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I walked into the room, not knowing what to expect. He had been a
presence in my life forever, even in his absence. And, even if you
weren't his son, he had a way of overpowering the room.
I wasn't expecting this. The sallow skin. The shrunken body. The bald
head. He had always been proudest of his full head of hair, mocking my
uncle Jack for his lack of it. 'Friar Shmuck,' he called him. Too bad
Jack wasn't here to see this.
I picked up his chart. Fuck. His platelet count was shit, below
20,000. Way below.
Just then, a raspy voice. "The prodigal daughter returns." Then, a
wheezy laugh.
"I'm not here to listen to you," I grumbled. "I was retained to check
your charts. See what - if anything- can be done." He winced at 'if
anything.' Good. And it had the benefit of being true.
He snickered. "I heard. You held Stephen," my brother, his son, "up
for 10K for a consult. And they call me a gonif." Yiddish for thief.
My father's all purpose insult. Or compliment, depending. "So, what do
we have here?"
I took a deep breath. No matter how many times I had done this, I still
dreaded it. "Honestly?"
"No, lie to me. Your mother always did." They were divorced. 'Not
because of you, honey,' she always said. Even when I didn't ask.
"If I was married to you, I'd lie too. Or kill you."
"Were," he said, his voice sounding a little more like his old self.
The foghorn, we called him.
"Come again?"
"If you were married to me. Not was, were. Because it's an
impossibility. You could never be married to me."
I smiled. Pedantic asshole. Which is what Sean called me. While he
was packing. "True enough. Anyway, your count is not good. 15,000.
The average is..."
"150k. At a minimum. But, I heard chemo can cause that." His voice
wavered a little and I could see the fear in his eyes. I'd say I wanted
to hug him, to comfort him. But I didn't. Not after all these years.
"It can. But not this time. You have Stage 4 multiple myeloma. It's
not getting better."
"That the way you talk to patients?"
"Sometimes. Believe it or not, I wish I could give you better news. A
lifetime of treating your body like shit has consequences."
He looked at me, his eyes cloudy. "Nothing I've read says smoking has
any effect." That was the old dad, the scumbag garmento.
"It doesn't help. Nor does being morbidly obese. Amazing a heart
attack didn't get you first." I looked at the chart again. "If we can
stabilize your count, I may, MAY, be able to get you into a trial..."
"A trial. What will that do for me?"
He knew what it was. Whatever else he was, and he was a lot, he wasn't
stupid. And I knew he had read everything on this. "You know what it
means. If you're in the right group...and the medicine is effective...
and you respond well, we may be able to stop the progress..."
"That's good."
"It's a lot of ifs."
"I'm aware of that, Mike."
I kept looking at the chart, so I didn't have to make eye contact.
"Doctor."
He coughed, a dry raspy wheeze. "Excuse me?"
"Doctor. I prefer my patients call me Doctor."
He laughed, "You're fucking kidding me."
"No, I'm not," and now I stared dead at him. He stared back, reminding
me of the staring contests we used to have, but without any affection.
"I'm here as a doctor. You have a son. That's who retained me."
"And you. Doctor. Tell me about your father." The sarcasm was
palpable, even through the hacking cough.
I almost said he died. Then, I looked at him. This shrunken little man
who looked like a gnome and wheezed like our old car, the one he bought
when gas prices went up. His right eye developing a cataract, not that
he'd live to need surgery, not likely. "Nothing to say. He doesn't
like me. I consequently don't like him. So we don't speak."
"Oh." He looked at me. "Pig headed son of a bitch."
"Me or him?"
He looked at me and said, "I'm tired. I need a nap, doctor." I flicked
through his chart until I heard him start snoring. Then I walked out of
his room, telling the nurse to let me know if anything changed. I had
told Stephen and his wife that I'd call them and when I was done, to let
them know what I saw. They didn't need me to tell them what anyone with
eyes could see, with ears could hear.
I ran into Dr. Kwan, my father's attending oncologist. "Hey, Winston,"
I offered. We had done a fellowship together in Chicago.
He looked at me. "I told you," was all he said.
"I know. I knew it when they called me." I clicked my pen a bunch,
another thing I did wrong according to Sean. As near as I could tell,
my best was, at best, not wrong. And there wasn't much of that.
Winston looked at me. "So why..."
"I dunno. Make my brother happy, I guess."
"Jeannie says you should come for dinner. The kids like seeing you."
I smiled. "Yeah, because I buy them shit."
He looked at me. "That's what made you the best in class. Your grasp
of the obvious. Next Saturday?"
"Sounds good." Not like I had other plans. Laundry. Netflix. Sean
was probably going out with someone.
He looked at the doors out and then my father's room. "He's like the
mayor of the floor. The nurses love him."
That was my father. The salesman, the hustler. Going places with him
was an adventure. I'd always loved the way he'd slip the usher at
Knicks games $20, so we could move down. The way that cops and waiters
and secretaries all knew his name. The way he'd introduce me as his
'smart son,' and tell everyone, since I was little, that I was going to
be a doctor. Until March 11, 1996. "I'm sure."
"So what are you going to tell your brother?"
"Any ideas?" I looked at him, at the look of pity, no, empathy, in his
eyes.
"You want me to come with you?" He put his hand on my shoulder.
"Nah. I mean, he asked me. Y'know, because his regular doctor is a
total quack..."
"I heard they called in some Dr. Oz wannabe. Total fucking loser."
"I told the nurse to let me know if anything changes. No offense
intended."
"Please. You sure you're OK?"
What could I say? That I didn't feel bad or even upset? I had made my
peace with never seeing him again years ago. Now I was just angry at
myself for agreeing to review the charts. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just
another patient."
I pushed through the doors and saw Stephen and Kara, his wife, sitting
there. Expectant. They teach you all kinds of shit in med school, but
there's no class in managing expectations. Or there is, but it's about
maintaining clinical distance. Which, as I looked at Stephen's face,
wasn't an option. Since I was a little kid, 5 to his 7, I could tell
what he was feeling just by looking in his eyes. Happy, sad, angry, all
in his eyes. And what I saw far, abject fear, mixed with pain. "Hey,
Steve. Hey, Kara," I offered.
Kara took his hand and squeezed it, and looked in his eyes. She gave
him a little smile, as if to say it would be all OK. And I was jealous.
Of Steve, who inherited the family business from my father and was
barely keeping it afloat. Of whom a week never went by without him
worrying that his factor was going to call his line. Who was a heart
attack waiting to happen, not because of his diet but in spite of it.
"So?" That was all she asked.
I sat on the couch, listening to the air hiss out. I decided on maximum
clinical detachment. "There's nothing I can tell you that Win... Dr.
Kwan hasn't." Which was a shitty answer. I mentally took a deep
breath. You were paid to review and consult. So review and consult.
"His platelet count is 15,000. The average is a minimum of 150,000..."
Kara looked at me. "We know that, Claire..."
I liked Kara. A lot. I felt like every girlfriend before her was
looking at Steve like a compromise. Like he's not that smart. Or good
looking. Or interesting. But he's rich. And malleable. But Kara
seemed to genuinely care. And my mom had told me how she stepped up
with all of this. And I wanted to give them some good news. Except
there wasn't any. "He's a 75 year old man with multiple myeloma. And
sixty years of smoking. And morbidly obese..."
Steve piped in. "You said that you'd get him in a trial..."
"I said I'd try. I never said that I would."
Steve started flapping his hands, the way he did when he was a kid.
When my father used to call him 'Birdman of Alcatraz' until he learned
to keep them welded to his sides. "You said you would. And now you
won't."
"Steve," I said, moving next to him until he moved away. "I will do
everything I can. But I needed to see him first, see what his charts
said, what Win... Dr. Kwan had to say. But, he's not a great candidate.
He's..."
Steve glared at me. Or tried, his eyes showing fear. "I know he's a
big fat smoker who deserves to die."
Kara put her hand on his. "She never said that." Her eyes told me that
she thought I did. "He's just saying..."
"Steve," I said, trying to keep the condescension out of my voice.
"Trials don't work that way. First off, there's not a You don't just
call someone up and say, 'put my...this person in. There are protocols,
rules..."
"I know what protocols are, Claire... And I know you know people. And
if you wanted him to be in, he'd be in."
I took a deep breath. Yet another thing I did wrong, according to Sean.
We'd argue, I'd do it and he'd say, 'I am the great Dr. Claire Farber.
How dare you question me?' And then he'd take a deep breath. "There are
FDA rules. If someone's in who shouldn't be, they can shutdown the
whole trial. So everyone else who could benefit loses because one
person who won't even benefit was in? Does that even make sense to you,
Steve?"
"He's not some person. He's your father." I could see tears in his
eyes.
And so I said, "He was. He isn't." And I left. But not before I
turned around and said, "I'll give you back the ten beans," specifically
using our father's shorthand. "I didn't give you what you paid for."
I went to the cafeteria and got a pack of Oreos and a can of Coke. I
hadn't had Oreos in forever and, mixed together with the Coke, I was
getting nauseous. I sat there staring at my phone, at the report
Winston had sent me. The data was there. He wasn't getting better.
Even if I could get him in a trial, then what? He'd live another three
months?
I was plowing through my nausea when I heard, "There you are."
"Hey Kara," I said to the table.
"What was that back there?" She leaned down to the table, so I had to
look at her.
"What was what?"
"Don't pull that shit on me. Claire." She wasn't angry, more annoyed
bordering on tired.
"To what shit are you referring?" I was being a dick. A massive one.
And she called me on that. "Well, first, that. Second, that speech to
Steve?"
"What speech? Guess what? He's dying. He is going to die. Soon."
She rolled her eyes. "Thank you for that brilliant analysis, Dr.
Farber. I know he's dying. Very, very soon. Sooner than you think
probably. But, what the absolute fuck Claire? You're talking to Steve
about protocols? Like he didn't know that?" Then she took a sip of my
Coke. "Jesus, that's sweet. Sorry I took a sip without asking. I know
you hate that."
"It's fine." It wasn't fine. Since I was a kid, since my mother,
unbidden, would take a lick of my ice cream. 'To clean it up,' she'd
smirk. I wanted to punch her. It took me cognitive therapy to let Sean
do it. And I still hate it. "Those are the rules. It's not on me to
break the rules, even if I could. Which I can't." So there.
"The rules? The rules? It's your father and you're discussing rules?"
"He's Steve's father, not mine."
"Are we fucking there again?"
"I never left." I took another sip, trying not to wipe off the top of
the can. "I moved there on..."
"March 11, 1996." The day I told them who I was. "I know. We all
know. Sean knew."
"Fuck you, Kara. Just fuck you. Fuck you." I got up, knocking my
chair backwards. It clattered to the floor and everyone turned. Then
went back to their sandwiches.
"Oh what? The great Dr. Farber can come in and tell someone - someone
he charged ten thousand fucking dollars-that his father is going to die
and la-di-da deal but mention her ex and she runs away. Oh, now I've
got it. Bye Claire." And she waggled her fingers.
I picked up my chair and sat down. "Fine. But what the fuck did he
expect? I'm going to wave a magic wand and fix this? Does he really
think that I can do that? He's not that dumb..."
That was stupid. She glared at me. "He's not dumb at all, despite what
you and your father think. Not at all. Maybe he's not Marty the
Magnificent or Claire the Brilliant. But he's not stupid. So fuck you
back."
"So now we both said something mean." And I slid the last Oreo to her.
"Truce?"
She took it out of the pack and unscrewed the top. "The first time I
did this in front of Steve, he told me how you and your father both did
it and how your dad would give him shit for just biting it."
"Seriously? I have no memory of that."
"Why would you? You weren't the one getting shit for it. It's like if
Lisa was getting shit for something, I didn't notice. That much less
shit for me, y'know?"
"I guess. Jesus, though." I almost said something about Proust and
madeleines but stopped. I didn't know if she'd know and, even if she
did, I'd still sound like a pedantic dick. "I really don't remember
that."
"Don't worry about it. You were a kid. I'd have done the same thing,"
she laughed.
I smiled. "I'm sure I did it now. I just don't remember. He ever say
anything else?"
She let out a breath. "He didn't have to. Marty and your mother have.
You know that way she has."
"I know. I know. At least he's straightforward. Give him that."
"That's a word for it."
"So why am I here, Kar? Seriously, why? I really can't do anything..."
"No kidding. How stupid do you think I am? I've read the studies..."
"Ok, so why?"
"You really don't know? Really?" I could see her blood pressure
rising. "Come on..."
A wave of realization hit me. Which only heightened my nausea. "So
whose brilliant idea was this? Steve's or hers?" Her being my mother.
She sighed. "A mix. He wanted it but would never ask. And she..."
"You want something to drink? Eat? Anything?" Food as avoidance. The
Farber birthright.
"Bottle of water. I've eaten too much vending machine shit the past few
weeks."
I went and got her a bottle of water. "How are you holding up?"
She looked around. "Can I tell you something? I don't know. I mean I
know we're all tired and stressed but I don't know..."
I knew what she meant. Like I said, he was a presence, a force of
nature. We used to vacation at the Outer Banks and I remembered a
tropical storm. You had to watch but we didn't stay for the aftermath.
"He loves you."
"Yeah, I know," she said, digging her nail under the label. "I'll miss
him when he's gone but," and she looked around and lowered her voice,
"but..." I understood. Steve wouldn't talk about it, not directly, not
to me. And I hated that. But I didn't need to know to know. "He paid
you $10,000 - money we need - to come here."
"I was never going to cash the check. You know that, right?"
"Yes, but you had to win, didn't you?"
"It wasn't that..."
"What was it?"
"I dunno." I didn't.
"How did you come up with that anyway?" She smiled. "Like what's the
max I can shake down my brother - my poor, guilt-ridden brother - for
without being a total asshole?"
I felt mortified. "Actually, that's my rate on a consult."
Her eyes widened. "For real? You get $10,000 to tell someone they're
going to die? Damn. No wonder they say you're the smart one."
I gave her the finger. "It's more than that. Sometimes, I," and I put
on a serious face and lowered my voice, "I do this too." And we both
laughed. "When they came up with this stupid idea, you didn't say,
'hey, what the hell do you think this is going to accomplish?' I expect
more from you."
"Yeah, I tried," she laughed. "But then she said, 'thanks but this is a
discussion for the family.'"
"She didn't!" I didn't need to see the look to know that she did. "I'm
going to talk to her. That's unaccept..."
She laughed. "You don't think I know how to tune her out? We both did.
Shit, sorry..."
"It's fine. I get it." I paused. "Have you spoken to him?"
"No." Just no. Nothing else. She kept playing with the label on the
bottle.
"You're lying to me," I said, as she looked at the bottle. "If you did,
you did." And if you did, tell me everything he said.
"I haven't. Not since he left." Now, she picked at the cuticle on her
index finger.
"What did he say?" She kept staring at me. "I need to know."
"Your father's dying upstairs and you're asking me about your ex?
Seriously?"
"Fine, I'm a bad person. I shake down my brother for money and then ask
you about my ex. I'm bad. So now tell me."
She looked at me. "He didn't tell me anything that he didn't tell you -
repeatedly. You're nasty, condescending, the smartest person in the
room, just ask. Oh and you have OCD." I could feel the air coming in
through my open mouth. She took a sip of her water. "You asked."
"Do you feel that way?"
"You're you."
"Wow, thanks, Kara. I appreciate it."
"What I mean, you self-pitying asshole," and she grinned, "is that you
are completely condescending. You are and don't deny it. And you think
you're the smartest person in the room." She paused. "You really are
him."
"Who him?" I knew who him. "I am not him. I am so not him."
She laughed, "Your mom always calls you Marty 2.0. Now I know why."
"I had no idea she was so tech savvy. And I'm not him."
"You're like a polished him."
"Take that back," I mumbled.
"You are 100% him. Well, you're smarter..."
That was arguable. "Thank you for that." Now, I was picking at my
cuticle, trying to make it bleed.
"Am I telling you something you don't know, Claire? Really?"
"Fuck you."
Then, she looked at me. "How was it? When you..."
"It was what it was. He is who is he is....where's Steve?" I realized
I hadn't asked.
"He's in with him. He went in right after you left. Your father's
probably browbeating him about the plant in China or something..."
"He should really sell." He had been made an offer, one that was more
than it was worth, to buy the company. "He's never been cut out for
this..."
She looked at me. "Yeah, but then what? What does a 52 year old man
do?" I shrugged. "Exactly. You should really go up there."
"I have nothing to say." My stomach was churning, my internist would
have a fit if he knew what I ate. I was supposed to avoid anything
carbonated or acidic.
She moved next to me. "Yeah, well, go say it. You're as fucking
pigheaded as he is. You know that's why you're here..."
"Steve was willing to pay me $10,000 to come here? Jesus, he really is
fucking dumb," I joked.
"Nice try, sweetie." She got up. "I gotta go to the bathroom. I'll
see you upstairs."
I went back upstairs and looked in the room. Through the window in the
door, I could see my father speaking and Steve's head hanging down. If
nothing else, I'd be rescuing him. I walked in. My father looked at me
and rasped. "Doctor..."
"Hey, Steve, can I have a minute?"
He looked at me, then my father, then me. "I paid $10,000. I can hear
what you have to say."
My father looked at me. "Now he sticks up for himself. I'm the
patient, not you. Go. Find Kara. If she hasn't left you."
"Really? Now?" I said, crossing my arms then uncrossing them. It felt
too obvious. "Steve, please. Ignore him. One of the rare symptoms of
multiple myeloma is Tourette's."
"I wanna know what you tell him," Steve mumbled as he left. The door
closed slowly and quietly, with a click.
My father looked at me. "You come to tell me I'm dying? I knew that
already..."
"No." I kept looking at him, his skin like parchment. I needed to talk
to Winston about reducing his dose of carfilzomib. There was no point.
"So what? So why are you here?" I looked at him. "Oh god, don't tell
me you want closure," which he pronounced 'clo-zha,' in my mother's Long
Island accent.
"I'm closed. And for whatever reason she still cares about you. And
this is what you do?"
"I didn't ask her to care for me," he grumbled.
"Yeah, well, she does. So shut up about her."
He smiled a little. "Don't be so sensitive. You were never this
sensitive. That's Stevie's job."
"Lay the fuck off him too. Leave them out of it. Say you want to say
to me."
He looked at me, his eyes focusing as best as they could. "You came. I
didn't come."
"Yeah, well..."
"So, I hear your girlfriend left you," he laughed.
"Fuck you. It's 2019. I'm legal now..."
"Doesn't change that he left you. Boy, girl, all the same."
I looked around the room. "I don't see anyone for you here either."
Way to go, Claire. Pick on a dying man. Be proud.
"In the end, you die alone anyway. So, why?"
"None of your business," I looked at the TV, tuned to MSNBC. The closed
captioning complaining about Congress. At least, it wasn't Fox.
"Tired of your shit?" He looked at the screen, at the two people
arguing. "All the fucking same," he said.
I looked at him, then the screen. "Yeah," I said.
"So how fucked am I?" He kept staring at the screen.
As did I. "You know how fucked you are. You wanna be in a trial, I'll
see. But, we're talking a few more months, at most. If it works. And
it won't be better. But you tell me."
"Turn around." I turned to face him, staring at his forehead. "I trust
you, Claire."
I tried to joke. "Thanks, leave it to me. You always had to get the
last word."
He laughed, a raspy laugh. "I did? That's rich. But, I trust you."
All I could do was nod. "I'm tired, Claire. We're done."
Aeryn
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