HERB WENT FROM CLINIC to the monthly department meeting, Ray’s last before his sabbatical began. Since Ray wanted him to counsel the young assistant chief of medicine who would be in charge during his absence, he had to attend. Though able to follow the discussion, Herb made no comments about the department’s ongoing financial woes, despite several prodding glances from Ray. As he was leaving, Kevin stopped him.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“It was a little concussion.”
“Then…do you have time for coffee? I need your advice about the suramin trial.”
“To be honest, Kevin, my mental powers are not quite back to a hundred percent yet. You sure you want advice from me?”
“Herb, if you’re functioning at twenty percent, that’s better than me with all eight cylinders firing.”
They sat in a corner of the empty cafeteria. To postpone having to deal with another intellectual challenge, Herb asked about Kevin’s weekend. His probing, warm curiosity surprised Kevin. Herb gave an apologetic shrug. He hadn’t meant to pry.
“It was pretty intense,” said Kevin.
“What happened?”
“I was in Boston, at my father’s funeral.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Was his death unexpected?”
“Hardly. He lived for three years after being diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. It must have been a joy for my mother to have it drag out that long.”
“You sound angry,” said Herb, leaning forward, elbows on the table, chin resting on his interlaced fingers.
“I know. I shouldn’t be.”
“No?”
“He wasn’t a kind man. In fact, he was a stubborn bastard. But I never took the initiative to work things out. I assumed he’d eventually accept who I was and want my forgiveness. That never happened.”
Herb’s forehead wrinkled as he concentrated.
“What do you think, Herb? If I didn’t try to repair things between us, do I have the right to be angry at him now?”
“Why not? He was the parent. In the big picture, didn’t he have a bigger share of responsibility for the relationship than you?”
Kevin thought for a moment and said, “Maybe you’re right.”
Hoping he was on a roll, Herb said, “And if you’re like me, you’re probably mad at yourself, too.”
“Huh…you think?”
“Definitely. And I know what I’m talking about.”
“How so?”
“I didn’t have much of a relationship with my father. That’s an overstatement. He never showed me affection. Then he died when I was twenty-one. Nothing was resolved—I mean for me it wasn’t. I’m sure he never saw any problem between us.”
“You still sound angry.”
“Just sarcastic. I got over it. Other people came into my life. His significance receded.”
“Gee, that’s inspiring.”
“Sorry if I sound flippant, but it’s true. If nothing else, age does give one perspective on stuff like this. I was angry well into my thirties. Now I think I should have been grateful. Growing up as the only Asian kid in an all-white suburb of New York City had to be far better than living through World War II in China.”
“Was your dad just indifferent or abusive?”
“I’d say he took indifference to a level that approached cruelty. Here’s an example. He traveled a lot for work, but he did happen to be in town the weekend I graduated from high school. And, by the way, my class had voted me most likely to succeed. He didn’t bother to come to the ceremony. It wasn’t important to him. I was just another piece of furniture at home, nothing more.”
“And you’re not still angry?”
“Oh, I guess there’s a spark or two left. But mostly when I think of him, I’m sad. He was such an unhappy person.”
“That’s a lofty view. Wish I had it.”
“You will. And when you do, you’ll accept that you weren’t responsible for what happened. Neither was your father. Shit happens. And when there’s no love, it’s not rational to feel loss or guilt.”
“I don’t think that attitude is going to work for me. I have a few good memories to feed the guilt.”
Kevin could hear his father’s voice, shouting and laughing, “Kev, this is gonna be a huge problem!” At the end of the first summer Kevin spent in the garage, his father had tested the twelve-year-old boy’s mastery of the socket wrench. Kevin scooted under a car and unscrewed oil pan bolts while his father called out five second intervals. He slid back out, oil pan in hand, in eighty seconds. “That’s faster than Jones,” his father had said sotto voce with a wink. “I can’t fire him. He’s got three kids at home. He needs the job more than you do.”
Kevin’s nostrils flared. His eyelids turned red.
Herb had been running on pure emotion. Now he was at a loss for the right thing to say. He had to start thinking again.
“Then you’re lucky, Kevin. I don’t have a single fond recollection.”
“But you’ve got so much confidence. Isn’t that supposed to come from good fathering?”
“Who knows.”
“Maybe we should be in a self-help group.”
They both laughed, but Herb couldn’t sustain the humor. The desolation of his childhood felt too close. Wanting to hold onto his connection with Kevin, he confided the difficulties he had been having since the accident.
“It’s terrifying,” he said at the end of his account. “This is how I’ve made my way in the world. I can’t let myself imagine what it would be like if I don’t recover.”
Kevin grabbed Herb’s wrists and squeezed. Herb didn’t withdraw.
Looking him straight in the eyes, Kevin said, “You’re going to recover completely. You’ve got to believe that, Herb. I do. I’m absolutely sure of it.”