“I’ll bet,” I reply. “Did he ask you to play his skin flute?”
Tana shoves me. “What is wrong with you?!”
“Maybe I’m jealous.”
“You should be. He said we could ‘roll together.’”
“Look at you,” I say. “Already part of his crew. One of his hos. Now what did you find out about Frosty the Snowlady?”
“You were right. Her name’s Janine Canterbury or some-thing like that. Married to Ted Canterwhatever, he of the hideous sweater. I mean, a brown Christmas tree? That’s wack.”
“Did my dad invite her here?”
“Doubt it. She seemed to know Larry,” Tana says, adding when I raise an eyebrow: “In a professional way.”
“My mom seems really out of it,” I say, looking around the room for her. She hasn’t returned from the kitchen.
“Do you think she knows?” asks Tana.
I shrug. “Hey… didn’t you have something important to talk to me about tonight?”
“Later,” she says. “When did you switch to scotch? I feel like I’m falling behind.”
We’re on our way to the bar when Dottie stops us. Mascara running down her face. Two minutes later I’m upstairs, yelling for my father, ripping open doors. I finally find Dad in Dottie’s cedar closet, where he and Janine are making out like a couple of teenagers. He raises his hands in frustration. Janine brushes down the front of her hiked-up dress.
“Well,” Dad says, “this isn’t the way I wanted you two to meet.” Janine, following his cue, extends a hand. I ignore it.
“It’s Mom,” I say. “She just collapsed in the kitchen. There’s an ambulance on the way.”
12
MY FATHER AND I HAVE TAKEN UP semipermanent residence in the waiting room at the Nassau University Medical Center. We try to keep our conversations limited to the declining fortunes of the New York Islanders and order-taking as we alternate trips to the hospital cafeteria and replenish cigarettes. A blurry parade of doctors keeps us apprised of my mother’s condition. The television in the visitors’ room tells us when Christmas Day has come and gone.
At the outset, my mother’s condition confounds the staff. Her lead physician, Dr. Winfield Edgars—“Call me Dr. Win, everyone else does”—pulls no punches in his initial diagnosis: “What troubles me is that her symptoms strongly suggest a brain tumor.” I soon learn that the troubling part for Dr. Win isn’t my mother’s worsening condition, but the lack of any evidence to support his diagnosis. Despite a battery of tests and scans, the tumor stubbornly refuses to present itself.
On the fourth day Dr. Win enters the room with a smile. “She doesn’t have a tumor,” he says. His voice can barely contain his excitement as he explains how her symptoms had fooled him. “Paraneoplastic syndrome. A few years ago, we wouldn’t have been able to diagnose this thing. We’re still not exactly sure how it works. Her brain—actually, her nervous system—is being attacked by an immune response to some-thing else. What we’re seeing in her brain are the symptoms, not the underlying cause. We had to go back and figure out what was triggering the immune response.”
“And?” my father asks.
Dr. Win beams. “Lung cancer,” he says.
“She doesn’t even smoke,” I say.
“Does she live with a smoker?” he asks, seemingly oblivious to Dad’s nicotinestained teeth and fingers. “Could also be asbestos. How old’s your house?”
Dr. Win’s work is done. We’re turned over to Dr. Best in Oncology, who’s as warm as Dr. Win, only without the sense of humor. “Ninety percent of these cases don’t make it past five years,” he begins, before launching into a vivid description of the aggressive radiation therapy she’s about to endure.
I want to cry. I suspect my father does as well. Out of respect for unspoken family tradition, we won’t do it in front of each other.
My mother’s emotional state varies with her treatment schedule. But the feeling I get from her more than any other feels an awful lot like relief. She insists that I return to work. “Get back to your life. It’s not healthy for you to be here.”
So I do. Despite the crappy winter weather, the city feels crowded and alive. It’s almost New Year’s Eve, so the preppies and college kids are home from school. Business is brisk, for which I’m grateful. The constant motion helps to keep me numb.
The week I took off from work to be at the hospital and Danny Carr’s current three-week vacation to Florida have conspired to wreck my personal finances, forcing me back on my subsistence diet of hot dogs and pizza. I’m definitely going to be late on my January rent, so I avoid Herman by using the fire escape to get to and from my room. I’m also ignoring Henry Head, lest he hit me with a bill.
Tana pages me every day. Most of the time I don’t call her back. I’m just not up for talking. But she breaks down my resistance with the offer of a home-cooked meal, delivered to my room at the Chelsea. I meet her at Penn Station, where she debarks the train carrying two steaming aluminum trays and a small Igloo cooler. “Homemade ice cream,” she says. “We can pick up a bottle of wine on the way back to your place. Is Chardonnay okay? I think it will pair well with the chicken.” She’s apparently joined a wine-appreciation club at college.
We stop for the wine and plastic cutlery, as I have no silverware. Tana dishes out the servings onto paper plates. When she produces two candles from her jacket, I raid the communal bathroom for two rolls of toilet paper to use as holders. We light the candles and toast with plastic cups. I dig greedily into the meal. Tana makes up for my lack of conversation with a series of thoughtful questions about my mother, which I answer mainly with nods and shrugs. “How about your dad?” she asks. “Is he still going to leave her for Janine?”
“I don’t have any idea,” I confess, having temporarily broken from the meal for a cigarette next to the open window.
“Aren’t you freezing? You’re not going to want any ice cream.”
It dawns on me for the first time that Tana is wearing makeup, as she had at the Christmas party. And while she hasn’t repeated the dramatic cleavage, she still looks good in designer jeans and a tight sweater that doesn’t hide her curves. “I do declare, Miss Kirschenbaum, that someday you’re going to make one of those sorry excuses for men you like to date a very, very happy camper.”
Tana sighs. “I’m so done with sorry excuses for men.”
I lift my cup. “Here, here. To muffdiving.” She laughs, spitting out some of her wine. I tear off a piece of one of the candleholders and hand it to her.
“At least I’d be getting some,” she says.
“Come on. It’s not that bad, is it?” I ask. Her expression is half-quizzical. And half something else. “How bad is it?”
“You know I’ve never gone all the way, right?”
“With a woman? Hey, homosexuality’s not for everyone.”
“I mean with anyone.”
“Wai… Wha… Never?”
“I was kind of thinking,” she says, her voice barely a whisper, “that maybe it should be you who initiates me.”
A thought pops into my brain. “The other night, when you said you wanted to talk to me…” She nods shyly. I’ve never seen Tana so vulnerable. I pull her close for a hug, and another thought creeps into my head.
Oh. So close. But.
“First of all,” I say, “I’m incredibly flattered….”
“Oh God,” says Tana. She’s already pushing away from me. “Here we go.”
“You’re taking this the wrong way. You are a brilliant, incredibly sexy woman, Tana Kirschenbaum. But you’re also my sister—maybe not by blood, but you know what I mean. Sex for me is…”