“It’s so strange, it’s like I can taste it again. It actually feels like I’m eating paella right now.”
Hearing this, Harold feels his body tense. The lulling seaside heat turns hostile.
“Maybe it’s the sun,” he says. “You should go under the umbrella.”
“Hmm,” she says, her eyes closed. Then her eyes open and she sits up on the towel. She stares intently at the ocean, as if seeing something approach, some strange ship. Harold follows her gaze, but finds nothing but water and empty horizon. He looks back at Carol, whose right arm lifts and stretches in front of her. Harold can see the beginning of sunburn on the skin.
“Honey, are you all right? What are you doing?”
She doesn’t answer, but continues to stare straight ahead, her arm stretched. Her lips move soundlessly.
“I think you should go under the umbrella.”
Her arm stretch lasts another moment, and then another. She appears to be reaching for something. Then her arm slackens and relaxes at her side. She lies back down on the towel.
“What just happened?” Harold asks her.
“I don’t know.” Carol says. “What happened?”
“Honey, come under the umbrella. The sun is doing something to you.”
That evening, her arm stretches out during dinner. She topples a water glass, and her fork falls from her hand.
The Hawaiian hospital admits her overnight. Their test results are inconclusive. The doctors recommend she follow up at home. The Christensens are lucky to live in a place with some of the best neurological facilities in the country.
Harold’s family spends a tame New Year’s Eve at the hotel bar. Carol maintains her muted good spirits, sipping sparkling cider. Their daughters are determinedly upbeat, and no one mentions the episode.
The day of their return, Harold makes a few strategic phone calls and secures an appointment with the best doctor in the field. According to his chief operating officer, who’s survived an aneurysm, there is no one but Michael Warren, head of neurosurgery at St. Joseph’s.
Harold takes the afternoon off work to accompany his wife to the hospital. Dr. Warren is young, at least a decade younger than Harold, with a full head of dark wavy hair. They sit in his office, a cold shell of a room with few embellishments, and Harold describes the nature of Carol’s episodes.
Dr. Warren listens closely. When Harold finishes, the doctor says, “I should tell you that I’m not usually involved in diagnosis.”
“Usually,” Harold repeats.
Dr. Warren looks silently at Harold for a moment. He has quick, intelligent eyes.
“How long have you been practicing?” Harold asks.
The doctor blinks, sits back in his chair. “Well, I finished medical school twenty-one years ago.”
“Oh, I’m not questioning your credentials. Just curious. I wanted to be a doctor myself when I was a kid.”
“A doctor is always practicing. That’s a bad joke in the medical field.” The doctor sits forward again, begins to stand.
“This seems like a very good hospital,” Harold says, standing first. His shoulders square instinctively and he feels the clean, masculine lines of his suit. “I shouldn’t speak so soon, I mean not until my wife has been diagnosed.” He tilts his head toward Carol, who is gathering herself up from her chair. “But this seems like the kind of institution that might be worthy of financial support.”
“Well.” The doctor pauses, smiles. “There’s always room for improvement—and for fighting malpractice lawsuits.”
There. They have an understanding.
Harold chuckles. “And there’s always room for grants for talented doctors, I bet.”
Dr. Warren sends Carol for an MRI the same day. Harold watches her frame disappear into the space-age tunnel, then asks the radiology technician for permission to come inside the booth where they study the scan of her brain. The technician hesitates, but looks steadily at Harold, a gray-haired man in a gray pin-striped suit, and cautiously assents.
“Just don’t touch anything,” he says.
The technician sits at what appears to be a desktop computer. Harold hovers at his side, watching the monitor. All at once, the brain shape appears, ruffled and white, like a cauliflower cut in half. Harold stares. His breath catches, and he has the irrational desire to touch the screen.
The radiology technician speaks into a headset. “You’ll hear some banging sounds. They’ll just last a few seconds.”
“Who are you talking to?” Harold whispers.
The technician glances coldly at him. “Your wife. There’s a speaker in the machine, so she can hear my voice. It’s comforting for patients to know that what’s happening in there is normal.” He looks back at the machine. “Now you’ll hear a buzzing noise and some high-pitched beeping. It will last about a minute. Just close your eyes and try to relax.”
“What’s happening now?”