"Why does this keep happening?" I said, and looked back at my mother, who was frowning into space. "Spoons and knifes, socks and nail clippers, a doorknob, my husband's wedding band, my magazine subscriptions, an empty box of chocolates, a carafe."
Dr. Metzger put his hand on my back as we kept walking. "I'll give you the simple answer. Our bodies are foreign to us, and their vulnerability is us."
"And?"
"Your mother is feeling very vulnerable right now."
We both looked back at her. Feeling our gaze, she struggled to make her frown look natural.
I drove her home, and she stared out the window. When we arrived home, the door was unlocked, and I realized I had forgotten to pick up my keys at the hospital.
Tom arrived before me. I led him inside, to the bedroom. Sammy followed us and Tom bent down and put out his hand. "Nice toy dog. How does it know to follow us?"
"Please, let's kiss," I said. We sat on the bed's white sheets and kissed. Our faces parted and saliva dangled between our lips like a copper necklace. I turned off the lights and we kissed again. I felt his arms and his knees, his hands and his hair. Sex can turn one man into every man I've known. Each sex-pump clicks the slide in a slide-show; the dark room turns the pillow into frames. His orgasm, sudden, turned the lights on.
I left my mom at the hospital; I'd be back before the surgery was done. I drove away from the city, until the houses started to look alike and I was in the suburbs. I was waiting for a call from Tom. After the call, I'd wait to see him, wait to go to his bedroom, wait for ejaculation, wait for a call, again. Love is an excuse to waste the present tense. Or, people who like to waste the present tense like to fall in love. I was passing more houses. They were identical, except for their colors, and then, they were white. There's something wrong with me, I thought. Why don't I enjoy love? I excise people from my emotions, make my emotions refer to predetermined, solipsistic structures. I flip through my photo albums and—happy snipping of the scissors—cut out everyone but myself. I called Tom.
I started a new story several days ago. It's not much like anything I've done before. Here's some excerpts, from a very rough first draft:
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I almost tripped over Sammy on the way to the bedroom, and I felt too heavy, clumsy, to know peace. During dinner, I had felt myself expanding—to include every glass, every waiter, every laugh at adjoining tables—and now, I was contracting, dragging in the extra weight of the objects I had claimed. The bedroom door was halfway open, but Thom had turned off the lights. He was sleeping, and, by the hallway's light, I took off my clothes and changed for bed. I crawled in without brushing my teeth, washing my face, and Thom rumbled, turned to me and caught me in his sleep. How did his unconscious [self] know I wasn't a giant spider, a vicious wolf, an angry porcupine, but his wife? That—even in his sleep, he was hopeful—kept me still, under the weight of his arm.
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The doctor pinned up the x-ray and flicked on the backlight. Her body came alive. "Okay, how many objects can you spot?" Dr. Metzger handed me the pointer. I tapped the heart, which was capped by the diaphragm. "One," I said. He nodded. The keys were nestled between the spleen and stomach. "Two." Several of my favorite necklaces were coiled in the intestine. "That's surprising, there, " I pointed. "Three." Dr. Metzger took the pointer. "Also notice, in the armpit. There's a card, one side embedded in the arm, the other side stuck in a rib."
"She had a birthday recently. That's probably the card me and Thom gave her." He nodded.