Jessica Chiarella - And Again

“I think we all need to recognize what a wholly significant event you’ve all been through here,” Dr. Bernard replies. “Just because you’re not going to die doesn’t mean that your journey won’t require support.”

“Isn’t it funny how the only people you hear describing life as a ‘journey’ are bad poets and shrinks?” Connie says. I’m beginning to like Connie. She has a quality I’ve always envied in Penny, the ability to speak without being careful, without worrying what others will think of her. I wonder if it is the privilege of beautiful women, or if it’s a freedom that comes from not being the daughter of wealthy philanthropists or the girlfriend of a crusader journalist. I wonder who I’ve become, after so many years of being polite and appropriate and unassuming, so as not to reflect badly on the people in my life. I wonder who I’m allowed to be now.

“Listen, doctor, all joking aside,” David says, fixing Dr. Bernard with what appears to be his best ‘come to Jesus’ expression, a mixture of earnestness and condescension that makes me bristle. Dr. Bernard, to his credit, holds David’s gaze with a look of calm, professional interest. “I think what we’re all saying is that we just want to get on with our normal lives now that the medical legwork is done. We’re all tremendously grateful to be part of this program, but coming here every week is just going to serve as a constant reminder of what we’ve been through.”

“I appreciate your opinion, David,” Dr. Bernard replies. “But this group serves a dual purpose within the pilot program. Not only are you coming here to provide support for the other group members, but these weekly meetings give us the opportunity to monitor your recovery and quickly address any issues that might arise over the next few months.” He pauses. “I also think it’s important that all of the members in this group have the opportunity to speak for themselves. So, I would ask you in the future to feel free to express your own opinions, but to please refrain from generalizing about the group as a whole.” I think I hear Connie snicker at this, but her face is placid, with only the barest hint of amusement.

“Linda,” Dr. Bernard says, everything in his posture and demeanor gentling, as if he’s speaking to a small, lost child. “There must have been questions you wanted to ask before the transfer, and couldn’t. Do you want to share any of those now?”

Linda seems to shrink into her seat, her gaze darting from person to person as we all turn expectant eyes in her direction. I wonder who she was, in her former life. It’s Connie who finally gets her to speak, nudging her in the arm, which has the same effect on Linda as if she had administered an electric shock. At first I think Connie is being cruel, but Linda looks at Connie as if she’s her own personal Jesus. Connie smiles, and then so does Linda, a slightly dimmer version of Connie’s radiance. “You must have questions,” Connie says. “I know I do.”

Linda nods, suddenly eager to please. “I do. I have questions.”

We all wait for her to continue, and when she doesn’t, Connie prods her again. “What’s the biggest one you’ve got? Let’s see if the doc here can answer it.”

Linda sits for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip, considering. Then she turns to Dr. Bernard.

“I want to know if my family still loves me,” she says.

“Congress votes on the FDA’s budget right?”

A woman’s voice stops me on my way to the coffee cart. There was no coffee at the support group meeting, which seems like an error of the highest order to me. If it were AA, there would have been a coup d’état if people didn’t have Styrofoam cups to cradle when they needed something to do with their hands. How did anyone expect us to talk without something to stir, something to sip, something to blow on? How do they expect us to sit like good patients and cooperate? It’s how you get a bunch of volunteers organized and knocking on doors and making phone calls. You give them free coffee, as much as they want. Even the worst gas station rotgut imaginable will do. You could run an entire army off of coffee.

The voice catches me off guard. I didn’t realize anyone had followed me off the elevator, and when I turn it’s Hannah, the brunette, the one who looks like she’s young enough to be jailbait. It’s difficult not to be disappointed that it isn’t the blonde following me into the lobby. I have to remind myself that I’m not like that anymore.

“What?”

“Congress,” she says. “They’re the ones who fund the FDA.”

“If you say so.”

“And in a year the FDA is going to decide whether or not to approve SUBlife.”

“If that’s what the doctors said,” I reply, half-turning away from her to resume my progress toward the hiss and bubble of the steel carafes.

“So what are you doing in the pilot program?” she asks, not following. She doesn’t move. She knows her question will make me turn back toward her, the clever little thing. And it does.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say, trying to maintain a note of calm disinterest in my voice, but it’s not quite genuine enough. She’s got me on my heels, and she knows it.

“Well, you’re the Chairman of the House Budget Committee, if I’m not mistaken. That seems like a hell of a conflict of interest to me.”

“Well, apparently the good people at SUBlife disagree with you,” I reply. The girl carries herself as if she isn’t very pretty. Perhaps she wasn’t, before the transfer. Add a few pounds, maybe uneven those teeth a bit, dim the luminousness of her skin, and she could be plenty plain. But it’s there now; she looks like the androgynous women staring out of Beth’s fashion magazines. Women with mismatched features, huge lips and jutting cheekbones, large, thick eyebrows, and gaps between their front teeth. Women you’d think were almost ugly, if they weren’t so fascinating. “What are you, a reporter?” I ask, letting a bite into my tone.

“No, just a concerned citizen, I guess.”

“Concerned about what?”

“How on earth you were chosen for SUBlife. It was supposed to be a lottery system, right? From what I heard there were a few hundred qualifying patients in the Chicago area. So I’m wondering how a congressman was lucky enough to get on the short list.” She’s flushed a bit; blood is seeping into her skin the way a drop of wine blooms outward on a white tablecloth. She’s angry.

“I qualified. Brain tumor,” I say, tapping my temple to demonstrate. “Size of a golf ball. But listen, sweetie, before you start slinging around accusations, I’d suggest you consult the confidentiality agreement you signed when you got that new body of yours.” I draw closer to her, lowering my voice, until I’m nearly whispering in her ear. “Because if I ever hear anything like what you just said coming from the mouth of a reporter, or if I read it in a newspaper, or on a blog, or even in the fucking Red Eye , you’ll be paying my rent for the rest of your life. Understand?”

I step back. Her jaw is tense, and there’s an angry sheen in her eyes. I wonder if she’s cried yet, in this new body of hers. The thought bothers me a little, that I might be the first person to make her cry. But what bothers me even more is that something, maybe our proximity, or the tension of our little exchange, or the way this girl looks in her sad little hospital robe, something makes me feel an immediate spark of adrenaline in my blood. The first flicked switch in that cascade of neurotransmitters and churning internal chemistry that accompanies attraction.

It’s amazing how physically aware I am, as if every vein and hair follicle and muscle fiber is suddenly dense with nerve endings that had never existed in my former body. As if my subconscious knows that this body is something foreign and new, something that must be monitored and measured and experienced fully. Whatever the case, my physical response to this woman makes it difficult to remember my former resolve, the desire to be faithful to my wife. I do my best to ignore the feeling, to chalk it up to the way winning an argument has always turned me on a little, no matter who it’s with. After all, I’m a better man now.