But the growing tightness in her stinging, sour stomach belied Yolanda’s understanding that such attentive patient care could only mean bad news.
Oncology was located on the top floor of the medical center. A great deal of effort had been expended to mute the essential horror of the place. At either end of the hallway was a cozy little alcove with couches, dim lights, every surface punctuated with tall pink vases of dried pussy willows. Sheer curtains covered the large windows overlooking the city, as if an unimpeded vista might taunt patients with the world they were so close to losing. Or, thought Yolanda, her heart urging flight, inspire them to jump. A small room near the reception featured calming classical music, cushions on the ground, reclining loungers. Shh . . . Meditation Room, read the sign on the door.
In the examination room, the comforts were fewer. Pink and green linoleum floor tiles. On the walls, disconcerting desert landscapes of nowhere in particular. And it was even chillier here, the air-conditioning cranked high against the hot atmosphere that pressed itself into the bowl of the valley. Yolanda shivered in her sleeveless shirt.
The appointment could be said to have gone well, insofar as it started on time and the conclusions were clear. Pressing on the left frontal lobe of her cerebral cortex, the scans revealed, was a tumor the size of an almond.
Her oncologist, Dr. Mitchell, sat beside the examination table and pointed out the various fuzzy regions of her brain on the scan. “Here you see the occipital lobe, which is responsible for converting light on the retina into images in your brain. And this is your frontal lobe, which is responsible for voluntary movement and other higher functioning, planning, social navigation, and whatnot.” Even Yolanda could see the problem: a mottled white island in her brain.
“Unshelled or shelled? The almond.”
Dr. Mitchell paused and smiled. “I always get those confused. Shell on.”
Behind Dr. Mitchell stood a very young Chinese man who’d introduced himself with an impossible accent. Dr. Mitchell had explained that he was a med student from UNLV. The boy kept tugging at his stethoscope.
“Can I have a blanket or something?” she asked. “It’s cold in here.”
Dr. Mitchell looked vaguely at the student. “Get her a covering cloth.” He waited, sympathetic and patient, while the cloth was found, and then he unfolded it and set it across Yolanda’s shoulders as though she were his date to the opera. Yolanda was grateful that she was in her own clothes, hadn’t been made to undress and put on a gown.
Dr. Mitchell scooted his rolling stool closer. He was just below her eye level. He might be about to propose to her or fit her with new shoes. It seemed absurd that she was sitting so close to this glossy man—she could lean down and kiss him.
Yolanda had a lot of respect for the medical profession—for professionalism in general—but she found herself looking hard at this man with his tanned face and lean body. His gray hair was as short and glossy as a squirrel’s pelt. There was something suspect about Dr. Mitchell, and maybe that something was that he was a doctor in Las Vegas, where everything was show and surface. Maybe Dr. Mitchell was just playing the part of doctor, and really behind the scenes he was a craps dealer at Harrah’s. Or a Chippendale in a little zebra-print loincloth. Yolanda could picture that. From her perch on the high bed, she looked out the window; no sheer curtains in this room; this room was all about facing facts. Below her, lush green golf courses spread like patches of carpet across dry desert floor, and swimming pools were blue lozenges pressed into the dirt.
“This is serious.” Dr. Mitchell tapped the brain scan with his ballpoint, leaving little hatch marks on the tumor. “Given the size and the worsening of your headaches and fatigue and the rest of your symptomatology, I’m concerned. I understand you’re on vacation. Do you have anyone who can be here with you?”
Yolanda shook her head. “I’m fine,” she said. She couldn’t bear Cal’s sad eyes, his big dry hand squeezing hers, his assumption of their intimacy. He’d spent the whole vacation doing nice things for her: getting up early to bring her muffins, proposing dinner at fancy restaurants on the Strip, walking proudly past their neighbors in the RV park with his hand around her waist. He thought they were headed toward marriage. “Please just tell me what I need to know.”