The Dinner Guest Read online

  III

  The day that they performed the first colonoscopy, I was sitting behind a blue curtain in the same room. I could see the shoes of the oncologist moving on the tiles from one side of the hospital bed to the other, and the amplified colon on a screen. I got my phone out of my pocket and took a photo of the monitor. In the centre of the image there was a black hole surrounded by hazy white rings that reminded me of a weather map.

  The oncologist drew back the curtain and began to talk. At first my mother watched him, but then she turned to me, letting me know that she didn’t understand his jargon. The doctor said that he hadn’t seen anything, that when the tissue sample was taken the entire tumour seemed to have been removed. ‘I don’t think it will be necessary to operate,’ he said. I translated this for my mother and she nodded. The doctor began to talk again. He repeated the word ulcerated. We didn’t know whether ulcerated was serious or not, but it sounded bad. When he said ulcerated he didn’t appear concerned. Then he said chemotherapy and radiation therapy. My mother and I nodded. Next week. We nodded again.

  We met Doctor Marsden an hour later. His office was on the same floor as the oncologist’s, the third floor of the Manhattan Oncology Center building on 65th St. After we left the first doctor’s office, my mother and I met my father in the waiting room. We said: ‘It looks like it won’t be necessary to operate.’ My father said something about scraping out the remains of the tumour. My mother pretended not to hear him. She sat down next to him and took out her phone to look at the picture of the surgeon that she had downloaded from the Internet. From my seat I studied the other patients. It struck me that no one looked sick; everyone who walked in and out of the elevators had hair and strode confidently. My father didn’t understand how the tumour could disappear; to me, on the other hand, it seemed perfectly natural.

  Doctor Marsden’s assistant came out to get us after a while. Once we were in the office, I recognised the mane of white hair and the wire-framed glasses from the photograph on the phone. In front of the surgeon was a desk scattered with images of my mother’s colon. Doctor Marsden picked up one of them and said again that he didn’t see anything to remove. Nevertheless, both he and the oncologist believed that it was important to pursue treatment in case any cancerous cell was still lurking and began to multiply again. Eight weeks of radiation therapy and chemotherapy and then back to Madrid. That was the original plan. ‘You’ll live to see your grandchildren,’ Doctor Marsden said to my mother before we left.

  Sometimes I wonder why my mother didn’t go back to Madrid after this trip. I think partly it was because she wanted to be with me. She chose me to be the one to take care of her. I quit my job and she liked that. On the other hand, I think that she also needed a change of scene. She didn’t want to see the same doctors who had treated my grandparents or to visit the same hospitals. In New York everything was new, from the streets to the language. The stress in tumour fell on the tu rather than the mour; cahn-ther became can-cer.

  IV

  Lately I feel the need to go back to the hospital. I believe dates are important; anniversaries must be marked. My mother died on a Tuesday, and I remember her every Tuesday. My mother died on the 6th, and I think of her every 6th. Maybe this is why a few days ago I began to consciously repeat some of the things that happened to me a year ago, when she was sick. This week, for example, I called the guy I slept with the day after she had her first colonoscopy at the hospital. ‘It’s been a while since we saw each other,’ I said when he answered the phone. ‘We could get a drink,’ he replied. And this Monday he asked me out to dinner at a restaurant a few blocks from my house, not his kind of place and beyond his means. When I got there, he was waiting for me at the entrance. His hair had grown an inch and a half and he was wearing Cuban-heeled boots that suited him. He spotted me right away, kissed me on the cheek and said several times that I looked nice. Then he recognised the tight blue trousers from our last date and reached out to touch my arse, but didn’t dare. We went into the restaurant and were seated at a table near the window. The food was expensive; to judge by his intake of breath, quite a bit more expensive than he had anticipated. We ordered the two cheapest entrées on the menu and a bottle of California wine. Dinner was painful. The wine failed to flow and the conversation stalled. I talked a lot about my mother, about my internship that year, and he kept laughing. ‘This is all really funny,’ he said, when I wasn’t trying to be humorous. I decided to stop talking. He began to wag his head back and forth as he chewed; he fidgeted in his chair and glanced around the restaurant as I ate heartily in silence. He didn’t finish his meal. He paid the bill and we took a taxi to his apartment in Bed-Stuy. During the ride we kissed and I stroked his thigh through his trousers. As I did, I wondered whether he would be wearing the same ugly brown underwear he’d had on the last time. His apartment was disgusting. There were pizza boxes stacked in the kitchen and a thick layer of grime in the bathroom. He undressed me by the door and led me to bed. The sex was good. We did it again the next morning, but soon after we finished I told him I had to go. I sat on the damp sheets and searched for my underwear on the floor. As I was getting dressed I thought about my mother. About the same day the year before when, after I’d slept with the same guy, I’d gone home to shower and I’d met her for lunch at a Mexican restaurant. Now he was kissing my neck, trying to keep me from leaving. He took a bandana out of a drawer and put it on his head. ‘Women like how I look in this,’ he said. I felt ridiculous for having slept with someone like him. I got a taxi and went home. I showered and ordered fajitas at a Mexican restaurant.

  *

  Friday, 10 August, 2012

  Today I’ve come back to the first hospital waiting room I visited with my parents. The treatment began here more than a year ago now, on the third floor of the Manhattan Oncology Center building on 65th St. From my seat I can see a coffee machine and a television with the volume off. No one is reading, but at the back of the room two Russian women are knitting.

  The room is big. You might call it studiedly pleasant, with plants, flowers, a rug and well-upholstered sofas. There are many people; maybe sixty. Of them all, the one who catches my eye is a black-haired man in a purple argyle sweater.

  The man is older, but there’s no grey in his hair. Every so often he bows over the table and rests his forehead on his fist. It looks as if he’s praying. The man in the sweater rubs his nose. He does it very slowly. He gets up; he has a limp. It’s hard to say whether it’s a physical impediment or whether he’s paralysed by sorrow. The man takes a coffee cup and pushes the button on the machine with a slow, heavy finger.

  At the back of the room, on the long sofas, there’s a family in which everyone is wearing turbans. To my right is a man with a striped tie, on the phone with his insurance company. He wants to know whether they will cover some pills. When he reads the prescription he mentions my mother’s oncologist. I had forgotten his name, and now I feel as if I don’t remember anything.

  An older woman is taking a bite of a slice of pizza that her daughter has brought her. She chews with pleasure, nudging in the bits that escape the sides of her mouth. Her daughter is bored and doesn’t talk much. Now she’s picking the hairs off her mother’s jacket. The woman looks at me as if she knows that I’m writing about her and she turns her head away to let me keep observing her.

  To my left, a big-kneed woman asks me whether I mind if she eats a sandwich, though what she really wants is to talk. She tells me that she used to be a nurse and that unfortunately she’s very familiar with the protocols. ‘At this hospital, it’s all about numbers, data and facts. If you still have hair and you can walk, you’ll be starting your treatment on the third floor.’ The man who was on the phone with his insurance company breaks in. ‘If you’re here, you have cancer,’ he says. I fall silent, and now it’s just the two of them talking, exchanging their views on holiday-morning staff shortages.

  V

  Doctor Spring warned us that radiation therap
y would bring on menopause. Then she told us that it would also cause shrinking of the vagina, and she picked up a green case from her desk. She opened it and took out several little plastic-wrapped tubes in different sizes. The thinnest was as big around as a permanent marker and the thickest a small zucchini. As the doctor was talking, my mother looked at the zip of her trousers.

  ‘It’s important to insert this tube into your vagina for a few hours a day when the treatment is over. Little by little, you’ll notice the walls stretching. I also recommend that you maintain an active sex life,’ and she reached over to hand us a pamphlet titled ‘Sexual Health’.

  Then the doctor went on explaining the effects of the treatment.

  ‘You won’t lose your hair, but you’ll have trouble controlling the urge to go to the bathroom; it might be a good idea to wear a nappy. Put it on before you go out, in case you have to go halfway down the street. Either way, I recommend that you buy disposable panties.’

  My mother raised her head to stare at the doctor.

  ‘From Monday to Friday you’ll have radiation therapy. The preparation and treatment will take about three hours altogether, so if you arrive at nine you won’t be out of the hospital until twelve. On Mondays at three you’ll have to go to the 65th St building for tests and to have the chemo pump changed. On Tuesdays at four thirty you’ll have an appointment with the oncologist, and on Wednesdays at two thirty with me, to see how the radiation is going. Otherwise, you can lead a completely normal life. If you work, I encourage you not to stop, and of course you can be out and about, take day trips, go to the supermarket … though you might tire more easily than usual and you’ll need extra sleep.’

  My mother eyed the little plastic tube on the edge of the table.

  ‘Be careful with food. Your stomach will be sensitive from the treatment. You should eat mostly protein, and limit vegetables as much as possible. I’ve made you an appointment for tomorrow with a nutritionist who will explain in more detail how you should eat. I also recommend not wearing trousers and buying some skirts; trousers will chafe the radiated area, which will be a little bit irritated.’ At this point the doctor took a piece of paper out of the drawer and showed it to us. ‘Look, this is the spot. The remains of the tumour that we want to radiate are at the end of the colon, so it’s the pelvic area that will be most affected. It will feel like a sunburn, but don’t worry, we’ll give you an ointment for pain relief.’

  At this point the little tube fell off the table, rolling against the doctor’s foot. The doctor bent down, picked it up and threw it in a rubbish bin as she kept talking.

  ‘Tomorrow you have an appointment at the 65th St building for placement of the Mediport, the catheter through which the chemo will be administered. It doesn’t take long to get used to it and it isn’t especially painful. In fact, in surveys of our patients, 85 per cent say that they’re comfortable with their Mediports.’

  My mother was looking at the rubbish bin now.

  The doctor swivelled in her chair and put the paper back in the drawer. When she turned to us again, she saw my mother’s face and she said, ‘I know it’s a lot, but don’t worry. As far as circumstances allow, you’ll be able to continue to live a more or less normal life. If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call me; otherwise, I’ll see you next Wednesday at the same time,’ and she shook our hands.

  ‘Oh, and remember to always wear a hat and a high-factor sun cream if you go out,’ the doctor said, coming to the door.

  My mother and I left the hospital. In my hand were the prescriptions: disposable panties, nappies, ointment for the pelvic region, anti-diarrhoea pills and sun cream. Next to me, my mother was carrying the green case of little tubes and looking through the pamphlet.

  *

  The Midtown Barnes & Noble we stopped at was across the street. I had long hair and the sales assistant stared at it. My mother and I were on our way back from her first radiation therapy appointment and she had just got her period. She was bleeding a lot. This was the last time she would menstruate. As we rode up to the music section in the store I imagined my mother going into a big round tube, her ovaries full, and coming out sterile. I knew they put music on during the treatment. ‘I listened to The Beatles,’ she said. ‘They say I can bring in anything I want,’ and we went to a Barnes & Noble to buy one of ABBA’s greatest hits albums.

  The next morning, as I watched her go into the changing room at the hospital, I couldn’t help imagining her singing along inside the machine to the Swedish group’s choruses.

  *

  Doctor Spring, who had an undergraduate degree from Yale and multiple master’s degrees, was also very attractive. She wore heels and eyeliner, and she knew how to put on lip liner without looking vulgar. ‘Did you go to the bathroom all right?’ she asked my mother at the second appointment. ‘How many times a day? Have you had any soreness in the pelvic or rectal area? Lie down here so I can see how the skin looks in the radiated area. Is the ointment working? How has your last period been? Don’t worry if you’re bleeding a lot, it’s normal.’ The doctor put on latex gloves and drew a curtain so that I couldn’t see her examining my mother. ‘Your skin looks wonderful, just a little bit red,’ she said as she felt under my mother’s skirt. ‘Is your food going down well?’ ‘The other day I had fish and I threw up,’ answered my mother, ‘but otherwise, everything’s fine.’ ‘Good,’ said the doctor, ‘you’re a fantastic patient.’ Then she took two steps towards the curtain, the toes of her purple pumps pointing at me before she pulled it aside. ‘Your mother is progressing nicely,’ she said when the curtain was drawn back. ‘It’s important to walk a lot, and walk quickly,’ and she swivelled her hips gracefully to indicate speed. ‘Next week my assistant will see you because I’ll be on vacation in Italy.’ ‘Where in Italy?’ asked my mother. ‘Sardinia,’ said the doctor. ‘My husband’s treat, we’ve been married for ten years and we were there on our honeymoon.’

  Doctor Spring, slender and elegant, took off the used gloves and threw them in the bin. My mother adjusted her skirt, her hat, the hip pack with the chemotherapy pump, looked at the doctor and felt like a piece of trash.

  VI

  Most of the time I don’t think about it. Only when I brush my hair in front of the mirror and I see the single grey hair that sticks up from the crown of my head. Other times, when I’m lying in bed, I concentrate on my body inflating and deflating and I become aware of being mortal. A few weeks ago I decided to change my diet. Now I eat organic fruits and vegetables and fish. My skin is smoother than it’s ever been. In the mirror, parts of my face look babyish, but I’m not a child. I spend whole days watching YouTube videos of girls doing their hair and trying on lipstick. I take notes. I chart the users. I write down quotes and ideas for the product development department of a cosmetics multinational. With each market study I develop a new obsession. I switched deodorants because the one I was using had aluminium in it and could cause cancer, I spent a week analysing the length of my eyelashes, and I threw away several bottles of shampoo that contained silicone. I can spend an entire afternoon contemplating what my beauty routine says about me, even though some nights I don’t brush my teeth before bed.

  I started to do market studies of cosmetic products when my mother got sick. It was my friend Sonia’s idea. Since I couldn’t go into an office and I had a lot of dead time in the hospital, she thought it might be a good way to make some money. My first assignment was a study of hairsprays on the German market. As my mother was receiving radiation therapy, I watched YouTube videos of men and women doing their hair. I wrote down the names of the products they preferred, whether they used conditioners or curling tongs, what distance they held the dryer from their heads. I classified the kinds of brushes, the users’ comments on the feel of a particular hairspray in their hair, and their impressions of the packaging and advertising.

  It had been years since I’d read or heard German. It’s a language closely linked to my childhood, and the sound
of it makes me feel safe because it reminds me of my grandfather Ricardo, nursery school and the words to the Nena song ‘99 Luftballons’. In German everything seemed more appealing to me than in Spanish. When I was eighteen I stopped speaking it. I went away to school, and that was the end of the summers spent perfecting my accent on horse farms outside of Cologne and Hanover. My grandfather, of German descent and worried about preserving his heritage, had died a few years before. While my mother received radiation therapy, I sought refuge on YouTube among girls who talked to me about hairspray in musical words and tones that I hadn’t heard for ten years.

  *

  Thursday, 23 August, 2012

  Today I’ve come back to visit the radiation waiting room in the hospital’s main building on East End Avenue. At the 80th St entrance it smells like disinfectant and it’s cold. Depending on which door you come in, it’s hard to get your bearings. Most of the signs are for letters: Q & Z to the left, B & J to the right. I was looking for R. I got into an elevator, followed by a man holding an oxygen tank, two nurses, and a woman carrying a little girl dressed as a princess. When we got to the second floor, there was a jolt, the same jolt the elevator used to give when my mother was here for treatment. The little girl in the costume tried to jump out of her mother’s arms and the man with the tank said something to one of the nurses.

  Now I’m sitting in an ugly but very comfortable grey chair, in the radiation waiting room. I’ve just stretched out my legs. Next to me is a man in a wheelchair wearing blue pyjamas. ‘I’m from Connecticut,’ he tells me. He doesn’t seem to care that I’m taking notes. ‘They want to operate on me but they don’t know if I’ll survive the operation.’ I stop writing and look at him: ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘I’m eighty years old,’ he says. I’m prepared to continue the conversation, but a nurse comes over, says the man’s last name and pushes his wheelchair down the hallway. I pick up a magazine but I can’t concentrate. I try a glossier one. I feel the same lethargy I felt a year ago. The same fog in the head. I feel as if my mother has gone into her radiation session, but it isn’t true. I’ve only been in this room for five minutes and I want to leave.