An Accidental Odyssey Page 2

  On the personal side, though, I can’t really say things are as successful. My own relationship with him was totally rocky, at least while I was growing up. I almost never saw him, and my mom didn’t have much to say that was positive. But lately—mostly since he’s retired—things between us have been on the mend.

  The biggest problem, if you ask me, is that my dad considers himself a lifelong romantic. He’s told me many times—usually after too much ouzo—how helpless he is in the face of love. I know for a fact that others, out of his hearing, are less charitable. Having a reputation as a bit of a dog wasn’t such a problem in the twentieth century, but it doesn’t carry very far in the era of #MeToo. My dad’s been married three times—his last wife being my mom, who is twenty-five years his junior, because they met when she was one of his students. By then, he was already a father to two boys. Both of my half brothers are much older than I am and married with families of their own. Alek lives in Los Angeles, and Tomas all the way over in London, England. With the uncomfortable situation between our respective mothers, we have never even exchanged Christmas cards. After my mom left a decade ago, my dad moved in with his girlfriend Kallie. They were still together until last year, when I’m pretty sure she threw him out. In fact, that might just be the longest time he’d been with one woman. So, yeah, like I said. He’s a dog.

  Once I started college and moved out on my own, though, things began to warm up a bit between my dad and me. Not having my mom in the room when we talk these days doesn’t hurt, though I have to admit their relationship has improved, too, since she’s remarried—and moved to Connecticut.

  Now that he’s retired, he makes more of an effort to spend time with me too. He’s a lifelong season-ticket holder for the Yankees, and I’ll tag along and take in a game with him now and then. During my whole internship at NOSH, he’s treated me to lunch at least once a month. So now? The thought I might lose him just as I’m finally getting to know him is terrifying.

  * * *

  —

  Hospitals feel like scarier places to me now than they did in the Before Times. There’s nothing like a plague sweeping across the planet to give you a sense of your own mortality, I guess. And while everyday life has pretty much returned to my city, somehow it still doesn’t really feel like it’s back to normal. I’m not sure anymore what normal is, to tell you the truth. But as I pass through the front doors of Beth Israel, everyone around me just looks calm and efficient. Luckily, it’s too early in the year for my hay fever to flare, so I can assure the nurse at the desk that I am symptom-free. She issues me a mask, and I skitter off along in the direction she points me, not quite running—but not quite not-running either.

  The hospital is a maze, and by the time I find the correct floor and skid into the right room, I’m sweating and breathless. A nurse, standing just inside the door, raises her hand to stop me from going farther. Curtains encircle three beds, with a fourth partially drawn. I can see my dad inside, propped up in the bed, an IV tube taped to his arm. He’s in conversation with a woman who appears to be holding his hand.

  “Pops!” I gasp, and they both turn to look at me.

  “. . . entirely out of the question,” the woman says, unclipping something from one of his fingers. She hands a tablet computer to the nurse, and I hurriedly sanitize my hands again at the station by the door before heading over to the bed.

  “Ah! This is my daughter, Gianna,” my dad says warmly as I scurry to his side. “Gia, meet Dr. McShane.”

  I nod at the doctor and reach for my dad’s hand. “Are you okay? They said you had a . . .”

  “I’m fine,” he says, airily waving the arm attached to the IV. “A small anomaly, nothing more.”

  My dad is a Greek male, the sort who will lose a leg before admitting to a bit of a scratch, so I turn instead to Dr. McShane. “They said it was a stroke. Is there such a thing as a small stroke?”

  The doctor nods, tucking her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. Like all the frontline professionals in the place, she is masked and gloved, but unlike several women I passed in the hallway, she’s not wearing a face shield.

  “Small, yes, but worrisome, nevertheless,” the doctor replies, her voice only slightly muffled. “His vaccines are all up to date, and he’s not showing any viral symptoms, which is good news. But we’ll need to monitor your dad for the next forty-eight hours at least, just to rule out any further complications.”

  She turns back to him and gestures at a stack of books piled on the side table partially covered by my dad’s overcoat. “That means bed rest, young man. Time to stay put and catch up on your reading.” Raising an admonishing finger, she adds, “No exertion of any sort, you hear me?”

  My phone jingles in my pocket, and I pull it out long enough to flick the sound off.

  It’s Anthony. I decide to call him later, and as I drop the phone back into my pocket, the doctor shoots my dad a thumbs-up and follows the nurse out past the curtain.

  “Exertion?” I yank the lone chair closer to his bed. “What’s she talking about?”

  He glances away. “Overreaction. There’s nothing much on my scan—I spoke with the radiologist, and that guy really knows his stuff. It’s no big deal, trust me.” He gestures at my mask. “Take that thing off so I can see your pretty face, eh?”

  I slide my chair farther back before unlooping the mask from one ear.

  He grins at me. “That’s better. Who’s on the phone?”

  “Just Anthony. I can talk to him later—this is more important. Start at the beginning. What happened?”

  He sighs, and I hear a familiar note of exasperation enter his tone. “Nothing really. I was late this morning and missed my breakfast, so I had a little dizzy spell on the subway. When I got into the office, it returned, and . . .”

  “They said it was a stroke, Pops. That’s different from a little dizzy spell.”

  “Not a stroke—a TIA. You heard the doctor. Completely different kettle of fish, koritsi.”

  I glance around pointedly at all the equipment. “So, is ‘TIA’ medical shorthand for a stroke?”

  “It stands for transient ischemic attack,” he says, falling into his teacher voice. “It mimics the symptoms of a stroke but usually leaves no lasting damage.”

  “Usually?”

  “Almost always,” he says, cutting me off with another dismissive wave. “I’m fine. The dizziness is gone. They’re giving me blood thinners and bad food.” He sips ginger ale through a paper straw and grimaces. “All I need at the moment is some decent souvlaki. So, do you and Anthony have plans for the evening?”

  I admit we were supposed to be tasting cakes. “But I’ll cancel and bring you souvlaki, Pops.”

  He reaches across to pat my hand and shakes his head.

  “Evan is already on his way over. He’s bringing me some—ah—papers from the office, and he said he’d stop at Spiro’s on the way. Don’t worry about a thing, little girl. Papa will be fine. Go out and enjoy your Friday night. Eat cake. Have fun.”

  “Uh—don’t you think I should stay and keep you company a while?”

  “I’m fine, darling, I promise you.” He gestures at the pile of books. “Reading to catch up on, remember?”

  The adrenaline that carried me up here has drained away, replaced with a combination of annoyance and dismay at being so summarily dismissed. Then I feel guilty for this when he’s stuck in bed with a tube in his arm.

  “But, what about . . .” I begin, when his cell phone starts buzzing over on the table beside the books. I leap up and hurry around the bed to grab it, but he scoops it and answers before I can take more than a couple of steps.

  “Evan!” he bellows cheerfully into the phone. “I’m fine—never better. Just hold a second, will you . . . ?” He pulls the receiver away from his ear. “This is going to take a few minutes, Gianitsa. Off you go. I’ll speak to you i
n the morning, yes?”

  “Are you sure, Pops?” I ask, the guilt surging again. “I can stay until Evan . . .”

  “Go, go,” he says. “That man of yours keeps a tight schedule. Is good for him to eat a bit of cake too, no?”

  I step out of the room once it becomes clear my father won’t be getting off his phone anytime soon. In the hall, I pause to hook my mask back around my ear and listen to the voice mail from Anthony. I click on the message with a little trepidation—my dad isn’t wrong about Anthony and his schedules. But against all expectations, his voice is nothing but sympathetic: Don’t worry about a thing, babe. Stay with your dad as long as you need. Managed to reschedule the tasting for tomorrow, noon. Call if you need anything—turned the ringer on. Love you!

  As I begin dialing to return his call, a nurse gives me the evil eye, so I drop the phone back into my pocket and head toward the elevators. The doors slide open on Evan, my dad’s most recent graduate student and resident gofer. His arms are piled with books and papers, and he’s so intent on his phone call with my dad that he hurries past me without a second glance.

  I sigh and step into the elevator. I can check with him again in the morning before the rescheduled cake tasting. It’s only as the doors begin to close that I realize my dad never answered my question. Just what had the doctor been warning him against anyway?

  chapter two

  SATURDAY MORNING

  Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Cake: Notes to self

  Draft recipe by Gia Kostas, staff writer to no one at the moment

  I haven’t even tasted this cake yet, but the habit of food writing dies hard. Will make a note of all the varieties Anthony and I sample, and write a piece anyway. Someone’s got to want a freelance story on wedding cakes . . .

  As the train slows, I tuck my iPad away and stand up. It’s not even ten yet, so I’ve got a full hour to check in with my dad—and try to get the whole story out of his doctor—before I meet Anthony at Hudson Bakes.

  Stepping onto the platform at the First Avenue station, I think back to last night’s conversation with my friend Devi. She’d buzzed me back right after I left my dad’s room, so I got a chance for a quick check-in after all. Devi Patil has been my best friend since we shared a front-row desk in our third grade classroom. She’d chosen her seat because she was determined to be the smartest kid in the class. It says something about her that we still became friends even after she learned I was there because I was too easily distracted if I sat by the window. I got moved forward and she got straight A’s, and we’ve been friends ever since.

  Her brains—combined with a ridiculous work ethic—meant she rocketed through high school, and I’m pretty sure she was the youngest person ever admitted to her medical school. These days, she’s doing a stint in emergency medicine and is currently working pretty much day and night, between her courses and her clinical work. But even overcommitted med students are allowed a coffee break, so we met at the kiosk on the ground floor.

  The good news, at least from my point of view, was that she didn’t cry over my dad’s situation. Devi might have the vocabulary of a trucker, but she has a heart as soft as the tummy fur on a new kitten. I’m secretly sure this is why she switched her focus from the neonatal unit to the less emotional—albeit more chaotic—emergency room. But far from crying, when I shared the news, she was quick to tell me that while a TIA isn’t in any way desirable, as strokes go, it is less worrisome than many of the other varieties. She advised I go home, get some sleep, and leave my dad in the capable hands of the neurological unit.

  This was reassuring advice. But since it was still only eight thirty, I made a detour by way of Billy Rae’s just in case Janelle was still in residence. This proved a most excellent choice, as Janelle was not only holding court at a corner table, but my newly ex-boss Charlotte was sitting right beside her.

  Charlotte Castle cut her teeth as a journalist in the golden age of New York newspapers. She interned at The Post as a young writer and was one of the first Black women in the country to edit a news desk on a daily. She even had a stint with the old grey lady herself—the New York Times—for a while. But as the digital age advanced, she saw the pixels on the wall and founded her own foodie publication way back in 2010. NOSH has had its struggles, but considering the dire state of many journalistic outlets these days, Charlotte and her company are doing pretty well.

  Better still, by the time I pulled up a stool to the tall table in the bar, she’d spent enough time with Janelle and her Gibson to become a little garrulous. Charlotte not only bought me a drink but assured me that my skills were such that she would have hired me if she could justify it. All of which contributed to a far more cheerful night than I had anticipated.

  Of course now, as I scamper up the subway steps, the rain, which had only spattered the shoulders of my coat earlier, begins in earnest. By the time I dash inside the hospital, my coat is drenched, and the sweater underneath feels like I’ve just stepped, fully clothed, out of the shower. I pause for a moment to wring the cuffs of my sleeves out over a conveniently positioned potted plant before rolling them up and heading for the elevator.

  On the way, I decide to take the focus off my dad’s health so he doesn’t feel like I’m mother-henning him. Instead, I’ll ask his advice about finding a position writing for his university’s online newspaper. I’ve got three good questions lined up by the time I reach his floor, but when I step into his room, he’s not there.

  An orderly is stripping the bed, and the only sign he’d ever been there is a small yellow pill bottle on the metal side table. Doctor Aristotle Kostas, it reads. One tablet 3x daily, with food. Important: Take as directed until finished.

  * * *

  —

  The next half hour is a tangled mix of confusion and recriminations. Dr. McShane is no longer on shift, and none of the ward nurses seem to know where my dad is. His regular practitioner’s office is closed on Saturday, so there’s no help to be found there. I spend a full ten minutes grilling a young man in scrubs only to learn he is a phlebotomist sent to draw blood from another of the residents of my dad’s room. I finally corner the head nurse on the ward and blurt my dad’s name, and when she rolls her eyes, I know I’ve found the right person.

  “He’s checked himself out,” she says, shortly.

  “Can you even do that?” I ask. “Don’t you need a doctor’s approval or something?”

  “You do indeed. But your father, I’m afraid, took advantage of one of our student nurses.”

  “How—how do you mean?” I stammer. “Did he say something rude . . . ?”

  The nurse reads the wariness in my eyes and shakes her head. “Nothing like that. He showed her his university identification, told her that as Dr. Kostas, he had a right to sign himself out on his own recognizance, and she bought it.”

  “He’s a doctor of philosophy.”

  She nods wearily. “He’s not the first to get away with it. These old guys can be wily. Of course, more of them try their luck the other way, I have to say.”

  “The other way?”

  “Angling to keep their bed an extra day once they’ve been discharged. Most of ’em are lonely, and they like the extra attention. In any case, I’m sorry your dad escaped our clutches early, but if it’s any consolation, he likely would have been discharged this afternoon. His preliminary tests all came back negative.”

  I can’t help releasing a shaky sigh of relief. “At least there’s that. But he left his meds. I found them on the bedside table.”

  I hold up the bottle, and she peers at the label. “Well, that’s not good,” she says. “These are blood thinners. He needs to take them for a couple of weeks, or at least until he’s been cleared by his own physician.” She shoots me a harried look.

  “I’ll find him,” I say, dropping the bottle into my shoulder bag. “I’m pretty sure I know where he’s headed.”
>
  After thanking her—and apologizing again—I toss my mask into a bin and hurry back out onto the street. My clothes are still unpleasantly damp, and the cold breeze swirling old leaves on the pavement outside the hospital makes it feel more like February than the middle of April. The grey clouds are so low, the tops of most of the buildings on the street have vanished. Competing odors of exhaust fumes and old cooking oil linger in the air. I pause to leave a voice mail for Anthony, suggesting he head over to the cake tasting without me and promising to join him as soon as I can.

  Anthony’s reply, uncharacteristically, pings into my e-mail almost instantly. He is not happy.

  Please come, he writes. They won’t postpone again, and if his tests are negative, he can wait until tonight for the meds, can’t he?

  I stare at my screen for a long moment before taking the easy way out, stepping into one of the many MTA cellphone dead zones, and heading for the Classics department at NYU.

  * * *

  —

  When I arrive at the university offices, the door to my dad’s floor is open, which is a good sign. As I hurry along the corridor, the familiar musty scent of the place envelops me. The department is usually deserted and locked up tight on a Saturday, so the fact the door is not only ajar but propped open with a copy of Ovid bodes well. Unfortunately, when I poke my head into his office, there’s no sign of my father.

  Instead, I find his grad student, Evan, seated behind a pile of papers at my dad’s desk. He jumps to his feet as I come charging into the room. A bit of a pip-squeak at the best of times, Evan takes one look at my face and caves almost immediately.

  “He’s gone,” he says, his tone somewhat defensive. “He told me he has a doctor’s permission.”

  “Gone? Gone where? He signed himself out of the hospital, Evan. And the last time I checked, the Classics department was not issuing medical degrees.”