Part Eight
Nathan Bates
3 January 1990
Home
Nat sprinted, somewhat awkwardly, down the third-floor hallway of the hospital, until he literally ran into a nurse. A short, round, older woman who brushed herself off, scolded him with her face, and crossed her arms stubbornly.
“Young man,” she said. “This is a hospital.”
Nat sighed and inwardly counted to ten. Or began, anyway. Somewhere around three it became his turn to speak.
“First off, ma’am, I’m going to be thirty this year, so I think I’ve finally outgrown the ‘young man’ bull, thank you very much. And not a moment too soon. Secondly, I know this is a hospital, which is why I’m in a hurry. When you all of a sudden find out someone you love is in the hospital, it makes you impatient to know …” He cranked up the volume at this juncture, “… what the hell is going on!”
He waited to be chastised for raising his voice to her. Instead she just said, “Patient name, please?”
“Nathan McCann.”
“Second door on your right. He’s probably in there right now, listening to you shout at me.”
“Good,” Nat said. “That’s how he’ll know it’s me.” She shook her head and walked off down the hall.
Nat stuck his head into the second door on his right.
“Nathan?”
“Yes, Nat,” he said quietly. “I sensed you had arrived.” Nat stepped inside and up to Nathan’s hospital bed. Nat had never seen Nathan with his hair uncombed. Or looking helpless. Or looking so old. He’d seen Nathan just about six days ago. They’d had lunch. But he hadn’t looked like this. Six days ago he’d been a fairly healthy-looking old guy in his late seventies. Now he was visually ninety, leaving Nat scrambling to keep up.
“Nathan. How could you have surgery and not tell me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you,” Nathan said, his voice small.
“Whatever happened to all that truth you were always preaching? How the truth is the truth, even if we don’t like it, and we’re not doing the person any favors to lie?”
“I didn’t lie to you,” Nathan said. “I didn’t say I wasn’t having surgery.”
Nat threw his head back and sighed deeply, looking at the white acoustic ceiling. Then he pulled up a hard plastic chair and sat backwards on it, folding his arms on the top of the chair back and staring into Nathan’s face.
For the first time in all the years Nat had known him, Nathan cut his eyes away.
“That’s not exactly what you might call forthcoming, Nathan.”
Long silence.
Then Nathan said, “I know. I’m sorry. I thought they were going to go in and remove this tumor that was sitting on my kidney. And I was hoping they would say they were confident they’d gotten it all. And then I could tell you the good news and the bad news all at one time. I had cancer, but they’re sure the surgery was successful. They’re sure they got it all.”
A pause, as the word “cancer” ricocheted around in Nat’s head and gut, leaving a weak, trembly feeling behind it.
“So. Are they sure they got it all?”
“No,” Nathan said.
“So, maybe there’s this tiny bit they didn’t get, and then maybe they’ll do radiation and chemo, and everything’ll be fine?”
“No,” Nathan said.
Unable to bring himself to ask any more questions, Nat just waited, silently, staring at a spot on Nathan’s bed sheet.
“When they got inside, it was everywhere. So they just closed me back up again.”
“They didn’t even try to get it out?”
“There wasn’t much point.”
“But they’ll still do radiation and chemo.” Still staring at the spot on the sheet.
“They gave me the option. But it would only have potentially doubled the time I have. And it would have completely destroyed any quality of life I might enjoy during that time.”
Nat looked at Nathan’s face again. An effort. “Yeah, but double? Double the time you have left? That’s gotta be worth it, right?”
He forced himself to hold his gaze on Nathan’s face. Nathan did not return the look.
“Double would only represent about another month or six weeks.”
Back to the spot on the sheet.
A literal two or three minutes ticked by. Nat nursed an odd feeling in his stomach. A buzzing. Like the humming of a high-voltage electrical wire. As if he had just suffered a mild electrocution. He knew he had to say something, sometime. He just couldn’t imagine what it might be. He searched desperately in his mind, and finally found something that he thought would be OK.
“What can I do to help you, Nathan?”
He realized, after the fact, that he’d arrived at those words by imagining what Nathan would say if the shoe were on the other foot.
“You can take me home.”
“Home?”
“Yes. I want to be in my own home.”
“Don’t you have to be here?”
“No. I don’t have to do anything any more. I can do whatever I damn well please. And I want to be in my own home.”
Nat briefly scanned his mind to see if Nathan had ever used the word “damn” in his presence before. No matches.
“But they know what to do for you here.”
“There’s nothing they can do, Nat. Please just call a cab and take me home.”
Another minute of the buzzing, which seemed almost to have an accompanying sound. Then Nat realized it was just a ringing in his ears.
“OK. I’ll go get a cab.”
Nat stood. His legs worked just as he expected them to.
He stepped out into the hall. And almost ran smack into Carol.
“Oh. Nat,” she said. As if she’d seen him last month sometime. Or the month before. Definitely not as though they hadn’t spoken in almost nine years. “Isn’t it awful about Nathan?”
She looked so much older, but in a good way. Less like a girl, and more like a grown woman. Had he grown up that much, too? It didn’t feel like it from the inside of him.
“When did he call you?”
“Just now. I left work and came right over.”
“So he didn’t tell you he was having surgery, either.”
“No.”
Thank God, Nat thought. That would have been just about the final insult in all of this. If everyone had known except him.
Unable to add the whole Carol issue to the weight he already carried, he simply walked around her and tried to be gone.
“I have to call a cab,” he said over his shoulder. “Nathan wants to go home.”
“I could drive you,” she said.
Nat stopped. He did not immediately answer. He closed his eyes, as if he could transport himself to someplace easier. But when he opened them again, he was still in the hospital. And Carol was still standing in the hall staring at him.
“You have a car, now?”
“Yes. I do. I got my license. And I got a better job and I bought a second-hand Toyota.”
“You know … a cab’ll be fine. He asked me to call a cab.”
“You want me to go ask him? If he’d rather have a ride?”
Nat inwardly sighed, and gave it all up for lost. Sometimes it’s easier to fall deeply into the worst day imaginable. At least save yourself the trouble of trying to fight.
“I guess it should be up to Nathan,” he said. “I’ll go with whatever Nathan says.”
? ? ?
“Where’s Carol?” Nathan asked. “Did she go home?”
“No. She’s in the kitchen making dinner.”
Nat sat on one of the straight-backed wooden chairs by Nathan’s bed. Sitting on his hands, quite literally. Leaning forward and watching Nathan as if he might be about to blow away. He’d never spent any time in Nathan’s bedroom, and it felt awkward to be here now.
Nathan did not reply. And the silence made Nat nervous.
So he said, “Scrambled eggs, most likely.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Nathan said. “Carol is a wonderful cook.” Nat cocked an eyebrow but said nothing. “She had me over to dinner just before the holidays.”
“I thought she only knew how to make scrambled eggs.”
“That was a long time ago, Nat.”
“Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
Nat rocked back and forth slightly on his hands. Not knowing what to say. Or what to feel. Or where to be. This didn’t feel like the place to be, but he was oddly sure that moving wouldn’t fix it.
“Tell me,” Nathan said, startling him. “Are you sitting there out of complete devotion to me, and utter shock that it’s come time for me to get my affairs in order? Or are you hiding out here to avoid seeing Carol?”
“Yes,” Nat said.
They both smiled, which Nat suspected came as a surprise to both of them. It certainly surprised Nat.
“Why don’t you go out and help her with dinner?”
“Because it scares the crap out of me.”
“Fear of cooking?”
“Very funny. Talking to her. Looking at her. Being in the same room with her. It all scares the crap out of me.”
“What would you say to her if she didn’t scare the … crap out of you?”
“Nathan. You said crap!” Nat announced this almost proudly.
“I’m definitely feeling a lifting of the rules. But you’re ducking the question.”
“Oh. Right. I guess I would say I was an idiot. And that I’m really, seriously sorry. Even though sorry probably doesn’t help at all.”
“Sounds like a good start.”
“You want me to start with that?”
“What if you never see her again? You might not have much time.”
Nat sighed. Rose, and pushed the chair back into the corner.
“OK. Wish me luck. I’m going in.”
? ? ?
“Nathan thinks I should help you with dinner.”
Nat stood with his shoulder leaned against the kitchen door jamb. As if crossing the threshold might prove too dangerous.
“I don’t really need help, actually. It’s all under control. But thank you.” A split second before Nat could slink away in utter defeat, she said, “You can keep me company while I cook, if you like.”
So he didn’t slink away. But neither did he cross the dangerous threshold.
Say it, he thought. Just open your mouth and say it.
“Carol,” he said, because he thought after saying that much he’d be obligated to finish.
“Yes, Nat?”
She turned away from the stove and stood facing him. Put down her wooden spoon on the Coney Island spoon-rest on the stove, and pushed back a wisp of hair that had come down from its barrette. She looked right into his face, freezing everything. Even time.
“Thanks for making dinner,” he said.
“It’s no problem. I want to do something for Nathan. I can’t believe this. Oh, that’s a stupid thing to say, I guess. I mean, he’s almost seventy-nine. I don’t see why I should be shocked. But I guess I still am. Are you going to take care of him all by yourself? Or are you going to have a nurse or a hospice person come in?”
Nat tried to force his brain into some kind of action, but he still felt as though she’d asked him to solve a complex algebra equation.
“I don’t know. We haven’t really worked out a plan. I’ll have to see what Nathan wants to do.”
“Would you like me to stay?”
A shocked silence, one that was probably fairly short, but felt endless and impenetrable to Nat. He offered no response. Because he had none. He had nothing.
“I’d have to go to work on the weekdays. But I could make breakfast and dinner. And run errands in my car. And maybe just help out if you got tired and needed a rest. I could sleep in the den. Or on the couch.”
“No, you can sleep in the bed. I’m going to sleep in Nathan’s room. On the floor, or whatever. In case he needs anything in the night.”
“It’s all set, then. Will you tell him I’ll bring his dinner in twenty minutes?”
Say it, he thought. Say something. Say anything. Open your mouth and speak.
“Carol?”
“Yes, Nat?”
“Thanks.”
? ? ?
“I think I’ll have to start someplace easier. Oh, and dinner’s coming in twenty minutes.”
Nathan set down the book he had been reading. The biography of one of those old political guys from colonial times, but Nat couldn’t read the name from across the room and didn’t recognize the picture. Nathan took off his reading glasses. Sighed. Shook his head.
“You might have just forfeited your last chance to apologize.”
“I doubt it,” Nat said. “She’s staying.”
4 January 1990
Exceptions
“All of this is such a shock to me,” Nat said. “I just can’t seem to get my head around it all.”
He lay on a rollaway cot in Nathan’s room, wondering what time it was. Not dawn. That’s all he knew for sure. That and the fact that Nathan was also awake.
“I’m going to be seventy-nine years old, Nat. If I make it until the fourth of next month, that is. I was born in 1911. People born in 1911 have average lifespans of less than seventy-nine years.”
“Yeah, all right. But I’m not talking about stuff like that, anyway. I’m talking about shock. Shock doesn’t live in the part of your brain that does math. You know?”
Nat noticed that they spoke more easily in the dark. Maybe he should try this with everybody. Maybe he should turn out the lights and tell Carol he was an idiot and he was sorry.
“You must have known I’d have to die someday.”
“Not really, no.” Then he realized how stupid it must have sounded. “I’m not saying I thought you never would. Just that I never thought about it. No. You know what? That’s not really the truth. The truth is, I really thought you never would. I mean, not literally, but … I know everybody dies. I just think there was this weird little part of me that sort of … not literally, but … I thought you’d be the exception to the rule.”
“I’m sorry I can’t be immortal for you.”
“That makes two of us,” Nat said.