Where in there is Susan? the brain surgeon found himself wondering, looking into her open cranium. This was the first procedure scheduled since his return from a conference in Honolulu where he had sat in for a colleague at a panel on consciousness.
Was he distracted? A good surgeon doesn’t get distracted he was fond of telling his wife.
The woman on his table had a beautiful mind: 37 years old, divorced, mother of two daughters… she was a civil engineer, but also a published poet, or so she had confided at her consult. She had noticed his copy of Leaves of Grass (given to him by an ex-lover, the woman he was with before he met his wife). It was on the shelf in his office among the medical texts. She picked it up and he could see her reading the inscription on the front page.
It’s important to be able to think on both sides of your brain, she told him.
The tumor was benign but given its size, it likely precipitated the migraines she had been having the past year and a half.
Doctor? the nurse asked.
He was standing there, scalpel in hand.
Susan was dreaming… In her dream, she was still a child. She was playing in the house she grew up in but it was not the house she grew up in, it was not the same, but in some ways it was more the house she grew up in then the house she grew up in was. This was the way the house she grew up in really felt. She was sitting at her father’s feet in the den, he was in his chair, the light coming in through the window over his shoulder, so she couldn’t see his face. But it was her father’s voice: Where’s Susan? he said, like he was playing peek-a-boo.
Where’s Susan? he said again. Where in the world is my Susie Q?
Now, she was at a wedding. It was outside, near a lake. It might have been her wedding because she was dancing with her father, and her blazer and blouse and skirt were all white, but she had no idea who she was supposed to be marrying, not even in the dream. It was definitely not her ex.
She still couldn’t see her father’s face for the light coming from across the lake.
There she is, he said. My little girl all grown…
Doctor? the nurse said.
A good surgeon doesn’t get distracted the brain surgeon was fond of telling his wife. You’re never here, she said. Even when you are, she told him, putting her hand to his cheek.
Doctor? the nurse said again.
He snapped out of it. He looked at the nurse, nodded, made the incision.