Once he posed a riddle and I answered it, not realizing he was joking. What do you say when someone tells you, Doctor, it hurts when I do this? I absentmindedly replied,Tell them not to do it. He laughed and I looked at him for the first time.
It makes you feel young. It makes you feel old. You feel powerful. You are vulnerable.
It was none of those things. I felt no guilt. I felt no shame. And not because of James’s own behavior. I simply wanted to take it as far as it could go, to run it into the ground. This was a new experience.
For the most part you leave doors open. Bridges unburned. You don’t accept hopeless cases. You make sure to have an exit strategy. There was none in this case.
Hello, old friend.
A balding man, Asian American, with a strong Bronx accent, is standing by my chair. He is smiling familiarly at me. That is, he is smiling as if he expects to be familiar to me. He is not.
Do I know you?
I say this coldly. No more pretense. No more smiles for strangers.
Carl. Carl Tsien. We were colleagues. At Quicken St. Matthews Medical Center. I was Internal Medicine, you were Orthopedics.
That sounds plausible, I say.
Ah, you’re being cautious. Not committing yourself. He smiles as if he has just said something witty.
So, you say we were colleagues? I ask.
Yes.
Why were?
I am testing him, not just for knowledge but for truthfulness. Trustworthiness. He hesitates for a moment, then speaks.
You retired.
A nice euphemism.
Yes. To his credit, he looks a little chagrined. Well, that’s what you called it at the time. So you’re aware of your disease?
On good days like this, yes, I am completely aware of how far I’ve sunk.
Is my face at all familiar?
No. And I can’t tell you how boring it is to get asked that all the time.
Then you won’t hear it from me again, old friend.
Glad to hear that, stranger. So, why are you here?
He again looks uncomfortable. Shifts a little in his chair.
As an . . . emissary. From Mark. And as I look enquiringly at him, Your son, he says.
I have no son.
I know you’re angry with him. But let me make a case on his behalf.
You don’t understand. I have no recollection of any son. And I’m not inclined to play along. I used to, you know. Nod and pretend. No more.
He is silent.
Well, let’s talk hypothetically. Say you did have a son. And say that he had gotten himself into a bad situation. Made some mistakes. And imposed on you—or tried to.
Imposed in what way?
Borrowed money, repeatedly. Asked for more. Hassled your friends, as well. Even stolen, for example, your icon. He got a substantial sum for that.
I’d say, To hell with him.
Yes, but suppose he’s cleaned up his act. And wants to reconcile.
I’d want to know why.
Well, you’re his mother. Isn’t that enough?
Since I don’t know him, I don’t know why it would matter one way or another to him.
It’s just the idea of it. And the fact that he can’t get through to you. Either you’re furious at him, or you don’t remember him. Either way, he’s lost his mother.
How old is he?
Maybe twenty-nine, thirty.
In other words, old enough to survive without a mother.
