Putting dots in a grid is more difficult. I aim for the center of the square, but the pen has a mind of its own. It’s a stupid test anyway.
Afterward Jock explains that patients like me who present initially with tremors have a significantly better prognosis. There are lots of new drugs becoming available to lessen the symptoms.
“You can expect to lead a full life,” he says, as though reading from a script. When he sees the look of disbelief on my face he attempts to qualify the statement. “Well, maybe you’ll lose a few years.”
He doesn’t say anything about my quality of life.
“Stem-cell research is going to provide a breakthrough,” he adds, sounding upbeat. “Within five or ten years they’ll have a cure.”
“What do I do until then?”
“Take the drugs. Make love to that gorgeous wife of yours. Watch Charlie grow up.”
He gives me a prescription for selegiline. “Eventually, you’ll need to take levodopa,” he explains, “but hopefully we can delay that for maybe a year or more.”
“Are there any side effects?”
“You might get a little nauseous and have trouble sleeping.”
“Great!”
Jock ignores me. “These drugs don’t stop the progression of the disease. All they do is mask the symptoms.”
“So I can keep it secret for longer.”
He smiles ruefully. “You’ll face up to this sooner or later.”
“If I keep coming here maybe I’ll die of passive smoke.”
“What a way to go.” He lights up a cigar and pulls the scotch from his bottom drawer.
“It’s only three o’clock.”
“I’m working on British summer time.”
He doesn’t ask, he simply pours me one.
“I had a visit from Julianne last week.”
I feel myself blinking rapidly. “What did she want?”
“She wanted to know about your condition. I couldn’t tell her. Doctor-patient privilege and all that bollocks.” After a pause, he says, “She also wanted to know if I thought you were having an affair.”
“Why would she ask that?”
“She said you lied to her.”
I take a sip of scotch and feel it burn my esophagus. Jock watches through a stream of smoke, waiting for an answer. Instead of feeling angry or at fault, I have a bizarre sense of disappointment. How could Julianne have asked Jock a question like that? Why didn’t she ask me directly?
Jock is still waiting for an answer. He sees my discomfort and begins to laugh, shaking his head like a wet dog.
I want to say, Don’t you look at me like that— you’ve been divorced twice and are still chasing after women half your age.
“It’s none of my business, of course,” he says, gloating. “But if she walks out on you I’ll be there to comfort her.”
He’s not joking. He’d be sniffing around Julianne in a flash.
I quickly change the subject. “Bobby Moran— how much do you know about him?”
Jock rocks his tumbler back and forth. “No more than you do.”
“There’s no mention in the medical notes about any previous psychiatric treatment.”
“What makes you think there has been any?”
“He quoted a question to me from a Mental Status Examination. I think he’s been evaluated before.”
“Did you ask him?”
“He wouldn’t talk about it.”
Jock’s face is a study of quiet contemplation, which looks as though it’s been practiced in the mirror. Just when I think he might add something constructive, he shrugs. “He’s an odd fucker, that’s for sure.”
“Is that a professional opinion?”
He grunts. “Most of my patients are unconscious when I spend time with them. I prefer it that way.”
11
A plumber’s van is parked in front of the house. The sliding door is open and inside there are trays stacked one on top of the other, with silver and brass fittings, corners, s-bends and plastic couplings.
The company name is attached to the side panels on magnetized mats— D. J. Morgan Plumbers and Gas Fitters. I find him in the kitchen, having a cup of tea and trying to catch a glimpse of Julianne’s breasts beneath her v-neck top. His apprentice is outside in the garden showing Charlie how to juggle a football with her knees and feet.
“This is our plumber, D.J.,” says Julianne.
Getting lazily to his feet, he nods a greeting, without taking his hands from his pockets. He’s in his mid-thirties, tanned and fit, with dark wet-looking hair combed back from his forehead. He looks like one of those tradesmen you see on lifestyle shows, renovating houses or doing makeovers. I can see him asking himself what a woman like Julianne’s doing with someone like me.
“Why don’t you show Joe what you showed me?”
The plumber acknowledges her with the slightest dip of his head. I follow him to the basement door, which is secured with a bolt. Narrow wooden steps lead down to the concrete floor. A low-wattage bulb is fixed to the wall. Dark beams and bricks soak up the light.
I have lived in this house for four years and the plumber already knows the basement better than I do. With a genial openness, he points out various pipes above our heads, explaining the gas and water system.
I contemplate asking him a question, but I know from experience not to advertise my ignorance around tradesmen. I am not a handyman; I have no interest in DIY, which is why I can still count to twenty on my fingers and toes.
D.J. nudges the boiler with the toe of his work boot. The inference is clear. It’s useless, junk, a joke.
“So how much is this going to cost?” I ask, after getting lost halfway through his briefing.
He exhales slowly and begins listing the things that need replacing.
“How much for labor?”
“Depends how long it takes.”
“How long will it take?”
“Can’t say until I check all the radiators.” He casually picks up an old bag of plaster, turned solid by the damp, and tosses it to one side. It would have taken two of me to move it. Then he glances at my feet. I am standing in a puddle of water that is soaking through the stitching of my shoes.
Mumbling something about keeping costs down, I retreat upstairs and try not to imagine him sniggering behind my back. Julianne hands me a cup of lukewarm tea— the last of the pot.
“Everything OK?”
“Fine. Where did you find him?” I whisper.
“He put a flyer through the mailbox.”
“References?”
She rolls her eyes. “He did the Reynolds’ new bathroom at number 74.”
The plumbers carry their tools outside to the van and Charlie tosses her ball in the garden shed. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her cheeks are flushed with the cold. Julianne scolds her for getting grass stains on her school tights.
“They’ll come out in the wash,” says Charlie.
“And how would you know?”
“They always do.”
Charlie turns and gives me a hug. “Feel my nose.”
“Brrrrrrr! Cold nose, warm heart.”
“Can Sam stay over tonight?”
“That depends. Is Sam a boy or a girl?”
“Daaaad!” Charlie screws up her face.
Julianne interrupts. “You have football tomorrow.”
“What about next weekend?”
“Grandma and Grandpa are coming down.”
Charlie’s face brightens as mine falls. I had totally forgotten. God’s-personal-physician-in-waiting is giving a talk to an international medical conference. It will be a triumph, of course. He will be offered all sorts of honorary positions and part-time consultancies, which he will graciously refuse because travel wearies him. I will sit in silence through all of this, feeling as though I am thirteen again.