When the doctor told me that I had a malignant tumor in my brain, I was definitely surprised. On a scale of one to ten, that was a nine. Not quite a ten. I was seeing the doctor for a reason, after all. The headaches. The dizzy spells. I knew something was causing them, although I never suspected that the source was terminal cancer. So, let’s just say I was “very surprised.”
However, this surprise was off the chart. On that same scale of one to ten, this landed somewhere around twenty. Maybe thirty. For the first time in my life, I was literally speechless, unable to utter a sound for more than a full minute.
Cam stared at me, her brow crinkled in concern. “Michael? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
I managed a nod and blinked my eyes. We sat across from each other in a dark corner of an Italian restaurant in Thornton Park, one of downtown Orlando’s trendy, revitalized neighborhoods. I picked up my wineglass and gulped the rest of my pinot noir.
“Are you sure?” I croaked.
“Oh yeah.”
“But how? I don’t understand….”
Cam twisted her lips in mock disdain. She spoke to me as she would to a small child: “Well, Michael, see, God gave men and women different parts for very special reasons….”
“No. I mean … My chemo. The radiation. That wipes everything out. It just isn’t possible.”
“I know math was never your best subject, but I think you can count to three.”
“That’s how long?”
Cam nodded and played with the stem of her wineglass. I noticed that she hadn’t sipped a drop.
“You’re kinda freaking out here, you know,” Cam said.
“Yeah, well. It’s just … Y’know. We’re divorced.”
“Apparently, our legal status was irrelevant.”
“I have cancer.”
“No, you had cancer,” she said emphatically, almost angrily. But I didn’t think she was really angry at me. Cam had reacted that way more than once—as if she could force my cancer into permanent remission with the passion of her convictions. “The doctors took it out.”
“You know the odds. You know it’s probably coming back, probably worse than before.”
She reached across the table, took my hand, and blinked at me with her golden-brown eyes. “Michael Garrity. Sometimes things happen in life that you could never predict or expect. You, of all people, should know this. Sometimes they’re good things and sometimes they’re bad things.” She paused, tears welling in her eyes. “I don’t know if you think this is a good thing or a bad thing, but … but, if you think this is a bad thing, it’s going to break my heart. Because I think it’s the most wonderful thing that’s ever happened.”
I squeezed her hand gently and bushed a strand of her styled blond hair back over her ear. “It’s a good thing,” I said and kissed her knuckles.
She laughed with relief and swallowed a sob. Then she pushed her wineglass across the table to me. I took a large swallow.
I, Michael William Garrity, forty-two years old, unemployed, twice divorced, with a daughter in high school and cancer in my head, was about to become a father again.
Yeah, that was a genuine kick-between-the-eyes stunner. After dinner I hugged Cam good-bye and walked over to downtown Orlando’s centerpiece, Lake Eola Park. The evening was still warm in early October and the balmy weather had brought out the usual assortment of joggers, couples strolling, dog walkers, and homeless guys claiming their benches for the night. The fountain in the center of the lake was illuminated with red and blue lights, and two or three plastic swan boats floated across the reflection on the water. I put my hands in my pockets and ambled along the sidewalk that circled the lake.
Cam and I had been divorced for a few years. My daughter, Jennifer, idolized Cam and her trendy fashion sense. And it didn’t hurt Jennifer’s impression that Cam was younger than Becky and I by eight years. That only added to the cool factor. But the marriage had been doomed, more my fault than Cam’s. By the end, I had lost all fire for my job and pretty much everything else in life. I was just going through the motions at work, at home, inside my own head. There was only so much that Cam could give without getting anything back.
However, after our separation, in a strange way Cam and I had become even better friends. Despite her occasional flings with other, usually younger, guys, we always seemed to end up back in each other’s orbits. Every couple of months we found ourselves sleeping together, drifting back apart for a while, and then coming back together again. After Bob showed up—my brain-tumor diagnosis—Cam latched on to me in a way she had never done before. We slept together a few times more than usual, and apparently one of those events had been the jackpot winner.
After my operation at the end of June, I had endured a threemonth regimen of radiation and chemotherapy follow-up treatments. It was a brutal and aggressive strategy to eradicate any remaining cancer cells that the surgeons had missed. Bob had found himself a nice comfortable spot in an inconvenient part of my cerebellum. As they say, “location, location, location.” Because of Bob’s neighborhood in my skull, I was told that there were even odds that I could be a vegetable from brain damage caused by the tumor’s removal. But there I was, three months later, walking and talking and thinking mostly coherent thoughts. However, the postoperative treatment was no picnic. When I wasn’t puking, I felt like I was just about to puke. Loads of summer fun. One of the many treatment side effects I suffered was sterility, not that I was in much of a mood to practice fertility.
So there was Cam’s magic number three. Three months since we’d last slept together, right before my operation and the medically induced sterility. She had waited that long to tell me for a couple of reasons, the first being the general wisdom to wait until the end of the first trimester in case of miscarriage or other complication. But the larger reason was a desire to let me focus on my treatment and recovery without the shock and distraction of news of such magnitude. Although I protested her delay in telling me, she had been absolutely right to do so. I had been a mess for the past three months and needed to focus all my energy and attention on my treatment.
I found a bench along the sidewalk and sat. One of the lake’s genuine black swans trundled by and pecked at a discarded potato chip. So what did this mean for me and Cam? Remarriage seemed pretty unlikely. She had made that crystal clear in the past. Did a baby change things? Unlikely. Besides, after two unsuccessful attempts, I wasn’t so sure that marriage was a good idea for me. However, I would definitely be a part of the baby’s life, both physically and financially. Cam and I would both ensure that. Assuming, of course, that I lived a little while longer. I would strive to do a better job than I had with Jennifer, who was raised almost entirely by her mother.
I then noticed that behind the swan were three little babies, following their mother to the water’s edge. One after another they plopped onto the lake and paddled beside the shore. I looked around for the swan father but didn’t see him. I chose to believe that he was out there somewhere, maybe stuck in traffic or working a double shift to pay for all those babies.
A baby. Good Lord.
So I was in an especially paternal frame of mind the following Monday morning, when I went to visit Mr. Ben Madrigas at his office. I’m not sure what the company was—some software outfit in the Research Park by the University of Central Florida. It was a fairly new one-story building set among the simulation and training companies that dotted the landscape of east Orange County. Nice reception area. Frosted glass. Chrome desk. Leather couch. Trade magazines on the coffee table. But there wasn’t time to get comfortable. Madrigas didn’t keep me waiting long.
“Mr. Garrity, thank you so much for coming,” he said, leading me into his office and gesturing to one of two guest chairs in front of his desk. He closed the door and took the other chair, both of us on the same side of the desk. He had pictures of his family next to his keyboard. A World’s Best Dad blue ribbon was affixed to the bottom corner of his computer monitor.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take some more time off,” I said, before lamely adding, “considering.”
He nodded. “Perhaps. But I need to keep my mind off it. I need to keep busy.” I noticed a slight Spanish accent that I had missed at the cemetery. “I would just make things worse at home. We have some of my wife’s family staying with us and that’s keeping her busy. That’s good for her. And my other children. But the best thing for me is to work. If I just stay busy enough, I can go a minute or two without thinking about Victor. If I just read enough e-mails, draft a project report, have a teleconference, then maybe I can stretch that minute or two into three or four. Eventually, somehow, I’ll get through another day. At home, I wouldn’t be able to manufacture enough distractions. It would be too hard.”
I nodded, indicating that I understood. But how could I? How could anyone understand what he was going through unless he had been through it himself? I really felt bad for the guy. I took a deep breath.
“Look, Mr. Madrigas,” I said. “I know this is a very difficult time for you, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. I really think you’d be wasting your money on a private investigator. No one wants to believe that a loved one would harm himself. But it’s a big problem all across the country, especially with teenaged boys. Trust me. I’ve seen it before.”
Madrigas fixed me with his weary eyes, but he said nothing. I looked away, my prepared little speech a lot harder to deliver than I’d anticipated, but I plowed forward. “A lot of times, there are no outward signs. No warning of what would happen. Which just makes it that much harder to accept afterwards. But that’s exactly what families have to do. My advice? Just do what you’re doing. Move on. Talk to a counselor. I could even get some names for you, if you like. But please don’t waste your money on an investigation. It’ll just cause you more, unnecessary pain. It’ll simply confirm the police report and, more important, it won’t bring your son back.”
This last line felt kind of harsh once I’d said it aloud. It had seemed a lot less insensitive when I rehearsed it in my truck on the way over. I had originally intended to say that “it won’t bring Victor back,” but I felt that using his son’s name was too presumptuous. I didn’t know him. It would be a kind of … violation, I guess. So I backed off slightly, but it still felt almost cruel as it crossed my lips. My intention was to be honest and spare the guy a lot of pain later, not to be an asshole. But that’s how I felt.
Madrigas remained silent for a long, awkward moment, still gazing intently into my eyes. His expression was inscrutable. I couldn’t tell if he was upset, relieved, pissed, or all the above. Finally, after an eternity of heavy silence, he spoke.
“Are you Catholic, Mr. Garrity?”
I blinked at him, thrown by the question. “Uh … sort of. I guess.”
“Sort of?”
“Yeah, well, y’know. Raised Catholic. Altar boy. Sacraments. I’m sort of lapsed at the moment.”
He nodded at me. “Do you go to Mass?”
I hesitated. I wasn’t sure where it was going, but I was pretty sure that it was none of Ben Madrigas’s business. However, given his loss and state of mind, I cut him some slack and answered.
“Yeah. Sometimes. I didn’t go for years, but I’ve started going again lately. Once in a while.” This was true. When I learned that I was the proud owner of a malignant brain tumor, I fell into what you might call a spiritual abyss. But I met a priest while I was in the hospital and he’d been helping me to climb my way out. Nothing overt or proselytizing; just a subtle, almost invisible encouragement. It’s a cliché, I know, but a brush with death sure gets you thinking about God and the afterlife. Given the choice between believing that there is a perfect, eternal afterlife and believing that when we die we do nothing but decay, the former sure sounded a lot better to me. Since I had no idea either way, I figured that might as well choose Door Number One, which had the better payoff.
Madrigas sat back in his chair. “Then you know. You were raised Catholic.”
“I know what?”
“Mortal sin. Suicide.”
“Right.” Now I understood. “I don’t think an investigation is gonna change—”
“It’s about knowing the truth, Mr. Garrity. The thought of my son … suffering now because of his last act on earth … it’s a torment.” He paused for a moment, collecting himself before the emotions welled up and spilled over. “Right now, my prayers for his soul are all about finding him eternal peace. But in my heart, I just don’t believe he could have done that to himself. I can’t reconcile the prayers I must offer with my own knowledge of Victor.” He sat forward suddenly. “Did you know he had been accepted to three different universities?”
When he paused and fixed me again with his eyes, I realized that he wanted an answer. “No, I didn’t.”
“He was seriously considering the priesthood as a vocation. Why would he apply to these universities, why would he make plans, specific career plans, if he planned to kill himself? It doesn’t make any sense.” He sat back again, weariness washing over him like an incoming tide. “I just, I just have to know the truth. Not what’s most convenient for the police report. The truth. If Victor really did commit suicide, then, okay, I’ll learn to live with that. I’ll pray every day for his forgiveness and that I will someday … see him again … in the presence of our Lord—” He rubbed his eyes, the emotions getting the better of him. Breathing heavily, he sat up again, reenergized, and grabbed the armrest of my chair. “But, if he did not kill himself, if it was some kind of an accident, or, or whatever, then don’t you see? That changes everything. I’ll know where he is now. It changes everything.”
He held my gaze with an almost, but not quite, wild intensity in his eyes before another wave of weariness pushed him back into his chair. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his nose. I said nothing, not sure what I could say that wouldn’t sound empty and flat.
“You’re a father, Mr. Garrity,” Madrigas continued. “I know Jennifer. She’s a lovely girl.” Yeah,I thought, no thanks to me. But I kept my mouth closed. “You understand what I’m saying. I’m asking you, one father to another, to help me. Tell me the truth. Whatever it is, at least I’ll know.”
As a father. And now as a father-to-be. The timing of Victor’s death and Cam’s pregnancy wasn’t lost on me, as if there were some sort of cosmic balance sheet somewhere that always needed to have the credits equal the debits.
If I had been sitting in Madrigas’s chair, I doubt that I’d have been as worried about the repose of my child’s soul, but I understood his anguish. I had nearly lost Jennifer during my search for the missing band member and had become unhinged at the prospect of her suffering and being murdered at the hands of some wiseguy thugs. For a few brief moments, I had lost all connection with my rational self, falling into a chasm of violence, pain, and vengeance. So, I more than empathized with Madrigas’s personal agony. And the prospect of my impending new fatherhood had stirred up my paternal emotions to an unexpected degree. Witnessing Madrigas’s emotional torture conjured up a lump in my own throat. There was no way I could just get up and walk out without doing something.
“Okay,” I said, sighing. “I’ll see what I can find.”
He reached out and gripped my forearm, but said nothing, his nostrils flared, his eyes locked on mine in triumphant gratitude. He managed a slight nod.
Madrigas walked me out of his office and I emerged into the harsh sunlight of a cloudless October sky. Seventy-six degrees. A chamber-of-commerce day, as they say. He shook my hand and offered whatever assistance he could for my investigation. It wasn’t until he said good-bye and disappeared back into the building that I realized we had never discussed my fee.
No matter. Let me see what I could find. My plan, which was quickly coalescing in my mind, was to talk to the catching detective, find some speck of reasonable doubt, some hairline crack that I could feed Madrigas to allow him to believe that his son hadn’t actually committed suicide. I hoped that would be enough to give the guy some peace. If I could scrounge up even a small grain of hope, then maybe that would be worth something. Madrigas would probably even feel better paying for it—it could justify his hunch about Victor and provide him the satisfaction of taking action to clear the stain from the boy’s soul. And, if I took the job, I’d have something to offer Jimmy Hungerford to help justify my new employment.
I felt oddly off-balance by the whole meeting. It reminded me of my tumor-induced dizziness, before the headaches had gotten too bad. The news of Cam’s pregnancy had knocked me sideways and I was struggling to find an emotional purchase to hold on to and right myself. Madrigas’s exposed pain knocked me back again, and I felt not just figuratively wobbly but, to a certain extent, literally unsteady.
I sat in my truck and took several deep breaths. Just a few months earlier, I might’ve blamed my uneasiness on Bob, the overwhelming presence who resided in my brain and controlled my life. But Bob was gone now. I hoped. However, there was always a chance that a few lingering cells remained, waiting to grow back into Bob Jr., or Son of Bob, even after the aggressive radiation and chemotherapy. In fact, as the doctors continually reminded me in what I presumed was a cover-your-ass strategy for managing expectations, given the awkward location and type of tumor Bob was, the chance of lingering cells was pretty high.
The unsteadiness passed and I forced my thoughts away from Bob, away from the erroneous and involuntary mental image of my brain with a big chunk missing, as if someone had dipped into it with an ice cream scoop. I instead thought about Victor Madrigas. Focus on the case. Try to help his father, who was left behind in agony. Discover the truth, good or bad, about poor Victor’s death.