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Dave Lerner presses against the cool pale-yellow hospital corridor wall as Ed Hutchinson storms out of Nathan’s private room, wondering what might have transpired between the two men. He glances down the hallway and waits until his boss gets into the elevator and the doors close before he takes a hesitant step toward Nathan. The thick drapes are drawn, and only filtered light delineates the surroundings. Nathan is sitting up in bed, pillows propped, an IV dripping into his arm, machines whirring on both sides. His face is flushed; surely he is worked up and angry, and filled with frantic energy as he tussles with the sheet covering him. In a fit of frustration, he pulls the sheet loose from its bindings on the sides of the bed and throws it over his feet, unaware of Dave standing just inside the door entry.
Dave clears his throat and Nathan looks up. Nathan opens his mouth to yell, but then, in the haze of the room and through the haze in his mind, he recognizes his friend and throws his head back on the pillows in anguish.
“I can’t take this sheet on me. It’s like a dead weight, makes my skin crawl . . . ”
“Here,” Dave says, rushing over to help, “I’ll get it.” Dave removes the entangled sheet and tosses it over the nearby chair. Nathan is in a light-blue hospital gown that barely reaches his knees. Dave notices how pale Nathan’s skin is, and how thin his legs are. He looks away, wanting to give Nathan some dignity, but Nathan doesn’t seem to notice.
Nathan exhales. His face is beaded with sweat, blotchy and pasty; the illness racking his body has worked its way into his eyes, making them look diseased. Dave has never been this close to someone so near to death and feels torn between helplessness and agony. He can almost feel his own blood poisoned, and wonders what Nathan must be sensing—his body now awash with cancer, his own blood cells on attack, as if he himself were the enemy. He knows Nathan is fighting a losing battle and wonders if his best friend has come to terms with his impending death or is still in denial. So many hours he’s sat by Nathan’s bedside, but never once have they spoken directly about his disease.
Dave reaches for the cup of water and adjusts the straw. “Here, drink. You’re so worked up, you need to calm down.”
Nathan mutters something, but it’s garbled. Dave leans closer to hear better. Something about Ed and the nerve of him coming here.
“What was that all about—Hutchinson visiting you here? He’s upset you.” Dave knows all about the tense dynamics between Nathan and their boss. Would Ed stoop so low as to come to Nathan’s deathbed and chew him out for sleeping with his wife? Or had they argued about something else? Dave realizes he shouldn’t have asked; it will only get Nathan worked up again.
Nathan’s breath is shallow and his words come out in shreds. “He came, you know . . . to the apartment . . . some time ago. Looking for Shirley . . . barged in. Said he followed me home, from work . . . grabbed her arm and tried to pull her out the door . . .”
Nathan tries to chuckle, but the effort flushes his face and starts him sucking air. “. . . as if he could force her to go back to him. Even swung at me . . . but I backed away. Never said anything to him after . . . let it pass.” Nathan’s voice rises in pitch; he strains to sit upright. Dave reaches over to help him, but Nathan starts to thrash.
“Whoa, let me help you, buddy. You really should—”
Dave dodges Nathan’s arms and inches away. Nathan keeps talking, the words coming faster and more tangled. “He can’t take it? What . . . it’s doing to me? How could he? I could kill him . . . kill him . . .”
“Why? What’s he done?”
Nathan breaks out into a sob and tears force their way out his eyes. “My fault . . . oh, so wrong . . . I thought . . . thought I could just . . . just close my eyes and make it all go away. I’m . . . so ashamed . . .”
Dave carefully rests an arm around Nathan’s shoulders while his friend cries, letting loose a flood of tears Dave has never seen. Maybe, Dave thinks, this is good, his crying. Letting it all out. Maybe Nathan hasn’t cried at all. Maybe it’s hitting him now—the realization that he will soon die, leave his three children fatherless. Dave can’t even fathom that kind of heartache. But . . . shame? What is he ashamed of? Leaving his family?
“Why?” Dave asks as Nathan’s tears slow down. “Why do you feel ashamed? This isn’t your fault—this disease, your illness—”
In a sudden flash, Nathan grabs Dave’s arm in a fierce grip. Even though Nathan’s hand is shaking, his fingernails dig into Dave’s skin. “It is! It is my fault! All my fault . . . I caused this . . .”
“Caused what?” Dave is thinking about the affair. How Nathan had run off with Shirley, and how that brought about Ed’s fury. But what did that have to do with his leukemia?
Nathan interrupts Dave’s thoughts with more ranting. “Leaving Ruth . . . abandoning my children . . . thought by running I could hide, be safe . . . But, I couldn’t . . . he did this to me . . . God . . .”
Nathan starts weeping again. Dave ponders his dying friend’s words. Maybe Nate is thinking God is punishing him for his choices. Nathan had more than once mentioned this line of reasoning before. Dave doesn’t know what Nathan believes about God, but he knows that when you’re close to death, you can’t help but question and wonder if someone is up there.
So, maybe he is blaming God for all this. For taking him away from his children, all because he walked out on them. As if God was saying, “You want out, I’ll give you ‘out.’” That’s the only thing Dave can think of as he tries to piece it all together and find something consoling to say.
“If there is a God,” Dave says softly, “He can’t be like that. Wanting to cause suffering. Punishing good people with deadly diseases—”
Nathan thrashes some more, this time knocking over his water cup. “Not him! Not God!”
Dave sits on the chair beside the bed as Nathan drops his head back on the pillows. He wishes he could think of something to say, anything to help ease Nathan’s agitation. He sits quietly while Nathan continues to mutter, kicking his legs in little motions that reminds Dave of a small boy working himself up to a temper tantrum.
Dave is tired, weary. He hasn’t had breakfast, and his stomach rumbles. The stringent smells of the hospital irritate his nose. He wants to cheer up the room, turn on a light, the TV, something to distract Nathan away from his mood, but knows it would be counterproductive. This is something Nathan needs to get out. Maybe no one else comes to visit him—except Shirley. Nathan probably holds back from exploding at her. Chivalrous to the last. But he can speak freely with his best pal, let out the frustration and anger. That’s okay.
Dave thinks he should encourage Nathan to keep talking, but maybe Nathan is done. Dave looks at his friend, whose eyes are squeezed shut, his mouth in a tight line, tension rippling across his features. Maybe, Dave thinks, he should buzz the nurse, have them give Nathan something to knock him out. He’s at a loss what to do, to know what would be best for his friend.
Nathan’s eyes open, and he stares at Dave vacantly. The room is quiet while Dave waits, ponders on the things Nathan has said, none of it making sense.
“Simple . . . really. The casing only forty centimeters long . . . easy to dismantle with the right tool . . .”
Dave leans closer. What in the world is Nathan talking about? As his friend goes on about dimensions and weight, Dave’s eyes widen. “The SNAP 3. That’s what you’re talking about, right?”
Nathan nods excitedly. “Not hard to get one . . . in storage, security . . . no problem getting through security . . . press the right sequence of numbers . . .”
A chill runs through Dave’s heart, and he stops breathing. What on earth is Nathan going on about? He realizes his friend is describing how to take apart the housing on the SNAP 3 and remove the components—a housing he helped design.
Dave’s heart races. Is this something Nathan has done, or is this just another example of Nathan’s cancer-ridden brain wandering off on tangents? Yet, as Dave looks deeply into Nathan’s eyes, he sees a strong focus and concentration, unlike other times when Nathan would just blabber. This comes forcefully as a memory, in Dave’s opinion, and he does not like what he is hearing or where he thinks all this is leading.
Nathan startles Dave by suddenly laughing. Dave looks on in shock as Nathan’s laughter brings tears to his eyes. Soon he is laughing and crying. In between sobs, he forces out more words.
“Simple, see? . . . no one would know . . . late at night . . . strap the fuel cell under . . . desk . . . close proximity . . . radiation leak . . . brilliant, actually . . .”
Dave tries to get Nathan to look at him “What? What did you do? Why?”
Nathan is still laughing. Tears soak his hospital gown just below the neck. Dave reaches for a washcloth and wipes Nathan’s face. Nathan grips Dave’s wrist again, this time softly, his hand shaking uncontrollably. “After . . . switched offices . . . had the desk sent to the city dump . . . no one would know . . . no one . . .”
Nathan sits up in bed and turns toward the window; it takes some effort. He gestures to the drapes. “Please, open . . .”
Dave spreads the fabric apart slowly, allowing time for the bright winter light to spill into the room. Nathan squints, but a smile comes over his face. “They say . . . confession is good for the soul . . . forgiveness . . . I tried. Can’t forgive myself . . . Easy to forgive others, but never yourself.”
At his point, Dave is in a panic. It’s pretty clear what Nathan has just confessed to, but it’s unbelievable! How could Nathan do such a thing, something so calculated and self-destructive? All because his wife gave birth to another man’s baby? Was that it? Was Nathan so distraught that he felt he could no longer go on living, and did the only thing he could think of to end his life?
Why this way? If you wanted to die, there were quicker methods—pills, a gun, jumping off a bridge. But expose yourself to a large dose of radiation that would only stretch out your pain and suffering? Or was that the point? Nathan feeling his shame merits suffering? This is insane! Dave thinks. Bizarre and insane!
Nathan stares out the window, then turns to Dave, who is stunned by the sudden calm on his friend’s face. “I told him I forgave him. For all the rotten things he did . . . doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Nathan chuckles again. “Didn’t want to hear that . . . forgiven . . .”
“You mean Ed, right?”
Nathan nods, his eyes closing. “I’m tired. I think . . . you should leave . . . But, promise me. Promise not to tell anyone. Not Ruth, not Ed, Shirley, no one . . . promise!”
“Of course, Nate. I promise. Won’t tell anyone. Ever.”
“Okay . . .” Nathan shakes his hand toward the door, and soon his breathing deepens and his face relaxes. The morning’s events have all but drained away Nathan’s last bit of strength.
Dave pauses for a moment and studies his friend’s face—unaware that this is the last time he will ever see it. His mind is spinning with this sudden understanding of the source of Nathan’s leukemia. Disbelief, puzzlement, confusion. All these things flit through Dave’s brain as he tries to picture Nathan sneaking one night into the SNAP storage area of the warehouse, the building where the prototypes and other components are safely stored. Wouldn’t someone notice a fuel cell missing? Or had Nathan closed up the housing, leaving no one the wiser? Maybe months, even years, might go by before someone realized the part was missing. The SNAP might be halfway around the world at that point.
As Dave walks toward the elevator, he thinks of all the hours Nathan had spent behind his closed office door, secluding himself, always working intently on a project, wanting to be left alone. At the time, Dave had just thought it was Nathan’s way of avoiding Ed Hutchinson, hunched over his desk, working on formulas. And that when, months later, Nathan suddenly switched offices, thinking it was because the third floor was scheduled for painting and refurbishing. Dave never gave it a thought when Nathan moved down to his floor, leaving behind all his furniture, just doing what management told him to do. How had Nathan arranged that?
Dave takes one look back down the hallway before stepping into the elevator. How can Nathan expect him to keep this a secret, not tell a soul what he had just revealed to him? Shouldn’t someone be told? The doctors? His employer? And then, Dave realizes it’s too late.
Too late to save Nathan, too late for this information to help him in any way, except maybe hurt those who love him. No, Dave concludes, Nathan made him promise, and he would honor that promise. He would leave Nathan to his shame and pain, let those feelings die with him in the grave where they could not hurt anyone else.
He is glad no one gets on the elevator with him as he travels down to the lobby. It’s just too painful for anyone to see a grown man cry.
My heart hurt, listening to Dave tell his story. I thought I would have mountains of questions, but I didn’t. In fact, I couldn’t think of anything at all to say. I was beyond stunned. All this time my mother had sworn that my father’d had a death wish, willed himself to die. And it was true! In some skewed way, her reasoning was sound—my father believed he had bad blood, so gave himself a blood disease. This, then, was the deed without a name my father had done—a deed I now could name. Maybe, deep down, Nathan Sitteroff never felt worthy of life. Maybe he had suffered from depression like my brother, and like his sister, who had killed herself. But the details were shocking—and so outrageous. Who would ever believe it? Did I?
We finished our dinner, even though I don’t remembering tasting any of it. Dave looked exhausted from the telling, and so we spoke of other things, a variety of topics, staying far away from heavy subjects that weighed on our hearts. After dessert and coffee, I thanked Dave profusely for taking the time to see me and revealing to me what he knew. I could tell he felt both burdened and relieved. He had finally told someone about my father’s confession. And yet, how did that make matters better?
I thought of my conundrum and how learning the truth was supposed to set me free. Shouldn’t it? I didn’t feel free at all; rather, a weight had been dumped on my shoulders. I thought I’d be weightless, flying, no longer encumbered by the burden of uncertainty. How could I ever tell Raff what Dave had revealed to me? It would only make him hate our father even more.
I tried to determine how it made me feel. Did I feel betrayed? Abandoned? Could I justify what my father had done? How had Raff put it?—my father had chickened out. Couldn’t face life, so abandoned his kids, leaving Raff to assume the mantle of man of the house. No wonder Raff resented him. But did I resent him?
At that moment, I couldn’t say. I only knew I felt weary and sad, thinking about my father going through with his mad plan to expose himself to radiation. Why couldn’t he have just divorced my mother and gotten on with his life? Sure, divorce wasn’t all that common, but—kill yourself? Wasn’t that a bit drastic? Did it all come back around to my father having a death wish? Feeling unworthy of all life had to offer? I had come full circle, stopping in the very spot in which I had started. Had I learned anything, anything at all?
“Lisa, I know this is all hard to process,” Dave said as he walked me to my car in the lighted parking lot of the hotel. “But you need to remember what I told you earlier. I could only piece together what your father said. Who knows how much of it was truth and how much was delusion? Maybe your father made it all up, his imagination coming up with a crazy answer to explain his disease. I couldn’t find any proof. I tried to learn where they had dumped the desk, tried to research into the missing fuel cell, but I couldn’t do much without raising suspicion and alarm. Stealing something like that is more than a felony—it’s a breach of top security. If I had said anything, I could have been implicated, lost my job, even been arrested. So who knows if your father was telling the truth, or if he was fantasizing? Without proof, there are only his words . . . and my interpretation of them. He was simmering in shame, and guilt. Those feelings can make a person say things they don’t mean, admit to things they haven’t done.”
We stopped at my car, and he placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe all or part of what he said was true; maybe none of it. You have to allow that possibility.”
The irony, once more, slapped me in the face. And, or, or not. An appropriate epitaph for my father’s tombstone, the theme of his life, the focus of his intellect. Boolean algebra. What had lured my father into that field? Was it some subconscious awareness that the math mirrored his existence? It seemed his whole life was one strange, insoluble conundrum.
I knew at that moment I would have to acquiesce to that explanation, without ever having the deep satisfaction of knowing the truth, of tasting the albatross and realizing without a doubt that I was indeed free.