The Book of Stanley Read Online Free Page A

you.”
    Stanley wanted to be alone with the doctor. His new sense of strength frightened and puzzled him, yet he also felt so strong, so vigorous, that he could walk through a wall. In case this was a sign of something horrible, in case his three or four months were about to be downgraded to a week, Stanley wanted to protect his wife. In old novels, sufferers of consumption became increasingly hopeful and optimistic as they coughed up more and more blood, singing happy tunes unto the end.
    The nurse walked into the waiting area with a tan file.Before she said his name aloud, Stanley told the nurse without speaking that he had to be alone for this interview.
    â€œStanley Moss.”
    Stanley and Frieda stood up.
    â€œI’m sorry, Mrs. Moss,” said the nurse. “You’ll have to wait.”
    The woman showed him into the consultation room, empty save for a large desk and books about death lining the shelves, a few of them written by Dr. Lam. There were also two worn leather chairs. “How long will it be?” said Stanley.
    â€œDr. Lam will be here shortly.”
    Shortly. Shortly. To be certain all of this was not a mirage, a dream, a psychotic episode inspired by the pressure of expanding brain tumours, Stanley waited until the nurse closed the door and then jumped forward into a handstand. On his hands, he walked to the centre of the room and did twenty-six upside-down pushups. He laughed and drooled on himself. His suit jacket came down over his head, blinding him. Yet he did not feel blind. He could not remember his mother’s name but he knew, intuitively, where he was in relation to all other objects in the small room. And, when he focused, in relation to the entire floor of the hospital.
    The moment he heard soft footsteps in the hall, rubber soles on old ceramic tile, Stanley hopped from his hands to his feet. He adjusted his jacket, plopped into one of the leather chairs, and exhaled.
    Dr. Lam opened the door and Stanley stood to greet him. The doctor was younger than Stanley had expected. Thin, handsome, of Asian extraction. He wore casual trousers and a bland blue sweater, with an open white lab coat. Was this middle-class facade part of every public health system?
    â€œDoctor.”
    â€œMr. Moss. How are you?”
    â€œIt’s hard to say, really. I have no precedent.”
    For a long time, Dr. Lam nodded. He tilted his head slightly, and spoke with soft concern. “In our society, we are not trained for what you’re going through, Mr. Moss. We don’t talk about it and we certainly don’t understand it, even though the basis of our spiritual and even artistic culture rests on our relationship with death. Did you not come with your wife?”
    â€œShe’s in the waiting room.”
    â€œWouldn’t you like her to be with you today?”
    â€œFrankly, no. Or not yet.”
    â€œHow is she coping with your illness?”
    â€œThe same way she copes with everything. With patience, intelligence, compassion, sarcasm.”
    â€œDo you and your wife have faith?”
    â€œIn what?”
    â€œAre you believers?”
    â€œNo.”
    Dr. Lam smiled artificially and looked down. He took a pen out of his coat pocket. “All right. What I’d like to do with you now is talk about what we call a death plan. I know it might sound a bit macabre, and some of my colleagues have developed gentler phrases to describe it, but I don’t see why we shouldn’t be honest about what’s happening to you. What will happen to me, to all of us. You see?”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œNow. You have children?”
    â€œDr. Lam, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than make a death plan, but something odd happened to me this morning and I’d like to bounce it off you.”
    â€œCertainly.” Dr. Lam lowered his pen. “Certainly.”
    â€œThere was a flash, a voice. A rumble.” Stanley swallowed and smiled.