The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery Read online

  Copyright

  The Redeeming Power of Brain Surgery

  Published by Scribe Publishing Company

  Royal Oak, Michigan

  www.scribe-publishing.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Paul Flower

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Author photo by Lauren Flower Witt.

  ISBN 978-0-9859562-8-8

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013939793

  Printed in the U.S.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  DEDICATION

  To Dad

  Chapter One

  His son’s hand felt like a lie. Lately, to him, everything felt this way. The look of sadness on his wife’s face, the burn of a drink in his throat, the whine of a saw in the O.R.; nothing seemed true. Nothing was real anymore. He felt out of balance, too. Even now, the school building, the flag slapping against the heavy fall sky—everything was tipping away from him. It was as though he’d gotten up that morning and screwed on his head carelessly, as though he hadn’t threaded it good and tight. While shaving, he’d cut himself, a discrete, semi-intentional knick just under the curve of his chin. He’d stood there like an idiot, eyes feeding the message “blood” to his brain, nerve endings responding with “pain” and the logic center unable to formulate a response.

  “Dad? Daddy?”

  “Uh? Wha’?”

  “Pick up the pace. Chop chop. Move out.”

  Now, as he snaked through the crush of other parents and children, he had to look down to convince himself the boy was there, attached to the hand, flesh and bone. The red hair, “his mother’s hair” everyone called it, was sliced by a crisp white part; his head bounced in beat with his sneakered feet. The child was so painfully real he couldn’t be a lie.

  It amazed him that his son looked so much like his wife, especially the tiny mouth, the way it was set in a crooked, determined line. He was a kid who liked to have fun, but he could be fierce. Today, the challenge of a new school year, of third grade, had brought out the determined streak. This was good. They would need that streak, he and his mother would.

  “Whoa.” The tiny hand now was a road sign, white-pink flesh facing him, commanding him. Far enough. He obeyed. Squatting, arms out for the anticipated embrace, he suddenly wanted to tell everything. Tears swam. His throat thickened. The earth tilted and threatened to send him skittering over its edge. There was the slightest of hugs, the brush of lips on his cheek, then the boy was off, skipping toward the steps as though third grade challenged nothing, caused no fear, as though the world was in perfect balance.

  He walked back to his Lincoln Navigator with the exaggerated care of a drunk who didn’t want anyone to know his condition. He got behind the wheel and suddenly was no longer in his fifties; he felt sixteen and too small, too skinny and insignificant to handle the giant SUV.

  He nosed the vehicle toward home, alternately trembling and gripping the wheel as he merged with the morning traffic. The plan struck him now as odd and silly, the challenges too great. His hands, already red and scaly, itched fiercely. Get a grip, he told himself. Get a grip.

  His tired mind—when was the last time he’d really slept well?—jumped from one stone of thought to another. Was everything covered at work? The bills—had he paid them all? Did his wife suspect anything? Yes. No. Absolutely. Of course not. Relax. Relax. He left the expressway at the exit that took him past their church and wondered if the church, too, was a lie. What of the wedding there so many years ago?

  Through a stoplight and past a Dunkin’ Donuts, his gaze floated around a corner. A flash of inspiration—hit the gas. Let the tires slide and the back-end arc around. Let physics have its way until the big vehicle broke free from the grip of gravity and danced head over end, coming to a stop with him bleeding and mercifully, gratefully dead inside.

  No. He had something to do. Had he figured the angles right? Gotten the plan tight enough?

  A horn jabbed through his reverie. He had drifted into the turn lane of the five-lane street. He jerked the wheel and cut across traffic into the right lane. Tires screeched, horns screamed. A black Toyota streaked past on his left, the driver’s fist, middle finger erect, thrust out the window.

  Rage, sharp and bitter, bubbled in his throat. He hesitated, then jammed his foot on the accelerator, cut the wheel hard, and sent the Navigator careening into the left lane.

  A staccato barrage of profanity pounded the inside of his skull. He bit his tongue to keep the words in. His heart hammered and a familiar, dizzying pressure filled his ears. The SUV roared ahead, past one car, past a semi, then another car, quickly closing the gap on the speeding Toyota. He couldn’t see the car’s driver but he could imagine him, some stupid, simple-minded schmuck, eyes locked on the rear-view mirror as the lumbering Lincoln grew larger, larger, larger. The instant before he would slam into the smaller vehicle, he jabbed his brake and turned again to the left. There was a squeal of tires and more horns bleating behind him; the semi rig’s air horn bellowed angrily past. Ramrod straight, eyes fixed ahead on the now-slow-moving car disappearing tentatively around a curve, he brought the Navigator to a shuddering stop in the center lane. He tensed and waited for the resounding WHUMP of a crash from behind. None came. Face flushed and eyes gleaming, suddenly rejuvenated, he accelerated quickly then eased the Navigator back into the flow of traffic—no looking back.

  ****

  He parked the Navigator in the garage next to the Mercedes and stopped to scratch the dog’s head before heading into the house. The run-in with the Toyota had helped. He felt a little of the old self-assuredness returning. What he had to do was suddenly in focus. That the plan was silly or impractical no longer bothered him. He disarmed the security system, hung his keys on a peg, slipped out of his loafers and put them side-by-side next to the running shoes on the mat by the door. For a moment, he contemplated getting into his running gear and knocking out a quick four-miler. That really would help clear his head. A glance at his watch told him no, no way. He crossed to the kitchen sink. From the cupboard above it, he took a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a shot glass. He held the bottle at eye level and felt a pang of regret. When had he bought it, just last week? For some stupid reason, the thought made him want to drink more. He poured, drank, poured again, then placed the glass on the counter, replaced the bottle, and closed the cupboard door. He looked out the window over the sink. Through the trees, he caught a glimpse of his nearest neighbor, who appeared to be washing his Ferrari in the driveway. The young, athletic-looking OB-GYN had just moved in the week before. He wondered why the guy w
as home in the middle of a cold, gray day and why he was washing the damn Ferrari. He had the urge to punch him.

  He picked up the glass and stared at the raw skin of his left hand, poured some of the booze over it, then, wincing, switched the glass and poured the rest over the other. Tears welled as the alcohol inflamed the raw nerves. The amber liquid ran off the ugly skin and formed a muddy puddle in the sink. Trembling, he rinsed the glass. He opened the dishwasher, pulled out the top rack, placed the glass upside down on a rubber-coated spike, and closed the door. The fire on his skin quivered and flared. His eyes burned. He was tempted to rinse his hands. Instead, he slowly rinsed the sink, then wiped it and the granite countertop with a paper towel.

  He threw away the paper towel, bumped a hip against the kitchen door and walked quickly across the dining room, through an arch and into the living room. He picked up the remote on a coffee table and jabbed the power button for satellite radio. “Hair of the Dog” by Nazareth; he thumbed the volume button until the beat throbbed through the house.

  In the second floor bathroom, he crossed to the sink, flipped up the faucet and angled it to the left. He let it get hot, so hot it hurt just to think about it, then pulled up the stopper lever. The water began to fill the basin, steam rising from it in a soft cloud that was both menacing and comforting.

  He immersed both hands, bathing the skin in a new fire. He forced himself to keep them there, his eyes clamped shut, for ten seconds, then fifteen, then twenty. The time clicked through his brain.

  Thirty seconds.

  Thirty-five.

  Finally, he could take it no longer. He flung his hands out of the water and whirled, searching wildly. There. He grabbed the monogrammed hand towel from its hanger. A groan escaped and he bit his lip, swallowing a scream. Through tears, he could see the skin was angry, scarlet. He stood for a moment, staring at the hands, which were now swathed in the towel. The music, dampened by the door, seeped through the pain. His phone vibrated against his thigh. Before he could stop himself, he freed a hand, pulled the phone out of his pant’s pocket, swiped the device on, and held the phone to his ear.

  “Hello?”

  His own voice sounded odd, strangled. He cleared his throat.

  There was a second of silence, then, “Jesse?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, hi. I thought you’d have the phone turned off. I was going to leave you a voicemail.”

  Why was she calling? Why now? What should he say? “Hello, this is Jesse Tieter, sorry I’m not available?” To his image in the mirror, he shook his head. There was nothing to say.

  Jesse ran a hand through his hair, noticed that his eyes had deep circles beneath them. The circles only seemed to accent his long, skinny nose.

  After all the years of lying, the fact that she was his wife and didn’t know—couldn’t know—gnawed at him. He loved her. He always had. But what he was going to do—what he had done—well, that said he never had loved her, didn’t it? Didn’t it undo everything? he asked the image in the mirror. Didn’t matter, the image said. It’s too late. Put a fork in it. In what? In your marriage, in your life, pick one. Heck, pick both. Those circles under your eyes make you look like death, which is appropriate, don’t you think? The strong chin (with the stupid shaving cut), the carefully maintained physique, what is it all worth now? Nichts, mein Herr. Kiss it. Good-bye.

  Jesse nodded in agreement. What he’d done in his marriage was nothing; who he’d been long ago, well, that made everything else moot. The old Him, the long-ago Him, why, that was the real Him, the Him she didn’t know. Their relationship was based on a lie. So anything else he did didn’t matter.

  He frowned. The feeling of being out of balance returned. His image seemed crooked and blurred. His lips were thin and pale and dry looking. Where was the lip balm? He used to be good about buying her flowers and leaving a card for her that said he loved her. But now he wasn’t even good at keeping his lips moist.

  “Did you get him off to school okay?”

  “Yeah. Yes. Fine. It went fine,” Jesse said, swallowing, blinking, trying to maintain his equilibrium. “Do I need a haircut?”

  “What?”

  “A haircut? Think I need one?”

  “Why do you ask that now?”

  “Just wondering. I was wondering if I could use a haircut. I mean is that such a big question?” His image, shaggy haired, waved and quivered.

  “Well, you always think you need one before I do.”

  “Not an answer.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “What you think. For once.”

  “Since when did you care what I thought?”

  “Since now. I just asked if I needed haircut.” The image was focused now. Clear. Angry looking, frowning.

  ”If it would help your mood, then get one when you get there.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing I guess, other than you’ve just been awfully cranky lately,” she said. “After all these years, you’d think I’d get used to your moods.”

  “Like you never have them.” Jesse sneered at himself.

  “What?”

  “Moods.”

  “Moods? Not like you. Sometimes I wish I could figure out what was in that head of yours.”

  Jesse was suddenly wary of her. His brain felt like a ball of dirty string. It was unraveling, the unraveled portion frayed and tired, the rest of the ball bouncing down some dark steps, down into shadows and blackness.

  “Did I get you in the middle of packing?”

  “Umm, yes. Yes, you did.” He dropped the towel to the floor, opened a drawer of the vanity, fumbled for the tube of hydrocortisone cream. Phone propped between shoulder and ear, he begin rubbing the salve on the back of his hand. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

  “I told you, you should have packed last night.”

  “Thanks for the advice now. I needed that.”

  “Jesse, come on. I’m just picking on you a little.”

  “And isn’t that fun.”

  “Well, it used to be. You used to occasionally actually joke around. Or have you forgotten what that’s like?”

  “I haven’t forgotten,” he sighed. “I haven’t forgotten anything.”

  “Then… I don’t know. Relax. We never used to fight like this.”

  “So it’s all my fault.”

  “What is?”

  “It’s my fault we fight.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Just implied it.”

  Anger, like a snake, uncoiled in his gut and slithered through his chest. “Ever think about the pressure I’m under? Ever?”

  “Don’t start on building that house or working over there. That was all your idea. I said I’d back you on it, but don’t start complaining now. Besides,” she softened her tone. “The house is done and you don’t have to worry about it. You can just go over there, do your visitation, a few procedures, relax at night all by your little lonesome in our darling second home and come home when you’re done. Just know we’ll miss you while you’re gone.”

  He couldn’t respond to that.

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  Again, he couldn’t respond.

  “Jesse?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “I was going to say that, well,” she paused. “Maybe you do have a lot on your mind, a lot inside that brain of yours. And maybe that’s the problem.”

  The snake was gone. But there was a buzzing, the stirring of flies, of millions of them, in his head. “Maybe what’s the problem?”

  “Maybe you don’t need to just keep all of it inside. Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to share some of it with someone. Maybe there are people who actually care.”

  “Starting with that again? Care about what?”

  “A
bout you. About whatever it is,” she said. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you.”

  He tried to open his mouth. The flies were making it difficult to speak. They were humming, millions of them, humming and humming in his head.

  “So now you’re going to play that game?”

  “What…” He swallowed. “…game?”

  “The game where you act like nothing’s wrong. That one. The one where you act like, ‘Oh, poor me’ every waking minute, like we’re supposed to either feel sorry for you or just get out of your way because you’re so nasty, and then you’re all, ‘Oh, don’t worry, nothing’s wrong.’”

  “Look. Look. Stop… stop being such a... stop trying so hard,” he said. “Let it be.” The flies were now an ugly black sound, throbbing in his back, between his shoulder blades, making it hard to breathe. “Let it go.”

  Her voice, usually strong, quivered with emotion. “Jesse, what’s going on?”

  He switched the phone to the other shoulder and closed his eyes. For the second time in an hour, he really wanted to spill it, the whole story.

  “Is it that girl? Andrea, was it? You know, you did everything you could with her. That wasn’t your fault. You know that.”

  A sigh, ragged and weary, shuddered through his chest and the flies broke free, scattering. A watery shadow—his mom’s face?—stuttered through his memory. Trembling, he began rubbing the cream into the other hand. “Look. I… I… I really have to get moving. The guy at the hospital over there is expecting me by one o’clock their time. The Ryan’s going to be a mess. I’ll be lucky to be in Indiana by noon. Heck, they probably have me in surgery tomorrow at dawn.”

  “So that’s it? That’s all I get? Just, ‘Bye, gotta go’?”

  Jesse put the cap on the tube of cream.

  She sighed. “I just wanted to tell you to have a nice trip and I’ll see you in a week. Guess I should have skipped it.” The phone went dead.

  Jesse returned the phone to his pocket and dropped the cream in the drawer. He held the gaze of his image in the mirror. “Buck up,” he growled. “Buck. Up.” Gretchen and Rev. Conkle at church had been trying to get him to loosen the hold on his feelings. Screw that.