Chapter 22
TWENTY-TWO
LORENZO
In the weeks since he’d fired Winnie, Lorenzo’s life went along in an uninterrupted, seamless fashion.
The cleaning staff came and went with only a text notification that they had been there.
The landscapers cleaned up after a Thanksgiving nor’easter before he was even aware of how hard the storm had hit.
He received emails saying his various bills had been paid automatically, something Winnie had set up during her tenure.
In Boston, his dry cleaning and laundry were picked up and delivered, neatly folded or hanging in biodegradable plastic, waiting in the foyer of his building with the doorman.
Groceries appeared in refrigerated bags at the promised times.
He received a notification that his Lamborghini had been detailed at his home in Chatham.
And each night when he arrived home, either in Boston or Chatham, the lights were glowing warmly, thanks to a daylight sensor. Almost like someone was home.
Seamless and sterile. No flowers, no unrequested baked goods, no holiday décor or insouciant notes.
Which was fine, of course. He preferred it this way.
A colleague asked him to come to Mount Sinai in New York to guest lecture her residents and scrub in on a delicate surgery.
Lorenzo made his own hotel and train reservations without issue.
The train was on time. The hotel manager at The Carlyle welcomed him back, and the suite was as nice as Lorenzo remembered.
He ate dinner alone in the bar—a salad with grilled chicken.
No drink, no dessert, no conversation. At Mt.
Sinai the next day, the residents watched in reverence as he and Dr. Lad performed a multivisceral resection.
Afterward, the younger doctors asked intelligent, respectful questions.
He and Dr. Lad had a pleasant dinner together.
His travel back to Boston the next day was uneventful, and he worked on the train.
His orderly life was like a vast white tunnel, silent and immaculate, the memory of little flashes of color and noise reverberating around him. He found himself running along the Charles, a deviation from his regular course, his steps slowing near Fiedler Dock.
He managed to dodge his family at Thanksgiving by covering trauma surgery for the weekend at Mass General. The following Friday evening, he drove down to Chatham. No traffic at the bridge, smooth sailing on Route 6.
On his front steps sat an insulated bag of groceries and two flower arrangements.
Right. In a moment of weakness yesterday, after the bowel resection and before the laparotomy for the septic abdomen, he’d gone online and ordered two flower arrangements.
Why? Because he missed having flowers in the house.
Now, staring at them, he felt ridiculous.
They looked forced and fake, like the flowers for an elderly aunt’s funeral.
They were well-intentioned, but stiff and off the mark.
Just like he was.
With a sigh, he left them there and went inside. The house was cold since he’d forgotten to turn on the heat via the app Winnie had downloaded. He tapped the thermostats, heard the low hum of the furnace, and wandered through the house, adjusting the lights.
Once, it had been a relief to come here to pristine, sleek silence, knowing the house would be exactly as he’d left it.
Now, he felt as if he was living in a staged model home.
He paused at the picture of himself meeting William for the first time, the infant staring straight into his eyes.
He’d felt such a rush of connection to the baby, his sister’s firstborn.
His beautiful, kindhearted sister had become a mother, and this perfect little child had made him an uncle.
He’d always imagined that his siblings would procreate, but he had not expected the intensity of his new role, like a flash-fire in his chest. William had made him an uncle.
An eight-pound baby had looked up at him with complete trust and love, gazing back at him in wonder, and suddenly, Lorenzo was someone entirely new, something he had never been before.
Now, the same child was terrified at the sight of him.
That moment with Winnie in the elevator at the Mark Hopkins Hotel, he’d felt the same way—new.
Full of potential, about to start something incredible.
She saw him. And God, she was…everything.
Fierce. Wise. Subtle and sharp, and funny.
Brave. She took down her former lover in that airport without a single thought for how she might seem, who might be watching or listening, or judging.
When that little boy was floating off into the Charles, she’d known exactly what to do, and because of her, Lorenzo had been able to hang onto the boy while she got them both to safety.
Had he actually told her she was an underachiever?
God, he’d fucked things up.
Lorenzo knew he was on some sort of spectrum, both because of biology and his upbringing and, at some point, choice.
Medicine, the human anatomy, the miracles of science were clearer and more beautiful without the clouds of emotion.
If he looked at a hemorrhaging pancreas, he needed to think about repairing the splenic artery, not about the fact that the patient was the mother of three and the victim of a hate crime.
It had always served him well professionally, this lack of emotion. But lately…since Winnie, damn her…he didn’t feel well-served at all.
The vast darkness of sea beyond his yard was inky tonight, not a star to be seen. If he went outside and walked on the beach, he’d see the glimmer of lights in other houses along the shore and hear the shushing of the ocean. The thought made him feel unbearably lonely.
He wished he could get a dog. It just wasn’t practical for someone with his schedule. Maybe a turtle, then.
He shook off the melancholy. This place was his escape, his time off after ten days solid of surgeries and teaching.
He unloaded the groceries—fresh produce and fish—but was not inspired to make anything.
Got out the bottle of Brennevin. He should’ve chilled the glass.
He opened the freezer to stick one in, only to find one already there.
There she was again.
He took it out and poured himself a splash. Found himself wandering down the hallway to the stairs, then into the family room where Winnie had chosen the couch. He walked past it, looked into her room. It smelled clean and fresh, with maybe a hint of Ivory soap.
He went back and sat on the red velvet sofa. It was very comfortable. Another sip of Brennevin, its sharp, spicy flavor familiar and pleasing. He would not be depressed. He was a successful man, relaxing in his beautiful home. He had everything.
He picked up the remote control and turned on the TV.
A football game was on. He sat for a minute or two, calculating the brain damage each player was sustaining through each helmet-to-helmet crash.
Humans were so fragile. Stupid, too, to risk brain function for a sport that might support them for a few years.
Nevertheless, he admired a particularly clever block and the long pass the quarterback then threw.
Well. Not really his thing. A movie? Again, not really him. A documentary, then. Or nothing. There was a new reference manual on robotic and computer-assisted surgery. Or he could reread The Emperor of All Maladies for fun.
There was a joke in that last line. He wished someone were here to say it.
The house ticked and hummed around him, and he found himself listening for footsteps or a voice.
He did not appreciate feeling lonely in his own house.
And suddenly, there was noise upstairs. Sibling noise. “Lorenzo? You home, brother?”
He went up to find Dante and their sisters in his kitchen, pizza boxes stacked on the island. Dante was stashing beer in the fridge. No spouses, no kids. “Hi there!” Sofia said, giving him a hug. “We thought we’d bring you some unhealthy food, since you missed Thanksgiving.”
Isabella hugged him too. “Sorry you had to work last weekend, pal,” she said. “We missed you.”
“Beer?” Dante asked, holding up a can.
“No, thanks,” Lorenzo said, indicating his own glass. Then he set that down and said, “Actually, sure. Thanks. How was Thanksgiving?”
The three exchanged amused looks. “You know how it is,” Izzy said. “Mom in a state of near panic, Dad getting in the way, Aunt Barb telling Mom her stuffing needs salt, Uncle Lou asleep in front of the game before we even sat down.”
“William had a tantrum because I wouldn’t let him have a bite of the sponge,” Sofia added. “Cried so hard he threw up on Lark, who then also threw up.”
“But in a trash can, and beautifully,” Dante said.
Before Lorenzo knew it, Sofia had gotten out plates, Izzy had grabbed glasses and a bottle of pinot noir, and Dante was patting the chair next to him.
It occurred to Lorenzo that he and his siblings had not eaten a meal, just the four of them, ever.
“This is the first time we’ve done this,” he said, then regretted the comment.
“I think it is,” Dante said. “At least, as adults. When we were little and you were home, Lorenzo, Mom and Dad would go out for a movie once in a while.”
A memory stirred. Yes. That was true. He’d been put in charge occasionally. And because the other three were eating already, he took a bite of greasy pizza. God, it was good, and so, so bad for them.
“Remember the time Izzy cut her hand?” Dante continued. “She broke a glass and sliced herself pretty good.”
Lorenzo did remember. He’d been fourteen at the time, unable to drive his sister to the ER.
He’d wanted to stitch her up, but of course, his parents didn’t have a suture kit, so he’d improvised Steri-Strips with gauze and painter’s tape.
By the time their parents had gotten home (it hadn’t been a 911 type of emergency, he had decided), the bleeding had stopped.
“Oh, my God, I cried so hard,” Sofia said. “A lot harder than you, Izzy.”
“Yeah. Then you fainted and stole my thunder,” Izzy said. “And you, Dante, couldn’t stop laughing at Sofia. But at least I had a proper big brother to take care of me,” Izzy said. “I was probably your first patient, Lorenzo.”
“Pretty sure I was his first patient,” Dante said. “I was, I don’t know, three? Scraped my chin, and for some reason, I went to Lorenzo instead of Mom or Dad, and you put a Band-Aid on me.” He paused. “It’s one of my first memories, actually.”
Lorenzo remembered that one, too. His brother’s big brown eyes so trusting as Lorenzo held the wet face cloth against his chin.
Dante had clutched Lorenzo’s shirt in one fist, the tears sliding silently down his cute little face.
And then, when the scrape was bandaged, Lorenzo had kissed his little brother’s forehead and told him he was brave.
He hadn’t thought about that in decades. There was an abrupt stinging behind his eyes.
“I used to go into your bedroom and watch you sleep, Lorenzo,” Sofia said, her voice gentle. “It felt like Christmas whenever you were there.”
“I think I learned to count by asking Mom how many days till you’d be home,” Izzy said, covering Lorenzo’s hand with hers.
“And I cried every time you went back,” Dante said. “Stood at the window and bawled till I couldn’t see the car anymore. So I guess what we’re all saying, brother, is that we missed you, too. We knew you were smarter than the rest of us combined—”
“I take offense at that, yet admit that it’s true,” Izzy said.
“—and we were all a little in awe of you,” Dante finished. “Which is not to say you haven’t been a dick at times, of course. But we’re so proud of you, Lorenzo. Not because of the houses and the money and all that, which is great, of course. But because you did something amazing with what you had.”
“Exactly,” Izzy said. “Of course you’re freakishly smart.
But you also worked your ass off. Mom and Dad still feel guilty about St. George’s, and Mom had a point.
It was a damned if you do, damned if you don’t situation.
Keep the wunderkind home in a plain old public school, or send you somewhere where your brain would be fed the superfood it needed.
They wanted the best for you, and here you are.
The best.” She paused. “Sorry I was so bitchy at dinner when you were trying to talk.”
“You’re one of us, Lorenzo,” Sofia said. “You always have been. I’m sorry if we’ve made you feel any other way. We adore you, big brother.”
“True story,” Dante said.
And Lorenzo Santini, the guy with all the letters and titles after his name, would have answered, but he couldn’t, because apparently, he was crying, and then his sisters and brother patted and hugged and smacked him and told him to eat his pizza and drink his beer.
And so he did.