When he pulled open the heavy glass door, a bell dinged somewhere to announce his arrival. Daniel rocked from foot to foot, glancing around the waiting room—comfortable chairs, abstract art, Esquire, InStyle, and Vanity Fair—and ran through the script he’d written for himself.
“Sorry, we’re closed.” The man behind the desk had appeared from nowhere. He wore white scrubs, as Daniel had hoped.
He didn’t say “Sorry, sir.” Take that into account. Go fraternal. “I know.”
The guy glanced at his watch. “If you want to make an appointment—”
“This is going to sound weird.” He played the pause. The last days had given him the physical appearance he needed, deep pits under his eyes and an air of haggard weariness. “You mind if I ask, is your father still alive?”
The buzzing of the overhead lights seemed loud. “No,” the man said, finally. “Lost him three years ago.”
“Mine died last week.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.” He moved to the counter, leaned on it. “A brain tumor. There was a Latin name for it, but I never wanted to know. That would have made it too real. Not that it mattered in the end.” The hallway leading past the desk was dark. “My dad, he was . . . he was the strongest guy I knew. But this thing, it was like he was possessed. It took his memory, messed with his senses, took his speech.” Without meaning to, he choked back a sob, and as he did, he realized that he was actually feeling the emotions he was describing. Was he just mourning the memories that had vanished? Or did those memories hold a sorrow he hadn’t suspected? “It was awful.”
“I can imagine.”
“The doctor said that the tumor, it wasn’t hereditary.”
“Most aren’t, no.” The guy seeing where he was going. “You should talk to your doctor, but—”
“I did. He told me not to worry. That just because my dad had it didn’t mean I would. Thing is, I can’t stop. I mean, that’s my biggest fear. Losing control like that. Scares the hell out of me.”
The tech glanced at his watch. “Listen, I really am sorry—”
“Hear me out, okay? I asked my doctor if he would run a scan for it, and he said no. Said he wouldn’t write a prescription because there was no medical need. And I get it,” raising his hands, “I do. I understand that no way do I have the same thing. But I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? I haven’t slept in days. It’s killing me, the fear that there’s something in my head right now.”
“You could ask another doctor—”
“It would take me a week to get an appointment. And he might say no. Listen. I just need the peace of mind. You lost your dad. You know what I’m talking about.”
The guy hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”
“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.” Daniel pulled the money from his jeans. “Please. I’m going crazy here.”
The man bit his lip. Looked down the hall. Checked his watch again.
“Please?”
“If anyone found out—”
“How? I won’t tell, and I don’t need the film, or whatever it is. I just want someone to look and tell me I’m okay.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“The doctor’s the guy who makes bank for having his name on the door. But you probably do a dozen of these a day, right?”
“More.”
“Please. You’d really be doing me a favor.” He set the money on the counter.
The tech looked at it. Took a deep breath, then a step forward. “Come around that door over there.”
Ten minutes later, he was wearing a hospital gown—no metal, the tech, whose name had turned out to be Mike, had said; this thing is basically one big magnet—and lying on a table in a device that looked like something out of Star Trek. He’d imagined a torpedo tube, but this was much nicer. He was sandwiched between two broad cylinders, and the open peripheral vision was comforting. He had his eyes closed, and was concentrating on lying as still as he could, trying not to pay attention to the loud clanking and banging, and most of all, trying not to think about what Mike might find.
On the other hand, if he finds something, you’ve got an answer. If not, you’re just nuts.
It was a long half hour.
Finally, Mike’s voice came through a speaker. “Okay, I’m gonna bring you out.” The tray Daniel lay on slid smoothly, and then he was staring at ceiling tile, aware again of the draft running under the thin gown.
He sat up slowly, blinked. “What’s the word?”
Mike stood at the door to the room, holding it open with one hand. “I’m sorry to tell you this . . .”
Oh shit . . .
“. . . but you’re perfectly fine.”
Daniel exhaled. “That’s not funny, man.”
“Sorry. But you knew that, right?”
“You’re sure?”
“Come look.”
Daniel hopped off the table, followed the tech into the next room. It was dim, and dominated by a broad monitor. The screen was split into quadrants, each showing a black-and-white image.
“I’m not printing anything out, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure.”
The man punched a button, and the monitor switched to a single image, an amoeba of black and white. The shape shifted and grew, morphed into the rough shape of a human skull, the cauliflower coils of the brain showing up in high contrast. As Mike pressed keys, the frame jumped, showing, Daniel assumed, different cutouts.
“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”
“Abnormalities.”
“Unless it’s a little cartoon bomb with a lit fuse, I’m not sure I’d see it.”
“There’s nothing there. The scan is normal.”
“You’re sure?”
“Man, you want to see a doc, up to you, but this is your brain, and there ain’t nothing wrong with it.” The tech turned, looked up at him. “Physically, at least.”
“Yeah.”
“Now, I’m sorry, but . . .”
“Right.” Daniel pulled the money out, passed it over. “Thanks.”
Back in the changing room, he took off the gown, put on his jeans and undershirt. Trying not to think.
Mike walked him to the door. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I just.” He shrugged. “I started to believe.”