When You Were Here

she was there. I could even meet Dr. Takahashi. I could talk to the doctor—her last great hope—about my mom, about the treatments, find out why she was so damn happy, find out why she couldn’t last two more months. I have to imagine he’d talk to me too.
    I could learn all her secrets, as if she were still here to tell them to me.
    As if she were here to tell me how to be whole again.
    “What does she mean about disposing of the meds?” I ask, keeping things practical, businesslike, with Trina.
    Trina shrugs. “It’s probably the same as here. There’s a greater concern in general, at least in this country, about how many meds are now in the water supply. So the government has guidelines for medication disposal. ’Cause otherwise people will dump their unused scrips in the toilet, and then trace amount of drugs get into the water supply,” she says, and takes a long drink of her coffee. She sets it down and then slaps her palms against the table, in a sort of punch-line bah-bump sound. “That’s why I say, Always finish your PKs, boys and girls .”
    “You know I follow those doctor’s orders,” I say, then tap the letter. “But what do you think this is all about? This temple and teahouse? Is that like some new medical treatment for cancer? Some alternative healing or whatever?” I don’t mention what I saw on that site. It’s just a site, just a random comment about tea being a cure. But maybe that’s why my mom stopped talking about her visits. Maybe she wasn’t just laughing about doctor’s orders to go to a teahouse; maybe she really was making a last bet on something iffy and unproven when all the other stuff stopped working. It makes me a little bit crazy that she was grasping at straws, but it’s also exactly what I’d do too—fight like hell to hang on, however I had to, by any means possible.
    Trina doesn’t answer right away. She takes another drink, considering. “I don’t know, Danny. I’m a little bit more of a meds gal myself. But whatever it was, it sounds like a good thing, like a good way to go.” Her voice softens, like she’s talking to a worried patient. “Drinking tea. Sharing stories. That sounds nice, doesn’t it?”
    I nod briefly and look away. It does sound nice. It does sound pleasant. I’m glad my mom was joyful. I’m glad she wasn’t in pain every single second. I hate that she was even in pain at all. Watching her throw up, watching her wither away after treatments—nothing prepares you for that. Not even losing my dad. Because when he died it happened so fast, like a slash. With her, it was a relentless witnessing. And so the days, the weeks, when she felt good were the best. A tear forms somewhere behind my eyes, and I brace myself. I won’t cry in front of Dr. Trina Asvati. I won’t cry here in this hospital where I met Trina six months ago when she was working on her oncology rotation. I was here every day, and Trina was here every day, and soon Trina and I were making out in supply closets and empty rooms and it was like one of those hospital shows where the doctors and nurses are getting it on all the time. Only, I was the patient’s family, but I was eighteen, and Trina didn’t care, and I didn’t care, and we just fit. Two people who barely had the time or energy or inclination to let another person in. We were perfect for each other.
    “Hey,” she says softly.
    “I’m cool. Don’t worry.”
    “I know. And listen, I’m leaving for Seattle in a week. They’re transferring me up there for the rest of my residency.”
    “Really?”
    She nods. “Really. Remember I told you a few weeks ago I was up for a transfer?”
    I nod, but I don’t remember.
    “You know how it goes with these programs. They shift you around.”
    “Right,” I say, but I don’t have a clue how it goes with medical programs. I don’t even know how old Trina is. I don’t ask. She doesn’t tell. That’s how it’s been. I suppose I should feel sad again, pummeled again, but I’ve got a trip to plan. I’ve got things to learn about the person I loved most in the world.
    I’m suddenly a very busy man.

Chapter Seven
    In the parking lot, I look up flights on my phone. I check out prices. I plug in dates. I call Kate as I leave the hospital and head onto the roads back to Santa Monica.
    She’s driving in her car, and I can tell I’m on speakerphone because one of Kate’s many rules is two hands on the wheel at all times. She tells me to meet her at