Dr. Feelgood (5 page)

Anyway, I attended Westchester High School in California. Somehow I managed to stay on the honor roll, and then I accepted a baseball scholarship to the University of Santa Barbara, but only stayed there for one year. The truth is, compared to all of the athletically gifted kids at my school, I sucked at baseball at that level, but what I was good at was learning and remembering without having to study. You tell me something once and I get it. I think I have a photographic memory for everything.

After battling between whether to go to Moore-house or Yale, or staying local, I got accepted to USC, where I graduated with honors, and where I
also earned my medical degree from USC’s School of Medicine. I spent the next five years of general surgery residency at Stanford University School of Medicine, and then three years of fellowship in cardiothoracic surgery at Loma Linda University. I’m an attending cardiac surgeon, so I am a faculty member, and it pays very well. But, my goal is to be the chief of cardiothoracic surgery, still an attending surgeon so that I can keep up with clinicals, but also in charge of financial and administrative aspects. That’s where the real money is.

My mother took a stenographer course when we moved to L.A. and made fairly good money working for the courts downtown. And she even ended up marrying about ten years ago, so now she can think about retiring since she’s creeping up on sixty. I take care of her financially anyway, whether she can pay her bills or not, so I don’t know why she doesn’t just quit her job. This dude, Mr. Cotton, had better look after her a little bit better because she sometimes complains about pain under her left arm and terrible headaches, but he stays in the garage working on his vintage Studebaker. He’s a retired manager for the auto club. He can make that car more important all he wants. I’m keeping an eye on both of them.

I’m glad that Mom found a mate, actually. Even though I think she could have done better than that old geezer husband of hers. But, who am I to talk? At least he’s tied the knot.

I never had a steady girlfriend while in high school or college, but I was popular with the ladies. I experimented with Asian and white women, whom I liked just fine, and sexy Hispanic
women are cool, too, very close to black women, but my preference is for my dark and lovely or light and fine, ladies of color … my hot and sassy sisters.

No desire for kids, really. I’ve managed to remain childless. I always wear my hat, unlike my father. No one is going to claim that I’m their father, some adult child coming up to me at the age of twenty, telling me I dated their mother and that I owe them something for missing out. I heard that my father went through that enough. After he got older and stopped driving rigs, I heard that a few scorned members of his female fan club would sometimes call the oldies radio station where he worked part-time as a disc jockey, confronting him on the air. He’d calmly disconnect them, saved by the profanity delay switch. He always seemed to get away with his philandering ways.

You see, even though my father was only married twice, dude has fifty-six sons and seventy-eight daughters … that he knows of. And he even casually claims to have dated some three hundred forty women, and admits to impregnating over one hundred of them, some more than once like my mother. And the sad part is, as if that’s not bad enough, rumor is, that he has some children he doesn’t even know about. Yes, Rolling Stone Roosevelt is the name he answers to with misdirected pride.

Speaking of a true player-player by the way, excuse me. “Yo, boss man, what’s up?” I asked my buddy Carlos Jenkins while headed past the front door of the hospital. It sounded like he had me on speaker.

“I can’t call it. You tell me, bro.”

I adjusted my Bluetooth, waving to the security guard. “I’m just headed up the elevator to begin an operation. How about you?”

He spoke on the heels of a yawn. “Man, I’m just getting out of bed, and might even go back for a couple of hours. I’m not leaving the house today, even for a minute. Superwoman Alice just left, and my ass is spent. My rear end is sore, just from pumping it all night long. That girl is a nympho from way back.”

“You always did like the ones that had stamina.”

“Oh, you know it.” He bumped a full-volume Jay Z tune. “So, any word from your Latina lover, Salina, with the jealous, deadly husband?”

“Yeah, I saw her not long ago.”

A passerby in the hallway offered a nod and a smile. “Good morning, Dr. Worthy.” Tall and sturdy, with a broad jaw and damn near a shaved head, Dr. Lois Taylor walked by looking stern, a far cry from the friendly tone of her greeting.

“Good morning.” I swore she needed a good enema, or a tight vagina. She had to be swinging or swung, one of ‘em.

Carlos continued. “You’re still hitting that, dude? Salina I mean.” The word
astonished
best describes his tone.

“Man, somehow it’s even better now than it was before. I can’t figure it out.”

“You’re the man. Must be that revenge thing. So old girl can get down, huh?”

“You always worry me when you ask that. Hey look, dude, let me hit you up later. I need to chill for a minute before I get started. I’m just now
walking into my office.” I tossed my briefcase on my desk.

“No problem, do your thing. I’ll get back. Hey, if you see that babe named Mary Jane, tell her I’ll give her a call this afternoon.”

“Later, C.”

I’ve known long-dong Carlos since college. We were roommates. He’s the product of a Hispanic mother and a black father. He brags with pride that anatomically, he takes after his father. For some reason, he always felt like he had to compete with me, and it drove me crazy. For so long he tried so hard to hit on the women who liked me, that I just had to accept the fact that we were going to duplicate efforts. We’ve traded, passed along and shared stories. But, in a way, that crap grows tired. There are enough women in this world to go around without sharing, for sure. It just seems that we’d always end up in the same places.

Like here at the hospital. He’s an on-call engineer who services the scanners and x-ray machines, so I see him while I’m here more than I see him outside of work. I knew he was eyeing my curvy Mary Jane. It’s so like him to let me know that maybe there’s some interest by telling me to give her a message for him. I ain’t telling her a damn thing. If she’s interested, that’s between them. If he knows me at all, he knows I am or was getting that. Maybe that turns him on even more. And now dude is asking about Salina. I just know he’ll find a way to date, or should I say screw, her, too. That’s just how Carlos rolls. They say your friends say a lot about you. And I guess they’re right. Yes, unfortunately, I guess they’re right.

A
fter performing a successful bypass surgery on a forty-year-old male, I took a moment to sit and just be still.

That was the whole point of my regular meditation … to breathe and concentrate, attempting to gain mental focus and clarity. You have to have some way to balance your life with the complex procedures that I perform. I learned that in medical school.

I looked over at the grease board on my wall. The date rang of familiarity. I closed my eyes, but for some reason, all I could think about was my baby sister. I remembered. Today was the twenty-second anniversary of her, and her baby girl’s, my niece’s, untimely death. A few months before that, she and I had a conversation I’ll never forget. It went something like this.

“Makkai, do you hear that?” her youthful, thirteen-year-old voice whispered from the lower bunk as though she were hearing things.

“Yes, I hear it,” I spoke downward toward my baby sister.

She was snuggled under the denim blue comforter, tucked in to just under her china doll chin. “I can’t sleep.”

I slept on top of the covers, lying on my stomach, feet hanging off the twin bed. “Just relax. You’ll be fine. You’ll doze off in no time.” I leaned down to get a night-light view of her.

Suddenly, my young ears filled with a loud, yet garbled sentence spoken by my mother.

“What’s going on with Mama?” Fonda was curled up in a fetal position.

I looked toward the door. “She’s obviously upset.”

Mom ranted boisterously, “Don’t you ever call this house again.” And then instantly, her tone downshifted. “I don’t need you to tell me anything. That’s between my husband and me.”

Three long seconds went by and the sound of a receiver slammed to its base took over.

Fonda simply spoke. “Makkai, Daddy is weird.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He just is.” She turned over to lie on her back, resting her hand over her swollen belly. By this time, my baby sister was well into her pregnancy.

“He’s gone so much that it’s hard to figure him out. But, I know that he breaks Mom’s heart by not being around.”

“He’s not true to her, is he?”

“I don’t think so, Fonda. But, you don’t need to be worrying about anything. You just need to take care of yourself so that baby can stay in there as long as possible.”

She played mute. “I like it when Dad’s not here.”

“Corrine, I’m home.” Dad slammed the back screen door. Fonda jumped, and then resumed her fetal position.

Mom spoke to accompany the sound of her own sturdy, fast-paced footsteps. “Roosevelt, one of your little floozies just called here. I’m not taking this too much longer.”

“Oh, woman, that’s somebody just trying to start some stuff. I told you misery loves company. And I’m telling you again to stop listening to all of that stuff.”

“Where were you?” It seemed as though she was purposely clanging pots and pans.

“I was driving that rig all the way from D.C. to back down this way. I’m exhausted and in no mood for this nonsense in my own house. Now, what’s for dinner?”

Mom sounded different. “Nothing. You missed dinner. It’s one in the morning.”

“Next time, you need to put something in the icebox for me. I keep telling you that, woman.”

She spoke with a tight jaw. “There won’t be a next time, so you don’t have to worry about me doing anything for you ever again.”

“You are really talking trash tonight, woman. You’ll snap out of it. You’re not going anywhere.”

Fonda spoke with reserve while they continued their verbal sparring. “Makkai, don’t go to sleep tonight. Let’s just talk until the sun comes up. Please.”

“Hey, what are you two doing up?” Dad asked after the door creaked like the sound of an intruder
entering a dark room in a horror movie. “Go to sleep, Makkai.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good night, Fonda.”

She gave a soft-spoken, “Good night.”

Dad turned his right ear in her direction. “What? I didn’t hear you.”

“I said good night.”

“All right, then.”

As the faint bit of light faded, Fonda and I then heard their bedroom door close.

She still whispered. “Please, Makkai.”

“Okay, Fonda. But, we have to keep it down. What do you want to talk about?”

“Anything. Just keep talking. That way, I’ll know you’re watching over me.”

In an instant, my reflections halted into reality. It was like it was yesterday, but it was decades ago. My stomach panged and my throat swelled up and my heart actually ached. Knowing I had about thirty minutes before my next procedure, I suddenly grabbed my car keys and walked right back out of my office door, got into my ride, and headed down the street to the West Hollywood Cemetery, less than two miles away. It was my sanctuary when I needed to be reminded of the really important, basic things in life, like family.

I gazed over at my sister’s light brown granite gravesite and fell to my knees with the warmth of the sun at my back.
Fonda Renee Worthy,
it read …
daughter, sister, and mother.
I put my hands together and lowered my head.

Hey, Fonda. I’ve been thinking about you a lot more these days for some reason. I miss my baby sister. Things
are okay with me. They’d be a lot better, though, if I could come to your house and visit you and your family. I wonder what type of man you would have married. I hope you got a healthy impression of what a man is, surely not from Dad, but maybe from me, maybe from someone. God took you and your daughter, my little niece, home when He wanted you, but that seems pretty selfish to me. Too young to die, so much life to live. Truth is, you don’t have to go through this madness we deal with down here. Jealousy, hate, prejudice, poverty, anger, lust and sickness. Yeah, can’t imagine why I’m sad for you. You’ve got it made. I’m the one left here with all of this life stuff.

But, memories of your innocence, and quietness, and kindness, and giving nature ring in my head every day. What if? What if Fonda had lived? The sweet-natured, square, straight-A student who was taller than me, with your thin self. But, as you can see, I grew taller after all. Eventually, I passed you up. I always wanted you to look up to me so I could watch over you. Now I’m looking up to you in heaven. I’ll keep talking from time to time like you asked me to. I love you, Fonda. Always will.

“S
alina, you are one trifling, skank-ass wife if you won’t bail your own damn husband out of jail.”

I sat at my dining room table sippin’ on a watermelon wine cooler with my juices flowing and my blood boiling. I swigged a major gulp and took a deep breath, forcing myself to gently place the bottle down on the table without shattering it into little pieces. Her dumb-ass comment rambled about in my head while my thoughts sped up. I squeezed and squeezed the cordless phone.

See,
mi esposo
is still in custody for his little choking incident and has a court date soon. They could release him on five-hundred-thousand-dollar bond, which would cost me about fifty thousand. But, I decided not to when his little black chicken-head hoe called my house after she heard he was locked up.

One more sip. One slow swallow. One more inhale. One more exhale. I switched the phone to my other ear, but not before thinking perhaps I
should hang up on this silly-ass freakazoid. Yet I replied. I just had to. “Why? So you can sneak around with my husband at my expense?”