Charles Bock - Alice & Oliver

Six years together and she could count these four times — three legit, one ridiculous and endearing. Now number five.

In less time than it took her to blink the tears away, not two seconds after they’d begun, Alice decided that if one ramification of her tears was going to be the loss of her husband’s equilibrium, if seeing her crying was going to get him crying, if he was going to worry that she wasn’t going to be able to deal with what lay ahead, and this worry was going to mean he wouldn’t be able to deal — then, she wouldn’t be the one who let them down.

She disengaged from Oliver’s arms, dabbed at her eyes.

Doe, still cradled in her arms, was looking up at her, the largest, most concerned eyes ever put on a baby.

“Just a tug,” she said, “or the full regime?”

“Full aspirate,” answered Eisenstatt.

Alice could tell the doctor was being careful, wanted to keep their conversation grounded. “You should know,” he continued, “there are a lot of bone marrow biopsies.”

“My third,” Alice sniffed.

“It’s a stretch to say you’ll get used to having these procedures, but they should stop being foreign. Before we start a round of chemotherapy, we always confirm with an aspirate and biopsy. That’s what this is for.”

“Excuse me?” Alice asked, bouncing the child. “Another round?”

“We know more chemo is part of the regimen,” Oliver said. “But you don’t mean another round, now ?”

“What kind of time frame are we dealing with, Doctor?”

“There’s really no point in getting excited by hypotheticals,” Eisenstatt said. “Let’s just see what the aspirate tells us.”

Alice managed to nod, while Oliver stared with murderous intent at the series of plugs and holes against the back wall. Alice was peripherally aware of a knock at the door; a nurse entering, sharing something with the nurse-practitioner. She was aware of Dr. Bhakti, watching her, projecting a concerned, or at least involved vibe, while at the same time running a hand through that luxurious and well-conditioned hair. If Alice looked at the visiting cancer fellow right now, she’d scratch out that bitch’s eyes.

This was when the baby decided she’d been on best behavior long enough. Rubbing her eyes would no longer suffice. Rubbing her ears had become old hat. Even rediscovering how good her toes tasted didn’t placate. Doe let everyone within the tristate area know her nappy time was long overdue. It was an affront that people were paying attention to everything but her. Knee bounces and a fresh pacifier weren’t going to solve jack. And when it seemed like her cries couldn’t become louder, they became louder. Alice focused on a spot directly across the room. Her world became that small spot. After two counts, the spot widened to include her fussing child.

“Is there a bottle?” she asked.

“I also have something in my notes about the insurance,” said Howard Eisenstatt, MD.

“Actually, that’s what I’m here about,” Requita said. “Business office called. On your way out, you need to go see them. I know you already did. They have something more.”

“Give her,” Oliver said. “Give her to me.”

Taking the baby, he said, “You’re a good girl, okay, there, there,” and started away from Alice, away from Eisenstatt, along the empty side of the exam room. “I’ve been dealing with Unified.” His voice was resigned, more than a little defensive. “It’s not a big deal, a bunch of red tape, mostly. But trying to get people to read the facts that are right in front of them, don’t ask me why — it’s really not worth getting into here.”

Eisenstatt had the expression of a judge who may have sympathized with the defendant but had been through the courtroom sob story more times than he could count. “By necessity there’s a wall between medical and billing.” His arms folded over his clipboard and held to the middle of his chest. “I hate insurance companies. Hate them. We’ll do what we can.” He asked the nurse-practitioner to put Oliver and Alice in touch with the hospital’s social services liaison. She could act as a mediator and help with financial aid forms, if it came to that. “Make no mistake,” said Eisenstatt. “You have to get this settled. Getting you to a transplant is the only option here.”

Whitman Memorial, 1220 York Ave., 4th floor, Hematology/Oncology (interview), N.

They’d been friends a long time now, living down the hall from one another for upwards of twenty years. This friend of hers, a single mom. She used to drop the boy off whenever, then she lucked out and got herself remarried. She scooted out of the city and up to the burbs, Rye: her and the new hubby and her son. Kid was a bright boy. Salutatorian of his high school, even earned a free ride to someplace down south, one of those states with traditions of Confederate flags and really good barbecue. When that child got down there, something happened — his heart got smashed, or being away freshman year was too much, maybe he just straight bugged. It wasn’t uncommon — a kid is alone, the year goes on and the pressure mounts, he burrows deep inside his own head. This young man became withdrawn, wouldn’t come out of his dorm room. Got so bad he had to leave school and head north. His mom kept wanting to know what was wrong. All he said: I had to get out of there.

So he returned to Rye and shut the door to his room and wouldn’t answer any more of her questions, he ignored his stepdad’s knocks, even stopped using his phone, basically the kid shut himself down, retreating into the quiet of that room. The most he admitted, he always felt weak. Whatever was happening to him, it would stop. He told his parents this. Claimed to be sure of it. But the only thing that stopped was his eating. No appetite. Through his closed door, his mom would hear him moaning. Whenever she wanted to know what was going on, he complained: stomach pains. She couldn’t figure out whether the boy was sick, if it was in his head, what. But she also knew her son had always been sensitive. Even from a toddling age, he’d been too smart for the rest of the neighborhood kids. The mother worried that her son’s problems might be mental. His stepdad meanwhile was losing what little patience he had left. He pounded on the door, told the kid to snap out of it. Even the kid started thinking he might have been making shit up. The boy started questioning every single thing he knew about himself. Nobody had any clue what to do. And he’d lost sixty-five pounds in three months. He was weak, frail, hunched over when he walked, looking like an old man. But he was just nineteen years young. Doesn’t happen with a boy that age.

Then he got a fever. Hundred and five. Parents hauled him to the local ER. The emergency room doctor in Rye gave him aspirin. Three days later the kid’s at a hundred and six. After all this, his mom got an idea, finally went through her organizer, and looked up Carmen, her old friend from down the hall. Carmen’d been a nurse for twenty-plus years. Carmen told that boy’s mother, Get off your ass. You get that child to a different emergency room. No small-town country bumpkin place. A serious emergency room at a big hospital. They ask what’s wrong, act like it’s the first time you’re seeing anybody. Those triage emergency room folk find out a general practitioner’s seen her kid, they hear he went to a different ER, they’ll think it’s under control, send his ass right back home. Carmen told Evelyne to make a ghetto stink: No we can’t take care of him. You have to treat him. We can’t have this no more. ER can’t have no young man sick with his moms screaming bloody murder around all the other patients.