The Withdrawal Method Read Free Page B

of her cubicle, strangled to death by the crackling wisps of her old arms.
    No, he thought: she was gone. She had shed her old self and life and taken off. Maybe later she would call him from some roadside hacienda in dustiest Mexico, all fresh-skinned and new. A person reborn, free of him and their life together. He imagined her riding her bike along the side of the highway, the skin peeling away from her body, flapping at her heels, as she made her way to somewhere better.
    11
    SINCE LEE WENT in nearly three weeks ago, I spend my weekends watching movies with her in the ICU. She's got a list of classics she's always wanted to see, so on Friday evening after work I stop by the video shop between the airport and hospital and pick up the next three: The Lady Vanishes, The Seven Year Itch, and Cleo from 5 to 7. We'll watch one a day and then I'll return them all on Monday.

    Waiting for me in the hallway outside Lee's room is Dr. Cheung. "Hi, Pasha!" she says, producing a hand to shake, which I shake. Her hand is cold. Her hands are always cold, and her voice is always alarmingly loud - especially for a hospital.
    "How are things going?"
    "She's doing well!" enthuses Dr. Cheung, beaming. Then she lowers her voice. "We've got the last of the scans back and think we can go ahead with the surgery either tomorrow or the next day."
    "That's the Gamma Knife thing?"
    "Yes, we'll use it to remove the two remaining metastases from her brain. As I'm sure Dr. Persaud told you, melanoma responds so poorly to traditional radiation that we really think this is the best option."
    "And it's safe?"
    Dr. Cheung nods. "Absolutely. This in fact has less potential of complication than the surgeries we did to remove the original tumors on her back. Lee has some literature. Why don't you go in and see her?"
    "Isn't she sleeping now?" I step away from Lee's room. "Maybe I should wait?"
    "No!" Dr. Cheung yells, her hand on my shoulder, urging me forward, voice cranked back up. "She's waiting to see you!"
    I pause at the door. Dr. Cheung nods and gives me a shove into the room.
    "Hey," Lee whispers. She's propped up in bed with a version of lunch on the tray in front of her: gravy-soaked brown mush, veggies, a lump of potato.

    "Hey," I say. I put the newspaper, DV DS, and coffee on the tray, kiss her on the top of her bald head, and sit down.
    LEE'S NIGHT NURSE is Olivier, the quiet Congolese guy Lee really likes. If Dr. Cheung is a foghorn, Olivier is a thought. You barely know he is there; he whispers and nods and treats Lee with gentle reverence. Sometimes he mutters softly to her in French, "Ma petite puce," while he is changing her iv.
    I sit watching for a bit and then Olivier turns to me and says, "Sir," which is his polite way of asking me to leave. At first I'd been offended by the nurses asking this - after so long together I've seen Lee in every state of compromise you could possibly imagine - but I've realized it's not about me.
    "Ten minutes," Olivier whispers, and pulls the curtain around the bed, closing them off. I leave the room, then head down the hall, into the elevator, down four levels, and out of the hospital, where I stand with the smokers, not smoking because I don't smoke.
    WE'VE JUST STARTED The Seven Year Itch, headphones clamped over our ears, when Mauricio appears at the curtain, his sideburns two slick daggers on either side of his face.
    "Knock, knock," he says.
    Lee hits Stop on the remote and swings the screen out of the way. "Bienvenido," she says.
    Mauricio and Lee went to school together. I guess he tutored her in Spanish before she went to Mexico for a foreign exchange. They met up down there and travelled around, and then he'd moved home to Buenos Aires. He came back up here a few months ago, maybe because Lee got sick - I'm not sure. I'm not sure if they ever slept together either. There's definitely something. I've always dealt with it by trying to seem okay with the guy, not asking too many questions.

    "Hey,