The Operation

The hospital was uptown on First Avenue, big, pale, and brand new, its atrium lobby with windows two stories high. Ivy held her son’s hand crossing bright squares on a white floor. A guard with a long shadow directed them to a turnstile and they passed through it and up a silent elevator to pediatrics on the third floor, where there was a similar wall of windows keeping out the June heat. Inside it was cool. Mother and son sat waiting on low gray sofas, as if on rafts in a marble sea. Now and then figures in pale coats and pale trousers passed—male, female, dark, light—casting soothing looks toward the small boy clutching a ragged rabbit.

They had waited till his fifth-grade year was finished for Nicky to have the operation. Today it was finally happening. It was a simple procedure, the handsome Dr. Rosencrantz had told them. He would take out Nicky’s tonsils and he’d be able to go home that same day. He’d have a pretty nasty sore throat, Dr. Rosencrantz said, tilting forward a sympathetic frown, but then he’d be good as new. A person didn’t need his tonsils, especially if they gave him extra sore throats. After the consultation, when they left the examination room, Nicky said, Mum, you should marry him.

He was given a fresh room with gray-blue walls, glinting machines, and the one bed perched on metal legs. Nicky sat against the pillows in a tied-at-the-back hospital gown as one young medical person after another entered breezily, stood officially bedside, and asked his name—Nicholas Cooper Scott—and his age—nine—and why he was there. Each then repeated: He would be going to sleep and waking up without his tonsils. Nicky’s gaze flicked toward his mother with each new person, checking with her the way he still did when they were out in the world, trusting and relying on her, unlike back home, where he’d begun to express a new swagger of opposition and suspicion.

A compact male figure entered the room. It was Dr. Rosencrantz. He calmly said hello and patted Nicky’s arm and repeated the information he’d given them at their first consultation. He did this operation all the time, only one out of a hundred people ever had complications, Nicky was going to be fine.

A small woman with a needlepoint headband and stout neck appeared and cheerfully described that she was going to put an IV needle into Nicky’s arm. He looked with alarm at his mother, then immediately accepted his lack of agency. He flinched at the poke, then relief rose in his face. Not so bad. Rattling wheels passed the doorway, and a small figure in pajamas drove by in a go-cart, making engine sounds. Nicky’s face showed dismay he did not get a go-cart, then immediately owned that he was too mature for such childishness. Later a table glided by with the presumably same child under a thin blanket, on each side a parent leaning in.

Once again she was the only parent. Everett had not understood why Nicky couldn’t have his tonsils out in Virginia and Ivy explained this was where they’d found the doctor covered by New York insurance. One of the positive things about divorce, Ivy thought, was no longer feeling you had to cave in to what your partner wanted. The flip side, of course, being no father present for the son.

Soon Ivy was leaning beside Nicky’s bed as it moved down the gleaming floor past brushed steel, around a corner and through a doorway into a cavernous operating room with soft walls. Deep within, six or seven people in pale hospital garb, their shoes covered with plastic bags, milled about, checked monitors sprouting wires, muttered to each other. How polished and efficient money could make things, Ivy thought, not wanting it to comfort her, except now when her son was about to be cut into. Thank goodness they had the insurance; before Nicky, she’d never paid attention to insurance. She did not see Dr. Rosencrantz. A child in a shower cap came forward and a man’s voice came out of him saying he would take over from here. He then asked Nicky for the fiftieth time his name and what he was there for. Ivy squeezed her son’s small, inert hand. I’ll be here when you wake up, she said, her voice catching.

Mumma, Nicky said.

Bye, Mum, said the child in the shower cap, and the bed wheeled away.

You’ll do great, she heard the voice say to Nicky. Feeling tears rising, she hurried down the hall to the nearest restroom and, once inside, mercifully alone, sobbed as silently as she was able.

While he was being operated on Ivy thought of the day on the trampoline. She had considered that the last day she and Everett were tied together in their marriage. Telling Nicky had been the severing moment.

Nicky lay still, eyes shut, head sunk on the pillow. She sat in a chair close to the bed. When his eyes opened she saw pupils as black as beans. I feel funny, he said, his swollen lips barely moving.

The anesthetic’s still in you, Ivy said. You feel a little loopy.

Are my tonsils gone?

Yes, they’re gone. She thought how she could tell him anything and he’d believe her. Luckily she had his best interests at heart. But what if she didn’t? A parent could do so much damage. And one did lie to one’s child. Nicky was beginning to discern when she was lying. For his own good. She wondered if it was yet another job for a parent, to teach a child to lie. That is, when it was advisable to lie, and probably how.

His eyes closed. He muttered, Did they take out my adenoids?

She half-laughed. They’d not discussed his adenoids, but she and Dr. Rosencrantz had. He’d told Ivy that if the adenoids looked enlarged he would, while he was in there, take them out.

No, you still have your adenoids.

His eyes opened heavily. What are adenoids?

They’re a gland in the—

But he didn’t want to know. He murmured, I want Keanu Reeves to come visit me.

You do?

Yes. Maybe he can come over, Mum. Do you think he could?

I don’t know about that. Why do you want him?

Because he’s Keanu Reeves.

She held up a cup for him to take a sip of water.

Is that a caterpillar? he said.

No, sweet. It’s a straw.

I had some crazy dreams, he said.

You did.

But I don’t remember them. Should I?

He frowned as if he’d just received a bulletin. Mumma, he said. Do you think that somewhere in the world a lion is chasing an antelope?

She suppressed a laugh. I don’t know. Do you?

No, he said. It’s a good day for antelope.

The plan was for Nicky to spend summers with his father on the farm. Everett had been annoyed that his arrival was being postponed.

Why can’t you bring him down now? Everett said on the phone that evening when they got back from the hospital. Nicky was flat out in her bed, sleeping.

Ivy, still irritated Everett had not come to the city for his son’s operation, repeated the doctor’s recommendation that Nicky not be moved for two weeks after the operation. In case there were complications.

Two weeks! Everett groaned. Don’t you people think we have hospitals in Virginia?

The city was hot. Last week Ivy had hauled the air conditioner out from under the linen curtain cover and it was rattling in the window. The unit was old and dripped down the brick façade of the building, getting her in trouble with the building management. She jimmied a tray underneath it on the sill and hoped for the best. The day after the operation Nicky settled on the couch in the cooler living room and slept on and off. He even allowed Ivy to sit beside him and watch a movie, usually preferring his independence while watching, and even slumped against her, grimacing when he had to swallow. In the afternoon, he slept back in Ivy’s room and she sorted papers and drawers and slowly packed up for their summer departure. A person named Wendell, a friend of a friend of Daphne’s, was illegally subletting for the summer. Many of Ivy’s friends had left town for the country. The ones who stayed worked in offices or were by their own air conditioners in their small apartments. Ivy would go to Virginia and stay in the cottage. How could she not be in the place where her son was? And even if Everett didn’t acknowledge it, Everett often needed her help.

She had put on some music and was separating files into piles on the table in the living room when she looked up to see Nicky standing in the pocket-door entryway in his oversize T-shirt, startling her.

Mumma, he said tremulously.

His loose shorts made his legs look especially frail and thin; on his outstretched palm was a red splash of blood.

Oh, sweet, she said and stood. In the bathroom she washed his hand at the sink; she looked at the back of his throat. They’d been told there might be some blood, but not to worry. It’s okay, she said as reassuringly as she could muster and folded him back into bed.

Ivy did not like calling doctors. Many of her friends—the mothers—seemed always to be taking their children to the doctor, but Ivy dragged her feet. Mostly, she felt it unnecessary. Also, she didn’t like asking for help. And mainly she dreaded the stomach-thwacking bill of the visits not covered by insurance.

She did not hesitate now. She phoned Dr. Rosencrantz. But Dr. Rosencrantz was not the doctor on call, the answering service said. A Dr. Estin answered. He sounded as if he was outside. She heard a bird singing. Dr. Estin was decidedly unconcerned, and even over the phone she could tell he was bored. It was perfectly normal, he explained, to cough up a little blood after a tonsillectomy. It was nothing to worry about. He seemed irritated that she was even bothering him. If it happened again, Dr. Estin said practically yawning, she could go to her nearest emergency room, but he doubted that was necessary.

It was a pretty big amount of blood, Ivy said. And he says his throat really hurts on one side.

Yes, said Dr. Estin. You do get a nasty sore throat.

Afterward she sat beside Nicky and told him this sometimes happened, hearing a hollow note in her reassurance. He took another shot of the liquid purple Tylenol.

That night she slept suspended with concern beside him, feeling his small warmth, his goodness, his innocence.

In the morning as she scooped yogurt for him, Nicky’s voice called plaintively from the bathroom. She rounded the corner and saw a large bouquet of red blood splattered across their old standing sink.

Come on, she said calmly.

The nearest ER was only a few blocks away on Seventh Avenue, an unusual structure with a white-and-black honeycomb façade, but they took a cab. It was 9:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning and inside the doors was quiet as a library. Ivy saw no other patients. Wide cubicles spread out past the reception area.

Soon Nicky was propped up on another bed with a surrounding oatmeal-colored curtain hovering a foot above the floor. Eventually a young man with a dangling earring said hello, called them honey and said someone would be with them shortly. A while later, a small nurse with a braid said a doctor would be with them shortly. After fifteen minutes, Ivy let go of Nicky’s hand and pulled back the curtain to the stillness of the huge room. A couple of heads showed above a maze of dividers. Now and then one saw a part of a figure move.

Ivy ventured out and stopped at the nearest person, a woman holding a phone receiver to her ear. Seeing no one else, Ivy waited till the woman hung up. Ivy explained she was with her son. The woman blinked as if telegraphing Morse code—unkindly, but not sympathetically—and when Ivy finished, the woman said the doctor would be with them soon.

Ten more minutes passed. At last a thin-necked man in a white coat entered the curtain and set his hands in his pockets. Sorry, he said without feeling. We’re short staffed this morning. I’m Dr. Cord.

He looked into Nicky’s open mouth, pointing a small flashlight he’d taken from his pocket.

I see the stitches, he said. It looks okay. A little bleeding happens after a tonsillectomy.

He says it really hurts, Ivy said. In a sort of sharp way.

Yes, the doctor said, in league with them all. Getting your tonsils out hurts.

Ivy and Nicky exchanged a look of defeat, but she was the parent and had to remain upbeat. Okay, my little, she said. Then we’re good.

The doctor turned to go.

So we can leave? Ivy said. She suddenly saw how drawn she must have looked, her wrinkled black sundress, her stained canvas bag.

Well, yes, he said. As soon as I write you up, you’re good to go. He left.

They waited another fifteen minutes.

Ivy emerged again from behind the curtain. One ought to feel reassured in a hospital with help within reach, but she felt the opposite, oddly invisible, her son not truly cared for. The woman on the phone was gone. Ivy walked farther to a woman in a floral shirt standing at an open file cabinet. Ivy began by apologizing—always a woman apologized!—she and her son were waiting for the doctor’s…what, release form? The woman half-turned as if hearing her voice across the valley from a distant mountain. For the first time in the last three days, Ivy felt the thought of the man she was trying to forget wing by over the room, as if testing if it belonged here. As if reminding her she had been seen at one point. Then it swooped off. This was no place for allure. An urge to weep rose up, and her throat ached in sympathy with her son’s. He was in that dimension where illness put a person, a dimension where the only thing one wanted was tenderness and care.

Eventually the man with the earring arrived. Ivy signed many papers and they were free to go.

She did not hesitate now. She phoned Dr. Rosencrantz. But Dr. Rosencrantz was not the doctor on call, the answering service said. A Dr. Estin answered. He sounded as if he was outside. She heard a bird singing. Dr. Estin was decidedly unconcerned, and even over the phone she could tell he was bored. It was perfectly normal, he explained, to cough up a little blood after a tonsillectomy. It was nothing to worry about. He seemed irritated that she was even bothering him.

For most of the day Nicky slept, conking out after two spoonfuls of chicken soup. Ivy turned off the air conditioner and opened the window to let in a breeze, to lessen the trapped feeling. She sat on the couch, legs up, with her computer.

Nicky’s voice woke her, asleep on the couch. She got up. It was late afternoon. He was in the bathroom leaning over the sink which looked like a murder scene. His chin was smeared with blood.

Jesus, she said. Then added less dramatically, Poor sweetie. She washed the creases of red at the corners of his mouth, and brought him back to bed. His skin was the color of an oyster shell.

She took a picture of the sink and called the doctor as she washed it. Dr. Estin was still on call. This time she said simply, I want to bring him back to the hospital. Can you admit him? She had walked to the far end of the living room so that Nicky would not hear the deep panic which might be heard in her voice.

Okay, said Dr. Estin in an oddly finicky tone. But you will have to go to the outpatient emergency room. It’s across the street from where you had the operation. They’ll assess him and admit him if necessary.

I’ve never seen him so pale, Ivy said quietly.

They’ll take care of him, said the doctor. She heard birdsong and decided he was on a slanted lawn in Connecticut with spring flowers blooming, pillars at the door, a stone wall, pond. She did not feel kindly toward him.

Come on, my love, she said to Nicky. She grabbed a hooded sweatshirt for him, a long-sleeved, dotted shirt and a book, as if she would read, and threw them into the canvas bag. She added her sewing pouch—there was a tear in the dotted shirt and maybe she would sew it—along with a suede purse for her wallet and keys and phone. What else did they need? Help. That was all.

The cab ride up First Avenue seemed endless. Nicky’s head lay in her lap. The turbaned driver, an older man, had a calm aura about him and Ivy thought how usually she might chat with him, but today she couldn’t. He glanced at them in the rearview mirror but said nothing. Perhaps he was at the end of his shift and had his own worries. Perhaps he was respecting their privacy by not commenting. Outside the cool windows the buildings looked bleached in the heat and shadowless.

It really hurts, Nicky mumbled.

She knew, she said, and told him how brave he was being and that they were going to get him right away to the doctors who would fix him up. It was awful to feel so rotten, she said, and he was really hanging in there. She called Everett as they rode the potholes and briefly filled him in. His voice was as infuriatingly calm as everyone else’s. He’ll be fine, he said. Keep me posted.

The cab pulled onto a turnaround of bricks patterned in scallops. They got out at the base of a glass building that looked eighty stories high. Good luck, the driver said, facing forward. They entered the cool lobby and were told by a guard that this wasn’t outpatient, this was inpatient. The man’s dark face had a white mustache. Outpatient was another building, he said, and pointed toward the river.

Oh, she said, crestfallen, but spellbound. The man’s voice was calm and warm, and he seemed to be the first directly helpful understanding person they’d found today. Her arm was pressed around Nicky, whose body was swaying. She noticed a line of wheelchairs against the wall. Is there—? Certainly, the man immediately answered, and got them a chair.

You sit right here, my friend, the man said. Nicky plopped down, dazed.

The man took hold of the handles and pushed. Allow me, he said.

Thank you so much, Ivy said, feeling gratitude swell in her body, and nearly toppling at his feet.

Back through the sliding doors they rolled into the searing heat. The guard pushed the wheelchair along a white cement walkway with grass edged alongside it like a rug, past young trees growing out of circles of pink impatiens, off one curb, over a road into a garage entrance disappearing underground, and up over another curb to more walkway, till they reached a smaller entryway where doors reflecting their image—Nicky in a wheelchair and Ivy beside him, leafy trees behind—parted and received them.

It was past four in the afternoon and Ivy was relieved to find the emergency reception area empty. A child could be heard crying; no patients were in evidence. What day was it? Saturday. The guard left them and Ivy thanked him. So much, she said.

The reception desk was breast high, as if to keep children from reaching. Ivy related the facts to a moonfaced woman with drawn eyebrows in a sleeveless white shirt. Was it possible, Ivy asked, for him to have something he could cough up the blood into? The woman rolled her chair to another desk, opened a drawer, closed it, reached toward another handle, couldn’t quite reach and stood. She returned with a square of blue plastic which Ivy unfolded into a plastic bag. She asked also for paper towels and was handed a few, along with a clipboard to fill out. Ivy parked Nicky’s wheelchair a few feet away in a yellow waiting area, where a wide-screen TV played a loud cartoon. Nicky did not look. He was fumbling with the blue bag; Ivy widened its mouth. He coughed a little, as if he’d been holding back, and a long red worm dribbled down the plastic. He looked to his mother, as if to say, How is this happening?

It’s okay, she said. That’s why we’re here. They’re going to help us. She wiped his mouth, which had crusted blood. The baby’s crying was coming from behind a door by the waiting area. The crying had increased to a gasping rhythm. Ivy filled out the forms, keeping the wheelchair close to her chair, her leg touching Nicky’s.

When she handed the clipboard back, she tried to make eye contact with the moonfaced woman, but failed. Ivy said nothing further, thinking to pace herself with how much pestering she did.

They waited. Nicky dribbled more red spit into the blue bag. Ivy thought about texting, but there was nothing yet to report; they were in suspension. Yet time was passing. From the TV came irritating crash sounds, manic laughing sounds, mechanical curlicue sounds and annoying pop music. Ivy looked toward the small window in the door where the baby was crying but could see nothing. Now and then the door at this end of the corridor would swing open and a medical worker with a stethoscope around his neck would exit. Or a woman carrying towels would enter. Ivy glimpsed another reception area which seemed to have much more activity. Were they in the right place? One time when the door opened Ivy was at the counter asking the moonfaced woman if there was any update and saw a row of curtained-off areas. Ivy waited another fifteen minutes by the clock on the wall before going again to the counter.

We have to wait till an examination area is available, the woman said, ticking her eyes toward the big gray door. They will let you know.

Mum, Nicky said when she sat back down. When are they going to help us? The blue plastic bag was streaked with a dark-purple blood. He looked at her with his doleful face. Usually his doleful face appeared when he was appealing for a present, or an ice cream. But this doleful face had no artfulness to it. It was sincere.

Ten minutes she waited before returning to the counter. I’m just worried about him, she said. He’s spat up a lot of blood and really looks so pale. I’ve never seen—

They’ll see him when they can, the woman said.

Out of the TV’s speakers came the sounds of collisions and looping gurgles. The crying also continued, high and frantic, muffled behind the door. This was hell.

I wonder what’s the matter with that kid, she said. Then, Why do they leave this TV blasting if no one is even watching?

Nicky frowned at her. He never liked when she complained in public, it embarrassed him.

No one can hear me, she said, lowering her voice.

I can, he said.

I just want them to help you, she said. It’s frustrating.

A pretty, slender woman in a white lab coat came walking from down the corridor toward them. Ivy sat up expectantly, but she walked past to the door of the crying child.

She looked at the clock; thirty-five minutes since they’d arrived. Ivy stood and went to the counter. She began to speak and the woman said, They’ll take him now.

What if Ivy hadn’t stood up just then? She gathered her bag. A woman in a crimson sweater sloping off downy shoulders stood at the handles of Nicky’s wheelchair and pushed him forward. The wide gray doors opened for them at last. The inner room. The TV no longer assaulting them. People were moving purposefully around another counter. Ivy felt as if each door they entered today brought them deeper both into illness as well as into the ability for care. At the third curtain was an empty bed into which Nicky was moved to be propped against a nearly vertical back. Ivy noticed his lip trembling. You cold? He nodded. Would it be possible for him to get a blanket? The woman nodded, as if expecting this, and walked away to disappear past lockers and tables on wheels and down a parallel corridor out of sight. Ivy left the curtain open feeling they’d be less likely to be forgotten. Also she could keep an eye out for who was going to help them. For not the first time today, she thought, My son’s life could very well be in the hands of the people here and I have no choice but to trust they can be relied upon.

The woman appeared with a stack of thin blankets with black piping and gently laid one on Nicky. Oh, Ivy said, it’s warm! She thanked the woman, wanting her to know she was grateful. The aide asked for Nicky’s hand and placed his middle finger in a plastic pea pod attached to a nearby monitor. She looked at the screen’s flickering lines and digits.

His vitals look fine, she said.

Vitals. Only here did you hear that word.

Nicky’s face appeared made of marble. I’ve never seen him so pale, Ivy said. She delivered the words to the aide mildly, blandly, not wanting to alarm Nicky.

His blood pressure is a little low, the woman said. But nothing to worry about.

Nothing to worry about. The phrase floated above them, a mocking balloon.

This isn’t his usual coloring, she said.

The aide mysteriously turned to leave.

What—? Ivy said, not wanting her to go. She found herself cleaving to each person they encountered. What happens now?

She knew it was best to stay calm. But she couldn’t help but scan each person for any extra signs of humanity, any personal acknowledgment that Nicky would be looked after, that he was going to be all right. Never had kindness seemed so precious.

A doctor will be in to look in on him, the woman said. She said this as if it was obvious, or had been said already. Perhaps it had.

Ivy smoothed the curls back from Nicky’s bleached forehead, his hair at least not altered, still the same from an earlier time. Lately he’d started to jerk away when she did this, but he was not jerking away now. He spat more red drool down at the edge of the bag. Then he sat forward beside her, as if preparing for a big cough. He opened the bag wider near the side of the bed and leaned over it and out of his mouth came a gushing red waterfall of blood.

Oh Jesus, Ivy said, holding the bag which was now bulging and heavy. Then Nicky threw up another half bucket.

Help, she said, letting urgency into her voice, not being hysterical but needing to be heard. Please? Can someone come in here? She wasn’t leaving Nicky’s side.

No one appeared. She stood up and called out from the side of the curtain. Can someone—please! Come help!

A young man in white nurse’s pants and a T-shirt walked calmly over.

He’s just thrown up—look! The man glanced at the bag which Ivy held up, but turned to study the monitor.

His vitals look okay, the man said.

But—Jesus, Ivy said. She could feel her son’s gaze on her searching for reassurance. Look at all the blood.

His blood pressure is a little low, the man said. Is that all anyone could say here? Then he said, We could give him an IV.

Yes, please, Ivy said.

Nicky must have thrown up two gallons of blood. Why wasn’t anyone rushing him into an operating room? He lay back, his face frozen in terror.

It’s okay, she said. But she didn’t believe it. The doctor will be here soon, she said, not sure of that either.

Nine and a half minutes later a strapping man wearing a white medical jacket over a crisp blue shirt appeared. The shirt opened at a sturdy neck. Hello, he said in an African accent. I am Dr. Mankattah. We’re having a little bleeding, is that it?

His elegance was illogically reassuring. Something to like! Ivy began to explain all that had happened, the operation, the ER visit, etc. He seemed only to half-listen and asked Nicky to open his mouth. He took his iPhone out of his top pocket and shone the flashlight into Nicky’s throat.

I find these work better than the hospital flashlights, he said under his breath. Then more forthrightly, I can see where the suture isn’t healing. That is what is causing the hemorrhaging. The tear has formed a scab which prevents it closing up.

She did not like the word hemorrhaging.

He needs to go back into surgery, the doctor said. So we can redo the suture.

Ivy felt the balm of understanding for the first time in two days what exactly was happening. She could now give Nicky a hopeful look. His face was frozen in terror.

The doctor was checking the monitor and the IV. Because Nicky had received medication, he told Ivy, he would have to wait a half hour for surgery. But, the doctor said, there probably wouldn’t be an operating room available before that time anyway.

Let’s see, what time is it. He looked at his iPhone. Ivy looked at the clock on the wall: 9:33. They’d been here for five hours.

And it’s okay to wait? Ivy said.

His vitals look fine, said the doctor. In league with the rest of them! He’ll be okay, he said. I’ll speak with Dr. Estin. I spoke to him earlier.

You did? she said, full of wonder. How had they found one another?

The doctor tucked his iPhone in his breast pocket. Don’t you worry, he said to Nicky. We’ll fix you up.

The doctor left and Nicky closed his eyes and seemed to sleep.

While Nicky lay motionless, Ivy texted. She texted Everett. She texted Irene. She texted Margaret and Harriet and Daphne. Daphne answered immediately. Do you want me to come? She was still in Brooklyn, had come in for the weekend. No, Ivy wrote, it’s all right. Who knew how long it would take. But she thanked her, it helped to know she was there. Then Irene texted back. She was out on the island. Tell me what I can do. Keep me posted. Margaret texted, oh god. Harriet texted, I’m here.

Ivy wrote down Mankattah. Or had it been Maknattah? Mantakka? She didn’t want to be caught not knowing the doctor’s name.

Nicky opened his eyes. Mum, he said in a whisper.

Yes?

Mum, he repeated.

I’m here.

At 10:10 p.m. the doctor returned trailing a gurney. A hefty orderly wore a hoodie and yellow aviator glasses. Ivy read the label on the doctor’s white coat. MANKATTAH. Man-cat-ta.

Okay, said Dr. Mankattah. We are ready for you. Are you ready for us?

Nicky nodded. He was moved onto the gurney. I can’t swallow, he whispered.

That’s just what we’re going to take care of, the doctor said.

Ivy followed. As the orderly pushed, the doctor kept one hand on the bed. Out the wide gray doors, past the reception counter and the yellow waiting room, familiar to her now and nearly quaint, TV still blasting, down a long hallway to a turn at the end, into another long hallway with occasional empty beds along the wall and occasional handholds. They came to a T and went left, wheels rattling.

The operating room was like a garage. Crumpled balls of paper littered the floor beside curls of tape and torn plastic. Three figures in the gloom, shower-capped and short-sleeved, looked up blankly when the bed entered.

Can I come in? Ivy asked.

Just to here, said the burly orderly, suddenly militant, but with a lisp.

Ivy pressed her hand on Nicky’s chest, kissed his hand and told him she’d be there when he woke up.

I can’t swallow, he said, both panicked and resigned, and his eyes filled with tears.

He says he can’t— Ivy began, but the gurney was wheeled away.

Ivy watched the doors close.

Where should I wait? she asked.

The orderly, striding off, not turning, said, Take two lefts, then a right, and a left, and you’ll find the waiting room.

Ivy stood like the Minotaur at the maze’s end. Who had she just surrendered her son to? What if they were incompetent in there? What if he died? A sob choked out of her throat and moved down the dingy hall.

She had chosen this. If she hadn’t chosen elective surgery her son would not be in there now. He would be in Virginia, wisteria curling at the windows, his feet under a sofa cushion, watching a stupid movie. Or asleep, unharmed, holding the scraps of his rabbit, the peaceful linden outside the window.

One left, another long hall. Then a left here at this sort of half hall, or left at the next? She made a few turns, backtracked. She passed a woman lazily walking a table with a clattering lower shelf. Then it was quiet again. A fellow pushing an empty wheelchair pointed her back to a corner and amazingly at the end of a hall she saw a door with narrow glass windows on either side. She entered into a hushed, carpeted area with a quiet elevator bank. Everything in here looked new. There was a glassed-in lounge area with empty mahogany shelves and a glass coffee table, modern upholstered chairs with black iron arms and no one in it, and Nicky’s unconscious face in her mind’s eye.

Her phone told her it was 10:34. At the end of the hall a black window to the outside reflected her figure. She walked toward it and through her silhouette saw a dark wall a few feet away. Which way was she facing? She’d long ago lost her sense of which direction was south or east or west, never mind where she was from the hospital entrance.

She sat down on the carpeted floor. Staying in the corridor, she would see the door when it opened and not be hidden back in the empty lounge. There was no one here to ask, How much longer? She thought of the littered garage of the operating room and how Nicky’s mouth must have to be propped open—was there a contraption for that? And the hands of the surgeon—Dr. Mankattah? Dr. Estin? She didn’t even know whose hands were reaching a needle down her son’s throat, hooking it into his soft throat skin with black or clear gut. She remembered Everett, trained as a volunteer EMT, saying that the word stitches described the treatment, but the result was called suture.

And in the quiet now came the clichés of wisdom which rose up like signposts in times of distress. Things can change from one moment to the next. Without our health we are nothing. You don’t value your health till you lose it.

The elevator doors opened and a bent wire of a man emerged clutching a walker. He wore a heather-gray sweater over a collared shirt and khaki pants. Over his shoulder was slung a dark-green bag with a bookstore logo in white, which was indeed filled with books. Even at thirty feet away she could recognize an orange cover and see part of the title: The Stories of John Cheever.

What was this man doing here at this hour? He actually looked like John Cheever. But older. He appeared lost. She was grateful to see another person, not unlike a god of wisdom, carrying books, carrying knowledge. He passed her, headed to the door with the narrow glass windows from whence she’d come, where she knew there was nothing but endless corridor. She tried to catch his attention, sitting on the floor practically in his path, but he seemed determined not to see her. He was concentrating on taking steps and went by her as if by a ghost. That is, an invisible ghost. Not all ghosts were invisible. Perhaps she was a ghost. Perhaps she was dead. He went out the door.

11:02.

For one moment she thought of a recent lover. She remembered how the need to disappear, the vanishing into him, had been one of the strongest feelings she’d ever had. Now it was hard to see any place for such a feeling here.

The bent man appeared again in the hallway, retracing his steps, passing her again as if blind.

Good evening, she said this time.

Hello, he said ceremoniously, bowing a little. His head tipped in her direction as if unable to see who was speaking. Then, having completed his reconnaissance of the hallway, the man pressed the elevator button, leaned on the handles of his walker, waiting, and when the doors opened, stepped in and disappeared.

11:11…

11:17…

Nicky’s heart was still beating. Of course it was. She did not need to find new reasons why illness was bad, but fresh versions kept appearing. Illness allowed for no other thoughts. Illness distracted you with worry, the kind of worry which allowed for no other thoughts.

11:20.

She heard a click and turned to the door leading to the corridors. Through it came a bare-armed man in pale-green scrubs with pale-green baggies over his shoes.

Nick’s mum? the man said, approaching her, a white shower cap set like a bonnet on his head.

Ivy scrambled up off the carpet.

Hello, he said. I’m Dr. Estin. Early forties, eyes slanted like a sloth’s. The familiar voice so irritating on the phone belonged now to this kind and sympathetic man. Your son is doing fine, he said. I stitched up the suture.

This doctor knew the correct term. Nicky, he told her, was on his way to post-op and she could meet him there. He’d had a lot of fluid in his stomach, Dr. Estin said. They’d drained nearly three liters.

Ivy refrained from pointing out that he’d been the doctor who had not offered help early on. He threw up a lot of it while we were in the emergency room, she said. Was that all blood?

Mixed with water, he said. Blood from the suture was dripping down his throat. Blood makes a person pretty nauseous. He added, Must have been awfully uncomfortable.

Ivy put her hand on the wall, suddenly faint.

You okay? he said, and took her elbow.

Just a little tired.

He walked her back out the door. Ivy mentioned how they’d continually been told the one-in-a-hundred statistic and how she guessed they’d won the draw.

It’s even less than that, he said ominously. He strolled beside her for a few hallways until he could point in the far distance to the double doors of post-op.

He’ll meet you down there, said Dr. Estin. It’ll be very sore for a while. But he’ll do fine.

Thank you, Ivy said. Thank you so much. Her gratitude speared her in the throat.

The post-op room was as empty as everywhere else. She could hear the light banter of women chatting and rounded the corner to see two young women, late twenties, early thirties—weren’t they rather young to be in charge of post-op? Their faces lifted like flowers to Ivy as she said she was looking for her son.

He’s on his way, one woman said breezily. She had the air of a cheerleader. Maybe it was her high ponytail. You can wait for him over there. She pointed to another set of double doors, from which Nicky would enter.

Ivy crossed the room and set her bag on the counter. The women continued chatting as if they were at a slumber party. Ivy heard bits: …it was pretty nice, a place that Sharon likes to go to, but they don’t serve you unless… Ivy was half reassured by the normalcy and half worried they weren’t being serious enough.

The door opened and a bed came wheeling in, a white-haired woman flat on her back, bird profile upward, eyes closed. Behind the bed came the tall bent man with his book bag and his walker. One of the nurses stood and followed, her high ponytail swinging. Ivy heard her teenage voice now, warbling. The orderly walked past heavy footed, back through the double door.

She shivered. It was cold in here. Ivy walked to the seated nurse who was humming to herself and asked if she had an extra blanket. The nurse stood, her thick eyebrows raised in thought for a moment, then moved uncertainly to some lockers, Star Trek circa 1970. She opened a few cabinets with a baffled expression. They should be here somewhere, she said, then wandered off into dimmer recesses out of sight.

The door opened. This time the gurney held Nicky, small in the large expanse, looking as if the air had been flattened out of him. He did not look peaceful. He looked shattered. Two orderlies parked the bed in a near corner and the nurse with the ponytail appeared. In a bell-like voice, she asked Ivy to step aside while they checked his vitals. His eyes were puffed up, as if pummeled in a fight.

Vitals. Another word one didn’t like hearing.

The other nurse appeared while the first slid Nicky’s finger into a temperature sleeve, and cranked up his bed slightly, comparing notes about an apparently inept colleague. Did you see when Dr. Howard did the tracheotomy?

Ivy saw Nicky’s swollen lips chattering. Aware she was a pest, but holding to the common wisdom that every hospital patient needs an advocate to speak on his behalf, she pointed out his shivering.

We’ll get him some blankets, said the nurse with the ponytail, and she turned her finely drawn and made-up features toward Ivy. The direct gaze was almost shocking, like a shower of light. Ivy realized no one had looked directly at her for hours and she had needed it. She now loved this girl.

The nurse said, It’s a normal reaction postsurgery.

The other nurse brought two warmed blankets and they laid them on Nicky. He was shaking all over. The skin of his face looked plastic.

He’ll wake up soon, the nurse said, so chipper Ivy now wondered if they were both high. Nicky continued to tremble under the blankets.

Is this okay? Ivy said to their backs as they returned to their station, for the millionth time asking a stranger if something was okay.

Oh, yeah. His temp will be low, but they’ve given him medication to bring it back up. She tilted her head in the direction of the clipboard left by the orderlies on the counter.

Ivy leaned down close to Nicky’s face. His eyes fluttered opened, then closed. Hello, she murmured. You’re all done. You’re out.

His eyes opened wider, black, not seeing her. His teeth chattered and his body rattled under the blankets. You’ll get warm, she told him, not believing it. You’re fine.

After a few long minutes he stopped shaking and seemed to sleep. Ivy glanced up. Where had the old couple gone? She worried there was no one advocating for them. Her eye fell on the clipboard. She moved stealthily toward it. Nicholas Cooper Scott was typed at the top above a long list in small print of medication. Some she recognized. Lorazepam. Fentanyl. Jesus, she thought. All of these drugs had been pumped into him; no one had asked her permission. The drugging was nearly as punishing as the operation. How had she let this get so out of hand? She lifted the paper to a second page of medications. Suddenly her lax maternal attitude—allowing him to walk alone to the corner store, letting him do his homework on his own—felt reckless, if not downright neglectful. She had to take more care! She looked at his swollen waxy face and thought of all he’d been through—his tender throat sliced up, twice knocked out by drugs, three different hospitals, blood spattering into his hand. Fatigue socked her in the back ribs.

The clock above the door said 1:25.

What now? No one had told her. Then she remembered Dr. Estin saying he’d have a bed for the night, to keep an eye on him. Keep an eye on him, another chilling phrase. Ivy pictured herself slumping in one of the dim hallways, sleeping with her bag as a pillow in some alcove. Well, she’d do whatever she had to.

The nurse came bouncing over—definitely high, Ivy decided—and looked with satisfaction at Nicky’s face, whose crushed eyes were opening.

Hello there! the nurse said and looked again at Ivy as if this collapsed mask of her son was proof. See? All good. Another fifteen minutes and you can go, the nurse told her. Someone from pediatrics will take you up.

They waited. Nicky dribbled more red spit into the blue bag. Ivy thought about texting, but there was nothing yet to report; they were in suspension. Yet time was passing. Ivy looked toward the small window in the door where the baby was crying but could see nothing. Ivy glimpsed another reception area which seemed to have much more activity. Were they in the right place?

A groomed woman in a gray sweater and pearls was their escort up a spacious elevator which opened to a hushed hallway, amber-lit behind a glass wall.

This is us? Ivy said.

We are proud of our new pediatrics floor, the woman said.

The gurney wheeled down a shiny hall, passing an octagonal nurses’ station with a profile at a distant desk, and glided through an open doorway into a high-ceilinged room with a wall of windows showing the starry buildings of Brooklyn in the distance and the satiny pleats of the East River below. A boat, flat and dark as a coffin, moved on the shimmering water.

Ivy gasped. This is amazing, she said.

Would you like a cot? The woman said. People often just sleep on the window seat. Ivy saw a wide cushion in front of the windows with enough room for a family.

The window seat is fine, she said. It’s great. She was too wrung out to feel giddy, but there was giddiness deep within. River view!

The woman said good night. As she left, in perfect choreography, a nurse entered wearing white pants and a white button-up shirt. She introduced herself as Angelica and said she would be there if they needed anything. Did he want something to help him sleep? Angelica asked. Ivy looked at Nicky, who was starting to groan a little; she thought that might be a good idea.

Waiting for Angelica to return, Ivy put her palm on Nicky’s chest and felt his small heartbeat. You’re all fixed up now, she said.

His eyes were black blobs in the amber light. His puffed-up mouth barely moved when he spoke. I thought I was going to die, he said.

An hour later Ivy lay with a cheek on the hard pillow, staring at the silhouette of her son sleeping in this new bed. The shadows in the dim light looked almost sea blue. The hush was comforting, though her heart was loud and pounding. She basked in the stillness. Peace, she thought, that was really all a person wanted.

She turned to look out at the majestic window view. A small boat appeared occasionally, moving on the hammered steel of the water at the level of her knees. She felt they were on a great ocean liner, on a high deck, arriving at a port, having dodged a disastrous storm. Why did you have to have the wits scared out of you to feel sharp, to be content with being alive?

She closed her eyes, not ready for sleep but knowing she needed it, and skittering before her vision appeared the places she and Nicky had been in these last two days—

the hallways, the rooms where they’d waited, the cabs bouncing, the beds where Nicky had been parked, lining up one after another, then jamming like logs at a turn in the river. She saw the faces which had regarded them blankly, or not looked up, the ones offering help. A filament ran through it all, beginning with the calmness of the first operation to the hectic flurry of the last. There was a boy carrying towels, peacock nails clicking keyboards, the counters against Ivy’s ribs, the doctor’s shining flashlight, hands testing the IV tubes as if for warmth, the empty wheelchair. People, she saw, were brave and good and kind. She saw life was more astonishing and radiant than she’d imagined, and she’d spent a lot of time imagining.

Out in the hall she heard a bed rolling by.

She was not aware of when she fell asleep; we never are.