Читать книгу The Book of Stone - Jonathan Papernick - Страница 12

4

Though Stone had told him he was fine and didn’t need to see a doctor, Pinky dropped him off at the walk-in clinic on Atlantic Avenue. He said he had things to do and would pick Stone up in a couple of hours. Stone sat in embarrassed silence in the passenger seat of his father’s car the entire drive over, hoping Pinky would just take him back to his room and another round of the glorious morphine. But Pinky would have none of it.

The waiting room was crowded. Stone was prepared to leave when a seat opened up in the corner, its stained cushion welcoming his exhausted body. Stone sat and quickly drifted off into a fitful sleep. Sometime later, a dreadlocked nurse in pink scrubs woke Stone with a clammy hand on his cheek and asked him to join her in the examination room.

She left him alone in the bare room and told him to undress and slip into a disposable gown. He waited nearly fifteen minutes until the nurse returned and took Stone’s pulse, blood pressure, and temperature. He felt as if he were being processed rather than being treated. She pressed the cool disc of a stethoscope to his chest and back and asked Stone a few rote questions, ending with: Are you a smoker? She wasn’t even looking at him when she asked the questions, not the slightest show of investment in his answers. Stone had only this one life; the least the nurse could do was pretend to care, he thought. Wearing just a thin paper gown, he knew he must have looked frail and disposable, of no consequence. The nurse left and, again, Stone was alone beneath the fluorescent lights of the examination room. He could hear a child crying in the waiting room and was about to get dressed and leave this misery behind when there was a soft knock on the door. It was the doctor asking to enter.

The doctor introduced herself as Dr. Xiao, and Stone was immediately comforted by her presence, her soft, compassionate eyes. “Your temperature is just a touch above normal, but your blood pressure is very low,” Dr. Xiao said. “I’m not surprised you blacked out. Are you taking any prescription medications?”

“No,” Stone said.

“Illicit drugs?”

When his father had taken the morphine, it had not been illicit. Stone answered, “No.”

“Did you eat breakfast this morning?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Perhaps hypoglycemia?” Dr. Xiao took out a pen and wrote something down. “Is this common for you? To lose consciousness?”

“I don’t think so.”

She asked him if his thyroid levels had ever been tested, or if there was a history of diabetes or hypotension in his family. “Sometimes we inherit things from our parents that we would rather not receive. Genetics can be a bit of a dice game. Wouldn’t it be great if we inherited only our parents’ strengths?” She smiled. “I’d like to do some blood work, a basic metabolic panel to rule out any underlying issues.”

The doctor was small, just under five feet, with an almost childlike build; her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her black eyes reflected a surprising warmth. There was something trustworthy about her, and Stone wanted to tell her everything.

“My father just died.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Dr. Xiao said, and she really did seem to be sorry. “It can be very challenging to deal with the loss of a loved one.”

She allowed a moment and when Stone responded with silence, his mind stuck on the all-purpose term loved one, she continued.

“My father died when I was eleven, when we first moved here from Guangzhou. It was very difficult, so many mixed emotions. I was full of regret and anger and confusion. He wasn’t supposed to die so soon.”

Stone nodded his head. She understood his loss.

“Were you close with your father?”

It was almost too painful for Stone to answer, but he managed to say, “Not really.”

“I apologize for asking. But I understand,” Dr. Xiao said. “Parent-child relationships can be complex.”

She peeled back Stone’s eyelid and flashed a small penlight into his iris. His pupil constricted, a dull ache flooding back through his retina. His head pounded.

“Did you love your father?” Stone asked.

Dr. Xiao smiled and said, “Yes. Yes, I loved my father.”

Perched on the edge of the doctor’s table, Stone examined the glossy anatomical chart pinned on the wall across from him, the gaudy horror show of human anatomy. He saw a man’s round head flayed on one side, exposing incessant multiplying networks of blue veins rising from the thick cords of the neck to delicate tributaries in the face and skull. Stone took in the pink fibrous muscles and tendons, a rich garnet cord twisting up through the neck into the jaw. His eyes drifted down to the digestive system and the variegated shades of brick, rose, and scarlet; the nut-brown liver; the warm pink of the smooth stomach, tight as the skin of a newborn; the intestines coiled like sleeping nudes; flaming valves and tubes Stone could not name but could not turn from; and the layered walls of the stomach in cross section, piled high like the silty deposits of an archaeological dig. Amazingly, every color of the spectrum was contained within the human body; a wondrous palette of shades and tints that made it hard to question the existence of God.

“Mr. Stone,” Dr. Xiao said, “I was asking you to give me one word to describe how you feel.”

He apologized for blanking out on her and said, “Melancholia, malaise, desolation, disconsolation. I feel alone and completely lost. I don’t know where I belong anymore.”

“Any thoughts of suicide?”

Stone said nothing. He had never really thought of killing himself so much as he had thought of being dead, flying to a better place.

“Mr. Stone? Any thoughts of suicide?”

“No. Not seriously.”

“It is normal to feel sadness and loss after the death of a loved one. Do not beat yourself up over your feelings. Grieving is part of the natural cycle of life, and pain is the other side of pleasure. Now, if you’d like, I can prescribe you something to help you get over the hump, a five-day course of diazepam. It’s an anxiolytic that will help take the edge off while you deal with the immediacy of your loss. But I am not a fan of pharmacological treatment for grief, because I believe we need to face our loss and sort things out, rather than throwing a cozy blanket over it. Escapism is not healthy.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“Speak to somebody; a counselor, a therapist, even a good friend can be helpful.”

“But I like speaking to you,” Stone said. “I feel safe here.”

“Well, thank you,” Dr. Xiao said. “I can arrange for you to have a psychiatric consultation with my colleague. He’s an excellent therapist and can provide you with some techniques to more effectively deal with your loss.”

“I’ve been to therapists before,” Stone said. “They don’t help. I don’t know, but if I can just stay here and talk to you . . .”

Dr. Xiao smiled. “I am glad you feel comfortable speaking with me, but I’m a general practitioner, and a mental health professional will be more equipped to help you.”

Stone did not respond, the flickering fluorescent lights lending his skin a dull greenish hue. He just wanted to talk to Dr. Xiao, to keep her in the room with him as long as he could. “I had a breakdown. Junior year of college. I expected to do so well, ace my exams, write essays in my sleep and still finish at the top of my class, but things didn’t work out that way. Just before Thanksgiving, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat. My mind was racing, thoughts upon thoughts upon thoughts, just piling up like an inbox that remained forever full. But those thoughts were all tangled up; they didn’t make any sense to me. Sometimes I burned myself. My girlfriend wanted me to see a therapist, but I was afraid she was just looking for an excuse to break up with me, so we got in a fight in her dorm room and I called her some terrible things and she left me. Suddenly I realized I was in the middle of nowhere, in the dead center of Connecticut with winter creeping in, and I had nothing, nothing at all.”

Dr. Xiao had been listening intently, and she lifted the sleeve of his gown above where he’d been scratching and pointed at the scars on his forearm and bicep. “Is that when you did this?”

“Yes,” Stone said. “Some.”

“Did you try to kill yourself?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. He had such high expectations for me, and I was pulling in Bs and Cs, which to him were as bad as Fs. I went into this sort of fugue state and ended up on the roof of the Fayerweather gymnasium. I think he wanted me to jump, he kept telling me to jump, but I wouldn’t and that just made him more angry. I don’t even know how I got up on the roof.”

“Who is he?”

“My father,” Stone said.

“He was there with you? At school?”

“No,” Stone said. “Of course not. But he was always there in my mind, criticizing, judging, telling me I was a failure. I was constantly in disgrace. Do you know how badly I wanted to please him? It’s just, for some reason, I couldn’t do it. Like every step I had to climb to reach him was two or three times higher than the last. I just didn’t have the strength, so I defied him at every opportunity.”

“And then what happened?” Dr. Xiao asked. “After the roof.”

“I ended up in the psych ward in Hartford Hospital.”

“And how did your father react to that?”

“He was embarrassed. For himself. He said, ‘What will people think of me? You’ve ruined my good name.’ His good name! That’s what he was concerned about. Not me, but his name. My grandfather was a famous gangster and my father did everything in his power to make a name for himself separate from his father; I think my breakdown made him feel all the work he had done to build his life up from the ground was for nothing.”

“But it’s your life, not his.”

“To be honest, it was never much of a life,” Stone said.

“I’m sure that’s not true.” Dr. Xiao looked so sympathetic, the way her brow creased when she spoke. Stone just wanted to stay with her and hold on until his desolation passed.

“He sent me to Israel, to live on some crazy settlement in the West Bank where his old friend was a community leader and rabbi. At first, I was just so happy to get away, to leave Connecticut and school behind, to leave my humiliation behind and start fresh in a new country. But things didn’t work out in a hurry. I didn’t believe in the strict ideology that land was more important than human lives, that God had granted all the land of Israel to the Jews and nothing to the Palestinians. I wasn’t even allowed to use the word Palestinians around my father’s friend without him correcting me and saying the idea of a Palestinian people was just a cynical concoction cooked up by revolutionaries and murderers to delegitimize the Jewish State of Israel.”

“So what happened?”

“I left,” Stone said.

“And your father wasn’t happy?”

“Not at first, but I told him that I was going to learn Hebrew and travel the country and learn about Israel in my own way, and I convinced him. Surprisingly that was good enough for him. Until . . .” Even after all this time Stone could not form the words, could not say out loud what had happened after he left the safety of Giv’at Barzel’s red roofs and barbed-wire fences behind. Stone fell silent but feared Dr. Xiao would leave him, so he pressed on as best he could. “Anyway, it was bad, and my father was very upset and never forgave me and I haven’t been back to Israel since.” Stone’s heart revved at the memory.

Dr. Xiao considered his words in silence, a kindly expression on her face. But then, as if abruptly aware she had a backlog of patients in the waiting room, she said, “Thank you so much for sharing your feelings with me, Matthew.” She wrote something out on a slip of paper and handed it to him. “Here’s a script for alprazolam. This may help you until you find your feet, but I’m not giving you a refill. Antidepressants tend to mask pain rather than heal it.”

“That’s it?” Stone said.

“Dr. Zeilich will be with you in just a few minutes. He is an excellent therapist. He can help you.”

“Don’t go,” Stone said.

“I’m sorry, I have other patients to attend to.”

“Please,” Stone said, “just stay with me a bit longer.”

Dr. Xiao’s sympathetic expression reformed into a professional mask. “Please tell Dr. Zeilich about your grief, your feelings of inadequacy. He’s properly trained to help you. It sounds like you’ve got a lot of work to do, but try to remember that you have the power to heal yourself.”

For a moment, Stone thought she had said “you have the power to kill yourself,” but it was simply an acoustic blip that made the two words sound similar.

“The nurse will be along in just a moment to take your blood,” Dr. Xiao said.

She shook his hand firmly, professionally, adding, “Best of luck, Matthew. I know it doesn’t feel like it now, but things will get better.”

As soon as Dr. Xiao left, Stone slipped into his clothes and out of the examination room. He wasn’t going to stick around for some pointless blood work, to share his misery with a complete stranger. Pinky had not yet returned in the Thunderbird, and Stone was in no condition to walk. Trembling, he leaned against a utility pole, trying to gather himself.

It was a sunny day and the warm air was pleasant—not too hot, not too cold—and life went on before his eyes, cars racing past along Atlantic Avenue, horns honking, shoppers going in and out of the colorful shops across the street: Fertile Crescent, Dar-Us-Salam Books, Treasure Islam, Zawadi Gift Shop.

It was then Stone realized that stapled to the pole on which he was leaning was a cardstock poster announcing an upcoming rally along Atlantic Avenue. There was a crude outline of the shape of Israel, filled in entirely with the colors of the Palestinian flag. It read: RALLY FOR PALESTINE! The date for the rally was the anniversary of the Court Street Riot. There was a list of Arab dignitaries from the West Bank and Gaza and other parts of the Arab world who would be attending. Stone knew some of their names. He tore up the flier when he noticed the master of ceremonies was to be Randall Roebling Nation.

This time, Stone had no difficulty popping open the bottle of morphine pills; he swallowed two dry, hoping Pinky would arrive soon.

Someone was approaching at a quick clip down the sidewalk, a giant, dressed in the style of the ultra-Orthodox—dark rumpled suit, black hat, and a standard white shirt. He was walking with purpose, a slight hitch in his step, and Stone’s stomach clenched. The man must have been six foot three or four, and before Stone realized it, the stranger was upon him. He did not smile; in fact, his bearded face showed no expression.

“Rav Seligman wants to see you.”

“Pardon me?” Stone said, far more politely than he intended. He was reminded of the ultra-Orthodox man who had torn his suit at the funeral, and he considered spitting in the man’s face.

“Rav Seligman wants to see you.” The man turned to walk away, expecting Stone to follow, and, when he did not, stopped and repeated himself for a third time as if he were programmed to say only that one thing.

Stone had only just spoken with Seligman on the phone from Israel, and now he was here? It was understandable that Seligman could not make it on time for the funeral, which was held the day after his father had died, but why was he here now? There was no shiva, no memorial service, no reason Seligman could possibly need to speak with him again. He followed the giant down the block, overtaken by curiosity. What else might Seligman do to try to make him feel guilty and remind him of his shortcomings? Was he obligated to do something more than say the Kaddish? They turned right onto a side street where a black SUV waited, idling. Seligman’s face appeared behind the windshield. He plucked a toothpick from his mouth, smiled, and beckoned Stone to get in.

He hesitated for a moment, expecting Pinky would arrive in the Thunderbird looking for him, but then he realized it was just Pinky and Stone didn’t give a fuck. He climbed into the back seat. Seligman looked as he always had, with his gray trimmed beard, knitted kippa on his head, aviator glasses obscuring his eyes. His face was bright and alive. He had not aged a day since Stone had last seen him. It was true that Stone hated Seligman: hated his fire-and-brimstone radicalism, hated his us-versus-them outlook, hated his strength. But he also realized there was something in Seligman that reminded him so much of his father he was drawn toward him: a second chance, in miniature, to make good.

“Matthew,” Seligman said, turning and placing his warm hand on Stone’s, “I know this is a difficult time.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

“When I saw you at the bingo hall today,” Seligman said, his sunglasses catching a spear of sunlight, “I saw a lost, sick young man in no position to refuse any help. I just want to make sure you are all right.”

The morphine still had not fully taken hold, but Stone was slipping through the rabbit hole. Had he said he had seen him at the bingo hall? Why would Seligman be playing bingo? And why did Seligman give a damn about what happened to Stone? Seligman was not a warm and caring man. Seligman was a monster. Seligman was the one who had told him not to consort with Arabs when he had stayed with him at Giv’at Barzel. Seligman was the charismatic orator who pounded his clenched fist on the podium, spraying saliva as he shouted to the fired-up crowds about “Ishmael in Eretz Yisrael.” He was frightening, he was dangerous. Yet here Seligman was in the flesh, warm, kind, alive. Seeing Seligman face to face, Stone had an intense urge to flee. He had turned tail and run last time they’d been together, but the thought of his father’s avatar seeing him as a coward made him sick to his stomach.

“I’ve been better,” Stone said.

“You don’t look good,” Seligman said. “That worries me. Is there anything going on I can help you with?”

Stone offered no response. Seligman was not a sympathetic man.

Seligman wore a hurt expression on his face. “Kid, I have known you since before you were born. Your father and I go way back. You know that. He was one of the smartest and best men I have ever known. We grew up together, studied together. For goodness’ sake, you’re his only son. I’m talking about rachmones.”

“What do you mean?”

“Compassion, Matthew. I know it is not easy for you to be alone now. And I know you and your father did not always see eye to eye.”

“He’s gone,” Stone said.

“I know,” Seligman said, squeezing Stone’s hand. His father had not taken his hand in his own in years, and Stone was nearly overcome by the intimacy of this small gesture. He started to say something, then remembered the giant sat less than two feet from him.

“Don’t mind him. He’s just my golem. Moshe,” Seligman said. He nudged Moshe in the ribs. “Drive us around the block.”

The side and back windows had been blacked out. The frigid air-conditioning blowing against Stone’s bare arms made him shiver.

“I was a disappointment,” Stone said. “I always thought there would be enough time to make good with him.”

“Der mentsh trakht un Got lakht.”

Stone returned a puzzled look, and Seligman said, “Man plans and God laughs.”

“I don’t believe in God,” Stone said.

The car turned a corner. A group of schoolchildren crossed the street, brightly colored knapsacks clinging to their backs.

“You must believe in something.”

Stone’s mind was already getting gummy and slow and he just wanted to lie down and rest.

“I believe in the power of books,” he said at last. “Books are the best way to engage with humanity without actually engaging with humans. The world is full of uncertainty. Books have all the answers.”

“I know your father loved his books.”

“And now they are mine,” Stone said, an ecstatic rush overtaking him. “I need to get back to them now.”

“Are you afraid something will happen to them?”

“They’ll start speaking without me,” Stone said.

“Who will?”

“The books!” Stone replied. “With them I can know everything, knowledge is limitless, it fills the emptiness inside—”

“Matthew,” Seligman said, squeezing Stone’s wrist, “it’s not healthy for you to be alone now.”

“Imagine spending an evening with Churchill, T. E. Lawrence, Freud. They are all waiting for me.” Seligman’s face was melting and beneath that face was another face, full of evil intentions, and beneath that face was another face, calm as a night breeze, and the faces kept peeling back until Stone saw his father’s face alive in Seligman’s.

“Listen, it is the penitential month of Elul. A new year is upon us. It’s almost Rosh Hashanah. Come pray with me. You shouldn’t be alone. Come with me. You’ll sit, you’ll listen. You’ll be with Jews instead of sitting like a hermit with your books. Your father would want you to be with family. And every Jew is family. Think about it?”

If every Jew was family, Stone thought, then there must be another father for him somewhere, perhaps many fathers. And as he regarded Seligman up close for the first time in years, he saw the Judge in Seligman’s air of confidence, steadiness, self-assuredness. The raw timbre of their voices so much alike. There was even something about the way Seligman smelled that reminded Stone of his father, though he did not smell of cigarettes but carried some raw, masculine scent Stone could not place. He wanted to trust this person, he wanted to have a second chance, he wanted to believe it was he who was broken the last time he had seen Seligman, not the other way around. In fact, Stone’s mind had been broken, and running away from Seligman had solved nothing.

“Matthew, must I remind you, it is your obligation to say the Mourner’s Kaddish for eleven months after the death of your father. You said you believed you were a disappointment to your father? Let’s put an end to that now and start fresh with a new year.”

His father’s face was gone and Seligman had returned, that repulsive toothpick in the corner of his mouth. “You are a one-trick pony, aren’t you?”

“Matthew, I assure you I have only the most honorable intentions.”

“I don’t feel good. Please drive me to my friend’s apartment.”

“Relax, Matthew. You’re not in your right head. I mean no offense whatsoever. You are part of a beautiful tradition, a beautiful history. The Mourner’s Kaddish has provided comfort for grieving Jews for thousands upon thousands of years. I just can’t understand why you wouldn’t grab that lifeline.”