for it. We do not work on this kind of area? We do not fix this.”
“Does anyone?”
“Someone who must know what this is. Who treats the brain where you live.”
Yes, someone must.
“We will be sending this scan to your American doctor. And we think that the stem cell transfusions is not, for now, a good idea. Until this.”
The doctor pointed at the cloud and tried, again, to look stumped.
“This first. To understand this. Then, maybe.”
Julian was impressed. The doctor had devised a pretty good tombstone.
This first. To understand this. Then, maybe.
Julian laughed.
“What is it?” asked the doctor. As in, thank God this moron is going into denial now. He’s going to be one of those people who cracks jokes after getting news of a tumor. I will not need to wash his tears from my doctor’s coat.
“It’s just that, if you tell me it’s all in my head now,” said Julian, “you won’t be lying.”
“Aha. I see what you say. This is truly funny. But we will not be lying to you ever, Mr. Bledstein.”
Oh, feel free, Julian didn’t say. Lie to me all you want.
The nurse brought in the papers to terminate his treatment, seal off liability, severing connections between Julian and the clinic. He signed and signed and signed. His writing surprised him, his ability to do it. It wasn’t a language-blocking cloud, but, then, what was it blocking? What was it allowing? And how long had it been there?
The doctor, frowning thoughtfully, trying to make conversation, stood by.
“I am sorry we do not have a way to give you your money back,” the doctor was saying.
“I could help you,” Julian said, “if you want.”
“Excuse me?”
“I could show you a way to give me my money back,” explained Julian. “You know, how to transfer it back to my credit card. It’s not so hard.”
“Oh, you must misunderstand.” The doctor blushed.
“Yes, I must,” said Julian.
Outside the clinic, standing on the plaza steps in her long corduroy thrift store coat, nearly hidden by a plaid scarf, was Hayley. She gave him a shy little wave, sheepishly smiling, forgiving, forgetting, denying, all in one cute fucking face. How on earth?
“Jules! Oh my God, you took
forever
!”
“I took forever?” He tried to sound arch. Here his Hayley actually
was
. Jesus Christ.
“It’s freezing here.” She laughed.
She had a gift for killing off oddity, making shit like this—sudden encounters in foreign countries—seem routine.
Julian agreed that it was cold. Germany in February and all that. But he stood his ground. Specimen Hayley, trying to make good. How interesting. He’d see where this led. He probably had cancer.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You
look
good.”
How nice if that were true. He’d never looked good, even as a baby. Even before he was a baby, when he was just somebody’s fear. Once he was only dread in the pit of his mother’s stomach. He was born sick, conceived by his parents as their sick little boy. Was there a sexual position favored by his parents’ generation that guaranteed they’d birth a forceless runt, someone who would desperately need their help his whole life? Hayley should be ashamed of herself.
He looked good
. Still, he had to applaud her strategy. Cheer, denial, exuberance. If only he could. Tombstone.
“Come here already!” Hayley shouted. “Come hug me, you stupid bastard. How are you? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m
seeing
you.”
He succumbed to Hayley’s hug, giving little back. Whatever he had done, or not done, to himself, not just over the last two weeks, but over the years, too, had rendered him immune right now to the pleasures of her small body wrapped up in his, to her breath, to the way her hair got on his face. Even the warm kiss she gave. Immune, indifferent, cold. Once it had been his choice to resist these overtures. He used to watch himself taking the low road, hogging the lane, during Hayley’s flirtations with forgiveness. But no longer.
“Does anyone?”
“Someone who must know what this is. Who treats the brain where you live.”
Yes, someone must.
“We will be sending this scan to your American doctor. And we think that the stem cell transfusions is not, for now, a good idea. Until this.”
The doctor pointed at the cloud and tried, again, to look stumped.
“This first. To understand this. Then, maybe.”
Julian was impressed. The doctor had devised a pretty good tombstone.
This first. To understand this. Then, maybe.
Julian laughed.
“What is it?” asked the doctor. As in, thank God this moron is going into denial now. He’s going to be one of those people who cracks jokes after getting news of a tumor. I will not need to wash his tears from my doctor’s coat.
“It’s just that, if you tell me it’s all in my head now,” said Julian, “you won’t be lying.”
“Aha. I see what you say. This is truly funny. But we will not be lying to you ever, Mr. Bledstein.”
Oh, feel free, Julian didn’t say. Lie to me all you want.
The nurse brought in the papers to terminate his treatment, seal off liability, severing connections between Julian and the clinic. He signed and signed and signed. His writing surprised him, his ability to do it. It wasn’t a language-blocking cloud, but, then, what was it blocking? What was it allowing? And how long had it been there?
The doctor, frowning thoughtfully, trying to make conversation, stood by.
“I am sorry we do not have a way to give you your money back,” the doctor was saying.
“I could help you,” Julian said, “if you want.”
“Excuse me?”
“I could show you a way to give me my money back,” explained Julian. “You know, how to transfer it back to my credit card. It’s not so hard.”
“Oh, you must misunderstand.” The doctor blushed.
“Yes, I must,” said Julian.
Outside the clinic, standing on the plaza steps in her long corduroy thrift store coat, nearly hidden by a plaid scarf, was Hayley. She gave him a shy little wave, sheepishly smiling, forgiving, forgetting, denying, all in one cute fucking face. How on earth?
“Jules! Oh my God, you took
forever
!”
“I took forever?” He tried to sound arch. Here his Hayley actually
was
. Jesus Christ.
“It’s freezing here.” She laughed.
She had a gift for killing off oddity, making shit like this—sudden encounters in foreign countries—seem routine.
Julian agreed that it was cold. Germany in February and all that. But he stood his ground. Specimen Hayley, trying to make good. How interesting. He’d see where this led. He probably had cancer.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You
look
good.”
How nice if that were true. He’d never looked good, even as a baby. Even before he was a baby, when he was just somebody’s fear. Once he was only dread in the pit of his mother’s stomach. He was born sick, conceived by his parents as their sick little boy. Was there a sexual position favored by his parents’ generation that guaranteed they’d birth a forceless runt, someone who would desperately need their help his whole life? Hayley should be ashamed of herself.
He looked good
. Still, he had to applaud her strategy. Cheer, denial, exuberance. If only he could. Tombstone.
“Come here already!” Hayley shouted. “Come hug me, you stupid bastard. How are you? Oh my God, I can’t believe I’m
seeing
you.”
He succumbed to Hayley’s hug, giving little back. Whatever he had done, or not done, to himself, not just over the last two weeks, but over the years, too, had rendered him immune right now to the pleasures of her small body wrapped up in his, to her breath, to the way her hair got on his face. Even the warm kiss she gave. Immune, indifferent, cold. Once it had been his choice to resist these overtures. He used to watch himself taking the low road, hogging the lane, during Hayley’s flirtations with forgiveness. But no longer.
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