Stephen Dixon - 30 Pieces of a Novel

He goes out for coffee; when he gets back her bed’s not there. “Where is she, something happen?” he asks a nurse, and she says, “They didn’t think she needed the room anymore and we need every bed in ICU we can get. She’s in a private on another floor.” He goes to it; she’s alone, still hooked up and sleeping. Sits, the book in his back pocket sticks into him, and he takes it out and tries reading, but a book’s no good for sitting in a room like this — he can’t concentrate, is easily distracted: noises in the hall, pigeons on the windowsill, distant car honks and what sounds like a helicopter overhead, paging and muffled voices through the walls, his mother’s heavy breathing and occasional lip-smacking and snorts and snores — and gets today’s Times from a vending machine by the elevator doors. He’s reading it, being careful not to crack the pages when he turns them, when her food comes. “This can’t be for her,” he says, and the man who brought it says, “If she’s Bookbinder, it’s what I was told.” Gould picks up the tray cover: “Meat, not even sliced? A baked potato, hard roll? Even a soft one wouldn’t do. Her teeth aren’t around — maybe they’re in the drawer here,” and looks in the night table drawer and they’re in their case. “And she only came out of a coma this morning. Diluted apple juice, at best a weak broth.” “She didn’t fill out her menu for the day, and nobody for her, so this is what’s listed downstairs to give her.” “It’s okay, take it away; she won’t be eating, believe me, and just the food smells might disturb her.” “What won’t?” his mother says. “Take what away?” Eyes open, she’s trying to push herself up. “Wait, stay, wait,” he says to her, pressing down on her shoulder. “You got tubes in you, which is another thing. She can’t eat with those things in too,” and the man says, “Sure she can; I’ll just get the nurse to take out the glucose IV while keeping all the rest in.” “If you’re hungry,” Gould says to her, “and that’s a great sign, I’ll get you something soft and fluid to eat. And notice, you’re out of intensive care and in your own room. That’s how much better they think you’re doing.” “They put me in here not to scare the other patients. But I got no appetite. Have you gone to the cafeteria here?” and he says, “Just for coffee.” “Then you haven’t eaten. Take all of it, I’m not going to. You don’t like some of it, don’t eat it, but there’s got to be something on the tray you like.” “Okay, I’ll nibble. Is it all right?”—to the man — and the man says, “Everyone does it,” and goes. He breaks the roll in half, opens it with his fingers, sticks some shredded lettuce and a tomato wedge inside, and bites into it. “The meat, take that. I can’t quite see it, but I bet it’s good,” and he says, “No, that’s okay,” and takes one cooked pea out of the peas and carrots bowl and eats it. “It’s good, it’s not bad”—taking another pea — and she says, “If you’re eating it and saying that, when you know it’s all yours because I don’t want any, then it must be good. For you have very high standards with food. Now, if that man left a menu for tomorrow, let’s fill it out, but help me; I can’t write.”

A doctor comes in, one he hasn’t seen before. “So, Mrs. Bookbinder, how are you? I’m Dr. Burchette, chief resident internist for this floor.” “Fine and dandy,” she says. “When can I get out of here?” and he says, “Soon, soon, but not for a few days.” “What a laugh. Not ever. I can see it on all your faces.” “Oh, you can, can you? That’s good, that you’re observing and speaking so clearly, even sardonically, though here you’re not seeing the right thing. Right now you have a trifling amount of fluid in your lungs, nothing to become alarmed over, and the rest of you is doing fine. I wouldn’t fool you; you’re too smart a woman to have something put over on you.” “Sure I am; sure you wouldn’t. You know I’m finished, so let me die already.” “You’re a tough one to convince, aren’t you? That attitude can only hurt you, and look what you have to go home to. Your son, for instance. The women who look after you, and a niece and grandchildren, I’ve heard.” “Two of them,” Gould says. “Two; just enough to shower with plenty of attention. They all want you home and healthy, and you should cooperate by not trying to fight getting well.” “Neighbors too, who come in and see her,” Gould says. “And tenants in her building.” “So there, an army of well-wishers,” the doctor says. “Neither of you is fooling me,” she says. “Just don’t do anything to stop me from dying, you hear? Nothing,” and the doctor says, “I know, you signed something about that long ago, and we’ll honor your wishes if it comes to that. But it’s not going to for a long time, I assure you,” and she says, “Lies again,” and the doctor says, “Not lies, believe me,” and she says, “Not lies, you’re right. You’re only doing your job. Fibs, then. You think they make me feel better, will ease my dying better. Okay, you’re a nice man, I don’t want to be a pest.” “Thank you,” he says, “and you’re in terrific shape. What a change from this chart when you checked in. You’re a remarkable woman, Mrs. Bookbinder. Your son’s lucky to have your genes.” “You want to go out with me then, I’m so nice?” “Sure, when you get completely better.” “The Copa. We’ll go to the Copa and dance the night away. I could use the exercise.” “You got a date.” “Is the Copa still around?” and the doctor says, “I wouldn’t know, I never heard of the place. But if it isn’t, we’ll find somewhere else to dance.” “And to drink. I don’t only want to dance. I want to raise hell.” “It’ll be my pleasure to help”—and to Gould—“Your mother’s a miracle woman. She’ll live to a hundred-ten, maybe longer.” “I’ll set the record for sure,” she says, “if whatever my age is today is the record. Truth is, doctor … what’s your name?” “Burchette.” “That’s right … what’s it again?” “Dr. Burchette.” “I’m sorry, suddenly I’m not hearing.” “You’re not hearing?” “I’m not hearing. Or not thinking. Or not feeling good. I don’t feel good. Suddenly I’m seeing double. I feel sick.” “You’re serious now, Mrs. Bookbinder?” “I told you, I don’t feel good. I’m sick. Something’s caught in my throat; my chest hurts.” “Mom?” Gould says, and the doctor waves him away, feels her neck, wrist. “Who was that?” she says, and Gould says, “It’s me, Gould, I’m right here; the doctor’s examining you.” “You’ll be where? I don’t feel good. Call a doctor, get me something.” “You better leave,” the doctor tells him, and presses a button by her bed. A voice over the intercom says, “Yes?” and he says, “Dr. Burchette here. E-team in Nine-oh-six.” “Got it, doctor,” the voice says, and he turns to Gould. “Please leave.” “What is it?” “You can see what it is.” “Gould,” his mother says. “Gould, be a good boy, don’t leave me.” “I won’t, don’t worry; I’ll stay here on the side,” and the doctor says, “He has to leave, Mrs. B. We have to take care of you.” “Don’t leave me, Gould; do what I say.” Nurses, doctors rush in. Equipment. “Please,” the doctor says to him. “Please?”

They’re in there a half hour. Every time someone comes out he asks, “How’s she doing?” and they say things like “Don’t know … later … the doctor will tell you … out of my way.” Then Burchette comes out and says, “I can’t explain what happened. Blood pressure shot up a little but nothing major. Nausea, maybe, but now everything’s back to what we’ll call normal.” “So why were you in there so long?” and the doctor says, “Tests; we wanted to check everything. And she is a remarkable woman, you know, I wasn’t just trying to make her feel good; and you should feel fortunate with the genes she handed down. My mother: breast cancer at forty-four and dead three years later. My dad: stroke at sixty-one that killed him. How old was your father when he died?” “Who says he’s dead? He’s in Hawaii this very minute, probably surfboarding or sailing his sun-fish.” “What are you talking about?” and he says, “Only kidding. I’m just relieved she’s feeling okay again,” and pats the doctor’s shoulder. “Nothing we did. And humor runs in your family, I see. You, your mother, who else?” and he says, “My father was the funniest of the lot. And seventy-eight, complications from Parkinson’s and diabetes, more than twenty years ago. In fact his hundredth’s coming up this year.” “Seventy-eight for someone of his generation isn’t too bad. Today, if he was that age and with the same illnesses, we’d be able to keep him till eighty-five or ninety. Maybe not ninety, but anyhow, you have decent genes from both sides, I’d say. Wish I had them.” “Thank you.” “You should go in now. She’s probably wondering.”