The Dismantling by Brian Deleeuw Page B

himself so many times that he felt he knew its course, its cunning movement: the aura, the numbness, the lull, the arrival of pain, the hatred of light and sound, the nausea, the vomiting, the pain’s slow abatement, and the collapse, finally, into sleep. He tried to align his imagination with what was happening at that moment on the other side of the wall. He was angry about what she’d said but more frustrated that he couldn’t experience the pain along with her, frustrated because it was during these episodes that he felt most acutely how he could never know what it was like to be Amelia.
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    L ENNY ’ S performance had been painful, but at least Simon didn’t have to worry about Maria. She’d shown up at the office earlier that morning—still-damp hair piled atop her head, skin smelling of apricot soap—with no trouble understanding what Cabrera would require of her. She was expansive and emotional, her eyes widening as she described the “moment of clarity” she’d been struck with while sitting in traffic on I-5. She’d realized she had a “moral obligation” to help anyone she could. She described the San Clemente restaurant, its patio overlooking the Pacific. She described Cheryl’s “tired eyes,” young Gregory and Daniela’s “devotion” to their father. She remembered, as a kid, tossing a football with Lenny at a family reunion in Long Island, how she knew even then that he was one of those lucky people who were able, if only for a brief while, to do the thing they most loved to do.
    She was, in short, an entirely convincing liar.
    Simon asked if she understood the risks of the operation, the unavoidable scarring of her abdomen.
    â€œIt’s all right,” she said. “I don’t plan on wearing a lot of bikinis.”
    There was that sarcasm again, a way of talking that reminded him so much of Amelia in her teenage years, and again he tried to read whether it was a defense mechanism—an affectation—or an honest expression of not giving a fuck. Probably, he decided, a bit of both. Just like it had been with Amelia.
    He handed her a photocopied sheet of paper showing one hundred stick figures arranged in rows of ten. Thirty-one of the figures, scattered throughout, had been stamped with black dots over their midsections.
    â€œThe social worker is going to give you something like this,” he said. “About thirty-one out of a hundred donors have some kind of complication after surgery. Usually it’s not anything serious—abdominal pain that lasts longer than usual, a bile leak, sometimes a minor infection. These things would be addressed at Cabrera before discharge. We’ll also set you up with a doctor in LA, for follow-up.”
    â€œWhy don’t they just say thirty-one percent?”
    â€œThe idea is that percentages are too abstract. Just listen to the social worker. His name is Klein. Listen to him, let him talk. Pretend to think it over. Then tell him what he wants to hear.” He passed her another sheet with a similar graphic, this time with ten dotted figures. “He’ll show you this too. About ten percent of the people like Lenny who have this surgery die within a year. The idea is for you to understand there’s some chance this won’t save him even if the surgery itself is successful.”
    â€œAnd you want me to pretend to be upset?”
    â€œI want you to look as though this is new information. Absorb it, then say you’re comfortable moving forward. Be confident but not too brash. They want to see that you’re committed but also that you’re not some kind of martyr.”
    â€œHeroic donors.”
    He looked up at her, surprised. The phrase was a piece of hospital jargon, not something he thought was in common usage. The gray tooth winked as she smiled.
    â€œYou’ve been doing your research,” he said.