‘I guess.’
He held out his hand. There was dirt caked into his palms. As I took it, my ears started to ring. He pulled me up fast and with so much force that I tipped in the other direction, staggering into the hall. He wrapped an arm around me to help me catch my balance.
‘Thanks.’ I dropped my hand from his.
‘You’re welcome.’ He paused, looking me over, starting at my feet, then to my knees, then to my skirt and shirt and breasts and neck and head. My heart pounded.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
I frowned. Could he have seen me watching, eight flights up? ‘No.’
‘You sure? You look familiar.’
He looked at me carefully, with certainty. Perhaps he was able to see deep inside me, under my skin and muscles. Maybe he saw everything I wanted, everything I felt, even things I didn’t want to admit to myself.
‘I’m not familiar,’ I insisted.
He shrugged. Then, right in front of me, without breaking eye contact, he reached down and rubbed his crotch. Up and down. Cupping it completely. Scratching sounds. There was nowhere else for my eyes to look. It was like the hall had lost air pressure. His eyes danced, enlivened.
‘I should go,’ I said, taking a step backward.
‘Bye bye,’ he teased.
But he was the one who turned and walked away. As he glanced over his shoulder, my mouth dropped open. It wasn’t the basketball player anymore. It was some other guy, a man with straight, limp hair and a wide, pear-shaped ass. A hand had come down and switched them. I rubbed my eyes, not believing it.
And then I bounded up the steps, passing a window that overlooked York. The basketball court was empty. When I turned a corner and burst into the ECT hall, there was my father, standing in the middle of the corridor. His face was so pale, his expression so lost. His gown gaped open at the front.
‘Dad!’ I bleated.
He looked through me.
‘Dad.’ I took his arm. ‘Why are you out here?’
His mouth parted. Little strings of saliva hung between his lips. ‘Where’s Dr Frum?’ I cried. ‘I thought you were supposed to be resting.’
My father blinked. He registered me, finally, his eyes fixing on my face. ‘There’s a secret I never told you,’ he whispered.
‘What?’
‘I hid it.’ His voice was half an octave lower than normal. ‘I hid it so you won’t find it.’
‘Oh Jesus, there he is.’ The overweight receptionist burst out the door, followed by Dr Frum. ‘He ran through the waiting room before I could stop him.’ She looked at me. ‘I think he was looking for you, but you weren’t there.’
‘Richard?’ Dr Frum said loudly into my father’s face, as if he were deaf.
‘You let him walk off?’ I asked them.
Now a nurse was behind the receptionist. ‘You should have been waiting.’
I looked back at my father. He had a secret he never told me? Was that true or…not true? He’s so sick, I thought. And he might not get any better. What if he never gets better?
My father put his hand on my arm. ‘Summer!’ he cried, as if I’d just arrived. ‘Oh, Summer, Jesus. What’s going on? Where the hell am I? Am I dead?’ He slurred his words.
‘Dad.’ I took his hand. ‘You’re in the hospital. You just had a treatment.’
His eyes widened. ‘A treatment? Do I have cancer?’
‘No…’
‘What treatment, then?’
I told him.
He ripped his arm from me. ‘No. No. Who’s making me? Why?’
‘Dad, you signed the papers.’
‘Mr Davis.’ The nurse took his arm.
‘Leave me,’ he screamed at her.
I looked pleadingly at the nurse. She pressed her lips together but didn’t look that surprised. This wasn’t even unusual to her.
My father careened to the window and crouched next to it, trying to heft it open. ‘What are you doing?’ I called out.
‘If I just…it’s so…’ he grunted. ‘I need to get out before they find me.’
‘Richard,’ Dr Frum said wearily.
‘Dad, stop it,’ I pleaded. So many people were staring at us. Even people from other offices. ‘Dad, please.’
He didn’t listen. He just kept straining at the window, his hospital gown now completely open at the back, the knobs of his spine poking through.
‘Dad.’ I managed to get between him and the window and pushed him a little, back toward the office door. He wagged his head stubbornly, lunging for the window again. I pushed him harder, spinning him sideways. He lost his footing, stumbled, and collapsed to one knee. Someone by the door gasped. My father gaped at me in disbelief, then turned away.
‘Dad…’ I started.
A man moved toward us, a big guy with dark hair and thick eyebrows that grew together. ‘Mr Davis? It’s Michael. Do you remember me?’ He had a German accent.
‘I didn’t sign any papers,’ my father shouted, still on the ground. ‘And I’m Dr Davis.’