A. Homes: This Book Will Save Your Life

"You can afford to say that," they would say.

After a while, he could. He got up every morning and went home every night without worrying. Was that true? Was that possible? Or was that just the story he told himself?

"We're almost done," a mechanical voice droned through the speaker in his coffin, interrupting the flow of thoughts.

He lay on the flat bed of the scanner thinking about his ex-wife. Why had he called her? Because it was late in New York City and he knew she'd be home? Because she was the mother of his child? Because, despite how amazingly self-centered she was, he still loved her? Why?

The hum of the machine shifted and he changed the subject. When was he last in a hospital? He looked into the tiny mirror over his head. When was he last in a hospital, ankle twist, tennis injury, bad flu?

Ben. The birth of Ben. How did they manage to have a child? What were they thinking? Did they even want children? Or were they just doing what couples do? Was it like people who buy a puppy for Christmas — it looks cute with the bow on, but who's going to walk it in the middle of the night?

He remembers Ben being born. When he stops to think about it, he remembers everything: the hospital room, the vending machines in the basement, the burned, stale coffee. One thing opens into the next, he can put himself back in time, the big moment, his wife cursing at him, the nurses telling him not to take it personally — "she's in transition."

Ben with his eyes closed, thin skin, transparent, not ready for any of it yet. Ben asleep, resting after a long trip, protecting himself. Ben, who always loved his sleep — who slept through the night from eight weeks. Richard would come home from work and check on Ben. He'd stand over the crib in the dark, listening for his breath, touching him, and sometimes a tiny hand would grab his finger — holding on.

"It took longer than I thought," the technician said. Lying on the gurney, looking up, Richard was lost in time.

BACK IN THE emergency room, a very young doctor pulled the curtains and sat on a small chair close to his bed. For the first time in his life, Richard didn't even feel middle-aged — he felt OLD.

"When you reach a certain age, we take everything all the more seriously," the young doctor said. "Personally, I don't think you had a heart attack — your EKG was fine, your enzymes look good. How do you feel now?"

"Who can tell?" he said.

"Are you still in pain?"

"I don't know."

"That's rather unusual, the not knowing. That was your presenting complaint, yes, pain?"

"Unbelievable pain."

"And now?"

"There's a moment when you can't tell if it's better or worse, come or gone, when you don't feel anything."

Not knowing what to say, never having heard of such a thing, the young doctor looked down at the chart. "As I said, your CAT scan was fine. EKG looks good — there was no fall, no blow to the head?"

"Nothing," he said. "There was nothing."

"Any travel to unusual places?"

"I never go anywhere."

"Are you drinking enough water? Dehydration is more of a factor than people realize."

"I drink water."

"We have a couple of choices. We can send you up to the unit for twenty-four hours and see how you do, or we can send you home."

"What kind of a unit?" he asked.

"Step-down. We'd put you on a monitor." He paused. "My personal opinion is that it was just one of those things — but what do I know? Lots of things happen, things we can't document. I'm not saying nothing happened. But it may have been an isolated incident, something that passed."

"Is this the nice way of saying I'm crazy?" He was under a thin sheet, in a crappy gown.

"It's difficult to know how to think of these things — what do we call them? — events. Don't overthink it — accept it. Something happened, we just don't know what." He paused and forced a smile. "For the moment, you're not dying, so that's good, that's what's important. You have time. None of us know when they're going to blow the whistle and pull us out of the game. Until then, consider everything useful information."

"So — I should be glad I'm alive."

"We all should."

"The pain was excruciating."

"In my opinion, you're good to go, but you're the customer, so, if you want me to send you upstairs, I can check and see if there's room at the inn. We can do more tests, we can always do more tests."

He didn't want to make a decision; he wanted the doctor to tell him what to do. He was distracted, shaken, medicated, bleary from having been up all night. "Is there Musak in here? I'm hearing Peter, Paul and Mary. 'Dawn is breaking, it's early morn…'" He sang along.

"Are you staying or going?" the doctor asked, impatiently.

"No heroic efforts," he said, thinking he was making a joke; the doctor didn't laugh. "I'll go home," he said, as if asked to choose between doors number 1, 2, and 3.

"Something happened, don't ignore it. Just because I can't tell you what it was, doesn't mean it wasn't real. Follow up, see your internist — maybe he'll have something interesting to say. And start taking a couple of baby aspirin every day, make that part of your routine, and, besides, they taste good — like Flintstones or Chocks."

"Like what?"

"Vitamins I used to take when I was a kid — still do." He pulled a bottle of Flintstones vitamins out of his pocket. "I pop 'em like candy; Wilma's my favorite, an orange Wilma; second to that is a blue Barney, and a red Dino, I love Dino. I'd offer you one but I can't — against the rules."

It was a little hard to take the Flintstones doctor seriously — he reminded Richard of someone he once knew who had a job dressing as a Planters Peanut.

"I'm God," the boy in the cubicle next door mumbled. "I'm God."

"I have to ask you something," Richard said, leaning forward, whispering. "It may seem unrelated, but in the next cubby — did she lose her head? I saw something."

The doctor didn't know what he was talking about. "I'm just the cardiac fellow. So take care, and hopefully we won't see each other again any too soon."

When he was gone, the curtain between the cubicles opened. She was there — he knew who she was, sort of; she was that funny kind of familiar, a long-lost aunt, someone who lived next door, part of the family.

"I heard it too," she said. "The song."

"Someone must have a radio."

There was a bandage wrapped around her head like a turban, and a visible makeup line.

"I was here when they brought you in," he said. "I saw something…"

"My head." She reached into the trash can. "This is what you saw — my wig. "Blond, bloody, a hundred percent human hair. I don't think it can be cleaned. I've got another one at home, but someone's got to get it — that's what the delay is all about. I'm waiting for a fresh head."

The nurse interrupted — "It's my job to discharge you," she told him. "I hope you had a pleasant flight." She smiled. "The current time is three-twenty a.m., and the temperature outside is fifty-five degrees. It's going to be another beautiful Los Angeles day." She pulled the IV needle out of his hand. "'X' marks the spot." When she was unhooking the EKG, she lifted the leads from his chest before turning the machine off — for a minute there was a flat line. "Scared you, right?"

He nodded.

"I'm not supposed to do it that way — but I do, it keeps everyone on their toes. What are they going to do, fire me? Seriously, though, here's the plan: you're to continue on the baby aspirin, follow up with your regular doctor, and if your symptoms return we're here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week — open all night."

He sat up and was about to swing his legs over the edge. "I think I'll take a little walk before heading home."