Mud Vein - Fisher Tarryn - Страница 20

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“Florence and the Machine. Do you like it?”

“You’re fixated on death.”

“I’m a surgeon,” he said, not looking up from where he was dicing vegetables.

I shook my head. “You’re a surgeon because you have a fixation on death.”

He didn’t say anything, but slightly hesitated as he cut into a zucchini—barely noticeable, but my eyes caught mostly everything.

“We all do don’t we? We are consumed with our own mortality. Some people eat right and exercise to preserve their lives, others drink and do drugs daring fate to take theirs, and then there are the floaters—the ones who try to ignore their mortality altogether because they’re afraid of it.”

“Which are you?”

He set down his knife and looked at me.

“I’ve been all three. And now I’m undecided.”

Truth. When was the last time I heard such stark truth? I stared at him for a long time as he spooned food onto plates. When he set a plate down in front of me, I said it. It was like a sneeze ejecting from my body without permission, and when it was out I felt mildly embarrassed.

“I have breast cancer.”

Every part of him stopped moving except his eyes, which dragged slowly to mine. We stayed like that for … one … two … three … four seconds. It was like he was waiting for the punch line. I felt compelled to say something else. A first for me.

“I don’t feel anything. Not even fear. Can you tell me what to feel, Isaac?”

His throat spasmed, then he licked his lips.

“It’s emotional Morphine,” he said finally. “Just go with it.”

And that was it. That’s all we said for that night.

Isaac drove me to the hospital the next day. It was only my third time leaving the house and the thought of going back there made me sick to my stomach. I couldn’t eat the eggs or drink the coffee he put in front of me. He didn’t push me to eat like most people would, or give me the concerned eyes that most people would. It was all matter of fact; if you don’t want to eat—don’t. The moment you are diagnosed with cancer a gavel comes down on life, you start being afraid. And since I was already afraid, it felt compounded; fear pressing against fear. And just like that you inherit a cancer gremlin. I imagined it looked mutated, like my genes. It was sinister. Lurking. It kept you awake at night, gnawing on your insides, turning your mind into a distillery of fear. Fear trumps good sense. I wasn’t ready to go back to the hospital; it was the last place I was really afraid, but I had to because cancer was eating at my body.

The tests and scans started around noon. My first consult was with Dr. Akela, an oncologist Isaac went to medical school with. She was Polynesian and so strikingly beautiful my mouth hung open when she walked in. I could smell fruit on her skin; it reminded me of the bowl Isaac kept filling on my counter. I expelled the smell from my nostrils and breathed through my mouth. She spoke about chemotherapy. Her eyes had a heart and I was under the impression that she was an oncologist because she cared. I hated people who cared. They were prying and nosy and made me feel less human because I didn’t care.

After Dr. Akela, I saw a radiation oncologist, and then a plastic surgeon who pressured me to make an appointment to see a grief counselor. I saw Isaac in between each appointment, each scan. He was on his rounds, but he came to walk me to my next appointment. It was awkward. Though each time his white coat emerged, I became a little more familiar with him. It was a weird form of brand recognition—Isaac the Good. His hair was brown, his eyes were deep-set, the bridge of his nose was wide and crooked, but the most telling part of him was his shoulders. They moved first, then the rest of his body followed.

I had a tumor on my right breast. Stage II cancer. I was a candidate for a lumpectomy with radiation.

Isaac found me in the cafeteria sipping on a cup of coffee, staring out the window. He slid into the chair across from me and watched me watch the rain.

“Where is your family, Senna?”

Such a hard question.

“I have a father in Texas, but we’re not close.”

“Friends?”

I looked at him. Was he kidding? He had spent every night for a month in my house and my telephone hadn’t rung once.

“I don’t have any.” I left off the haven’t you figured that out yet? bit.

Dr. Asterholder shifted in his seat like the topic made him uncomfortable, and then, as an afterthought, folded his hands over the crumbs on the tabletop.

“You’re going to need a support system. You can’t do this alone.”

“Well what would you suggest I do? Import a family?”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “There might be more than one surgery. Sometimes, even after radiation and chemotherapy, the cancer comes back…”

“I’m having a double mastectomy. It’s not going to come back.”

I wrote about shock on people’s faces: shock when they find out their love has been cheating on them, shock when they discover faked amnesia—heck, I even wrote about a character who constantly wore a look of shock on his face, even when there was nothing to be shocked about. But I couldn’t say that I’d ever seen true shock before. And here it was, written all over Isaac Asterholder. He dove in immediately, his eyebrows drawing together. “Senna, you don’t—”

I waved him off.

“I have to. I can’t live every day in fear, knowing it might come back. This is the only way.” He searched my face, and I knew then that he was the type of man who always considered what someone else was feeling. After a while the tension left his shoulders. He lifted his hands from where they’d been resting on the table, and placed them over mine. I could see the crumbs sticking to his skin. I focused on them so I wouldn’t pull away. He nodded.

“I can recommend—”

I cut him off for the third time, jerking my hands out from beneath his. “I want you to do the surgery.”

He leaned back, put both hands behind his head and stared at me.

“You’re an oncologic surgeon. I Googled you.”

“Why didn’t you just ask?”

“Because I don’t do that. Asking questions is at the forefront of developing relationships.”

He cocked his head. “What’s wrong with developing relationships?”

“When you get raped, and when you get breast cancer, you have to tell people about it. And then they look at you with sad eyes. Except they’re not really seeing you, they’re seeing your rape or your breast cancer. And I’d rather not be looked at if all people are seeing are the things I do, or the things that happen to me instead of who I am.”

He was quiet for a long time.

“What about before those things happened to you?”

I stared at him. Maybe a little too fiercely, but I didn’t care. If this man wanted to show up in my life, and put his hands over mine, and ask why I didn’t have a best friend—he was going to get it. The full version.

“If there was a God,” I said, “I’d say with confidence that he hates me. Because my life is the sum of bad things. The more people you let in, the more bad you let in.”

“Well, there you have it,” Isaac said. His eyes weren’t wide; there was no more shock. He was a cucumber.

It was the most I’d ever said to him. It was probably the most I’d said to any person in a long time. I pulled my cup up to my mouth and closed my eyes.

“All right,” he said, finally. “I’ll do the surgery on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“You see a counselor.”

I started shaking my head before the words were out of his mouth.

“I’ve seen a psychiatrist before. I’m not into it.”

“I’m not talking about medicating yourself,” he said. “You need to talk about what happened. A therapist—it’s very different.”

“I don’t need to see a shrink,” I said. “I’m fine. I’m dealing.” The idea of counseling petrified me; all of your inner thoughts put in a glass box, to be seen by someone who spent years studying how to properly judge thoughts. How was that okay? There was something perverse about the process and the people who chose to do it for a living. Like a man being a gynecologist. What’s in this for you, you freak?

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