Teddy Wayne: Kapitoil

I told Rebecca this, and she said, “You’re turning into a real postmodernist,” which I understood from the movie essay even if I still didn’t 100 % understand the concept of postmodernism.

“You haven’t mentioned Zahira,” she also said.

I told her what I had learned about her disease from her, and that the doctors believed she could control it with medication.

“If you have your health and family, nothing else really matters,” she said. “My apologies for turning into a human Hallmark card.”

Without evaluating it, I asked her, “What would you think if I created a computer program that might have a significant impact on health in developing countries?”

“Is that what you’ve been working on?” she asked.

“Yes, but if I pursue it, I may need to leave the country for several months,” I said. I was regretting telling her this much already. Even explaining further a partial detail such as how I would need to leave the country temporarily, because Schrub would fire me and I would have to find a new employer in the U.S. to sponsor my visa, would require full disclosure about Kapitoil.

“So it’s like a fellowship?”

I looked at one of her brother’s paintings and its strange colors. “It is similar to that,” I said.

The music compensated for our muteness. Then she said, “If it’s something you want to do, don’t let me hold you back.”

I was hoping she wouldn’t want me to go, to facilitate my decision, but I said, “I will know what I am doing in a few days.”

She received a call, and I asked if she wanted me to exit to give her privacy, but she said it was her mother and she would require just a few minutes. She talked in a different voice to her on the telephone from with me. I heard her mother ask a question, and Rebecca slightly rotated her head away from me and she said a little more quietly, “I can’t really say right now.” Now I felt I was being invasive, but if I left the room it would appear that I was aware of my infringement, so I moved to the bookshelf and examined her books but couldn’t restrict myself from listening.

The volume of her voice lowered even more. “It’s far from that stage yet, so you don’t have to worry about it. In fact, it’s not even your place to worry about at all.” She listened more. “Fine. Yes , fine.”

She said good-bye and disconnected and made an angry animal sound with her throat. I went to the restroom to give her some time to stabilize. When I returned, she was drawing lines with her finger against the cold glass of her window. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Hmm?” she said. “Yeah, she’s just…I don’t know.”

We listened to the remainder of the CD without talking. Our bodies were in contact on the bed, but it felt again like we were magnets with similar poles.

She fell asleep before I did, and when I petted her arm I felt a square object under her sleeve. I lifted it and recognized from advertisements a nicotine patch. I hadn’t seen her smoke or smelled it on her clothing recently. I was happy to see the patch, but I had two other thoughts: (1)It is hard for me to understand why someone needs to rely on any drug to resolve a problem (which is the same reason I find it hard to understand why Rebecca requires Zoloft), although I know that not everyone is like I am and wants to problem-solve independently, and (2)it is intriguing that to overcome an addiction to a substance, the addict frequently requires a certain amount of the substance before she can 100 % remove it. It supports my theory that extreme reactions aren’t necessary and are often less efficient than moderate approaches.

I removed my arm from under her head without waking her, which was difficult because her head seemed so soft to me, even the small bump centered on the back under her hair, and I exited to the living room window and looked at the yellow streetlights on the snow and dialed my cellular.

My father answered at his store. I asked how Zahira looked.

“Not good,” he said. “Although that is temporary. But this disease will still make it difficult.”

“It will make what difficult?”

“Finding her a husband,” he said.

It was a mistake to call him. “I cannot believe that is what concerns you,” I said.

“Her health concerns me as well. But this presents an additional problem.”

“If a man is foolish enough not to be interested in her because of this, then he does not merit her anyway.”

“Is that all you called to say?” he asked. “That I’m an old man who doesn’t understand how the modern world works? I’m merely looking out for her.”

“That isn’t looking out for her.” The few lights of the buildings in the neighborhood produced yellow constellations against the black sky. “And she doesn’t need you to do so.”

“Then I should let her go where she pleases, and maybe next time she will end up in the burn unit as well?”

“Unless you quarantine her in a room, there are too many dangers in the world to defend her against,” I said. “And even if you quarantine her, there are still some dangers you cannot prevent.”

He didn’t say anything. “Is the hospital room comfortable for her?” I asked.

“It has been updated since I was last here, but it still has a certain smell I dislike,” he said. “And the doctors speak to me as if I am a child.”

“That must be very frustrating for you,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“She tells me the doctors are informing her well, and that she is doing her own research.”

“Yes,” he said again.

“Is she explaining the concepts to you?”

“And to Haami,” he said. “Which is even more difficult.”

I almost laughed, but I interrupted myself. “It is unfortunate the doctors there do not possess the communication skills she has,” I said.

“Yes,” he said for a third time.

The door to Rebecca’s room was still closed.

I said, “I am in a relationship here with a Jewish female.”

He was mute for such a long time that I thought we might be disconnected. Finally he said, “It is not my preference. But I cannot quarantine you in a room.”

Then he added one word: “Either.”

That word was an important one. And when I heard it, I knew what I had to do the next day.

There was some noise, and he said he had a customer. I said, “I have one question.” It was difficult for me to ask, but I forced myself to state it as if it were a strategy question in a business conference: “Do you remember the Beatles song mother often used to sing to me when I went to sleep?”

I heard him ask the customer to wait. My eyes became fatigued, and the lights of the buildings across the street spread out like gold dust.

Then he said, “I do not remember it, but I know the title was a female’s name.” The customer yelled at him, and we disconnected.

I put down my cellular. I still couldn’t remember the song.

My eyes refocused and the yellow lights outside sharpened into small squares and one room powered off its lights while another one near it simultaneously powered on.

This line entered my brain:

Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering, in the sun.

And the metaphor of floating sky suddenly made me access a brief memory of my mother singing that part of the song “Julia” to me while sitting on the side of my bed. That was all I could recall. Then I lost the memory of the sound and image. But at least I had it for a few moments, and I remembered that the Beatles also sang about blended emotions, and the pressure bottlenecked behind my eyes again, and I told myself to be strong and to repress it, but then I considered that maybe it was in fact stronger to allow it to happen, so I let myself release, and for several minutes I could not control it, which typically panics me but now it didn’t because it wasn’t exclusively sad, it was also blended, and Rebecca entered the living room and petted my back in a circular pattern with her hand and we stood there mutely for several minutes until I stabilized, and she kept her hand on my back and we returned to her bed and remained mute, which I valued.