags littered around him. The same type of bags Mom has hanging off her wheelchair, which I realize at this moment is also stolen hospital property. I continue forward.

  “I said stop. Here! Now!”

  “Mom, I’ll—”

  “Here!” I stop. In front of the homeless man. She leans down. “Hey, buddy,” she says to him. “Hey, buddy.”

  He looks up, struggling to focus, then zeroes in on her face. He’s confused.

  “Yeah, you,” Mom says.

  “What? Me?” he questions.

  “Yeah, you. Can I bum a cigarette off you?”

  “Huh?” he responds.

  “You got a cigarette for me, buddy, or not?”

  He looks at the hospital entrance as if to say “Are you sure you should be smoking, having just come out of there?”

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, I got one. But …”

  “No buts, except the kind you can inhale. Let’s have it.”

  He reaches into his sport jacket. Yeah, that’s right, this street guy’s wearing a grubby navy blazer and pulls out a pack of high-nicotine cigarettes. Chesterfields. No filter.

  “Ah, perfect.” That’s her brand.

  He shakes it and one pops up. He extends his arm as Mom leans farther down and puts her lips around the end of a cig. He withdraws the pack as it slides out.

  At this moment I acknowledge my head is pounding, I’m in a hot sweat and feel just terrible. Still worse, now my mother’s going to fill the air with her noxious smoke.

  “Gimme a light,” she says, still leaning over. He pulls out a yellow Bic and gives it a flick. The flame ignites, and Mom draws her start-up puff the way I’ve seen her do a million times before. Satisfaction permeates her face. She tilts her head back and exhales a giant cloud of smoke, which plumes right into my face. Cough, cough, cough.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Sorry about that. It was the nicotine high,” she says. After all these years, she continues with this filthy habit. I remind myself it’s her only comfort.

  “Hand me that plastic bag,” she says, indicating the one she wants. I do as I’m told. She looks in it, nods, then hands it to her new friend. “Here, take this.”

  He complies and looks in it. His eyes light up. He reaches in with his grimy hand and takes out a roll, resting it on
his dirty lap. Then he takes out two more, a shiny metal knife and five butter packets.

  “Really, Mom?” I question. “Rolls, butter, and a knife. Really?”

  “It was for my bum. But this guy’s a good sharer.”

  “Your bum?”

  “Yeah, near my apartment.”

  Lastly, he takes out a small white vase with a red carnation in it and sets it down on the sidewalk. He proceeds to butter up his roll as Mom enjoys her cig. They both seem pretty satisfied.

  A moment later, we’re distracted by a distinctive hearty laugh in the close distance but coming our way.

  “Oh, shoot,” Mom says, “oh, shoot. Wheel me that way, quick!” She takes a long last drag and tosses the cig. It lands next to the bum. He picks it up, puts it into his mouth, and takes a hit while still chewing a chunk of buttered roll.

  “But we’re heading this way.”

  “Turn me around and wheel me that way! Now!” I look to see who’s approaching—it’s a trio of nurses.

  “I said turn me around. Now!”

  I slowly begin turning her, making sure the nurses can get a glimpse of Mom.

  “Faster,” she demands. “Faster!”

  I get her pointed in the other direction. Then she barks another order. “Push!”

  I obey.

  “Adele! Adele, is that you?” It’s the hearty voice.

  “Push!” Mom says. “Faster!”

  I stop. “But that nurse wants to talk to you. Maybe she wants to say good-bye.” I know for a fact by the tone of that nurse’s voice she clearly does not want to say good-bye.

  “She’s annoying,” my mother responds. “Push! Hurry!”

  “Not a chance. You think everyone’s annoying, so there’s something else going on here.”

  The nurses reach us, and I pull a one-eighty. Mom looks up.

  “Well hello, Adele,” the nurse says snidely. She’s a large black woman, over two hundred pounds, and she speaks with confidence and authority. Mom must love her. She loves health care providers with high self-esteem.

  “Hi Anita. How was your lunch?”

  “Don’t give me that, Adele. You can’t play me. Now, did I see you smoking a cigarette?”

  “No.”

  The big nurse offers a stern look. “Are you sure I didn’t see you take a big puff just a few seconds ago and toss it down to Montgomery over here?” she asks, nodding to the bum who looks up upon hearing his name.

  “Wasn’t me,” she responds.

  “Was!” They give each other a momentary stare down.

  “Big deal,” Mom finally says, breaking the tension.

  “It is a big deal, Adele. You heard what the pulmonologist said.”

  “Yeah, I heard what he said. I have twenty-four percent of my lung capacity left and, as far as I’m concerned, that’s plenty.”

  The big nurse rears back and squints her eyes. She’s mad. Then she turns to me.

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m her son.”

  “Oh yeah, the lawyer with the bossy wife and rhyming name.”

  “Tyler Wyler,” Mom offers. “Ridiculous.”

  “Yeah, Tyler Wyler,” the nurse repeats. “I heard about you. And her.”

  I look at Mom. She shrugs.

  “Well, you ought to know better than to let her smoke,” Anita chides me.

  “It makes her happy.”

  Her face softens just a bit. She gets it. “Well, turn her around,” she orders. “Wheel her back inside.”

  “The hospital?” I question.

  “Yeah, the hospital, dummy. That’s where she came out of, right?” The two other nurses with her giggle at this.

  “Why would I do that? I’m taking her home.”

  “Oh, you are?”

  “Um, yes.” Somehow though, I’m not so sure of that answer.

  “Nobody discharged you mother. She played you for a fool. Step aside. I’ll wheel her back in.”

  My mom gives Anita the look one gives when their big getaway plan has been foiled.

  “Mom, don’t ever do this again, understand?” Cough, cough. I keel over and churn out three more deep, painful coughs. On the last one I see lightning bolts flashing inside my head. Leaning back, I try to conclude my reprimand, but it’s lost its force by now. “You understand?”

  “No promises.”

  “I can tell you this,” Anita says to me. “You sound like you should step inside, too.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Just before she wheels Mom back in, she pulls me aside to explain what it’s all been about. The woman in the bed next to her died unexpectedly last night. It freaked my super-brave Mom out, and that’s hard to do.

  At this point, Robert’s still exactly where I left him. Still straddling the horizontal bar of his bike, book open. I walk over to say good-bye. I love this kid.

  “Hi, Robert.”

  “Hi. There’re no pictures in here. I don’t like books without pictures.” I’d say he’s three-pages deep.

  “Me, neither. But did you find what you’re looking for?”

  “I think so.” Suddenly, my vision becomes blurred, then doubled. Robert’s helmeted head rises above itself.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Wyler? Why you looking up like that?”

  “Robert, how tall are you?”

  “Five feet nine plus one inch.”

  “Do you mean five foot ten?” I ask, as my focus returns.

  “No. Five feet nine plus one inch.”

  “I understand, Robert. Why don’t you just go home now and come see me in twenty days when your check’s ready, like I said? You bring your process server’s license and I’ll accept service.” He doesn’t need to be standing there all day. But it’s no use. When I start walking away, he resumes his scrutiny of the process server’s manual. Best to let Robert be Robert.

  I walk half a block to the subway on 77th Street across from the hospital but don’t go down. My chest is on fire, my head is throbbing, and my lungs are filling up with green gunk. I lean against a building, looking at a hot dog cart across the street. Since I don’t want a dirty dog, something must be seriously wrong—despite the opinion of my internist.

  My phone vibrates. It’s Mick.

  “What’s up?”

  “Been out of state lately?”

  “I think you know the answer to that.”

  “How’s your head feeling?”

  “Killing me.”

  “How are your joints?”

  “Achy.”

  “Your chest?”

  “Getting worse.”

  “Got any neck pain?”

  “Recent onset.”

  “Your vision?”

  “Was blurred and doubled just a moment ago.”

  “Your culture came back. You’re positive for something that you couldn’t have been in contact with.”

  “No kidding. Go on, I’m listening. What do I have that I haven’t even been exposed to?”

  “Cocci, buddy. You need to get to a hospital. Pronto!” I look across at Lenox Hill.

  “Hold on. You’re way ahead of me. What’s cocci?”

  “Coccidioidomycosis.”

  “What the heck is that?”

  “It’s a fungal infection.”

  “Like athlete’s foot?”

  “Hardly. Listen, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that’s what you got. But you need a particular blood test that evaluates your serum to see if your body has produced the antibodies to this specific antigen.”

  “All right,” I say in a tentative tone. “But can you tell me why exposure occurs outside of New York?”

  “Sure. Because Coccidioides immitis—which is the mold that causes the fungal infection—only resides in the soil in the southwest.” />
  “Then how did I get it?”

  “I don’t know how you got it, but typically the mold has long filaments that break off into airborne spores. Your infection was caused by the inhalation of those particles. That’s about it.”

  “I see. Could my sputum culture be a false positive?”

  “Could be if you had some other fungal disease, but highly unlikely in your case.”

  “Why?”

  “You got all the classic clinical features. You also need a chest X-ray.”

  “Just had one. It was negative. How does that factor in?”

  “I want to see the film, that’s how. I very much doubt it’s negative, given your constellation of symptoms. Who read the film? A radiologist?”

  “No, my primary-care guy.”

  “He wouldn’t know what to look for.”

  “How do you know about this condition?”

  “My training in Tucson. Some of the convicts from the local penitentiary would come down with it from time to time. Our hospital provided medical services to the inmates.”

  “Okay.” Cough, cough. “I’ll get to a hospital.”

  “Go now,” he insists.

  I look at Lenox Hill Hospital for the third time. Pedestrian traffic into the ER has been light since I started monitoring it.

  “Hey, you’re worrying me. It’s a fungal infection, right? You spoke about antibodies, so there must be a treatment for the condition. Am I correct on that?”

  “Yes, there is. But the way yours sounds is troubling me.”

  “I’m listening. Go on.”

  “Your cocci presented as a pulmonary infection. That’s why you’re coughing so much. But it sounds like it’s also disseminated into other systems. Your joints hurt, your head hurts. These are bad signs. Signs of an advanced disease. This could lead to a brain insult if you don’t get treatment soon. And by soon I mean, like, now.”

  “What are you talking about? A brain event, from a fungus?”

  “That’s right. I’ve seen it. When it gets to the brain, there’s a high risk of mortality if not promptly treated.”

  “You’re freaking me out. I don’t feel like I’m about to die. All I’ve got is a bad cough, plus achy joints and terrible headaches that come and go.”

  “It’s the etiology of the headaches that poses the risk. This fungus has disseminated through your systems and into your head. It causes inflammation of the tissue layers that surround your brain, meningeal disease with hydrocephalus being the most disastrous complication.”