{"id":3486,"date":"2019-11-26T09:30:00","date_gmt":"2019-11-26T09:30:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/?p=3486"},"modified":"2020-10-09T23:24:44","modified_gmt":"2020-10-09T23:24:44","slug":"doctor-time","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/2019\/11\/26\/doctor-time\/","title":{"rendered":"doctor time"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

By Joel Fishbane<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Time travel is easy in Africa. You\u2019re already in a bubble. Wherever you go, it feels like you\u2019re in the past. When I first arrived, the foundation I worked for assigned me to a hospital whose assortment of beds and equipment hailed from every decade except the one we were actually in. I spent my days doing harsh and thankless work. I think I became a fine doctor, but at some point I lost my name. Everyone called me exactly what Nia had called me the first day we met: Young Doctor. Of course I encouraged it. This was time travel too.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

By Joel Fishbane<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I: the time machine<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I invented the time machine so I could see Nia as often as I wished. It happened right after I wrote to her father who, like me, had missed the funeral. I didn\u2019t learn this fact until several weeks after I had moved to Africa, when her mother sent me an angry email whose central thesis was that the cruelty of men is compounded in times of grief. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The email was also sent to Nia\u2019s father, which is how I obtained his address; it\u2019s also how I knew he had boycotted the funeral because Nia wasn\u2019t being buried in Johannesburg. Her father was famous but I had never met him and I put off writing him for the same reason I avoided Nia\u2019s funeral: to write about her death was as bad as watching them put her in the ground.  Eventually I caved, but my letter hardly acknowledged the death. Only my use of the past tense suggested she was no longer here.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know how much he knew about us, so I couched everything in terms of polite sympathy. I knew your daughter. She was remarkable, both as a doctor and as a woman. <\/em>Remarkable! A handwriting expert would have noted the way my pen hesitated before writing that word. In times of grief, restraint is a talent few of us have; that letter, I think, was a work of art.  But artistic or not, I received no reply and I put the matter from my mind \u2013 the matter of Nia\u2019s father, that is, not <\/em>the matter of Nia herself. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

There wasn\u2019t much to my time machine. The key components were a few photographs, some letters, and a blue t-shirt which held her scent for a miraculous length of time. By inhaling this aroma, I could go anywhere I wished. Secreted beneath my mosquito net, I could revisit conversations, arguments, vacations, sex. At sunrise, I would return to the present and crawl from my hammock, head throbbing with the hangover that comes from drinking too much of the past. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Time travel is easy in Africa. You\u2019re already in a bubble. Wherever you go, it feels like you\u2019re in the past. When I first arrived, the foundation I worked for assigned me to a hospital whose assortment of beds and equipment hailed from every decade except the one we were actually in. I spent my days doing harsh and thankless work. I think I became a fine doctor, but at some point I lost my name. Everyone called me exactly what Nia had called me the first day we met: Young Doctor. Of course I encouraged it. This was time travel too. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Five and a half years went by. I lost contact with my friends. I missed the birth of twin nephews, something which earned me my sister\u2019s wrath. She didn\u2019t have the slightest idea what it was like for me. In her world, all doctors were rich. She didn\u2019t understand that I slept in a hammock, ate very little, and lived the pauper\u2019s life. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThey\u2019re turning six,<\/em>\u201d she told me during our monthly phone call. \u201cYou\u2019ve never met them. To them, you\u2019re Uncle Africa.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not easy to get away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My sister, as always, read my mind. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to go to the cemetery, you know. Just because you come home, you don\u2019t need to visit her grave.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But I didn\u2019t believe her. I would be drawn to that cemetery; only the oceans and continents could protect me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you don\u2019t come for Thanksgiving, color yourself disowned,\u201d she went on. \u201cDon\u2019t call again unless it\u2019s to tell me you\u2019re flying home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I checked my savings. I had enough for a flight, but I would be destitute when I returned. But my sister was the last thread. If I let it break, I knew I might spiral away for good. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was around this time that Nia\u2019s father came to the hospital to find me. He didn\u2019t give his name, but this attempt at hiding identity didn\u2019t work. He was a great writer and very well known. Given his fame \u2013 and presumed wealth – my supervisor instructed me to treat him as a king. They made me banish the sweat from my face; my supervisor even combed my hair. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jackson Pope sat impatiently on an examination table that had serviced service men during the Second World War. He was a tall man with a badly shaved cheek. There was a hint of Nia in his face. A familiar aspect to the neck. An echo of something in the line of the jaw. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI hate doctors,\u201d said Jackson Pope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded. Nia had told me this many times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI never wanted Nia to be one.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I nodded again. Nia had told me this too.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMedicine was her mother\u2019s <\/em>idea. She hoped it would keep me away<\/em>. It\u2019s unholy the way we use our children.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nia hadn\u2019t <\/em>told me this<\/em>. But I nodded just the same.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI need you to promise absolute discretion,\u201d he went on. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Discretion meant a sickness. And absolute<\/em> discretion? Something worse. He handed me a plain brown envelope, which he handled as one might hold a treasure of glass. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy newest work,\u201d he said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had been keeping up with all the news on Jackson Pope \u2013 after all, I needed to tell Nia something when I time traveled. Nobody likes a visitor from the future who comes without news. Only last week, while revisiting a vacation Nia and I had taken to the south of France, I told her it was being widely reported that her father was writing a memoir. Walking along the beach \u2013 a blustery day, the sand tearing our eyes \u2013 I remarked that the rumor was being greeted with both applause and fear. Jackson Pope had been against apartheid and had moved in and out of prison. He had probably collected a great many secrets about people who were still alive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jackson Pope explained that he had sent the manuscript to his agent. Then he handed me a piece of stationary on which his agent had written a terse reply: <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Don\u2019t send me things you wrote when you were drunk.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The first question was obvious. \u201cWere<\/em> you drunk?\u201d I asked. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Jackson Pope swore he existed on nothing but Coke. \u201cI want you to read it. Nia once told me you were the only man she knew who had a competent understanding of my work.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

So she had spoken of me after all. It was the first new piece of information about Nia I had heard in five and a half years. My sweat made the envelope damp. I promised to read it as fast as I could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

That night, beneath my mosquito net, I time traveled and brought the manuscript with me. I took myself to Nia\u2019s bedroom in the apartment she had been living in when we met, the one she had shared with Elodie Smith. We made love and then read the manuscript together until we fell asleep. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I returned to the present, knowing exactly what was wrong with Jackson Pope. Nia was dead and I was young but we were still the best doctors around. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

II: the most dangerous place on earth<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was born in Los Angeles and like most of my friends and neighbors, I thought I would live there all my life. I went to UCLA and completed my internship in Beverly Hills. I was involved in several high profile surgeries, including the one that made the deputy mayor\u2019s impressive nose significantly less impressive. I was on my way to a lucrative career until I started hanging out with Charley Chase. Large and dopey, Charley should have been an introvert, the sort of awkward soul who studies Klingon in his spare time. But he was gregarious and popular and held Gatsby-esque parties in an apartment too small to contain them. It was at one of these parties that I overheard a very dark and beautiful girl denounce the life that late I led.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoctors are supposed to serve the sick. But we waste our talents helping people who don\u2019t need us. Take the deputy mayor\u2019s nose. Was that an illness? Was that something that needed to be cured? <\/em>They are rich and they are powerful. You can change their noses but they are still the faces of decadence. A life in their service is a betrayal of something true.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was like coming down with the plague. Her words infected me and for days I couldn\u2019t sleep. Eventually, I asked Charley about her. He just laughed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s just Nia<\/em>,\u201d he said. You could hear him italicizing the name. Not everyone can speak with italics, but Charley Chase had the knack. With the slightest inflection, he could stylize complete sentences. \u201cShe lives with Elodie. <\/em>I\u2019d stay away from her. She\u2019s always got a problem, <\/em>if you know what I mean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m more interested in Elodie anyway.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell why didn\u2019t you say<\/em> so?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew Elodie Smith, so it wasn\u2019t exactly a cold call. But it didn\u2019t take her long to figure out why I was really on the phone. She gave a great, almost elaborate sigh. Poor Elodie. People were always calling her when they really wanted to speak to Nia. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOne of these days,\u201d said Elodie, \u201ca young doctor is going to call to talk to me.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNever mind. I\u2019d rather talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t tell me stories, young doctor. Start hanging out at the Botswana Caf\u00e9. You\u2019ll see her soon enough.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Botswana Caf\u00e9 was just down the street from where I lived. I had studied for the MCATs there; I had once prescribed their shorba<\/em> to a visiting professor who complained of a bad cough. On my next day off, I rose early and went to the Caf\u00e9. At fourteen minutes past eleven, Nia Pope swept in wearing a orange dress, looking just as dark and beautiful as she had been the night of Charley\u2019s party. Her age was indistinct \u2013 later I learned she was twenty-eight. She was with Elodie, who grinned when she saw me. Elodie Smith wasn\u2019t a fat girl, but she had a fat grin: it took over her entire face. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, well! Nia, this is the young doctor who called about you last week.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Nia\u2019s face grew tight as a stitch. People were always calling Elodie when they really wanted to speak to Nia – and Elodie was always telling them to come to Botswana Caf\u00e9. She ambushed Nia every chance she had. Elodie was studying to be an actress while Nia was in her last year of residence in South Central. They sat with me for almost an hour until Elodie realized she wasn\u2019t wanted \u2013 they had carefully arranged signals for such things. That was their life in those days. People were always calling Elodie; Elodie was always ambushing Nia;  Nia was always casting signals to let her know when she wanted to be saved. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

This time, she didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy do you come here all the time?\u201d I asked when we were alone. \u201cAre you from Botswana?\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJo\u2019burg. I know. I have no accent. It\u2019s a terrible thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDid you come here when you were young?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith my father. He wrote some of his books here. That\u2019s why I like it so much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo I know your father\u2019s books?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEver read The Laws of Naai<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I started. \u201cYour father is Jackson Pope!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father is Jackson Pope.\u201d She repeated it as if she didn\u2019t believe it herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I told her I had been reading Jackson Pope for years. Because of his outspoken opposition to apartheid, Jackson Pope had spent years in exile, during which time he had lectured at my sister\u2019s university. She had been so taken with him that she had turned us all into devotees. I was pretty well informed of all the events in his life which, by the time I met Nia, included his triumphant repatriation, a drunken appearance at the SAFTAs, the loss of the Booker Prize, rumors of tremendous debt, and the scandalous tale that he was romantically linked with diamond magnate Robert Greene, one of the richest men in South Africa.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs your father in town?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father is never<\/em> in town. He\u2019s in Western Cape. He hates to travel. It\u2019s probably for the best. We share the same opinions, so we tend to get into trouble.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI like your opinions. I heard you talking about them at Charley\u2019s party. You disturbed me, but not in a bad way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWas that a compliment? I can\u2019t tell.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll try to get better at them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease do.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

From that day on, we were inseparable. We moved from lectures to theatres, always ending the day at the caf\u00e9. It was weeks before I was finally allowed to press my lips against that very-wonderful mouth. More bridges were crossed and I soon found I could only sleep when she was coiled against me, small and hard as a fist. She slept every night in the same blue shirt, an oversized thing that was nearly transparent with age. Not the most erotic lingerie but it did the trick: that t-shirt became synonymous with sleep and sex and lazy Sunday afternoons.       <\/p>\n\n\n\n

During our first Christmas together, I almost proposed while we walked along the beach. I had it planned out but I turned coward when the moment came. My sister once told me that no proposal should ever truly be a surprise; if you doubt the answer, you shouldn\u2019t be asking. I definitely doubted the answer. Nia\u2019s master plan was to move to Africa when her residency was complete. She wanted to work in the rural communities, which were forever in need of qualified help. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny doctor who does not spend at least a year in Africa is a disgrace,\u201d she told me. \u201cIn the Hippocratic Oath, we swear to do no harm. But aren\u2019t we causing harm just by staying away? They need us. We have an obligation to help.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes that mean you\u2019ll only be gone for a year?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be gone forever, my young doctor. Africa is my home.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My only hope was to go with her. But how could I do that? In Los Angeles, I had achieved a certain success. It wasn\u2019t just that great miracle I had performed on the deputy mayor\u2019s nose; my clients now included the rich and famous who flocked to me to be tucked and lifted and endowed. I wanted to be the thing that would keep Nia from leaving but she was resolute. Not even a handsome young doctor could have made her stay. She had her ambitions; the daughter of Jackson Pope did not believe in sacrifice. Soon, I was unable to enjoy my work. Like my patients, I could no longer tolerate my own skin.  At last, I gave in. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I told her of my decision, Nia threw her arms around my neck and kissed me from my forehead down to my chin. I had done the impossible: I had defied her expectations.  With amazing speed, we cashed in our lives. I gave up my apartment and my practice; I sold everything I owned. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

My sister flew into a rage. Our parents had died and she had practically raised me; now she reverted to the sort of hysteria reserved for mothers who see their children leaving the nest. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s poisoned you!\u201d she declared. \u201cShe cares for nothing but herself! Who demands that you go halfway across the world just for them?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I did my best imitation of Charley Chase. \u201cShe didn\u2019t demand <\/em>anything. I volunteered.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAt least keep your apartment. Sublet it until you get back.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll be gone forever.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour trouble is you\u2019re a romantic. Only romantics use words like forever.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two days before we left, Charley Chase threw us a party. We agreed to meet there so Nia could run some last minute errand. At the party, Charley paraded me and I danced with Elodie, who smiled sadly the whole time. My sister was there; she tried one last time to dissuade me from my plans. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou hear such stories about what goes on over there. Some people say it\u2019s the most dangerous place on Earth.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was at this moment that someone called with the news about Nia. Africa is dangerous, but so is South Central. They tell me that Nia was caught in some sort of crossfire. She was trying to help a boy who had been shot. The wrong corner at the wrong time; Nia had been in L.A. when she should have been on the other side of the world. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t stay to read the articles or be interviewed by members of the press. I didn\u2019t stay to see her become a martyr and a symbol and a cause. I didn\u2019t stay to see her grave. I boarded the plane two days after she died and sat next to an empty seat and clung to her blue t-shirt, so sharp with her scent that I found it impossible to sleep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

III: the spider bite<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I met with Jackson Pope for the second time. He looked tired. All his life he had suffered from insomnia which he had combated by working until he knocked himself out. Now he was afraid to write and slept maybe two hours a night. He said that his dreams were infested; in each one, he had insects under his skin. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cJust tell me the truth, Young Doctor\u201d said Jackson Pope. \u201cIs my manuscript a waste of words?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not that it\u2019s a waste. It\u2019s just that some of it isn\u2019t true.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHistory is written by the winners. This is never more true than when that history is your own.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnfortunately, it\u2019s not really a question of interpretation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I explained the problem. Some of the mistakes were small \u2013 the wrong place, the wrong time – but there was one mistake which was all too glaring. In his own memoir, Jackson Pope didn\u2019t seem to know that his daughter was gone. According to Jackson Pope, it was Nia\u2019s mother who had been caught in the crossfire that terrible day.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I liked his version of events. In his universe Nia was still alive. In Jackson Pope\u2019s universe, you didn\u2019t need a time machine; you just needed to get on a plane.        <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I told him I wanted to run some tests.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

*<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Our hospital never has the right equipment. As is often the case here, I had to settle for what was possible rather than what was needed. It was dementia, I thought, although exactly how long he had suffered from it was impossible to tell. After all, he hated doctors and was almost always alone. It could have settled slowly, like a broken curtain. Jackson Pope remained optimistic. He pounded his chest like an ape. Having made a living through the powers of his mind, he refused to believe it could ever betray him. I was not so convinced. When the playwright Henrik Ibsen had a stroke, he lost the ability to read; the mind is a lot more fragile than any of us like to believe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For many years, Jackson Pope had been living in a small cottage on a farm about an hour from the hospital. I have no idea how he obtained it. It had once been the quarters for servants and bore a gloomy air. The farm was owned by the Krebs, a corpulent and illiterate couple who knew Nia\u2019s father was famous but had no idea if it was deserved. It was Adamson Krebs who had bought the cases of Coke that had become part of Jackson\u2019s new diet; it was Miriam Krebs who fed him cheese and bread so he wouldn\u2019t fall apart.  Jackson Pope owned almost no clothing and his cupboards were stocked with typewriter ribbon (on hearing that his favorite brand was being discontinued, he had bought a lifetime supply).<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A week after I delivered my diagnosis, I invited myself up to see him. I had to hitch a ride and was forced to sit in the back of an old truck with several other stone silent men, each making their way across the country in search of work. The Krebs\u2019 farm was a crummy place, dilapidated as a slum, yet it sat in such beautiful country that it was hard not to be charmed. Miriam Krebs proved to be a bullfrog with a distracting chest. She might have been forty or eighty; it was hard to tell. She was a ruined farm too and seemed to creak with the breeze.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m looking for Jackson Pope.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo autographs!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo doctors!\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m a friend. I knew his daughter.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh!\u201d she said and it was clear my romance had preceded me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Reluctantly, she led me across the field to the cottage. The door had been propped open with a crushed tin can and the wind carried a rank smell that abused the nose. I found him at the typewriter, curved as a scythe. He had returned to his writing, determined to recapture the thing that had been lost. The latest chapter sat on the table and he made me read it while he finished. These new memoirs were just as disastrous as before. It was as if he was reinventing his life \u2013 and, perhaps not surprisingly, he had inserted himself into a wonderful world. I wondered if I should leave him be. Why bring him back to the weary reality in which the rest of us lived?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt says here that after your exile, you came to New York,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI lived next to a psychic. She told me my future.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou came to New York. But you never left the airport. You stayed for three days waiting for a flight to California.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd that\u2019s where I met my wife.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes! You met in the departures lounge.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe swam nude in the ocean.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIf you did, it was later.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe had two daughters.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere was only ever one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe had twins. One of them died at birth.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t know whether to believe it. But how I wanted to! Another new fact about my Nia, something extraordinary to tell her the next time I traveled in time. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

For the next few days, I lost myself in work. Then I received a visit from Adamson Krebs. He wanted me to know that Miriam Krebs had found Nia\u2019s father lounging in his own filth. And two days after that, said Adamson, he had found Jackson Pope wandering the fields in his nightshirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In school, we were taught dementia is a spider bite. Like so many spiders, it paralyzes its victims and devours them over many months.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Huddled behind my mosquito net, I inhaled the scent from Nia\u2019s t-shirt and traveled back to the Botswana Caf\u00e9. It was the day we met. There was Elodie enjoying her revenge; there was Nia\u2019s scowl, formed by the lovely downturn of her lips. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe wrote some of his books here. That\u2019s why I like it so much.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo I know your father\u2019s books?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEver read The Laws of Naai<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour father is Jackson Pope!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father is Jackson Pope.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

At the mention of his name, something changed in my heart. The trouble with time travel is that it\u2019s only useful if you can use it to alter the present. Otherwise it\u2019s a purely academic pursuit. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI like your opinions,\u201d I said. \u201cYou disturbed me, but not in a bad way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWas that a compliment? I can\u2019t tell.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When she rose, I thought I saw every muscle shift beneath her dress; I thought I could see her blood and liver and heart. Everything pulsed the way a wave shudders as it rockets towards the shore. She glanced back at me from the counter and winked; at the same moment, something sharp pricked my arm. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was back in the present; I returned just in time to kill a mosquito with one blow. There was a hole in the net; my hammock had become a nest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next time the Internet was working, I placed a call overseas. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUnbelievable!\u201d said Elodie Smith. \u201cShe\u2019s dead and people still<\/em> call to talk about her.\u201d  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Elodie\u2019s career had been going well. She had filmed a few pilots and had just played a love scene with a very famous actor. Even so, her life was a struggle. \u201cI hope you\u2019re not calling for money,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t want money. I wanted the past.  \u201cSend me anything that was hers. Photographs. Emails. Letters, if you have them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t have much. I mean, I kept everything for a time, but it\u2019s been six years.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s been five and a half. Just send me what you can.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A few days later, Elodie emailed a folder containing pictures and scans of everything she had left. Most of the photos were of her and Nia. But a few showed Nia in the arms of men I had never known. They looked hard and mean and I immediately decided they were sour things who, like me, had never seen her grave. But I printed everything  and hitchhiked my way back to the Krebs\u2019 farm. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I found Jackson Pope slumped over the typewriter, staring at what he had written.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSomeone has stolen all the D\u2019s,\u201d he complained.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeave it for now. Look: I brought some pictures.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Elodie had found a small bundle of letters written to Nia by Jackson himself. She had scanned these and sent them along; once I had printed them out on the hospital\u2019s cheap printer, they were difficult to read. Jackson\u2019s eyes couldn\u2019t make out the words.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI could read them,\u201d I said. \u201cThough they might be personal.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRead them,\u201d he sighed. \u201cSomeone is stealing the D\u2019s. Clearly, my life is no longer my own.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

So I began to read his own letters back to him, which is how I finally learned all the things that Nia had never told me, all the things that had never been written in the press during all his years of fame. I learned about his exile and his drinking. I learned about his tremendous debt. And I learned that he had once been involved in a clandestine affair with a mining magnate. Nia was the only one who knew. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLook at us!\u201d said Jackson. \u201cWe both have daughters in America! And they\u2019re both doctors!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I frowned. The letters I was reading were in first person. Jackson Pope had lost track of the narrative; he thought I was reading him letters I had written myself<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could have corrected the mistake, but how could I when it suited me so well? I wasn\u2019t a young doctor hiding in Africa. I had been transformed into a great author of the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou must be very proud!\u201d he exclaimed.  <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI am,\u201d I lied. Jackson Pope had put books and politics and a daughter into the world. What had I done other then honor my Hippocratic Oath? I imagined Nia would be proud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

iv: nia pope is dead<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

One day I arrived at the farm to find Miriam Krebs waiting for me. \u201cIt smells like death,\u201d she told me and she nodded in the direction of Jackson\u2019s cottage.  But Jackson Pope wasn\u2019t dead. He just hadn\u2019t bathed. And he had soiled the bed. At the back of the cottage was a tiny water closet with a bathtub hardly long enough for a bath. It was an ancient clawfoot tub: you could sit in it, but something would always be lolling over the sides. Miriam Krebs turned away when I stripped Jackson Pope down; with great care, I scrubbed away at his legs. Jackson woke as I worked but it was clear something was wrong. His movements were sluggish. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWash behind the ears,\u201d he instructed. \u201cRemember, you promised absolute discretion.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou had an accident. It\u2019s nothing to be ashamed of.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miriam Krebs still had her back turned as I helped Jackson clamber out of the tub.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHey Miriam!\u201d he said. \u201cDon\u2019t be such a prude!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s clean laundry on the line,\u201d said Miriam Krebs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s nothing you haven\u2019t seen before!\u201d he called but Miriam had already run from the room in tears. He turned to me. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t know it, but that woman\u2019s in love with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShe\u2019s married.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMarried women love other men all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

His face relaxed. A light fell into his eyes. His lopsided grin revealed an error in his face. Some of the muscles wouldn\u2019t respond. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I convinced Adamson Krebs to drive us back to the hospital so I could put Jackson under observation. He stayed for a time, but it became clear at once that they could never meet his needs. It took all my power just to keep him from sharing a bed. Here was a great struggle. Was Jackson Pope so much more important than my other patients? Would even my Nia have wanted me to steal a bed from them? I knew the answer and within a week, Jackson was back at the farm and I had to convince the Krebs to move him into the room which had once belonged to their son, now dead for almost thirteen years. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe needs constant care,\u201d I told them. .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou had better hire a nurse.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCouldn\u2019t you do it?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think we do out here, Young Doctor? Do you think we have time to care for the dead?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe\u2019s not dead yet.<\/em>\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cEither you hire a nurse or I hire someone to help on the farm. Both ways cost money \u2013 for you.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As Miriam said, Jackson Pope had no friends. But he still had associates. I decided to call his agent. Finding the man\u2019s phone number was easier than using it; it took all afternoon for me to connect to Johannesburg. The man had a belligerent voice and sounded like he was perpetually chewing on the end of a pen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJackson is very sick,\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019s forgetting all sorts of things. He no longer believes that apartheid ever ended.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA lot of people feel that way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe thinks his wife is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSounds like a blessing to me.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou aren\u2019t taking this seriously.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell him to come back. We have better doctors anyway.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong with the doctors here<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But that pen chewing agent was right. It was better over there. Better doctors, better equipment. And Jackson Pope used to live in Johannesburg. Might the familiar street corners not be good for his failing mind?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow much would it cost?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cToo much. On second thought, you might be better to let him be. I don\u2019t know how you hope to get paid. I control his money and you should know: he\u2019s pretty broke.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I crawled back to my dormitory and buried myself beneath the mosquito net. I intended to travel back as far as I could go but to my horror the past eluded me. I grabbed Nia\u2019s blue t-shirt only to find I had inhaled the last of its scent; now it was just a relic. My time machine was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I lay in the dark with my head against the pillow that had once been Nia\u2019s shawl. I had only the present and the terrors of the future. I thought about money. Nia\u2019s mother had it but I doubted she would help \u2013 Jackson was the husband who had killed her off and I was the boyfriend who hadn\u2019t stood at her daughter\u2019s grave. My sister wouldn\u2019t be any help. There was no one but the mosquitoes. And even them I exiled; I used Nia\u2019s shirt to patch the hole in my net. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The next day, I went to see the Krebs. \u201cThis is what I can afford,\u201d I said and I gave them a number I thought was fair. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Above me, their ceiling fan wheezed; beneath me, their chair groaned under my weight. It was almost Thanksgiving. My nephews were having another birthday. My sister would be more than upset. I might never be allowed to call again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At some point, the media heard about what was going on. It was probably that pen-chewing agent who did it: I imagine him letting it slip to a reporter that his famous client had been secluded on a shabby little farm. I had promised absolute discretion but the agent was a different story. He did not see himself as a gatekeeper protecting Jackson\u2019s pride. I wasn\u2019t there when the first men appeared but Miriam Krebs was an excellent guard.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo autographs!\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m with the Mail and Guardian,<\/em>\u201d the reporter argued. But what did Miriam care? There\u2019s an advantage to not knowing how to read: journalistic credentials are never impressive. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I was trapped at the hospital for a time, dealing with an outbreak of dysentery. I was in the thick of it when Adamson Krebs finally arrived to report on the reporters. He said it was a circus and that pilgrims from across South Africa were sitting by the gates of the farm. Miriam Krebs still wasn\u2019t letting them inside; but it scared Adamson Krebs to think his own name might be in the papers. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI live out there because I don\u2019t want to be found,\u201d he confessed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When my supervisor learned I needed to help Jackson Pope, he gave me special consideration. Such was the power of fame; it didn\u2019t hurt that I failed to mention Jackson Pope was broke. My supervisor probably thought there would be a large donation once all of this was done. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Before we left, I made Adamson stop so I could buy a paper. The great writer\u2019s illness wasn\u2019t on the front page; but it wasn\u2019t on the back either. It sat snugly in the middle, as if the editors couldn\u2019t decide how important they wanted the news to be. Famed author Jackson Pope is reportedly bedridden due to an undisclosed illness.<\/em> The wording made me wince. Undisclosed illness <\/em>was a euphemism; anyone who read this would think the worst.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When I reached the farm, I saw that Adamson Krebs had taken a bit of poetic license. It was hardly a circus: there were less then half a dozen men sitting in their cars.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is the writer\u2019s young doctor,\u201d said Adamson Krebs. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCan you tells us anything about his condition?\u201d asked a reporter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPlease, Jackson Pope wants to be left alone.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside, Jackson Pope was a wild mountain, craggy and imposing. But he was having a good day. He had found all the D\u2019s and the typewriter keys flew at breakneck speed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiriam says there are reporters outside,\u201d he grunted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have an undisclosed illness. <\/em>We\u2019re dealing with them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBring them here! I\u2019ll <\/em>deal with them.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t want people seeing you like this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOnly way to handle the media is to give them what they want. Otherwise they make up the story. And that\u2019s always worse.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He grew so manic that I worried what would happen if I refused: the wild mountain might crumble to the sea. So I brought the reporters into the farmhouse and led them to the second floor. Donning the hat of press agent, I warned them they would have only five minutes. I wondered if this wasn\u2019t too much time. I wanted them to see the great writer at his best. How long do you need to say something absurd? <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy young doctor is taking excellent care of me,\u201d said Jackson Pope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet\u2019s get a picture of the two of you together.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m still able to write.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAren\u2019t you working on your memoirs?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill it be very political?\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll my memories are political! My memoirs will be too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A camera flashed as our photo was taken, the great writer and the young doctor, sitting side by side. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right,\u201d I said. \u201cJackson Pope needs to rest.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you for speaking to us.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

 \u201cMy pleasure, boys. I wouldn\u2019t want my daughter to think I have an undisclosed illness.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reporters glanced at each other and in the silence I thought I heard a distinctive sound: a mountain was tumbling down. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry,\u201d said a reporter, \u201cbut I thought your daughter had died.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHa!\u201d said Jackson Pope. \u201cShe\u2019ll outlive us all.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I led the reporters away, doing my best to smile at Jackson Pope as I closed the door. To their credit, the reporters waited until we were outside and out of earshot before questioning me. I tried to protest but they were centipedes, crawling over me with their hundreds of legs. It was there, standing on the Krebs\u2019 farm, that I had my outburst. Before I knew it, I had said what I had never said to Jackson Pope, what I had hardly said to myself, what I had been fighting to ignore ever since that night my sister told me Africa was the most dangerous place on Earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe was wrong. Nia Pope is dead.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reporters smelled the tragedy. Opening the paper the following day, I found a photograph of me with the great writer, each of us smiling at the camera. But below that, the intrepid writers remarked, politely, that the bedridden Jackson Pope appeared to be \u201cslightly confused\u201d. And there was my quote, printed in black and white, on paper and in cyberspace, the truth emblazoned forever in my own voice. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I had stayed with the Krebs and gone into the nearby town for the paper; now I stalked back to the house in a cold fury. I was going to tell Jackson Pope the truth. I had kept him company in his comfortable fiction for weeks; he owed me a little solace. I imagined dragging him onto a plane and across the ocean, taking him all the way to Nia\u2019s grave. We would stand over it together. Dementia could take everything from him but I wasn\u2019t going to let it take this. If I couldn\u2019t abolish it then neither could he. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I found Miriam Krebs sitting on the top step, her face in her hands. In his room, the great writer had fallen in an awkward pose. His head sat on the mattress as the rest of his body was knelt on the floor. The bed was a cliff, the body a waterfall.  I crashed into Jackson Pope and rolled him onto his back. I banged his chest. I breathed into his lungs. I clawed at his body and yelled into the deathmask, demanding that he return. His spirit ignored me and why not? It probably knew why I wanted it back. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t truly remember the following weeks. I wanted to avoid Jackson\u2019s funeral, as I had avoided Nia\u2019s, but no one else would take charge of his body and the responsibility fell to me. I was forced to stand at his grave. When the coffin went into the ground, it took my broken time machine with it. Jackson went into the earth with Nia\u2019s t-shirt, her shawl, and the many letters and pictures Elodie had sent. I buried Nia and her father together. I had to. For me, they died on the same day, even though it happened five and a half years apart. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The papers brought notoriety. People ask for me by name and sometimes they bring an old photograph of the great writer and the young doctor that was printed all those months ago. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis is who I want,\u201d they say. \u201cI want the man who tended to Jackson Pope.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could avoid all this by just going home. But here I sit. Like my sister said, I\u2019m a romantic. I believe in words like forever.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u00a9\u00a0Copyright 2019\u00a0Joel Fishbane<\/a><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

Joel Fishbane is a novelist, playwright, and screenwriter. His novel “The Thunder of Giants” is available from St. Martin’s Press while new short fiction will appear in upcoming editions of New England Review, Litbreak, <\/em>and Shift.<\/em> He is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia. Find out more at www.joelfishbane.net<\/a>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Joel Fishbane “Time travel is easy in Africa. You’re already in a bubble. Wherever you go, it feels like you’re in the past. When I first arrived, the foundation I worked for assigned me to a hospital whose assortment of beds and equipment hailed from every decade except the one we were actually in. …<\/p>\n

doctor time<\/span> Read More »<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3486","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3486"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3486"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3486\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5222,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3486\/revisions\/5222"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3486"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3486"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/87bedford.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3486"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}