The Portable Veblen (11 page)

“Great,” Paul said. “Love dessert wine, especially with some nice Gruyère.”

“I like it with pie.”

“Luncheon is served,” called Melanie, bringing out the casserole and placing it on a woven Samoan mat on the table. “Paul, I
want you here. Veblen, at the head. Linus, would you open that special bottle of champagne?”

“Right,” said Linus, returning to the kitchen.

“No, out here!” Melanie yelled. “Watching the cork fly is festive.”

Linus shuffled back with the bottle, untwisting the wires around the cork.

“Don’t aim it at us!” Melanie cried.

“It’s not ready yet.”

“You’re aiming it at us!”

Linus turned toward the house.

“Not at the wall! We want to watch the cork fly! Turn around.”

Linus turned and began to wiggle the cork.

“Wait, you need a cloth.”

Veblen handed him a napkin to put under the neck of the bottle. Paul tapped his fork on the table. The cork popped, and shot all of about three feet.

“Bravo!” Melanie cried. “Now, let’s make a toast to your visit. May there be many more!”

Glasses clinked and Paul and Veblen smiled at each other across the table. If Paul were gracious about this day, she’d love him forever.

“Paul, we’re certainly impressed by your research project,” Melanie said. “I imagine you’re already heavily involved, preparing to dig in?”

“Absolutely,” Paul said. “I’m getting a lot of support from Hutmacher, basically anything I want. We’re going to get off to a good start.”

“There’s got to be a bucket load of red tape for those babies,” said Linus.

“More than I realized,” Paul said.

“Several of my medications are made by Hutmacher,” Melanie added.

“Hurrah!” Paul said gamely, raising his glass.

“And Veblen tells us you’ve been looking at houses?”

“Oh. That’s kind of a hobby. Looking. I was raised on a commune, by the way.”

“Are you planning to have a commune?”

“No, the opposite, I want to live behind a gate that no one can get through.”

“You’ve got to escape the way you were raised,” Linus said. “Boy, do I know it.”

“I just want you to know that Veblen is going to be living in comfortable surroundings,” Paul said.

Melanie said, “Well, Veblen, you’ll really have surpassed me. I don’t know if Veblen has mentioned it, but I’m very interested in medical matters, having a complicated history myself. You can never be too prepared when dealing with the health care system, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That’s right. Patients really need to advocate for themselves these days,” Paul said.

“That’s a refreshing attitude.”

“I know you’ll find it difficult to believe, but most doctors feel that way.”

Veblen’s mother dished out steaming mounds of her creation. “I’ve received atrociously condescending treatment over my recent
migraine business,” she said. “It’s a wonder cads like these stay in practice.”

“What seems to be the nature of the condition?” Paul asked, and Veblen’s dread distributed itself through her limbs.

“Well, starting four years ago, just after my yearly flu shot, I experienced an array of symptoms ascribed to migraine equivalence or transient ischemia. Obviously, and as you know, many known foods and chemicals precipitate the condition.”

“Absolutely,” Paul said. “Sodium benzoate, cyclamates, chocolate, corn—”

“Peas, pork, lamb, citrus, onion, wheat, pears, the list goes on. Symptoms of mine have included imagery, hypothermia, aphasia, a feeling of rotating. Further, I’ve had facial paralysis, paralysis of the upper limbs, and narcolepsy. I don’t believe this fits in the typical migraine profile.”

“Well, I wouldn’t call it typical,” Paul said, hesitantly.

“Now, I have learned in time that a middle-aged woman with unusual symptoms can easily be labeled a crackpot, a psychosomatic case, a malingerer. Further, my general physician recently told me I’m
‘too observant
.
’
How can I agree with that? If not me, who, then?”

Veblen was breathing rapidly.

Paul looked at Veblen and said, “Yes, patients need to be proactive.”

“I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear a doctor say that!”

“Now, the cause could be nonorganic—” Paul began.

Veblen winced.

“Nonorganic? Psychosomatic, is that what you’re saying?”

“No, not in that sense—”

“What do you mean? If a migraine falls outside their specialty, many physicians don’t realize that it is no longer considered psychosomatic.”

Veblen said, woodenly, “Mom, let’s eat.”

“I can’t speak for ‘many physicians,’” Paul said, “but I’m a neurologist and—” He stopped abruptly to sip his champagne, temples pulsating. His jaw was seizing like a tractor, and Veblen’s stomach ached. “You sound like you know more about it than I do,” he said, mildly.

Perfect answer!

“That’s very likely true, which is a sad story in itself. I have this central stationary scotoma when in hot or warm showers, and with exercise. I see a blur, followed by an irregular opaque gray area. Rest restores normal sight. But if I walk on a cold day, the central scotoma is lighted and nonmoving.”

“Interesting,” Paul said.

“Oh, another piece of the puzzle!” Melanie exclaimed, almost gaily. “Two years ago, I found an area on my chest that was
dead
—numb without feeling. Located right here—” She pointed to an area at the top of her left breast. “It was about five by five centimeters. That large! It remained dead until about six months ago, when suddenly . . . Remember, Linus, I realized that my dead spot had feeling again. Is that related?”

“Mmm. Could be,” Paul said.

With that, Melanie swiveled in her chair and reached for a few typed sheets of paper that had been stapled together, hidden behind a ceramic bowl full of miniature pinecones.

“This is a complete list of my medical history,” she announced.

Paul looked surprised. “My, arranged almost like a CV!” he said.

“You don’t need to ridicule me,” Melanie said, making Veblen jump up and retreat into the kitchen, breathing short and fast. She bit her forearm so hard she left teeth marks in it.

The risks had been known. She returned outside.

“No, not at all, I think everyone should have one.” Paul was scanning the first page. “Measles, scarlet fever, tick fever, tonsillectomy, appendectomy, and histoplasmosis, all before you were fifteen?”

“That’s right.”

“Mmmm.” He continued. “Possible exposure to gamma radiation from a Nevada test site?”

“Yes, it’s well documented. I was part of a class action suit.”

“Mmmm. Thyroidectomy for papillary and follicular carcinoma, I-131 ablation—neck injury, acute degenerative arthritis of neck resultant . . . pancreatic insufficiency—how did you become aware of that?”

“I had tests! How else would someone become aware of it, through a crystal ball?”

“Ciguatera poisoning, with permanent irreversible anticholinesterase?”

“Yes. I assume you know what that is?”

“I do, though in all my years in medicine I have yet to hear of anyone with this condition.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing, just that it’s rare. Let’s see, then atrial fib, tetany, transient Cushing, psoriasis, double vision, empty sella, secondary hyperparathyroidism, primary aldosteronism—” Paul stopped reading. “Well. Very complicated. Very—impressive.”

Linus sat entirely still, clasping his hands together, as if praying.

“I’m thinking there’s an eye test you could have, but it must be performed when the scotoma is present,” Paul offered.

“But it
is
present,” Melanie cried. “I told you, it’s right here, right now.”

Paul’s voice was pinched. “Yes, you’ve had a complicated history of vasomotor instability with severe neurological manifestations, including paralysis and ocular difficulties, haven’t you?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, then, I will write down the name of this test, and I suggest you ask your doctor about it.”

“I see. I see exactly.” Melanie smacked her lips and rose from the table, with the imperious and sullen bearing Veblen ascribed to Napoleon departing for Elba.

Veblen and Paul and Linus remained, in punishing silence. An intonation, an insufficiency of deference, or the way Paul’s lips looked slightly pursed as he read—something had inevitably gone wrong. Linus twisted his napkin and tossed it onto his plate. “Excuse me a moment, folks,” he said, getting up and following his wife.

“Oh, man,” Veblen said.

Paul glared at her. “What the hell?”

Veblen looked sidelong into the house. No wonder translation came naturally to her. In the past, when her mother yelled at someone in a public place and ran away, Veblen would swallow her shame and go up to the person who had been yelled at and say, “I’m sorry. What she was really saying was that she’s not feeling well and that when you took her parking place, she felt like you
didn’t care.” When her mother yelled at someone in a restaurant and stomped out, Veblen would remain behind a moment and tell the waiter, “What my mother meant was that being corrected on what type of salad dressing to order reminded her of being scolded all the time by her mother, who was really mean.”

“What she’s really saying—” Veblen stopped. What was she really saying? “She reaches this point of certainty that new people won’t like her and then she kind of freaks, but it’s temporary.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“You’re doing great,” whispered Veblen. “Really great. It’s going to be fine.”

She reached across the table for his hand, squeezed it. She’d brought a boyfriend home only once before, resulting in the flash incineration of his male pride and a near immediate breakup.

Linus appeared. “Veblen?” With unnatural cheer and strained, clasped hands he said, “Would you go in and talk to your mother? You are so good with her.”

She excused herself from the table and went inside, scared that Paul might be wearing thin with less than an hour of exposure. This pattern, of going into her mother’s room and sitting on the edge of her bed in the middle of the day, had been going on since Veblen was a young girl. She thought back to all the times she sat starboard of her mother after bringing in a heating pad or an ice pack or little bouquets of dandelions and alyssum.

“Mom?” she said, at her mother’s door.

“Come in here,” her mother said, from beneath the covers. “Sit down.”

“You okay?”

“No, I’m not.”

“What happened?”

“That man is a complete narcissist.”

Veblen counted to ten, her usual restraint. “Why are you saying that?”

“He wouldn’t look me in the eye. He barely noticed you at all. He only hears the sound of his own voice.” Her mother thrashed as if trying to annihilate a small creature in the bed.

Veblen swallowed, having none of it. She caressed her mother’s arm through the blanket and spoke gently. “Mom, you know what? He’s been nervous about meeting you, and you know why? Because he knows how important you are to me. He wants to make a good impression.”

“He didn’t.” Her mother coughed, slowing down.

“He’s really sweet, actually. You’ll see when you get to know him better.”

“I want you to tell me how that man’s sweet.”

“He fell in love with me the first time we met.”

“That’s not a feat, Veblen. You’re very lovable.”

“People often don’t get me, and Paul does.”

“How dare you say that! You are a beautiful, sweet, smart girl.” She began to sniffle. “How have I failed? Where have I gone wrong?”

“Mom! Stop it. Please!” She continued to pat her mother’s whalelike hip.

“My beautiful girl is going to marry a narcissistic prig?”

“I beg you to stop talking about him that way, and be patient and just get to know him.”

Her mother sniffled awhile. “Life is more than big houses and garish diamonds.”

“Of course. Did you really want him to prescribe the test himself? Is that what upset you?”

“No. That wouldn’t be appropriate. But he might have offered at least.”

“That would be stepping over the line for him, wouldn’t it?”

“No one ever steps over the line for me, and that’s how it’s been all my life. Will you help me up, Veblen? My back is in a spasm.”

Veblen pulled. Her mother rose to her feet and stalked into the bathroom. When she came out she’d put on some fresh lipstick and styled her hair.

“I’m only doing this for you,” she said. “Nothing else would impel me to spend another second with that man.”

“Come on, it’s okay.” No use getting mad, making things worse. Veblen’s words were cloaked in her gentlest voice, her hardy optimism, her subtle sorcery. All her mother was trying to say was that she was afraid of change.

•   •   •

V
EBLEN HAD BROUGHT
so few people here. In the living room she beheld the walls covered in bookshelves, crammed with more volumes than they could properly hold, for both her mother and Linus had many interests and were voracious readers, as well as collectors of rare and lugubrious artifacts such as masks from New Guinea and ceremonial headdresses from Fiji and Aboriginal weapons from Australia and so on. Further, Melanie was unduly influenced by the Pre-Raphaelite William Morris, and scorned store-bought furniture. She and Linus had made the sofa themselves, out of long walnut planks and foam cushions cut to the
right shape and covered with an orange burlap fabric, without caring how uncomfortable it was and that no one liked to sit on it. The only factory-produced thing in the room was the old upright piano, on which Linus could play anything by ear in the unlikely key of F-sharp major, and which was flanked by an enormous collection of LPs on a heavy mahogany shelf, stacked with scores of great choral works that he liked to sing, basso profundo.

The Veblen collection sat on the top shelf, still radiating “redemptive truth and moral splendor.” That’s how Richard Rorty described the special books on his own parents’ shelves, and Veblen couldn’t have said it better about the power these books had on her in her youth. The collection consisted of at least sixty volumes, made up of anything by or to do with Veblen. Melanie’s incomplete PhD dissertation, not officially bound but in a regular notebook, was the end piece. All of that energy for Mr. Veblen in due course siphoning into her daughter, Veblen.