Saving Elijah

cultures back?" I asked the question every time I saw her. They hadn't yet ruled out meningitis; Elijah had some white cells in his lumbar, which meant he could have meningitis or even encephalitis. They'd done bacteriological studies, all of which had turned up negative. They'd sent other blood cultures to faraway labs to test for rare viruses, but those hadn't yet come back.
    "This seizure must have had something to do with all his problems," Charlotte said.
    My mother said this as if it explained something. She'd been saying this sort of thing forever, when she wasn't saying things that made it sound like she blamed me for all his problems. I remember once we went to a picnic in Sam's parents' small house in Fort Lee, New Jersey. We were all sitting around after the barbecue when Elijah began to make clicking noises with his tongue.
    "What is that?" my mother said.
    Kate said, "That's Elijah's clicking noise."
    My mother's upper lip pulled slightly upward, as if she'd just gotten a taste of something bad in her mouth. How could such a thing happen? How could a grandson of hers have such problems?
    "He's just a little weird," Alex said.
    "He is not weird, Alex," I said. "He's just different."
    "There is nothing different about him," Sam's mother said. "Our wee boy is just fine. More dessert?"
    Now Dr. Williston said, "We have no evidence that any of this is connected to his previous problems." She took the earpieces of the stethoscope out of her ears and draped the thing over her neck in that one swift motion all doctors have mastered.
    "But it just makes sense that all of his problems and this... situation are related, doesn't it?" This was Charlotte? Challenging a doctor? My mother has always clung to the now arcane notion of doctors as gods. She has to cling. My brother Dan, blessed be he, is a doctor, an oncologist in Cincinnati. (Oh, please let these doctors be gods.)
    The owl just shrugged. Her glasses were even thicker than Elijah's.
    My mother did have a point. "But how can you say it isn't related?" I asked.
    "I just said we had no evidence for it."
    "But he's always had neurological problems, he—"
    "Dinah!" Charlotte snapped. "I'm sure the doctor knows."
    Oh. Now she was back to doctors as gods.
    Sam put his hand on my shoulder, the ghost nudged me forward.
    "Go ahead," he said. "She deserves it, the bitch."
    "You could be right, Mrs. Galligan," the doctor said on her way out of the room.

    *    *    *

    "Here's some cards you got, Mom." Kate handed them to me. I opened them, then handed them to Sam. He sorted through them, announcing out loud who had sent each card, supplying us with a running commentary that drew a lot of "Oh, isn't that nice?" and "Isn't she sweet?" responses from his mother.
    "This one's from Sue Barson, she's a neighbor. Two doors down—you remember, Mom? You met her last summer when we went for a walk. She was out hosing her lawn."
    "Oh, yes," Mary said. "How lovely she was."
    "And here's one from Ellen Shoenfeld. Who's that?"
    "Someone in my writing class," I said. "Let me have it back." This one I forced myself to read.

    Dear Dinah,
    I just wanted you to know that although I have been unable to bring myself to pray for many years, I pray for your son. I hope he will be well soon. There. I wrote something.

    Best regards,
Ellen Shoenfeld
    I smiled in spite of myself.
    "Look, Di," Sam said. "Here's one from Tammy Pearl."
    "Why the hell is she writing you a note?" the ghost said. "Her kid was too good to be in a playgroup with him, now she's writing sympathy notes?"
    "What the hell does Tammy Pearl want?" I said.
    Mary said, "Gracious Jesus, Dinah, she's only trying to be nice, I'm sure."
    "Tell her to shut up." Now the ghost was reclining near the ceiling, smoking a cigar.
    "What do you know about it, Mary?"
    "Dinah, please," Sam said.
    "How could you have married him?" Zip, back down to me again, and whispering in my ear, a cold exhalation.
    "I already told you, I loved him."
    He took a puff on the cigar, blew smoke out of his mouth, gazed down at me. "What about your best friend Julie?"
    I felt as if I were choking, a fish sucking air. "Stop talking about Julie!"
    "Who's Julie, Mom?" It was Kate.
    Had I blurted out Julie's name?
    "Julie was an old friend of your mother's, Kate." Sam glanced over at me. We never spoke about Julie. This was so typical of Sam, out of sight, out of mind, speak of nothing that causes discomfort. When I told him about my patients and their