Head Games Page 29
“Arlene,” I said by way of a greeting.
“How’s Jennifer?”
“Good. Things are finally gettin’ back to normal.”
Arlene nodded. She, too, had gotten a haircut, her light brown locks styled into a short bob that framed her face. She looked ten years younger.
“Eli actually decided to pay me,” I said. “Give me a few days and I’ll get you back the one seventy-five.”
She shook her head. “No. That was Eddie’s debt. A family debt. Besides, I can afford it. Put your money towards Jennifer’s college fund or something.”
“Thanks.”
We watched TJ talk to the Global Talent and record-label staff for a few seconds.
“So … are you ready?” Arlene asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess.”
“It’s the right decision.”
“Yeah.”
She placed a hand tenderly on my cheek, patting it softly. Then she leaned over and kissed my other cheek.
When I looked up, I saw TJ watching us. His face was expressionless until the hint of a smile crept in. He gave me a Hey, there nod with his chin. I nodded back.
Arlene and I watched TJ excuse himself from his attendants and step over next to Miguel. As TJ approached, Miguel’s hand involuntarily reached up for him, but he caught himself and brought it back down. TJ gave him a chaste pat on the shoulder, but their eyes betrayed the emotion of their reunion. I felt sorry for them and their self-imposed restraint for the sake of image. They clearly wanted to embrace but couldn’t in this public forum.
“What’s he gonna do after this?” I asked Arlene.
“Not sure. Take some time off. Try to cut a solo album, maybe. He has time to figure it out.”
I nodded. “I hope so. If there’s one thing we could all definitely use, it’s more time.”
* * *
Thirty-five.
That’s the number of acoustic tiles in the ceiling of the pre-op room. It’s amazing that a mindless activity such as counting ceiling tiles could be so engaging. Ah, the amazing entertainment powers of really good drugs.
I was lying on my back, contemplating my next diversion, feeling my body relax into seminumbness, when the door opened.
“Hello, Michael.”
“Hey.” My words came out slurred, drunken.
Father Luis Sanchez sat next to my bed and put his hand on my arm. In his black shirt and pants, he was a stark contrast to the white-clad nurses and orderlies who had been attending to me thus far.
“I was told you wanted to see me,” he said in his slightly accented voice.
“Yeah. Sorry … I’m a little loopy.… They gave me some drugs to relax.”
“That’s okay. Take your time.”
“Time…,” I mumbled to myself. “Can you … hang out? I mean, in case?”
“In case?”
“Yeah … y’know. In case…”
“In case something goes wrong?”
“Yeah … just in case … I wanna have last rites.”
Father Sanchez nodded. “Of course.”
“They’re takin’ the top of my skull off.… Anything can happen when a guy gets the top of his head removed, y’know?… They tell me I’ve only got a fifty-fifty shot of gettin’ the whole tumor.… And even if they do get it … there’s a good chance I could end up a vegetable.… And if somehow they get the tumor and I don’t wind up a vegetable, it’ll probably grow back as an even worse kinda tumor.”
Sanchez nodded again. “What, then, are the odds that everything will turn out the way you want?”
“Dunno … five percent?”
Sanchez smiled and squeezed my arm. “You’d be amazed at the things that God can do with just five percent.”
I nodded, closing and opening my eyes in a slow-motion blink.
“Michael, did you know that there are four beautiful women sitting in the waiting room for you?”
“Yeah…” I smiled, picturing the scene of Becky, Cam, Arlene, and Jennifer all sitting in the family waiting area, trading stories about me. In other circumstances I might have been horrified. But instead, today, I found it both amusing and reassuring.
“You must be very loved, to have four such ladies come down here at six in the morning.”
“I must be.”
Sanchez reached into his pocket. “Your daughter gave me this for you.”
He handed me a folded note. I opened it. In Jennifer’s round, adolescent handwriting were four simple words: I love you Dad.
“Thanks,” I said.
The door opened and an orderly entered. Father Sanchez blessed me, and then I was rolling. In a surreal, drugged daze I watched doorways and ceiling tiles flash by in a staccato montage of hospital scenes. The inside of an elevator. The scent of alcohol. A garbled intercom announcement. I closed my eyes and felt the motion of my wheeled bed traveling the corridors.
I didn’t know what the rest of my life held or how many days it would last, but I knew I would spend it without Bob. It was time to evict him from the rented room in my head. So I bid a silent farewell to Bob, but not before thanking him. By threatening me with death he had given me a second chance at life. I planned not to waste it.
I stopped moving and then felt hands lifting me, moving me from the gurney to the operating table. I heard muted tones of classical music.
“Morning, Mike.” A man’s voice, colored with a slight Indian accent. The anesthesiologist. He attached something to the IV tube in my arm.
“Okay, Mike. Do me a favor. Count backwards from one hundred.”
“Yeah…” I swallowed. “One hundred … ninety-nine … ninety-eight…”
I felt my body relaxing. My mind relaxing. My head felt lighter, as if Bob had already given up and shriveled away. Live or die. Vegetable or not. Either way, I knew I was doing the right thing. I realized that, for me, the choice to live was far more important than if I actually did. No matter what happened here today, no matter what happened tomorrow, for the first time—perhaps ever—I was truly at peace.
“Ninety-seven … ninety … six … ninety…”
With a smile on my lips, I felt myself slip gently into a warm, dark slumber.
RESOURCES
We all have our cancer stories.
Whether it was a friend, family member, or yourself, cancer has probably touched your life.
For resources, support, and information about how you can help, visit the American Cancer Society at www.cancer.org.
A valuable resource for me during the writing of this book was the Web site of the American Brain Tumor Association (ABTA).
I would be remiss if I didn’t recognize them here and encourage you to support their efforts at http://hope.abta.org.
ALSO BY THOMAS B. CAVANAGH
Murderland
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
HEAD GAMES. Copyright © 2007 by Thomas B. Cavanagh. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
ISBN-10: 0-312-36132-7
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-36132-7
First Edition: January 2007
eISBN 9781466829688
First eBook edition: September 2012
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