Charles Bock: Alice & Oliver

Four weeks and twice as many visits to the acupuncturist later, the man received a shot of cortisone from his family physician to take care of the discomfort in his back. He got a script for ciprofloxacin to address his urination problems. The physician discussed whether the man needed an ammonium laxative to deal with his constipation and advised the man he needed to exercise more, and could stand to drop fifty pounds. The man followed the little taped instructions on his plastic pill bottles. He found religion when it came to his dietary habits, more or less, and made an effort to shut down his workstation an hour early in the evenings and get to the gym. Stretched his back for ten minutes before and after. But that belt of electric pain remained, strapped across his lower back. His stomach had gone bloated and tight, as if hands were constantly pressing onto his abdomen. And he had unsettling stretches of numbness through his pelvis and lower spine. The man was getting night sweats, and at his office he sometimes wrapped himself in this frayed old beach blanket to warm himself, plus he scratched himself all the time, just couldn’t stop. It was frustrating beyond words: he was doing everything he was supposed to do, then lapping those efforts by half. Was it so goddamn much to find out what was wrong with him?

The gastroenterologist explained that lymphoma was a particularly difficult disease to diagnose, especially when the lymph node beneath the pectoral hadn’t yet swollen, as all indications seemed to be in this man’s case. All the symptoms were pretty much right down the checklist. A biopsy would provide answers. They’d also find out if the disease had spread.

That was the bitch in cases like this, explained the doctor: the time it took for the disease to advance enough to diagnose was also the time it took for the disease to spread.

IT TOOK MORE than a month: her absolute neutrophil counts finally exceeding five hundred, the magic number necessary to spring her from Dartmouth-Hitchcock; the quiet rental car carrying them out of the Granite State, bringing them home, finally surrounded by what was theirs: hanging rolls of Chinese paper acting as curtains along the storm windows that filled the western windows; morning light oozing around the paper’s tight borders. Now was bed, consumed by a comforter. Alice stared, without focus, at the large industrial fan above the bed, its blades dappled with brown rust. Lush carpets stretched across the walls for soundproofing. Thanks to them, and the churn of white noise from the air purifier, she barely heard the clatter from outside, some six floors below — forklifts humming and shrilly backing up; workers groaning and cursing as they unloaded frozen sides of beef from semis that had fallen behind their normal delivery schedules, now downshifting into gear, hitting the road. Even these sounds were part of the comfort of what was known, part of what allowed her fear to recede.

The big questions were too much. But she and Oliver could handle logistics — couldn’t they?

True, she hadn’t yet found a suitable nanny. She had to make calls later about that, yes. But hadn’t she, by herself, negotiated a matter of exponentially larger importance — the transfer of her care to Whitman Memorial (a well-regarded, smallish hospital on the Upper East Side)? Hadn’t she put out feelers to friends, and hadn’t they completed arrangements, scheduled appointments, procured an expert oncologist— an impeccable genius, according to Betsey Johnson’s operations officer, best reputation in the city —now locked in, scheduled to take over Alice’s treatment. All Alice had to do was bring her slides to that first meeting.

And during what she thought would be that routine call, when the nurse in New Hampshire had informed Alice about the hospital policy against sending blood slides to a residential address, hadn’t Alice handled the little complication? Hadn’t she gotten them sent straight to Whitman?

The memory infused her with a rickety confidence, reminding her of the competent professional she’d taken for granted not all that long ago, the woman she hardly still felt herself to be.

Except here it was, nine fifteen on a Friday morning, and Whitman still hadn’t received their slides. Oliver had lost patience and commandeered control of the cordless. He wouldn’t allow shoe wearing inside their loft, and she could hear him pacing in his gray gym socks, coming closer, floorboards creaking. She could hear him confirming that the slides had been sent, asking for the name of the person at Whitman who’d signed for them.

“Thanks a bunch.” Oliver punched a button on the cordless.

His naturally curly hair had already grown back enough to be making that first twist, small tight rings sprouting neatly in every direction. His flannel was unbuttoned and untucked, his chest bare and concave, a slight paunch evident, a faint trail of fuzz running toward his pubes. Corduroy pants were slipping halfway down fleshy hips. On anyone else the look would have meant: late riser, barely awake, struggling to get up to speed. But Oliver seemed at home in his dishevelment, as if he reveled in the chaos, was invigorated by the challenge. A glance toward the crib; he ran his hand over the meat and fuzz of his jaw. He kept pacing the length of their loft. Their fat tabby scurried out of his path, and he punched at the phone. He gave the new oncologist’s secretary at Whitman the name of the guilty party, the one who’d signed that delivery slip. And promptly learned it was her day off. Then a click.

Alice’s skull — pallid and smooth — peeked out above the edge of the comforter.

Oliver pressed the flat pin of the phone antenna against his chin.

From behind her downy shield, she murmured, “You tried.”

The phone went back into the cradle.

She said, “The hospital’s on top of it.”

Oliver stared at the sliver of work space through the partway opened door. Though he couldn’t see the computer stations in the main room, he sensed their internal fans whirring, felt their dormant screens waiting to go bright with his first keystroke.

“It’s Friday morning,” he said. “We get to Friday afternoon, they haven’t found the things, that office is empty all weekend. You get there Monday and they won’t have squat. Doctor doesn’t have anything to read? Why even show up?”

Her face emerged from behind the comforter: she didn’t seem impressed by his logic. Instead, her movements measured, she propped herself onto pillows, let herself be supported by the wall. Alice let herself enjoy the chill of the white bricks against the silk of her pajama blouse. When her lids opened, she checked the corner, locking in on the crib.

Other than the usual three tries it took to get her down, and the de rigueur 4:00 A.M. screaming fit, Doe had had a restful night. Was still asleep.

Watching her breathe, Alice telepathically warned Oliver to keep his voice low. She massaged a dollop of coconut cream into the back of her palm. Skin that used to be soft now felt dry as chalk, and couldn’t absorb moisture quickly enough. Alice straightened her back. She took three deep breaths, each coming up through her diaphragm. With every inhalation, the scent of her coconut cream was overpowering. Everywhere at once. Alice chanted a silent mantra, asking for calm, praying for peace. Her mind returned to the magnetized message she’d placed on the refrigerator door, long-ago-memorized words: Before you speak, ask yourself: Does it improve on the silence?

Alice did not open her eyes but whispered: “If you even possessed the slightest hint how many times I’ve talked to that receptionist in the past three days—”