“Doctor, is it possible for me to hold the drugs?”
Howard Eisenstatt, MD, looked at her as if she were from another planet.
“The chemotherapy drugs. Before we start?”
The ripple of confusion swelled, extending into uncertain looks. But he had no reason to refuse. The bottle itself was thick as a jelly jar, without a single contour: it came off the tree. Alice let it rest in her lap, then she pressed her palms until they were flat against each side. She shut her eyes, kept pressing her palms until the atoms of her flesh merged into the smoothness, until flesh and glass and medicine were one being, one thing. Inside the eye of her mind, Alice envisioned a smooth whiteness — flowing through her, pushing out stray thoughts, flattening worry. She inhaled up through her diaphragm, felt her chest rise, felt air swell through her, made her inner self as massive, as empty as possible. She took a long exhalation, pushing all of this gathered swelling energy out through her nose, feeling those flat stray worries push out of her body. Alice lingered on her child. Her friends. Her mother. Her passed father. Her husband. Her child. Love palpitated through her, and she channeled this love, harnessed it. “You have an important job,” Alice told the clear contents of the jar between her palms. “Welcome to my body.”
Exhaling again through her nose, Alice felt her skin alive and vibrating; and she was not scared. Handing back the bottle to Carmen, she gave thanks. Oliver was lowering himself with care onto the opposite side of the bed, making sure he did not land on her; he was lying sideways, at once next to her and on her, his chest warm on her arm and shoulder without being too heavy, his groin rubbing into her hip, the sensations wonderful, his leg now wrapping itself over hers, his touch tantalizing. Alice grabbed her husband’s hand. He kissed her on the neck, nibbled her hanging lobe. The nurses could have used popcorn, gawking the way they were.
“I was thinking a little ‘Captain Jack,’ ” Oliver said.
She laughed. “So hideous.”
“Right to ‘Piano Man’ then?”
“At least that has ambition. The ambition is what makes it so perfect in its terribleness.” She searched out Carmen’s face, signaled it was fine to begin.
“You want it that way, we go to the heavyweights.” Oliver put his arms around her, used the lower part of her eardrum as his microphone. “Love on the rocks. Ain’t no surprise.” He paused. “Most self-pitying song in the history of the world.”
Alice’s face was luminous, basking. “Pour me a drink.” She rushed through the next sung phrase.
Perplexity; laughter from the cheap seats, one of the nurses complaining, she liked that song. Single drops were being released, in a maudlin and constant time signature, through the thumb-operated drip clamp, down into the tubing.
Their nightly crooning sessions had been neck and neck with the laps they walked together through Dartmouth-Hitchcock’s hallways, the twin peak joys of their time in New Hampshire: eighties hair metal ballads; self-pitying alcoholic nightclub crooners; the worst tripe they could come up with.
They paused, Alice asking if Dr. Eisenstatt wanted to join them, and took more than a little joy in his demurring smile, his uncertainty about whether they were still making fun of him. She and Oliver kept belting, side by side, all but joined together and at the same time forgetting themselves, their joy palpable, emanating. Contentedness? Love? Whatever this feeling, Alice felt it: intangible, inviolable, invulnerable. At the same time, she recognized something else. This feeling had its underside, its darkness. However, the contrast allowed her to focus that much more, gave her access. For now she understood that this palpable feeling of hers was so very fragile, nothing more than glued together, the reconstructed shell of a once-shattered egg.
Evening
SHE MANAGED TO eat almost a third of the black bean soup that he’d picked up from a Greek diner, and the food was sitting in her stomach without problems, so maybe the steroids were starting to work. Her blood pressure had normalized, one hundred over seventy. Her temp was stable. She was cleaning Oliver’s clock at rummy pretty good, the two of them snug together in the bed, idly discussing movies Oliver could rent for the next day, whether they had enough time together to do her walking laps. Their inside hands were entwined, her left, his right, and this mingling had its own associations: Oliver coming to bed late after a programming jaunt, Alice, half-asleep, reaching for his hand; that white-knuckled delivery room and him counting out breaths for her while she all but crushed his fingers; the pleading need while the paramedics lifted her on the stretcher, Alice not wanting to let go.
From the television on the other side of the room the newscaster promised audiences that in two minutes they’d hear all about the trendy restaurant and the mystery of where in the world they could be getting fresh crabs. Hear what the Department of Health and the ASPCA have to say about this shocking obscenity. Oliver clapped and hooted. Alice said nothing, but her eye contact conveyed entertainment, delight.
Then the call. She’d been expecting it. But for once Winnie was early, confirming she’d brought Doe, the two of them were downstairs, waiting. Only why was Oliver tensing? If things were what Alice wanted, his energy would have changed in a different manner, he’d have been devoted to preparing his wife to go to the lobby. So why was Oliver listening, agreeing, saying he understood, he’d be home as soon as he could? Alice gripped his palm, demanded, “What?”
Placing the room’s phone back into its cradle, Oliver laid his free hand on the comforter, overturning an unimpressive run of cards. The baby was fine. Everything was okay. “I know you said we could rely on her. I know Winn’s a nice friend and wants to help and all.” Oliver assured Alice, as she removed herself from his side, “It’s no biggie. Some scheduling thing with her dance troupe. The easiest thing is for me to go home and take over child duty.”
Alice told him it was fine. There would be other adjustments as well. They’d deal with each as it arrived.
“We’ll be here first thing in the morning,” he said. “I promise.”
She released his hand; Oliver looked for his shoes, began the process of gathering his wallet, his sweater. Alice thought he looked anxious to leave, and this struck a low chord. She said maybe she’d go and try a few laps. It made sense to move while she could. “Better than just sitting alone being disappointed.”
Oliver returned to his wife and threw off the little paper rectangle. They held one another along the sides of their faces, Alice ran her hands down his jaw, felt his gristle. “I love your face,” she told him, and he violated hospital policy, pressing his lips onto hers.
“Your first night with her alone,” Alice said.
“If you need a nurse for those laps—”
“You should git.”
He tore the strings holding together the back of his smock, rolled off his gloves, slam-dunking the garments in the trash bin near the door.
Through the windows on the other side of the room, the night was weirdly vivid, the snow still falling at a crazy pace, the flakes distinct, bright enough to glow. In the opposite building, most of the windows were dark. One window on the right side was lit, body outlines half-shredded by flimsy blinds, two men sitting like potato sacks, facing one another at a desk, one man rubbing his eyes, the other drinking coffee.
Alice could hear Mrs. Woo on the other side of the partition, breathing through that pipe, rhythmic bursts, long in, wheeze out. It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard the television for a while, and for this she was thankful. She sat upright, shifted her legs to the side of the bed where Oliver had been, its safety bars still blessedly down. Easy to slip into her bunny slippers; Alice, however, searched out her knee-high boots, their leather so deliciously soft it did not stand upright. The million and eighth thing to be thankful for: that her feet had not swollen back up. Million and nine: she could still fit into the boots, Alice buckled, zipped, was surprised to feel the lack of a head rush as she rose, her balance natural, strong. She knotted her robe, reached for the wall, yanked with both hands, enjoying the exertion necessary to unplug her battery pack. How good it would feel to go on a looting, riotous rampage. Then she thought about the poor souls who’d have to clean up, and who’d have to pay for everything, and what about everyone who suffered because of the damage you caused?