Anne Tyler - The Beginner's Goodbye

I said, “Dr. Rosales?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Aaron Woolcott. I called you about consulting on our book project.”

“Yes, I know,” she said.

This threw me off my stride for a moment. I hesitated, and then I held out my hand. “It’s good to meet you,” I said.

Her own hand was warm and cushioned but rough-skinned. She shook mine efficiently and then stepped back to lower her glasses to their proper position. “What’s wrong with your arm?” she asked me.

It’s true that when I extend my arm to shake hands, I tend to aid it slightly by supporting my elbow with my good hand. But most people don’t catch that, or at least if they do they don’t comment. I said, “Oh, just a childhood illness.”

“Huh,” she said. “Well, have a seat.”

I sat down in a molded plastic chair in front of her desk. There was another chair next to it. I imagined that two people generally came for the initial consultation — a married couple, or a grown son or daughter with an aged parent. This office must have seen some very distraught visitors. But Dr. Rosales, settling behind her desk now in a deliberate, unhurried way, would have made them feel instantly reassured. She placed her palms together and said, “I’m not certain what you want of me.”

“Well, no actual writing,” I told her. “We have an internist doing that for us, Dr. Byron Worth.”

I paused, giving her time to react if she recognized the name. Instead, she just went on watching me. Her eyes were pure black through and through, without a hint of any other colors behind them. For the first time it crossed my mind that she might be a foreigner; I mean more foreign than a mere descendant of someone Hispanic.

“Dr. Worth is trying to give our readers a few tips for handling the day-to-day obstacles confronted by the cancer patient,” I said. “He’s discussed the emotional issues, the doctor-patient transactions, the practical aspects of various treatment options … except for radiation, which he hasn’t had any experience with. He suggested that an oncology radiologist might walk us through that — tell us what the patient can expect, in the most concrete terms.”

“I see,” she said.

Silence.

“Of course we would pay you for your time, and acknowledge your assistance in the preface.”

I considered going on to tell her that, after The Beginner’s Childbirth , a doula who’d been mentioned by name had tripled her client load. But I wasn’t sure that physicians actively sought out business in quite the same way. Especially this physician. She seemed to need nothing. She seemed entire in herself.

She seemed fascinating.

“Say,” I said. “It’s almost noon. May I take you out to lunch so that we can discuss this further?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“Uh …”

“What,” she said, “you just want to know the process? But the process is different for each type of tumor. For each individual patient, even.”

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t have to go into great detail,” I told her. “Nothing excessively medical, ha ha.”

I was acting like an idiot. Dr. Rosales was sitting back and watching me. I started racking my brain for some sample questions, but none came to mind. Supposedly I was there just to make the arrangements. Then Dr. Worth would take over.

No way was I going to let him take over Dorothy Rosales.

“All right,” I said, “here’s a plan. I will make up a written list this very afternoon of what we need to know. Then, before you decide either way, you could look through it. Maybe over dinner; I could buy you dinner. Unless … you have a husband to get home to?”

“No.”

“Dinner at the Old Bay,” I said. I had to struggle to keep the happiness out of my voice. I’d already noticed that she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but nowadays that didn’t mean much. “As soon as you get off work tonight.”

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why does this have to involve food?”

“Well … you’d need to eat anyway, right?”

“Right,” she said, and she looked relieved. I could tell this was the kind of logic that appealed to her. “Fine, Mr.—”

“Woolcott. Aaron.”

“Where is this Old Bay place?”

“Oh, I can drive you there. I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

“Never mind,” she said. “Our lot has a punch-clock.”

“Excuse me?”

“Our parking lot. We pay by the hour. No point forking over any more money than I have to.”

“Oh.”

She stood up, and I stood, too. “I won’t be finished here till seven,” she told me.

“That’s okay! I’ll reserve a table for half past. The restaurant is only about fifteen minutes from here.”

“In that case, a quarter past would appear to be more appropriate,” she said.

“Fine,” I said. “A quarter past.”

I took a business card from my billfold and wrote down the Old Bay’s address. As a rule I would have written it on the blank side of the card, but this time I chose the front. I wanted her to become familiar with my name. I wanted her to start calling me “Aaron.”

But all she said when we parted was, “Goodbye, then.” She didn’t use any form of my name. And she didn’t bother seeing me out.

I could tell she must not be from Baltimore, because anyone from Baltimore would have known the Old Bay. That was where all our parents used to eat. It was old-fashioned in both good ways and bad. (The crab soup, for instance, was the real thing, but the waiters were in their eighties and the atmosphere was gloomy and dank.) I had chosen it for geographical reasons, since it wasn’t far from Dorothy’s office, but also I wanted a place that was not too businesslike, not too efficient. I wanted her to start thinking of me in a more, so to speak, social light.

Well. Clearly I had my work cut out for me, because she arrived in her doctor coat. Dressed-up couples dotted the room, the women in the soft pastels of early spring, but there stood Dorothy beside the maître d’ with her leather satchel slung bandolier-style across her chest and her hands thrust deep in the pockets of her starched white coat.

I stood up and raised a hand. She headed for my table, leaving the maître d’ in her dust. “Hi,” she said when she reached me. She took hold of the chair opposite mine, but I beat her to it and slid it out for her. “Welcome!” I told her as she sat down. I returned to my own chair. “Thank — thank you for coming.”

“It’s awfully dark,” she said, looking around the room. She freed herself from her satchel and set it at her feet. “You’re expecting me to read in this?”

“Read? Oh, no, only the menu,” I said, and I gave a chuckle that came out sounding fake. “I did phone Dr. Worth for a list of questions to ask you, but he said what he would prefer is, we should arrange a time when you can walk me through your facility. See the process from start to finish, as if I were a patient.”

In fact, I had not mentioned a word of this to Dr. Worth, but I doubted if he would object to my doing some of his research for him.

Dorothy said, “So … we came to this restaurant just to set up an appointment?”

“But then also we need to discuss your terms. How much would you propose to be paid, for one thing, and — what would you like to drink?”

Our waiter had arrived, was why I asked, but Dorothy looked startled, perhaps imagining for an instant that this was another business decision. Then her expression cleared, and she told the waiter, “A Diet Pepsi, please.”

“Diet!” I said. “A doctor, drinking artificial sweeteners?”

She blinked.

“Don’t you know what aspartame does to your central nervous system?” I asked. (I’d been heavily influenced by The Beginner’s Book of Nutrition , not to mention my sister’s anti-soft-drink crusade.) “Have a glass of wine, instead. A red wine; good for your heart.”