Sofia

  Copyright @ 2019 Joseph Sciuto

  Published by Iguana Books

  720 Bathurst Street, Suite 303

  Toronto, ON M5S 2R4

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise (except brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of the author or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.

  Publisher: Meghan Behse

  Editor: Lee Parpart

  Cover image: courtesy of Shutterstock.com

  Cover design: Daniella Postavsky

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77180-352-6 (paperback). 978-1-77180-353-3 (epub). 978-1-77180-354-0 (Kindle).

  This is the original electronic edition of Sofia.

  To all the pediatric oncology and critical care nurses, to the cancer researchers, and to the courageous children who fight this terrible disease.

  And to 7jane, my Goodreads friend, whose insights and wisdom into Asperger’s syndrome was inspirational and enlightening.

  One

  I woke up one morning with a stinking pain in my neck, and when I touched the area, I felt a bunch of lumps. This seemed odd, but I figured I’d probably slept funny. So I changed into my running gear, and went for my early morning seven-mile run through the lovely, tree-lined streets of Studio City, hoping to work out the kinks. When I returned home, the pain had backed off a little, and I didn’t think about it until five hours later. I was sitting at my desk, in my book-lined study, writing the opening scene to a new screenplay, when I suddenly felt like I’d been hit in the neck with a poison dart. When I felt the area again, the lumps felt bigger and the pain was more intense. Naturally, I did the first thing any sensible person would do: I went to my refrigerator and grabbed an ice-cold Budweiser. That first liquid anesthetic was followed by several more until I forgot all about the pain. Beer, beautiful beer, had been a surefire remedy ever since I was a teenager, and it performed its usual magic.

  I stopped writing for the day. It was a golden rule of mine never to write with a buzz, despite any urge I might feel to finish a scene or work out an idea. If the idea was that good it would wait until the next day when I sat down at my desk sober. I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, downed a few more beers, and went out to sit by the pool. It was a beautiful, sunny southern California day, and after a few minutes of lounging, I fell asleep. I woke up hours later, as the sun was descending through the trees on my property. The twilight hour was and is my favorite part of day, and to celebrate I walked into the kitchen and grabbed some more liquid reinforcement. Armed with three more ice-cold Budweisers, I sat back down in the chair by the pool and marveled at the relaxed beauty all around me. When the pain suddenly returned, I added a few shots of Jack Daniels Old No. 7 to the mix, and after a while everything went back to normal.

  The lights around my pool popped on, signaling the end of a lovely evening. I walked back into the house, hit the remote control that turned on a looping playlist of Beatles hits, and walked into the kitchen singing along to “Penny Lane.” I made myself two more peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, had a few more beers, lay down on my living room couch and fell asleep to something from A Hard Day’s Night. I woke up at around two in the morning with the pain back in full force and the lyrics to “Help!” in my ears. I sleepily registered the irony as I clicked off the music, took two aspirin, and climbed into my bed, where I fell right back out as if I’d never woken up.

  At six in morning I got up, put on my running gear, and went for my daily seven-mile run. I returned home, ate my usual breakfast of cereal with chocolate milk, took a shower, and sat down at my desk to start working on the screenplay. I could afford to be pretty relaxed about this one. It was a sequel to my last screenplay, and like the last one, it would be directed by my longtime friend and collaborator, Nick Jones. Like six out of seven of our other collaborations, that movie had been a box office smash, and I couldn’t think of any reason why this one would be any less popular. It’s amazing how much success one can achieve in the movie business just by sticking with whatever formula made you a fortune in the first place. All you need to do is change the locations, re-name the characters, throw in a few adorable cats and a litter of puppies, and add a buxom woman in a bikini. Then you’ll have a nice backdrop for your swashbuckling male lead to escape certain death, win over the babe, and prove his sweetness with the cats and the puppies. Or something like that.

  Just as I was getting my groove on, reworking one-liners that always got a laugh or a tear, the pain came back with such intensity that I grabbed my neck and spat out a stream of obscenities that I won’t repeat here. I looked at the clock on my computer, and after thoughtful consideration, I decided that it was too early to go to my usual liquid remedies. So I did the next best thing: I called my doctor’s office. His lovely receptionist picked up on the first ring. At first she didn’t recognize my voice, and she tried to tell me that the next available opening wasn’t for another week. After I revealed who I was, she miraculously found an opening, but only if I could get there within two hours. Amazing how doors open when you’ve had a string of hits. It didn’t hurt that the receptionist was an aspiring actress who fit all the qualifications required of the lead actress in the script I was writing. Also helpful was the fact that I’d promised to get her an audition with the director when casting started. I thanked her profusely and hopped in my car, stopping on my way to the office to pick her up a box of expensive chocolates.

  When I entered the doctor’s office I was greeted with a wink and smile from the receptionist, Caroline. I handed her the box of chocolates, and she smiled broadly, saying, “Oh how very thoughtful. You shouldn’t have,” in a tone that clearly indicated that she was glad I did. There was no doubt about it: She was hot. But I had a rule never to date or sleep with any girl that could be mistaken for my daughter. This limited my possibilities, but one had to draw the line somewhere, and I was very good at drawing lines — so good that at the age of forty-three I hadn’t been on a date or slept with a woman for nearly twenty years. No one believes that, but I would swear on a stack of Bibles that it’s true.

  After checking in, I was escorted by a different nurse to the examination room and told to change into one of those god-awful gowns that give the whole world a look at your hairy butt. I did as she said, sat up on the examining table, and allowed her to take my blood pressure and my temperature, and ask a bunch of questions about the medications I was on, and whether I had ever had any thoughts of suicide.

  “Of course, I have,” I said. “I’m a writer. The thought of killing myself is pretty much a constant refrain. But I have the perfect remedy: beer and more beer.”

  She tried to smile but it just wasn’t in her nature, unlike the receptionist, who kept passing by the open door, smiling and winking at me. “Besides, what do thoughts of suicide have to do with the nagging pain in my neck?”

  “It’s a new law. As medical professionals we are required to ask such questions.”

  “Is that so,” I replied, as she looked up from the iPad she was using to take down my information. She just looked at me and said, “The doctor will be in shortly,” then closed the door and left me in the room.

  After about five minutes, Dr. Joshua Souter entered the room. He had the same distracted and vaguely displeased look he always wore, and I could have sworn that the brown mole next to his nose had doubled in size since my last visit. He looked surprised to see me. “Is it already a year since your last physical?”

  “No! I’m here for something els
e,” I said, but he was already staring down at his iPad and may or may not have heard me. Dr. Souter had been my primary care physician since I arrived in Los Angeles over twenty years ago, and the years hadn’t been kind to him. He seemed to be aging at about twice the normal rate. Over the last couple of years, he also seemed to be slipping a bit, mentally. If I didn’t know better, I might think it was the onset of early Alzheimer’s. I thought about switching doctors, but I was loyal to a fault, so I stayed on as his patient.

  He put his stethoscope up against my chest and back and told me to take deep breaths. I did as he said, but I made it clear that I thought he was looking in the wrong place. “The pain is not in my chest or around my heart,” I said. “It’s in my neck.” I pointed to the spot, but he ignored my comment and leveled me with a suspicious gaze.

  “I know why you’re here, and all I can say is, back off. Until I perform a total and complete examination on my receptionist and have satisfied my libido, you can just stay away. You don’t see me hanging around your staff and picking off the good-looking ones.”

  This was weird, even for Dr. Souter. I took a moment to absorb the accusation before trying to set the record straight.

  “I don’t have a staff and I’m certainly not here trying to pick up your receptionist.”

  “Then explain the chocolates, which, by the way, were delicious. I had a few before coming in here.”

  “Happy you enjoyed them, but believe me, I have no interest in your receptionist.”

  “And the promise of a part in your next movie?”

  “The promise of an audition,” I said. “I needed to get in here and see you. I’m seriously worried about this pain in my neck. I would have told her anything. Besides, I thought you were happily married.”

  “I was, until that bitch of a wife switched to a new gynecologist and started sleeping with her.”

  “Your wife is having an affair with her female gynecologist?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said? Jesus, Joe, keep up.”

  “Sorry,” I said, then immediately wanted to take it back.

  Dr. Souter kept talking at me, his eyes focused on some midpoint between us.

  “At first I tried to handle the situation calmly. I told her that it was only natural for a woman or a guy to want to experiment after twenty-five years of marriage. And so I suggested that I join in on the action, if only as an observer. That way it wouldn’t seem so seedy and underhanded.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” I reassured him, no longer feeling very sure of what was reasonable and what wasn’t.

  “Well, the bitch went insane and accused me of being a pervert. Me! Can you believe that? Like I was having an affair with another guy. Screaming that I was the worst lover she ever had. That after twenty-five years she still hadn’t achieved one orgasm with me. Well, let me tell you, Joe, as a medical professional, I will swear under oath that that bitch achieved multiple orgasms while having sex with me. I’ve always been a caring and sharing lover, except of course on those nights when I had one too many martinis and was just too exhausted to even start to fulfill her insatiable desires.”

  He picked up a photo of his wife and handed it to me. She was a fairly attractive, middle-aged lady with shoulder-length hair and a good figure. When I raised my eyebrows in approval, he said, “She didn’t always look like that. When I first met her, she looked like a cross between a frog and horse. Amazing, what a skillful plastic surgeon can accomplish. After spending all that money, what do I get? A slap in the face, while some young gynecologist just out of medical school gets to enjoy my hard-earned investment and I’m left to chase after my receptionist.”

  “Hey, not for nothing, but the receptionist isn’t such a bad consolation prize.” I was beginning to feel like I needed a shower, but I couldn’t stop consoling him, and Dr. Souter was lapping it up.

  “You’re right there, and I’m fairly certain she hasn’t had any work done.”

  “I just wouldn’t introduce her to your wife. She might not want you as part of the group, but she might think differently about the receptionist, and then you’ll really be left out in the dark.” In for a penny, in for a pound, my mother used to say.

  “Good point,” he said, putting the picture of his wife back on the counter. “So, the pain is in your neck?” I pointed to the spot and he touched and felt around the area. “You have swollen glands. Have you had a fever or a cold lately?”

  “No. Are swollen glands usually accompanied by a kind of stabbing sensation?”

  “Sometimes, but not usually.” He once again felt around the area and I jumped with pain as he touched what felt like a loose lump.

  “I doubt it’s anything, but there’s no point taking a chance. I’m sending you to an ear, throat, and neck specialist. He’s just down the hall from here, and he’s a friend. He’s the best in the business, and I happen to know he has an opening right now.” Dr. Souter sent the specialist a message on his iPad and two seconds later the device pinged. “He can take you in ten minutes. Dr. Benjamin Casey. The son-of-a-bitch has won more money off me on the links than anyone else I play golf with. I’m quite certain that the second house he is buying in Malibu was paid for by me.”

  Dr. Souter moved closer to me as I started pulling on my clothes. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. “Tell me what you think of this, Joe. When the receptionist finally succumbs to my charms, the examination will be taking place right here on this table.” He spread his hand across the roll of paper I was just sitting on as though he were explaining a five-course dinner extravaganza to a guest. “I was thinking of putting a hidden camera right between these journals and taping the whole thing and then showing it to the bitch.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That sounds a bit unethical if you don’t let the receptionist know that you’re taping her during such an intimate act.”

  “You’re right. I’ll get the receptionist’s consent and then after I make a few copies I’ll give her one and she can use it as her audition tape. Actually, I’ll make a note to send a copy to you. You can learn a lot from a doctor’s know-how.”

  I tied my shoes, shook the doctor’s hand, and got out of there. “Good luck,” he yelled after me.

  Dr. Casey’s receptionist buzzed me in, and the doctor greeted me at the door to his examination room. He looked more like a movie star than any movie star I had been around over the last twenty-five years, and I have been around quite a few. He was tall and handsome, with dark, straight hair combed back like Clark Gable. He was perfectly tanned, apparently the result of many hours spent on the golf course beating Dr. Souter out of the rest of his money that he didn’t spend on his wife’s plastic surgery. Dr. Casey had a relaxed and confident manner and I would bet my life savings that he wasn’t worried about any of his former wives or girlfriends having lesbian affairs behind his back.

  Instead of a doctor’s white coat, he wore an expensive suit. Once we were in the exam room, he took off his jacket, stretched his hands and fingers as though he was ready to shuffle a deck of cards, and touched the area around my neck where I’d told him I was having pain. At first it felt like a massage, but when he pressed down hard on one of the lumps I nearly screamed with pain. “Dr. Souter might not be much of a golfer but he’s a fairly intelligent physician for someone who did not graduate from Johns Hopkins. He was smart to send you right over.”

  “What do you think it might be?” I asked.

  “It could be something or it might be nothing,” he said in a matter-of fact manner that did nothing to relieve the anxiety I was feeling. “Thankfully, you have come to the best.” When he said it, I believed him, and it didn’t even sound like bragging. He pushed a button on a phone console and said, “Jennifer, could you please button up your blouse and come to my office? I’d like you to walk a patient down to radiology for an MRI. I’m sending them all the instructions they need right now.” He picked up his iPad, recorded the instructions on audio, and sent the message.
br />   The mention of buttons on a blouse had me curious, and when Jennifer walked in, I suddenly understood why she’d been assigned to patient relations. The blouse was some sort of form-fitting, candy-stripe affair that seemed to have been tailored to hug every curve. Her soft blond hair fell loosely around her face to just beyond her shoulders. Her hands glittered with a new French manicure, each nail ending in a subtle sliver of white. I couldn’t believe that this goddess, whose figure could re-energize a corpse, would be escorting me to radiology. She introduced herself with a sweet smile and guided me down a hall.

  “Come here a lot?” I punted, and with that old chestnut, I got to hear her incredible laugh for the first time — a completely natural, genuine laugh that went on a little longer than you expected it to and that made you feel like a million bucks.

  “Not usually, but today has been busy. Already, I have had to take five patients down, and each one is scheduled to undergo surgery tomorrow.”

  “Surgery?”

  “Oh, don’t worry. It’s a simple procedure. Dr. Casey performs them all himself — a simple biopsy to see whether the growth is malignant or benign. If I suspect correctly, and you’re number six, I would not eat a big dinner tonight and certainly nothing after twelve o’clock. You’ll be put under for a short time and not everyone responds to anesthesia very well.”

  The fact that she seemed to be getting a little ahead of herself did nothing to dull her radiance. I watched her lips move and nodded mutely, trying not to gape at her too openly or appear too concerned about the possibility of going under the knife.

  We entered the radiology department and the chief technician had me change into my second butt-baring gown of the day. Why they can’t design one that wraps all the way around the body I will never understand. As I changed, Jennifer chatted with a staff member. When I came out, the staffer directed me to lie down on the MRI table and strapped me in. I was feeling anxious, and thinking that it would be great to have Jennifer be a little closer, when she suddenly walked over and took my hand in hers. Then she used the other hand to unfasten the top two buttons of her blouse. My anxiety level was still dropping as they rolled me inside the MRI tube. A voice warned me not to move, and instructed me to “close my eyes, and think of pleasant things.” That wasn’t hard to do after getting a bird’s eye view of Jennifer’s gifts to the world.