Heart the Lover (40)

‘How are you feeling today, sir?’ Dr. Gaucher says, with more pep than he seems to have in him.

‘Good,’ Yash says. ‘I feel great.’

‘Any pain or discomfort, on a scale of one to ten, one being the least amount of pain?’

‘Zero,’ Yash says.

I feel him trying to please the doctor, get his aid, by being such a good, pain-free patient.

The doctor places the coin of his stethoscope on Yash’s chest. ‘Seems like you’re breathing okay.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you’re getting enough morphine?’ He looks at all of us for the answer.

Yash and Sam nod.

‘Good,’ the doctor says, scrolling on his iPad. ‘That’s all very good.’

What about any of this is good?

On the other side of the room the residents strain to stay focused. They flex their jaw muscles, shift their weight. Their eyes travel around the room but never to our faces. I study theirs, one at a time. I wonder what dramas have played out among them. I can feel their youth in the room, a forcefield of energy and fear and longing and confusion. I can feel it so strongly. And I know they sense nothing about us, two men and a woman in our late forties, none of our old entanglements or the freakishness of the three of us being in this room together now.

We are all caught in this performance, Yash pretending that he isn’t dying, Sam and the doctor that medicine still has something to offer him, and me in the role of devoted wife at his bedside.

Sam asks him a few questions about oxygen, liters per minute, a medication I don’t recognize.

The doctor answers them. ‘Anything else?’ he says and glances at his watch. Several residents do the same.

Keep ’em alive until 6:05. An old med school refrain.

We shake our heads no.

‘It’s nice to see you have family around you,’ he says. ‘Not everyone does.’ He leaves, the flock close behind.

Sam’s phone vibrates and he pulls it out of his pocket. ‘It’s Cole.’

Yash shakes his head. ‘Not again.’

‘He says he can’t get here till Tuesday now.’

‘And he wants to know if I’ll be dead by then?’

Sam’s laugh is still soundless. ‘More or less.’

Yash is pressing on the skin below his collarbone. ‘Feel this,’ he says.

Sam touches the spot on his chest.

‘Push down.’

Sam pushes.



‘It’s spongy, right?’

‘Kind of. That new?’

‘I think so. Feel it,’ he says to me, spreading open his blue hospital gown wider for me.

I push down on the spot. His bare chest surprises me. I forgot its barrel shape, its smoothness. The spot feels like a small balloon, taut but not dense.

‘Should I call him back in here?’

‘Let’s see if it goes away.’

Sam nods. ‘Shall I bring back the horde?’

‘Sure.’

Sam goes down to the family room and Yash squeezes my hand. ‘You see my cousin Jared, with all the hair? Aunt Sue and Uncle Percy’s grandson?’

‘That was Jared?’

‘I worry about that kid. Remember how his parents were supposed to come back and take care of him? They never did. Aunt Sue has had her hands full with him. He wants to be a graphic novelist.’ Yash rolls his eyes. ‘He wants to move to LA. He’s got some friend who knows people, supposedly. It’s all a lark. Will you talk some sense into him?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He doesn’t have a clue. He’s just all up here.’ He waves a hand above his head. ‘He’s not being practical. There’s some girl out there he’ll probably get pregnant.’ He sees my expression change, misinterprets. ‘Sorry, some very smart young woman. Just talk to him, will you? I worry about him. And I can’t help him anymore.’

‘Okay. I’ll talk to him.’

‘Thank you. Tell him what’s what. Tell him how hard it is, the creative life. The risks you have to take. Tell him about all the people you know, including me, who don’t make it.’

What do you know about taking risks, I want to ask him. You played it so safe. Mr. Cautious. And I protected you the one time things went off the rails.

It is an unpleasant feeling, having this anger at someone who is dying.

The horde returns along with new visitors, people coming straight from work. Two coworkers from the mayor’s office, a law school friend, a neighbor. I give up my chair. Jared’s back in the room but the chairs around him are all taken. Sam waves me over to his side. We lean against the far wall together.

I’m aware of how much blame I placed on him for everything that happened between me and Yash. All this time I suspected he’d been intent on sabotaging us from the start, lording his moral superiority over Yash, and scoring his final victory by luring him to Atlanta. But standing here beside Sam, who has probably not left this building in seven days, who has been only grateful and kind to me since I arrived, I see it might not have been so simple a story.



Beside him now, I actually feel like Jordan again. I feel so young, like I’ve been shot through a secret portal straight back in time.

‘Look at this.’ Sam hands me his phone. On the screen is a post on the Facebook page he created for Yash. It’s a long passage by someone named Connie about going to K-Mart with Yash in eighth grade to get materials for a project and how funny he was just picking out magic markers and how after that she had a mad crush on him but he never knew.