Turn of Mind

have you had to endure the death of James? How many times will I have to say good-bye to you, only to have you reappear like some newly risen Christ. Yes, better to burn the bridge and prevent it from being crossed and recrossed until my heart gives out from sheer exhaustion.

I am performing a complex brachial plexus procedure where the total plexus lesions have permeated all the nerve roots. The patient is under general anesthesia. His (her?) face is covered.

Things are not going well. I am attempting an intraplexual neurotization using the parts of the roots still attached to the spinal cord as donors for the avulsed nerves. But I miscalculate and hit the subclavian vein. Horrifying quantities of blood. I put pressure on it and call for the vascular surgeon, but it is too late.

I think about the faces of the family members in the waiting room. I also cannot help thinking, ashamedly, of the lawyers, of the internal hospital investigation that will inevitably follow. The tediousness of the paperwork that accompanies blunders large and small.

Then the room undergoes a sort of seismic shift and I am no longer in the OR. No patient anesthetized on a table. Instead I am gazing down at a bed with rumpled floral sheets. I am still perspiring, there is still an irregular drumming in my chest, but my hands are no longer encased in rubbery gloves, they no longer hold sharp implements. It’s a large bed with an oak frame. A matching dresser. An ornate red Oriental carpet. Nothing familiar.

I want the OR back, the soothing green walls, the steel instruments reflected large in the steel cabinetry. Everything placed just so. But this. This richly furnished, unsterile environment. It makes me uncomfortable. I want to wash my hands, suit up, try again. I close my eyes, but when I open them I am still in the same room.

Then I hear voices. With difficulty, I find the doorway to the room. I must scrutinize every inch of every wall before it finally materializes. Outside the doorway, a long hallway, painted a deep crimson, hung with photographs. And at the end of that, the way down. Soft plush material under my feet on top of polished wood, patterned with blue and green intertwined flowers.

I walk carefully, watching my feet and holding on to a long smooth piece of wood. I go down and I count. Twenty times I extend my right foot, place it on a lower surface. Twenty times I pull my left foot down until it is level with my right. And then again. The voices grow louder as I descend. There is laughter. I hear my name. I will proceed carefully.

There are two of them, a man and a woman, sitting in the living room, on the mission oak sofa. The woman has shoulder-length yellow hair, clearly dyed. It does not suit her. She is heavyset. Her pants are too tight to be comfortable, I can see the top button cutting into her belly.

The man stands up when he sees me. An older man. An old man. He opens up his arms. Jenny! he says, and without waiting, his arms envelop me. He smells good. His plaid shirt feels soft against my check, but his beard scratches. Snow-white hair with a bald spot on top. A gray, not white, beard. It looks dirty in contrast, gives him a slightly disreputable look.

Aren’t you glad to see your old friend Peter? asks the blond woman.

Oh yes, I say, and smile. Peter. How are you? I infuse my voice with warmth. I even force myself to take his hand. One must be cunning. One must play along.

Quite well, he says. Enjoying the sunshine. As you know, I was never a fan of Chicago winters. Although this one seems to finally be over. Here, sit down, sit down. Over here. He pulls over a beige chair, and I sink into its softness. He takes my hand again. It’s been too long, Jen.

How long has it been? asks the blond woman. She doesn’t wait for an answer. Your ears must have been buzzing! she says. Peter’s done nothing but talk about you!

She smiles. He smiles. I smile too.

Yes, they have been, I say. Indeed they have.

There is silence, rather awkward. Then the man speaks again, less heartily, more gently.

You don’t really remember me, do you? he asks. But he doesn’t have that pleading, hurt look that people generally have when they ask me this. That look that begs me to lie, to reassure them.

I immediately like him better. No, I say. Not a glimmer.

I’m in town to wrap up affairs, he says. I was here for the funeral, but everyone thought it best not to bother you. Unfortunately, things are a little tangled. Amanda never updated her will after the divorce. The estate has to go into probate. It’s going to take months to resolve, to find the next of kin who will inherit the house. That was really her only asset. But even in this market, it’ll be a substantial sum. For now, my hands are tied.

What divorce? I ask. What funeral?

He pauses. Well, I’ll just remember for both of us, he says, smiling. Then he turns sober. I understand you’re in a bit of trouble, he says. I wanted you to know that I believe in you. Without reservation. You clearly don’t know what I’m talking about. You probably won’t remember this. But on the chance that some things stick, I wanted to say it.

The blond woman makes as if to get up from the table.

No, no. There’s no need for you to go, he says. This isn’t a private conversation. It’s just something I wanted to get on the table. For myself, mostly, as it turns out. Otherwise, I would like to talk about good things, he says. Maybe it will spark something.

I’ll be the secretary, says the blond woman. I’ll write it all down. That way she can read it over when she’s in better shape. It might make more sense to her that way. She leaves the room, comes back with a large leather book, opens it to a blank page, picks up a pen. She writes something at the top of the page, pauses, and looks at the man expectantly.

Where shall I start? asks the man. Once upon a time. Yes, that’s the way to handle it. A myth-making event. Filled with archetypes.