Cancellation Policy
By noon the heat will be blistering. The county’s on crisis alert. The scorched earth is a fire hazard and Smokey the Bear has orders to arrest anyone tossing a lit butt to the ground. The Department of Public Works is rationing water and the drought guidelines recommend flushing only “when necessary.” I turn the dial to news radio. The death toll is nineteen and rising. Luxury imports speed by me in the passing lane, tinted windows protecting their pampered passengers from the intense sun, while some poor old lady suffocates in an airless room because she can’t afford a cheap electric fan. Robin Hood ought to loot the aisles of Kmart and Wal-Mart and bring relief to the needy and deserving.
The overnight low was a record ninety-four degrees. My sister has summoned her husband from Florida and they’ve moved to the best hotel in Charlotte: twenty-four-hour room service and fresh towels and bed linen feel more like necessities than extravagances under current conditions. Alone now in my mother’s house, I turned off the thermostat and let the Monument to Heat and Air bake all day in the sun. I couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning on my stripped bed. I’m exhausted and fight the urge to doze at the wheel. Exhaust fumes caress my face and carbon and sulfur char my nostrils and throat. My bare legs are branded with grill marks, seared by the vinyl upholstery. I could close the car windows and crank up the air, but the heat is a respite from interminable waiting with no end in sight. The vigil goes on. I don’t measure time in days and weeks, but by hot and cold.
I park the car and enter the deep freeze of the hospital. The frigid air creeps into my loose shorts. The cold keeps me awake. My phone is vibrating. I don’t recognize the number. Sabotaged! My counselor is calling from his cell. I tell him I just arrived at the hospital and can’t talk. Surprise, surprise! He’s at the hospital too, only three floors away. He insists that I meet him. Now.
“You did get my message, didn’t you?” he asks, bounding out of the elevator as if it’s a matter of some urgency.
“Yes. I did.”
Hello, Andy. It’s Matt McGinley. I’m sorry for the short notice but I need to reschedule Friday’s appointment. I know this is a difficult time for you, so please call me. Perhaps we can find some time before my flight on Thursday. I’m back late Saturday morning. I can do Saturday afternoon or evening. I can even try for Sunday. Call me.
“Why didn’t you call?” he asks.
“I forgot.”
He looks skeptical.
“Four times? I’ve tried you four times since Monday afternoon.”
“Seriously, Matt. I forgot. I just plain forgot.”
He tries to put his arm around my shoulder, but I push him away.
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “I don’t need to start crying.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“Not now. Not here.”
“Here” is the harshly lit Critical Care Unit, a place designed for observation and expediency, not privacy. I ask why he’s chasing after me. He says he was in the hospital anyway. There’d been a little problem with one of his admissions to the psych unit. I thank him for taking the time to check on me, tell him he shouldn’t have bothered. He should go back to the psych ward, the kid’s problems seem more important.
“No. Not more important, just more emergent,” he says.
Little does he know.
“Why did you cancel?” I ask.
“I told you. I need to go out of town. It was unexpected.”
“Where are you going?”
“ Washington.”
“Why?”
He’s clearly uncomfortable being questioned.
“We can talk about that when I get back. If it’s necessary.”
“I think it’s necessary.”
“It may not be.”
“Is it an emergency?”
“No. It’s not an emergency.”
“Then why couldn’t you have planned ahead?” I’m surprised by how shrill I sound. “You know you’ve violated the cancellation policy, don’t you? Payment in full for cancellations with less than forty-eight hours’ notice. I’m enforcing it. It’s only fair. Here’s my price. You have to tell me why you’re going. Tell me what’s so-how did you say it?-important but not emergent. You cancelled too late. Now you have to pay.”
“Andy, I gave you plenty of notice and tried to reschedule.”
“I’m a very busy man, Matt. Can’t you see that? Take a look around. You think I don’t have anything better to do than sit around and watch the monitors? Hey, nurse, what’s a flat line mean? Well, maybe you’re right. Maybe I don’t have anything better to do. That doesn’t mean I’m not very busy.”
This time he forces me to accept the arm around my shoulder.
“Come on,” he says. “I can take a later flight.”
He knows the shortest route to the nondenominational chapel where the anxious can seek comfort in the Crucifix, the Star of David, or the Crescent Moon. Hindus are shit out of luck. The room is spartan and austere and feels about as devotional as an interfaith public service announcement on late-night television.
“Thanks for coming today,” I say.
“Sure.”
“You still owe me, though.”
“Come on, Andy.”
“I’m not letting you off the hook.”
“Technically I am off the hook. But because I’ve inconvenienced you, I’m waiving the fee for this session.”
“I’ll pay. Now tell me.”
“Look Andy, it’s a bit premature. There’s no point discussing it until, no, unless and until, it’s necessary. I don’t want to risk upsetting you for no reason.”
I don’t like the sound of this.
“Now you really have to tell me.”
“I’m in discussions with Georgetown. They’ve made me an offer. They need an answer by next week. I’m meeting other members of the department tomorrow, then dinner with the chair and the dean and the president of the hospital. I don’t know if we’ll be able to come to an agreement.”
This is perfect. Just what I need. Probably what I deserve. The final, gratuitous kick in the stomach. You fucker. Three weeks ago I was ready to walk out the door. Adios, amigo. These boots were made for walkin’. Up and over. Out from under. I would have ended it in a heartbeat if you hadn’t duped me with your silver tongue, hadn’t pacified me with your fucking case study. I see your agenda now.
Can’t take being rejected, huh? Keep me dangling a few more weeks, just long enough for you to be the one who walks away.
Fucking priest.
“Congratulations” is all I say.
“Like I said, Andy, it’s a little premature.”
I stand up quickly and extend my hand. “Well, good luck.”
“Andy, sit down. We were going to talk.”
“Matt, I have to go. I really do. My sister’s waiting for me. I’m late.”
I find the closest toilet, bolt the door, and vomit. I try lifting my head, but I’m dizzy, too dizzy to stand. I thought I could at least count on him. I thought I could at least rely on paying someone to keep me from being completely alone. Everything’s collapsing around me. Even my money’s no good anymore.
Regina is furious. She looks at her watch and hisses. She doesn’t understand why the unit is freezing. It’s like a meat locker in here, she says. What do you expect, I want to ask, where do you think you are? Don’t you see all these limp bodies, all these lives hovering just above the baseline, a weak pulse the only line of defense against the onset of bloat and rot? Face facts, kiddo, you’re in an abattoir.
Good morning, folks.
The army is descending on the Critical Care Unit. They’ve come to hear the announcement of my final decision.
Do not resuscitate.
DNR.
They’re sensitive to the palpable tension.