“This craniotomy,” my father said. “Does it have any risks?”
“No surgery’s without risk, but in this case the risks are quite minimal. The greatest risk, though it’s about as likely as me finding true love, is stroke. Also, some neurological functions like motor strength or coordination may become impaired immediately after surgery, but in most cases those issues are resolved with time and rehabilitation.” He turned to me. “Mostly you’ll just feel really, really crappy for a while.”
“How soon could we do this?” I asked.
“The soonest we can schedule your operation is the nineteenth. Then you’ll need to plan for at least six to eight weeks of recovery time.”
“Six weeks,” I repeated. I hated the idea of that much downtime, but it could be worse. I had spent nearly five months recovering at Nicole’s house.
“Six to eight,” my father said. “At least.”
“All right,” I said. “Let’s do this thing.”
“Good,” Dr. Schlozman said. “I was hoping you’d say that. I’ve been looking at a new boat.”
The drive home from the hospital was quiet. My father was the first to speak. “That doctor was weird.”
“I looked up his credentials. He’s brilliant,” I said. “Brilliant people usually are a little weird.”
He shrugged. “Want to stop for pancakes? The IHOP is still there.”
“Love to. Let’s get pancakes.”
CHAPTER
Seven
Sometimes it seems as if my life has been more intermission than show.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
Nicole called the house later that afternoon. It was good to hear her voice.
“Hey, handsome. How’d your appointment go?”
“Well, I think. They’re going to operate on the nineteenth.”
“Why are they waiting so long?”
“That’s their first availability.”
“Then how long is your recovery?”
“Six to eight weeks,” I said. “If everything goes well.”
“I’m sure it will go well,” she said. “But you’ll go insane waiting.”
“Probably.”
“So, may I come down and take care of you?” she asked. “Please.”
“I would love for you to come,” I said. “When are you thinking?”
“I’d like to come before the surgery. How about the sixteenth? Two weeks from today.”
“That would be great,” I said. “Now I have something to look forward to.”
“Me too,” she said.
We talked for a few more minutes before saying goodbye.
My father walked into the room after I hung up. “Was that Nicole?”
“Yes. She wants to come down for the surgery.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her I’d love to see her.” I frowned. “Do you think I’m leading her on?”
“She’s a friend and she cares. Where’s the crime in that?”
I shrugged. “I just don’t want to hurt her. She means too much to me.”
“She’s a big girl,” he said. “When is she coming?”
“The sixteenth.”
He nodded. “It will be nice having a woman around.”
The next two weeks were miserable. As my surgery date neared, I started sleeping more—sometimes as much as fourteen hours a day. Dr. Schlozman had warned me that I would likely become more fatigued, but I think it was more than the tumor. I was also fighting depression. There was just too much around to remind me of McKale, too much time to think, and too little to do. You don’t realize how many memories of someone a place can hold until they’re gone.
My dizzy spells and headaches were increasing in frequency and duration, and I began to have trouble walking. Still, I hated lying in bed. My father had an elliptical machine in his garage, which, with some difficulty, I used twice a day, though probably as much out of boredom as a desire to keep active.
My father’s routine was as rigid as it had been when I was a boy. We ate dinner every night at six-thirty sharp, followed by dishwashing, then television in the family room with his customary bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
There was one gradual and unwelcome change to our routine. Every night during dinner, when I was captive at the table, my father began pressing me with questions about my future, specifically my employment. He asked whether or not I was going to stay in advertising, if I planned to work for another firm or start a new agency, and if I would accept investors. “I know money people,” he said on more than one occasion.
With his typical fastidiousness he would verbally walk me through a list of pros and cons for each option. Then, during his free time, he began searching the Internet for job openings at Los Angeles agencies and writing down their phone numbers just in case I wanted to “test the waters.”
For several days he got on a kick about me getting a car, which he offered to buy even though I was in no condition to drive. Although I appreciated his support, I knew what he was doing. He was trying to nail me down.
I suppose just as telling was what he never talked about. He never mentioned McKale, and he never talked about my walk. I could understand why he wouldn’t bring up McKale. But I couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t talk about my journey. There was so much to talk about.
From all appearances he resented my walk even though he had endorsed it back in Spokane.
I humored him through it all, but it seemed that each dinner got gradually more uncomfortable. Nicole couldn’t get here soon enough.
The day of Nicole’s arrival I moved my things to my childhood room so she could have her own bathroom. We picked her up at the airport around three in the afternoon. After our reunion, I began feeling unwell, so my father drove me home, then the two of them went shopping for dinner.
I had forgotten what a good cook Nicole was. She made broiled salmon with polenta and acorn squash soup. Dessert was a lemon meringue pie from the Marie Callender’s in Arcadia.
Somewhat surprising was that my father, who drank as infrequently as I did, opened a bottle of Chardonnay. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him that happy or loose.
Later, after my father had gone to bed, Nicole knocked on my bedroom door. “It’s me,” she said softly.
I opened. Nicole was wearing sweat pants and a Victoria’s Secret PINK T-shirt. She looked cute.
“Come in,” I said.
She walked inside, running her hand down my arm as she stepped past me. “Your dad’s home is nice,” she said. “It’s very . . .”
“Seventies?”
She grinned. “I was going to say cozy.” She walked over to the window and pulled back the curtain. “Which home did McKale live in?”
“That one,” I said, pointing. “The little ranch-style house.”
“You married the girl next door.” She spotted the prom pictures on my dresser and walked over to them. She lifted one and burst out laughing. “Is this you?”
“In my defense, my dad cut my hair back then.”
“No, you look great.” She looked at the picture, then back at me. “You were adorable as a teenager.” She smiled at me. “You still are.”
“Thanks.”
“And this is McKale?”
“That’s McKale.”
“She’s beautiful.” She looked at each of the pictures, stopping at the one odd one. “Who’s this?”
“I think her name was Jennifer. Or Jodie. Or Justine. Actually, I have no idea what her name was. That was a girls’-preference dance at another school.”
“I take it she didn’t get the memo that you were taken?”
“Apparently not. First and last date.”
“How did McKale take it, you going out with someone else?”
“She handled it with her usual passive aggressiveness. She said it didn’t bother her, then went out on a date the next weekend with some football jock. I think she just wanted to remind me that she had options
.”
“We girls are like that.” She stepped away from the bookshelf. “How is it being back here with your father?”
“It’s been difficult. He’s made it pretty clear that he wants me to stay.”
“Yeah, he told me that while we were shopping. He asked if I’d help talk you into abandoning your walk.”
I looked at her and frowned. “He really said that?”
She nodded.
“I’m finishing my walk.”
“I know. I tried to explain to him how important it is to you.” She took my hand. “Don’t be angry with him. He’s just worried about you. Remember how upset he was when he found out you’d been mugged? And now you have a tumor. You may be over thirty, but he’s still your father. And you’re the only family he has.” She took my hand. “He just cares.”
I thought about what she’d said, then breathed out slowly. “I know.”
“Other than that, how have you been feeling?”
“It’s getting worse,” I said. “The doctor said it would.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It will be over soon.”
Something about the way I said this affected her. Her eyes welled up.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
She wiped her eyes, then looked into mine. “Sorry. I didn’t like how that sounded.”
I put my arms around her and she fell into me. I held her for several minutes. Then she leaned back. “I better let you get your rest.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I said. “Thank you for coming.”
“There’s no way I was going to let you go through this alone. Besides, I kind of like you.”
I smiled. “The feeling’s mutual.”
“Night,” she said. “Sweet dreams.”
That night I dreamt I was kissing McKale. When I pulled back, it was really Falene.
CHAPTER
Eight
Looking at someone’s brain is a little like looking at the outside of a movie theater.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
The morning of the nineteenth my father drove us to the hospital several hours before my scheduled surgery time, so we’d have plenty of time to wind our way through the labyrinth of admissions. After filling out a pile of forms, we sat in the waiting room for nearly an hour before I was called to the preoperative holding area, where they put me in one of those ill-fitting, tie-in-back gowns, then sent at least a dozen people in to see me in my humbled state.
“You look cute,” Nicole said, lifting her phone. “I’m taking a picture.”
“No pictures,” I said.
She brought out her phone. “I’m taking one anyway.”
“No pictures,” I said again.
She snapped a picture. “Too late.”
Shortly before surgery a young man came in to shave my head, which, considering the length of my hair, was no simple feat. When he was done, I just stared at myself in the mirror.
“I’m bald.”
“As a bowling ball,” Nicole said.
“A billiard ball,” my father corrected.
“They’re both hairless,” I said.
“Like you,” Nicole said.
“Thanks. Are you going to take another picture?”
“No.” She held up a lock of my hair. “But I’m keeping this.”
“You know, they didn’t have to shave all of it,” my dad said. “They could have shaved just one side.”
“What do you do with half a head of hair?” I asked. “That’s like half a mustache.”
“Or one eyebrow,” Nicole said. “Then again, you could have had the mother of all comb-overs.”
“Being here reminds me of when you were seven,” my father said. “You had to get your tonsils out. That used to be considered major surgery.”
“I remember,” I said. “Mom read me a story about a baby whale. And I got a stuffed Snoopy doll. I wonder what happened to it.”
“I probably left it in Colorado,” he said.
My father and Nicole were still at my side when the anesthesiologist came in to introduce himself and make sure I was properly prepared for surgery. He told me that they would come for me in five minutes. As he walked out, Nicole began crying.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“Nothing. I’m just a crybaby. I get so worried.”
“Everything is going to be all right,” I said.
She wiped her eyes, forcing a smile. “I know.”
A few minutes later two surgical techs arrived to take me to the operating room. Nicole kissed me on the cheek. My father, in a rare show of affection, took my hand. “You’ll be fine,” he said, sounding more as if he were trying to convince himself than comfort me. I think I was the least worried of all of us.
The techs wheeled my entire bed to the operating room, and Nicole and my father followed me down the hallway until we came to the NO PUBLIC ADMITTANCE doors of the surgical center. Nicole was teary-eyed again and blew me a kiss. I smiled at her and touched my lips.
Once inside the operating room, the anesthesiologist put the mask on my face and told me to count backward from ten. I only made it to nine.
When I woke in recovery, my father was sitting by my side. He was reading a Popular Science magazine, but set it down when I stirred.
“Welcome back.”
My head felt thick and my words came slowly. “Thanks.”
“How do you feel?” Nicole asked.
I slowly turned my head to look at her. “My throat hurts.”
“That’s from the breathing tube,” another female voice said. A nurse leaned over me. “Alan, I’m Rachel. I just need to check a few things.” She lifted a small flashlight. “Let me have you look forward.” She shone the light at my pupils. “Can you tell me what day your birthday is?”
“Are you planning a party?”
She grinned. “At least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Do you know when it is?”
“June fifth,” I said.
She looked to my father for verification. He nodded.
“Very good,” she said. She got up and walked to the foot of my bed. She lifted the sheet, then cupped my feet with her hands. “I want you to push your feet into my hands.”
“Why?”
“Just for fun,” she said.
I must have done a good enough job at it because she wrote something on her clipboard, then left. After she was gone, I turned to my dad. “Do we know the verdict?”
“It’s benign,” he said.
“Benign. That’s the good one, right?”
Nicole laughed. “Yes, it’s good.”
“Good.” I groaned out slowly. “I’m tired.”
“The doctor said you’d be out of it most of the day,” my father said.
“I think he was right,” I said. I fell back asleep.
Dr. Schlozman came in to check on me an hour later. My father stood as he entered.
“It went well,” he said to me. “I’m sure they told you the tumor was benign, so we can all high-five, or chest bump, however you want to celebrate.”
“Why do I feel so crummy?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe it’s because you just had brain surgery.” He grinned. “You’ll feel a little better tomorrow.”
“What’s next?” my father asked.
“He’ll have an MRI in the morning to make sure we got it all, then, if all’s well, he heads home on Thursday.”
“That soon?” Nicole asked.
“If the MRI checks out, so does he.” He smiled at me. “Thanks for staying alive, Alan. It looks good on my résumé.”
The rest of the evening I drifted in and out of sleep. When I woke the next morning, I had been given a catheter, something I was always very afraid of. It was an infection caused by her catheter that had killed McKale.
A little before noon, I was taken by wheelchair for an MRI. On my way down the hall I saw myself in the reflection of a window. In addition to being ba
ld, my head was swollen and I had a long row of staples in my scalp, with a deep indentation along the line of the incision. I looked like a monster.
Later in the afternoon I was moved into a private room. Dr. Schlozman came in to see me shortly after lunch.
“I’ve got great news,” he said.
“You got the tumor?” my father asked.
“That too,” Dr. Schlozman said. “But my good news is that my new book came out today and it’s a bestseller on Amazon.com.”
I was still a little foggy and wasn’t sure I was hearing him right. “You wrote a book?”
“It’s called The Zombie Autopsies. It’s a medical journal about the origin of the zombie virus.”
“You wrote a book about zombies?” Nicole asked.
“Yes, and it’s currently number fifty-seven on Amazon. Right between David Baldacci and Nicholas Sparks.”
My father looked annoyed. “But my son’s okay, right?”
Dr. Schlozman waved him off. “He’s fine, we got it all. Every crumb of it.”
“Thank goodness,” Nicole said.
“I still feel crummy,” I said.
Dr. Schlozman smiled. “I guess we can’t have everything, can we?”
The next morning the nurses prepared for my discharge. They gave my father prescriptions for pain medications and a sheet of instructions for caring for my incision. I just wanted to lie quietly without distractions—no talk, television or reading. It was as if words and sounds pricked my brain.
Around noon an orderly wheeled me out of the hospital and helped me into my father’s car. Frankly, I didn’t feel a whole lot better and I felt more tired than I had the day before. I felt overstimulated by everything around me. More than anything, I wanted to be left alone.
Through it all Nicole was helpful and kind, but she also seemed sad. It was nearly a week before I found out why.
Six days after my surgery I was lying in bed when Nicole came into my room. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
I sat up. “What’s wrong?”