Don't Move Read Free Page B

their best not to alarm your mother too much. Everything’s been arranged: She’ll be on the next plane home. There’s a British Airways flight that leaves London shortly after her arrival. Everything’s been arranged: They’ll give her a seat in some quiet corner, they’ll bring her some tea, they’ll offer her a telephone. I’ve got my cell phone in my pocket, turned on and ready for her call. I’ve checked it; it’s got good reception and good signal strength. I’m going to lie; I’m going to try to tell her you’re not in critical condition. Naturally, she won’t believe me, she’ll think you’re dead. I’m going to be as convincing as I can.
    You were wearing a ring on your thumb. I’d never noticed that before. Ada managed to get it off—it’s here in my pocket. I try to put it on my own thumb, but the ring’s too small. Maybe it’ll fit on my middle finger. Ah, don’t die, Angela, don’t die before your mother’s plane lands. Don’t let your soul fly up to the clouds she’s looking at so calmly. Don’t cross her flight path, dearest daughter. Stay where you are. Don’t move.
    I’m cold. I’m still in my scrubs; maybe I should change. My street clothes are in the metal locker with my name on it. I carefully put my sport jacket on the hanger over my shirt, I left my wallet and my car keys in the upper compartment, and I closed the little padlock. When was that? Only three hours ago, perhaps even less. Three hours ago, I was a man like any other. How devious grief is, how quickly it sets in. It’s like a corrosive acid, deep down inside, eating away. I’m leaning over, resting my arms on my knees. On the other side of the accordion curtain, I can see a portion of the oncology wing. I’ve never spent any time in this room before; I’ve only walked in and out of it. I’m sitting on an imitation-leather sofa. In front of me, there’s a low table and two empty chairs. The green floor is covered with small dark spots that move frenetically before my eyes, like microbes under a microscope. Because now it seems to me that I’ve been expecting this tragedy to happen.
    We’re separated by one corridor, two doors, and a coma. The distance between us is like a prison, but I’m wondering if it might be possible to break free of it, to imagine it as a kind of confessional, and to request an audience with you right here, my child, right on this floor with the dancing spots.
    I’m a surgeon, a man who has learned to divide things, to separate healthy parts from diseased ones. I’ve saved many lives, but not my own, Angela.
    We’ve lived in the same house for fifteen years. You can recognize my smell, my footstep. You know how I touch things; you know the even sound of my voice. You know both sides of my character, the gentle side and the irritating, indefensible, hostile side. I don’t really know what you think of me, but I can imagine. You think I’m a responsible father, not without a certain sardonic sense of humor, but too aloof. You and your mother have a solid bond; sometimes your relationship is stormy, but it’s always very much alive. I’ve hung around in the background, like an empty suit in a wardrobe. You’ve learned more about me from my absences, my books, my raincoat in the hall, than you have from my flesh-and-blood self. And I don’t know that other story, the one you and your mother have written about me with the help of the clues I’ve left here and there. Like your mother, you’ve come to prefer missing me, because having me around requires too much effort. Many a morning, I’ve left the house with the sensation that the two of you, bursting with all that energy, were pushing me toward the door to get me out of the way. I love the natural rapport between you and your mother, it brings a smile to my face; to some degree, you two have protected me from myself. For my part, I’ve never felt “natural.” I’ve tried hard to be—I’ve made some pretty drastic