The Art of Saying Goodbye - Ellyn Bache [47]
“You probably just have a gift for diagnosis.”
“From which I’d prefer to be spared. It would be one thing if I had a gift for healing. But just to bring on the bad news—no.”
“There can’t be any healing until you know what the problem is.”
“Well, I’m no good at that, either. I have no idea what the problem is. Just that there is a problem.”
“Which is always step one, Jules.”
Jules. Don’t call me Jules. “I know it’s step one, Bill. But let’s drop it.” She was foolish to confide in him. He hasn’t a clue. Why would someone’s fingers tingle to tell her something is going on, but not what? Why would they offer only a multiple-choice menu? The patient is healthy (no tingling), ailing a bit (tingling but not so much you’d want to run to a chiropractor), or terminally ill (the blackness). It’s bizarre. Trying to understand it is like driving through fog with the brights on, only to discover that the more light you shine on it, the less you can see.
“You’ve known Paisley for a long time,” Bill persists. “You know her whole history. If something was wrong with her, it’s not surprising that you picked up on it.”
Wrong, she thinks. This is exactly the argument she rejected at lunch.
“Paisley was your friend,” he says, as if this settles it. “And what about the other woman? Did you know her, too?”
“No.”
“How old was she? Was she arthritic? Diabetic?”
“She was in her early fifties. Not diabetic. Normal blood pressure.”
“And how did she look? I mean before you touched her?”
“I don’t remember, Bill. I honestly don’t.”
“You’ve been working in this field for a long time. Maybe she was pale. Maybe there was something about her.”
“No, Bill.”
“Okay,” he says softly. He always knows when to retreat. She hates that. “And how is Paisley doing now?” he asks. “Do you see her?”
You’d think she and Paisley were joined at the hip. Julianne keeps her tone clinical. “She’s jaundiced, as you’d expect. She’s getting weaker. Mason apparently took her outside for a ride in a wheelchair the other day. I missed it.”
Bill nods.
“Brynne says she has a persistent backache that Tylenol doesn’t help.” It’s a relief to know that Bill knows what this means. The cancer is beginning to affect that huge plexus of nerves near her spine. Paisley will need stronger analgesics, eventually a morphine drip. The painkillers will make her nauseated. She won’t eat. Everything can happen very fast. “The last time I saw her”—she had not thought of this until now; she doesn’t even know how she knows—“I thought her abdomen was a little bit distended.”
“See? You notice. You want to deny it, but it’s what you’re trained for and what you’re good at. Not everybody has a talent for diagnosis. It’s a gift.” He gets serious. “As long as you’re working for a podiatrist, you’re wasting it.”
Zap! Exit Bill the shoulder to cry on. Enter Bill the great sage. Now he’ll badger her every time they meet. Always the control freak. “Ah, Bill. You’re a font of good advice.” She walks him into the foyer. It seems to her this is what they do: move toward a door, so he can leave.
At least she had the good sense not to confess how disgusted she is with herself for being less interested in Paisley’s struggle than in her own traitorous fingers. That would have opened a whole other path of analysis she’s not sure she can endure. The psychology of disgust. Come to think of it, she’s disgusted with Ginger, too, for wanting to put sense to Paisley’s illness so it will be easier for her to look across her cul-de-sac into the windows of a house of tragedy. She’s disgusted with herself for buying into Ginger’s theory. She’s disgusted with Bill for being here, for being privy to her confession, for making himself so convenient.
But she’s going to be nice to him, oh yes. If she’s nice enough, maybe he’ll stay away.
“Thanks for listening,” she says.