The Invisible Life of Ivan Isaenko (14 page)

I'm not lost to a modicum of chivalry, so when it struck me that her situation would become worse if any of the other nurses were to find her in a puddle of her own puke, I immediately called out for Nurse Natalya, who arrived at the scene in three short seconds and walked Polina and the chemo bag she was connected to away while muttering things like, “Oh, you poor baby,” and “It's all right, darling.” Somehow in all the pandemonium, Polina managed to remember to grab her diary, which was now coated in bright stomach acid.

I didn't see Polina again for three days, which I presumed was the minimum amount of time that it took to find the courage to show her face again. When she finally came back around, her first instinct was to sit back down on the dirty old couch in the Main Room, pull out her journal, rip out two pages, scribble through two more, stash the book under one of the couch cushions, and leave the room without ever even looking in my direction. It was clear that Polina was being what they call
passive-aggressive,
so I wheeled my way over to the couch to see what she had left me. Unfortunately, at the same moment, the ginger twins plopped their tiny ginger asses on the couch and started some nonsensical hand-clapping game. Since moving them would require an act of God, I was forced to wait and watch. Two hours and seventeen minutes later, they got bored and simultaneously pranced off, which is when I lifted the cushion, pulled out the diary, still pungent from Polina's stomach acids, and turned to the last page. This is what it said (I remember because I'm holding it right now):

Dear Ivan,

First, I would like to tell you that you are a terrible human. And in most ways I find you repulsive. And the only reason that I even let you read my diary is because you were my only option. But if this is how it works, then I will play along. You know too much about me, and I know nothing about you. So answer these questions if you want to continue talking (or whatever it is that we're doing).

           
(1) How long have you been here?

           
(2) Why are you here?

           
(3) How do you make this bearable?

Disrespectfully,

Polina

PS—To answer your first question, the first thing I ever stole was a cat named Anatoly. He was my best friend for seven hours until my father made me give him back.

PPS—Inside of a black hole there are mountains of
chak-chak,
*
which would last for an eternity, since a black hole contains all time.

PPPS—Leave the book back under the couch cushion where you found it.

I wasted no time crafting an eloquent response and then tucked the book back inside the couch before lunch. This is what it said:

Dear Polina,

Thanks for your response. To answer your questions:

           
(1) I have always been here.

           
(2) I'm here because I've always been here. And because, like you, I don't have any parents.

           
(3) I turn everything into a game.

Respectfully,

Ivan

I returned an hour later, and it was already gone, meaning it was back in Polina's hands. Then I checked again anywhere from twelve to eighteen more times that day, but the couch was empty. Then I remembered that once again I forgot to continue the conversation like a normal person and concluded that I had most likely ruined our budding rapport.

The next morning, I woke up an hour early and wheeled myself out to the Main Room and checked the couch again much like children check the Christmas tree at 3:00 in the
A.M.
on Christmas Eve in American movies. To my surprise, I found it there this time. It said:

I have a game. I used to play it with my father when we had to drive for a long time. Meet me in the Main Room during TV hour after dinner.

—Polina

Okay, Polina, I will
was the first thought in my head. The second was
But this does not mean that I will make eye contact with you.
So I quickly scribbled into the diary:

 

Okay, Polina, I will. But this doesn't mean that I will make eye contact with you.

My first instinct was to look at the clock on the wall in the Main Room, which told me that it was 9:47 in the
A.M.
, which meant that there were eight hours and thirteen minutes until dinner hour and nine hours and thirteen minutes until TV hour, which I knew meant eight hours and thirteen minutes of Kafkian dread.

But the comforting truth about time—and all the Buddhists agree—is that nothing lasts forever, and after eight hours of kamikaze thoughts and one-handed nail biting it was 7:00 in the
P.M.,
and I found myself parked a safe eighteen inches from Polina while an episode of
Bednaya Nastya
*
played on the big TV. And while I kept my promise and refused to look her in the eye, I could tell from my peripheral vision that Polina had chosen not to arrive with her wig tonight. Her face was pale and gaunt and almost transparent like mine. She looked tired and a bit soulless, but she put it all behind a 45 percent smile. And somehow, in spite of her deterioration, she made my heart beat to the rhythm of “Sexual Healing,” which is a song written by the late soul singer Marvin Gaye.

Polina wrote a few sentences down into her book and passed it over to me. It said:

 

I'm thinking of a person. It could be a him or a her. It could be fictional or real, dead or alive. You get to ask me twelve yes/no questions to guess who it is. You are supposed to get twenty questions, but my personal record for this game is twelve. If you guess my person in twelve questions, then you get to ask me any question in the world, and I have to answer honestly. If you don't guess it in twelve questions, then you have to say something to me. Do you agree to the terms of this contract?

I pulled my own pencil from my pocket and wrote back:

 

I agree to your terms. Is your person a woman?

Then I handed it back to her, at which point she quickly scribbled:

 

Yes, eleven.

And then she handed it back to me.

 

Is your person fictional?

Switch:

 

No, ten.

Switch:

 

Is she anyone that we have seen on the screen during TV hour?

Switch:

 

No, nine.

Switch:

 

Is she a character in a book?

Switch:

 

No, eight.

Switch:

 

A historical figure?

Switch:

 

Yes, seven.

Switch:

 

Biblical?

Switch:

 

Yes, six.

Switch:

 

On God's side?

Switch:

 

No, five.

Switch:

 

Was her flesh eaten by stray dogs at the time of her death?

Switch:

 

Yes, four.

Switch:

 

Jezebel.

Switch:

Polina laughed, which startled me because no one had ever laughed in response to something I had done, nor had I ever considered the possibility that I was capable of making a person laugh. Then she scribbled down a few words and handed the book back again.

 

I hate you, Ivan.

Switch:

 

Why?

Switch:

 

Because that was only nine questions.

Switch:

 

It was too easy. She's your alter ego.

Switch:

 

Ask your question.

She dropped the book back into my lap, and I sat for a few minutes dreaming up questions, and a thousand came to mind, all of which were the type of deep and existential questions that inevitably result in long nights on the linoleum floor (n.b.: I've never actually had a long night on a linoleum floor). Such questions included:
What do you think happens after you die? Have humans evolved to be monogamous? Why do bonobos have sex more than other primates? Is there a boundary to the universe? What is true happiness? What if a one-armed man robbed a bank; how would you handcuff him? If vampires can't see their reflection, why do they have such perfect hair? Is it possible to daydream at night? and, of course, Do you think it would be possible for you to see me in a sexual sort of way?

In the end, I decided to ask her for more time. So I wrote:

 

Can I have the book for the night?

To which she responded:

 

If you don't mind my puke.

To which I responded:

 

I have smelled a lot of puke at this hospital, and yours is not the worst.

To which she laughed (that was two) and responded:

 

Good night, creep.

Which I hoped was also a joke.

Then I wheeled myself back to my room, where my mother was waiting up with a mouth that was clearly ready to explode with maternal-like things.

“So, how was your first date?”

“Dates involve words, Mother.”

“I'm submitting a request for a grandchild.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“What is wrong with
you
?”

“For one, I'm not built for procreation.”

“Max Moyovich. Quadruple amputee from the Second World War. His son is currently mayor of Yakutsk. You have a whole arm on him.”

“For two, she'll die before any zygote is the size of a ten-ruble coin.”

“Have you not seen the latest incubators?”

“Good night, Mother.”

I spent the rest of the evening reading through classic literature in order to come up with a question for Polina. At some point, it occurred to me that there might be nothing left to ask. I knew the names and faces of each of the demons that populated her world. She painted all their faces with her words. It only seemed fair that I should offer the same courtesy.

The clock read 6:53 in the
A.M.
when I finished writing
The Retroactive Diary of Ivan Isaenko
. I was as honest as I'd ever been. As I could ever let myself be. It was the unabridged history brimming with all my crippling phobias, my morbid games, and a dictionary for my exclusive lexicon. There were other things I couldn't bring myself to share. For example, my obsessive masturbation habits.

As soon as I put my pen down, I fell asleep and had a dream that Polina and I were walking down a street that looked nothing like somewhere in Eastern Europe. The road was as long as I could see, the sky was gray, the streets were foggy, and the scene was almost entirely black and white except for trees that lined the road, each one of them blooming with little purple flowers that were being shed all over my black-and-white road, which looked like little pieces of purple candy.

I turned to Polina and asked:

“What are these trees?”

“Jacarandas,” she said.

Something about her voice made me realize that I was dreaming, but somehow I didn't wake up. Instead, I wondered how I knew the name for something in my dream that I didn't know the name of in real life. I was, however, able to let this paradox go and choose to enjoy the dream for as long as it would play out. We continued to walk without saying anything to each other until it became apparent that under one of the trees clarifying itself on the horizon there was a body lying limp and lifeless over the strewn purple candies. Eventually the ripped jeans and T-shirt could be ascertained, and a few steps later it was clear that it was the Polina who walked into the hospital two months ago. I leaned down and shook her body, but it was uninhabited. Then I turned to my left, and the Polina that I had been walking with was gone. Like a balloon, the scene popped, and I found myself in my bed with
The Retroactive Diary of Ivan Isaenko
bobbing on my torso to the rhythm of my escalating breath. I leaped quickly into my morning rituals of urination and dress and proceeded to breakfast hour. But this morning, Polina would not be reading my diary. This would be the morning that in spite of waking up in Abaddon every day, in spite of the debilitating isolation I weather and my daily broken heart, in spite of the unbroken stream of thoughts hustling like loyal little slaves to erect some meaning out of my existence, in spite of all this and everything else, I'd never really hurt before.

 

Currently, the clock reads 7:47 in the
P.M.

I've been writing for forty-four hours.

It is the fourth day of December.

The year is 2005.

 

Natalya knocked again.

I told her to come in.

It's the day after tomorrow.

(Silence.)

I will pick you up at nine.

I'm not going.

I disagree.

 

XX

The Case for Diacetylmorphine

I wasn't completely honest when I said that I had correctly guessed every three-monther since I invented the game. I was wrong once, and not long ago. I was wrong because denial is the voluptuous mistress of puppy love. By the time I made it to my spot at the breakfast table, on a Wednesday morning of a particularly cold November, everyone had already started eating, including Polina, whom I audaciously avoided with my eyes. The plan was to rush through my cold plastic food as per usual, only this time I would leave my book with Polina and wheel away like a two-legged puma.