Families and Other Nonreturnable Gifts

  Dad’s enthroned in one of the armchairs. His face is still pale and thin, but he’s sitting up straight, he’s dressed, his hair is combed, and he looks better than he has in weeks. I ask him what this meeting is about, and he says, “All will be revealed in time.”

  I offer to clear the coffee table, but when I pick up Hopkins’s laptop, she instantly jumps up and grabs it from me. I pile up some of her papers and follow her into the office where the sofa bed is open, sheets all rumpled, the blanket tangled. While we’re alone in there, I ask her why she thinks Dad wanted everyone to come tonight.

  She says, “You’ll see,” in a way that makes it clear Dad has already told her. He told the daughter who wasn’t by his side when he was hospitalized. It hurts, but it’s not Hopkins’s fault, so I swallow the hurt and ask her what’s going on at work these days.

  “It’s been absolutely—oh, hold on a second.” She pulls her BlackBerry out of her pocket and peers at it. “Sorry, Keats, I have to take this. You go on and join the others and I’ll be right out.” I had forgotten how different her voice is from mine. It’s low and flat with very little intonation. It’s a lecturing voice, not a conversational voice. As I leave the room, she’s rapping out a toneless “Hopkins Sedlak” into the phone, which I guess is how she answers it.

  I usually just say hi.

  “Ever hear the one about the prodigal daughter?” I say to Tom when I come to sit down next to him on the sofa.

  “Isn’t it a son?”

  “Not in this case.”

  “Huh?”

  Before I can explain, the door opens and Jacob walks in with two restaurant takeout bags.

  I stop breathing for a second. I had no idea he was coming. I’m paralyzed with horror at the thought of how this moment would have played out if I had told Tom about what happened. Thank god I didn’t. Thank god I didn’t.

  Mom rushes forward, takes one of the bags, and kisses Jacob on the cheek. Hopkins wanders out of the guest room with the BlackBerry clamped to her ear and waves at him. I stay on the sofa with Tom who calls out a genial greeting.

  When Tom settles back down, I feel the sofa cushion shift ever so slightly under me, and unwillingly, I flash back to the other night, Jacob’s body on mine, my hands pinned, my mouth and legs open and eager. There’s an alcoholic haze over it all, but I remember it pretty clearly.

  I reach for Tom’s hand and put my head on his shoulder. That’s when Jacob comes to join us around the coffee table. I want to sit up straight but am worried he’ll think I’m moving away from Tom because of him, and that’s the last thing I want him to think, so I keep my head on Tom’s shoulder, but it’s getting uncomfortable—my neck is aching—and I feel stupid, so I finally go ahead and sit up, but I can’t look anyone in the eyes.

  I leap gratefully to my feet when Mom says she needs someone to help her set the food out. I follow her into the kitchen where she worries out loud that Indian food might be too rich and spicy for Dad, but as we peel back the foil tops to the containers, she sees that Jacob ordered mostly plain tandoori chicken and white rice. “I should have known he’d be careful,” she says, pleased.

  “Because he’s so perfect?” I say. “Because he never does anything wrong? Oh no, not Jacob.”

  She stares at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” I avoid her eyes, pretend to be busy folding up the tinfoil. “It’s just—why is he always at our family get-​togethers?”

  “Ask your father. He’s in charge tonight, not me.” She pulls a stack of paper plates out of a bag. “Oh, good—Jacob got these, too. There aren’t nearly enough plates here for all of us—I’m sure it never even occurred to Larry to think about that.” Napkins and forks come out of the same bag. “I’m so glad Hopkins made it, aren’t you? I feel like there’s a huge weight off my mind. The other doctors might have missed something, but if Hopkins says he’s fine, he’s fine.”

  I murmur something, an assent, I guess.

  She goes on. “I’ve got to take her to get her hair cut, though. Did you see how long that ponytail is? I bet it reaches her waist when it’s down.”

  “She’s old enough to get her own hair cut if she wants to, Mom.”

  “I know, but she never gets around to it. She’s too busy doing other things. I always take her while she’s in town.”

  Why does this bother me? As I put serving spoons in the food, I try to figure it out. It has something to do with the weird mixture of idolatry and infantilizing that my mother shows toward Hopkins, like she’s someone whose brain is so overdeveloped she can’t be expected to function like a normal human being. Mom’s that way with Milton, too.

  It’s like the very fact that I’m able to take care of myself proves how not brilliant I am. How ordinary.

  It’s not fair. Do I need to be incompetent to be considered in their intellectual league?

  I’m still seething about this when my mother tells me to call the others in to eat.

  I go back into the living room. Hopkins is sitting at the edge of the sofa, talking in her rapid, expressionless way to Jacob and Dad, who are in the armchairs. Her back is basically to Tom, even though he’s sitting next to her and listening. “Neurologists owe all their knowledge to the nail gun,” she’s saying. “If it weren’t for stupid people shooting nails into their own heads, we’d never have figured out the different regions of the brain.”

  “You’d still have strokes,” Jacob says.

  “Strokes are good,” she concedes. “Bullets help, too.”

  “Strokes are good?” Tom repeats from behind her. “How can a stroke be good?”

  No one responds to that.

  “Who was the guy who got the iron rod through his head and lived?” Jacob asks Hopkins.

  “Phineas Gage,” my father instantly cuts in. “It’s such a great name. So memorable. A novelist couldn’t have come up with a better one.”

  “That he remembers?” my mother says to no one in particular. She’s come up behind me without my noticing. “He can’t remember my maiden name or anyone’s birthday, but he can remember that?”

  “Wait, who’s Phineas Gage?” Tom asks.

  No one responds to that, either. It’s like he’s not even there. Hopkins just keeps addressing Dad and Jacob. “If you really want to learn something new about the brain, you should just hire someone to run down to a construction site and start shooting nails at every head he sees.”

  “That must be why they wear those yellow helmets,” Jacob says. “To protect themselves against rogue neurologists.”

  Hopkins laughs. “Some people just don’t appreciate the spirit of scientific inquiry.” Those two seem to be getting along well.

  “Some people don’t like taking nails to the head,” I say. “Anyway, isn’t that the point of all our modern imaging equipment? To learn about the brain without actually damaging it?”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” Hopkins says, and now it’s Jacob’s turn to laugh. A little too generously, like he’s making some kind of point about where his allegiance lies, about which Sedlak daughter he approves of.

  “Fine,” I say. “You go shoot some nails into someone’s head. Just come eat first. Dinner’s ready.”

  Tom’s up and across the room before the words are out of my mouth. He has his plate filled before the rest of us make it to the kitchen. Once we’ve gotten our food, we all gather around the coffee table again, Tom and Mom and I at one end, the three others at the other end.

  I chow down mechanically, not particularly enjoying the food, eating out of nervousness, not pleasure. As soon as I stop shoveling in rice and chicken, I feel sick to my stomach.

  Hopkins is ignoring her own barely touched plate in favor of punching away at her BlackBerry—e-mails or texts, I assume. They’re probably all wildly important. Every time she hits send, she’s probably saving someone’s life or at least his memory.

  I keep reminding myself of that as the meal continues and I find myself wanting to
snap at her to stop playing with her phone and actually eat something, for god’s sake. It’s not just that her food is getting cold. If I’m being honest, I have to admit that I’m jealous of the fact she’s so much thinner than I am, jealous that she seems to be indifferent to eating. It’s always been like that. She’s never cared about meals, had to be reminded to eat when she got busy or was studying. I’ve never in my life forgotten to eat, and if food’s in front of me, I’m eating it. It’s why I can’t remember a time in my life when I didn’t wish I could lose five pounds.

  She finally puts the phone down, and starts telling Jacob and Dad about the case she’s been working on (and probably e-mailing about)—the young mother with the repeating strokes. I can tell Mom is dying to hear what she’s saying. She keeps her head cocked in that direction, and while Tom tells her about some of his plans for his dad’s business—he wants to expand more in the direction of supplying uniforms and linens instead of just laundering them—her nod is more impatient than interested.

  Tom and I clear our dishes together. In the kitchen, he asks in a low voice how much longer we have to stick around.

  “I haven’t seen my sister in ages,” I say. “What’s the rush?”

  “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. Take your time.”

  But he’s clearly not having fun, and I feel bad about that, so when Tom and I retake our seats in the living room, I interrupt Hopkins to ask Dad if he’s ready to get on with the business of the day, whatever that may be.

  “I guess now is as good a time as any to have the conversation.” His eyes are much sharper now than they were when he was ill. They flit from face to face, surveying us all under his fly-away eyebrows. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I asked you here tonight,” he says jovially.

  “Please tell me it’s not to solve a murder,” I say.

  “Solve one? No. But possibly to commit one.” He chuckles, pleased with some private joke. “Let me explain. We’re here to talk about my death—or more accurately, my living will. Recent events have convinced me it’s wise to put my affairs in order.”

  Tom says, “You don’t need to worry about any of that, Larry. You look great—right back on track.”

  I cringe inwardly. My father hates glib reassurances.

  Sure enough: “Thank you,” my father says coldly. “I appreciate the sentiment. However, I still hold the belief that I will die some time in the not-terribly-distant future. Do you disagree with that supposition, Tom?”

  My boyfriend fidgets uncomfortably and glances desperately at me like he needs some help. “Well, I’m sure it won’t be soon.”

  “Your certainty on the matter is invaluable.” Dad’s contemptuous of anyone who skirts the subject of the inevitability of death. Like most people, Tom knows on some level that everyone dies, but he doesn’t particularly like to acknowledge that fact. My family revels in acknowledging that fact. My parents think it shows a sophisticated intellect to discuss your own mortality—and that of your loved ones—calmly and rationally.

  I flash a smile at Tom that’s meant to be reassuring. He gives me a weary shrug that says, I get points for trying, right?

  “You already have a living will, Larry,” my mother says, her brow furrowed with confusion. “We made them together.”

  “I know. And if you remember, you’re my health care proxy.”

  “And you’re mine.”

  He settles back in his chair and eyes her. “All things considered, perhaps it makes sense to update them?”

  “Worried she’ll be too eager to pull the plug, Dad?” Hopkins asks with a short hoot of laughter.

  “I had my chance,” Mom says calmly. “And I encouraged those nice doctors to keep him alive.”

  “I’m not the slightest bit concerned that the plug might get pulled too soon,” Dad says with a shake of his head. “My fears all run in the opposite direction.” He turns back to my mother. “Your life, Eloise, will soon be diverging from mine in ways that lead me to believe it might make sense for us to find other proxies. I don’t want you ever to have to come rushing back from wherever you might happen to be—and whomever you might happen to be with—because a decision has to be made about my health.”

  Mom opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, then closes it again. She reaches out and gently touches his hand with hers. “Thank you,” she says. “In all honesty, I would be relieved not to have to make that kind of decision.”

  “Let’s save you some energy for dancing on my grave, shall we?” Dad says with a painful jocularity. He surveys the rest of us. “That means someone else will have to step up to the plate. By not being here, Milton forfeits the honor, which I’m sure will come as a huge disappointment to him. Jacob, I’m including you because—” His voice actually falters a tiny bit. Is my father getting emotional? He clears his throat and goes on perfectly steadily so I’m not sure, “—because you’ve proven during these last few weeks something I’ve suspected for quite some time, that you are far more than an assistant to me, more even than a friend. I can trust you—quite literally—with my life.”

  Crammed onto the sofa between Hopkins and my mom, I feel safe enough to dart a glance at Jacob to see his reaction.

  He flushes. But all he says is a simple “I’m honored.”

  A satisfied nod from Lawrence Sedlak. “That leaves me with three people who could potentially take on this responsibility.” Three? That means Tom isn’t even in consideration, which I guess isn’t a surprise, but it feels like a slap in his face, given that he’s sitting right here with us and is more closely connected to Dad than Jacob is—he’ll be his son-in-law one day.

  I pat Tom’s hand. He meets my eyes and surreptitiously raises his watch wrist. He’s not hurt, just bored.

  Dad’s gaze flickers back and forth between me and Hopkins and Jacob. “So who would like to volunteer to make the final, crucial decisions about my health care and possibly the length of my life?”

  “Are your wishes laid out pretty clearly in your living will?” Hopkins asks. “Have you defined what quality of life means to you?”

  “As clearly as I can. None of this is simple, as you know better than anyone. I can say to you, ‘I don’t want to be kept alive if I’m not cognizant,’ but it’s still up to you to define cognizance.”

  “Hopkins is a neurologist,” Jacob points out. “It seems to me if any of us can come close to figuring out whether a mind is active or not—”

  “Hopkins is the obvious choice,” Dad agrees. “But she’s also a busy professional who lives in another city. Whereas—” He stops and everyone looks at me.

  “I’m a loser who’s always around,” I supply brightly. “I can’t say I want the job, Dad, but someone’s got to do it, and I’m willing to.”

  He studies me thoughtfully. “My only question for you, Keats, is do you really have it in you to call an end to my life? Could you be ruthless enough? Because I’d much rather die too soon than linger on in some vegetative state.”

  “Leave me all your money, and I’ll promise to kill you whenever you want. Today even.” I try to sound lighthearted but I’m hurt. This is the second time in an hour that he’s made it clear he trusts Hopkins much more than me.

  “I’m serious about this. While you have many fine qualities, Keats, I’m not convinced ruthlessness is one of them.”

  “I’m ruthless!” Hopkins says cheerfully.

  “Ruthless, yes, but seldom around, which brings me to you.” Dad nods at Jacob. “Do you think you could say enough is enough on my behalf?”

  Before Jacob can answer, I cut in. “Dad, this could all happen a decade or two from now. We don’t know where Jacob might be by then.”

  “He’s told me he intends to stay in the area.”

  “But there aren’t all that many jobs opening up these days, and every academic in the world wants to live in the Boston area. Realistically he might just not be able to get work nearby. He’ll have to follow the job. And it’s not fair—and proba
bly not realistic—to expect him to come back if you get sick.” The truth is, the idea of having Jacob permanently connected to my family because of something like this freaks me out. A week ago, I think I would have been fine with it—relieved even because this isn’t a job I want. But back then, Jacob’s presence wasn’t an embarrassment and a rebuke to me the way it is now.

  “I’m getting the sense you’d rather the choice stayed in the family,” my father says to me.

  “It just makes more sense, doesn’t it?” I toss a quick “no offense” in Jacob’s general direction without meeting his eyes.

  Hopkins flings up her hands. “This is stupid. I’ll do it. It’s not like there aren’t telephones and airplanes. Wherever I am, I’ll either get here or tell Keats what to do.”

  Dad says, “And if I’m alive but not capable of coherent thought?”

  Hopkins grins at him and draws her finger slowly across her neck with a kkkkkkk sound.

  “Excellent,” my father says with real satisfaction. “Jacob? Call my lawyer tomorrow and tell him to change my proxy.”

  15.

  Your family’s sick,” Tom says when we’re out in the hallway. “The way you all talk about your dad dying like it’s a joke. It’s not normal.”

  “I know. But Dad’s right to take care of this.”

  “My dad could never talk about his own death that calmly. Then again, my father’s a lot younger and healthier than yours, so he doesn’t have to.”

  “He’ll have to someday.”

  “Well, if he does, I’m not going to be making jokes about finishing him off, that’s for sure. It’s not funny. And I forgot how weird your sister is. She’s impossible to talk to.”