Pinky was part of the procedure. She would accompany him to the operation, then join him as a roommate in his hospital room, where she would assist him, bring him Peewee's food from the hotel, protect him from his children, and make sure he got through. Buddy didn't trust anyone in his family. He had no one but Pinky. Still, when she said, as she did often, "I take care for you," he replied, "That's what I'm afraid of!"
In the way that medical emergencies tended to redistribute the power in relationships — made a child of the person operated on, made an authority figure of the companion, and clouded the future — Buddy's life was turned upside down. Now he was captive and helpless. Pinky became his nurse, his mother, his jailer.
Over drinks at the hotel, Buddy talked about all the things he would do with his new lungs — visit the Grand Canyon, fly to Rio for the Carnival, spend Christmas in San Francisco. Pinky wasn't part of these plans, for he intended to return to Manila and find a new wife. He needed the lung operation to free himself of Pinky. When he was back on his feet he could pension her off. He never said he hated her, only "It's not working out," as if he had made a bad choice at a pet shop.
Late on the day of the operation, I drove over to the hospital. The woman at the reception desk said, "No visitors allowed."
"It's that bad?"
She was tapping on computer keys. She said, "No. It says here he's doing fine, but family says no visits."
"I'm family."
"Family is in the room."
"Family" meant Pinky. I imagined Buddy after his experience of sedation, the surgeon's mutters, the bright lights, and Pinky bossing him as he lay strapped to his bed. Now he was the fearful one, fearing that she would fly into a rage.
I wasn't sorry to be turned away. Something about a hospital, the human smell of illness and decay, is a reminder of mortality that stays in your nostrils. I was sure that Buddy had experienced that same whiff of extinction, and that he wanted to live. I knew he could not bear the thought that Pinky might abandon him, though he longed to abandon her.
She didn't know that the invasive procedure was Buddy's way of ridding himself of her.
Dr. Miyazawa pronounced the operation a success, but before Buddy was sent home, the doctor sat with him and Pinky in the hospital room and gave them instructions.
"I must tell you that this procedure will not be a complete success until you strengthen your lungs." The doctor gave Pinky the diet Buddy had to follow and described the exercises. "Use the treadmill. Deep breathing. Get your heart rate up. And especially no drinking."
Buddy nodded solemnly, so did Pinky, and with the doctor lecturing them, they were exactly what they had seemed — children, with the same faces that children put on when they are being scolded by an adult.
Hearing "no drinking," Buddy immediately wanted to sneak a drink, and this made Pinky conspiratorial.
"Only one, to celebrate," Buddy said when he got home. Already Pinky was pouring it, because she was afraid of him, Buddy told himself.
Ihe vodka tasted as sharp and beneficial as medicine.
She was afraid — of course she was. He knew that. But he wished to be rid of her anyway, because he needed her so badly. As long as she was needed, the operation was a failure. And still she sat by him, frowning each time he said, "Give me another one, just a little one this time."
66 Aftercare
"I can breathe," Buddy said, though he was so overwhelmed by the drama of the operation he could not manage anything else. He looked in wonderment upon a world that seemed new to him. Now he dared to hope for more, because he felt he was going to live. His boozing proved it.
Pinky repeated her ambiguous promise: "I take care for you."
Buddy filled his lungs again without much effort. The air was like hope entering his body. He said, "I'm going to be all right."
His hospital stay had been misery. His other operations had not prepared him for this ordeal. To get at his chest cavity, four of his ribs had to be sawed through. The incision was a vicious cut, chest to back and under his arm, like a gory sash. As soon as the anesthesia wore off, he began coughing, and he thought the cut would burst. He was fussed over by masked white-capped aliens. One gave him his stuffed Wile E. Coyote to cling to. When he was able to sit up, he was told to blow into a plastic tube that had a ball inside. Blowing hard, he got the little plastic ball to rise to the top of the tube. The aliens praised him for this, but then he coughed even more, bringing up from his lungs flotsam of evillooking dried blood and dead tissue. But he had survived. He was a new man, and he wanted his world renewed, to reflect this rebirth. No sooner was he home than he began talking of buying a fancier house. He boasted openly, in front of
Pinky, of divorcing her and sending her back to Manila with her relations, of finding a surf bunny, a coconut princess. He bought a new BMW. And: "I should put the hotel on the market. That land's worth a fortune."
"Do you think you'll do it?" I asked, fearing for my job.
"I haven't currently made a determination."
That way of speaking was also a weird novelty, something to do with Buddy's operation and aftercare — his Latinate vocabulary another sign that he was throwing his weight around.
"But in my judgment it's worth contemplating," he said.
Anyone listening to him now was uncomfortably aware of being dispensable. Even I felt it, and was surprised and ashamed of my insecurity. The prospect of my having to prove myself made me face the fact that I had no practical skills. In Pinky's eyes, bloodshot with sleeplessness, I saw a greater fear. Her ruthless tenacity, her eagerness to prove her worth to Buddy, made her my rival. She quarreled with me and tried to put me in the wrong.
The lung operation had first frightened Buddy, and then had made him fearless. The invasive procedure had changed him, cut fear out of him, introduced hope and sewed it up. He was surprised and relieved; he was saved. Though he had always been sentimental, he had no natural piety, so his survival made him arrogant and more obnoxious. From being a boisterously contented man, counting his blessings in a shouting voice, he now spoke of radical changes. His operation had been like a near-death experience. He had seen the truth of the world; he said he now knew what mattered. "Rejuvenated" was a word he used. He became pompous and wordy, with at times an incomprehensible garrulity.
"At this juncture, I want everyone out of my face."
"Dad hybolic," his son Bula said. "That no good fo us."
"Currently, I require personal space. Elbowroom, if you will."
The only hint of indecision in this new, robust Buddy with puffing lungs was his choosing which changes to make first. Pinky took comfort from that. So did everyone who knew him, including me. "Don't be rash," I said, fearing that I might lose my job. I resolved to become a better hotel manager. Pinky sidelined Evie, who had not visited Buddy's bedroom ("No can sleep, meesta") since before the operation. Pinky made the visits now, rekindling Buddy's sexual interest. Her job, her future, depended on it.
Buddy felt so energetic that he put off his exercise, avoided the treadmill, drank much more, and puffed a cigarette now and then. He was indignant when anyone called attention to his habits.
"Do you realize what I've endured?" he said. "I've been through hell, for want of a better word."
That also, his expression "for want of a better word," was new. Like "if you will," it made me smile, but still I was worried about my job.