It was after the appointment with Dr. Kipfer, when he told me he had ‘concerns’. That he wanted to do some tests, it was probably nothing, but just to be sure. You would think I might have felt light-headed, giddy from shock. I felt heavy as a stone.
I went back to work. I found it hard to move my body, this mess of blood and tissue and bone that had betrayed me, which was becoming something else. I offered Benji his third cup just as he was pulling on his jacket, and I don’t know why, but when he looked at me, he hesitated. He smiled, and sat back down. I leaned over the table to pour the coffee, and he reached toward me. His finger stroked my eagle earring.
I don’t regret what happened next. I swear I don’t.
The Magnetic Resonance Imaging room is no larger than the diner kitchen, but it’s cold. An unwelcome chill. The machine takes up the whole space, sitting there like an oversized metal coffin. Empty, and waiting to be filled.
I draw my gown tighter and the technician has me lie down on a bench protruding from The Machine.
“Okay?” she asks. “You won’t be able to shift your body in the MRI.”
I nod. She hands me two yellow ear plugs, then points to a lemon-shaped object beside me on the bench. “The MRI is very loud. If you have any problems squeeze this, we’ll hear it in the control room.”
The bench is pulled into the brightly lit tube. It’s suffocating. If I was to lift my head an inch, my eyebrows would brush the ceiling.
“Okay,” a faraway tin voice speaks in my ear. “It is important that you stay still, so we get a good image. There will be several scans; the first will be ninety seconds.”
The quiet is broken by a violent, hollow banging all around me. I gasp. The rhythm and volume of the sound shifts like a storm. Suddenly the jackhammer stops. Another noise continues on, like a difficult and leaking sink-tap. Each drop the size and weight of a tomato, crashing slowly on the floor.
I let out a long breath.
“The next scan,” interrupts the voice. “Will last four minutes. Please don’t move.”
The cacophony explodes, and I remember what Martin told me about The Machine. He fished Dr. Kipfer’s brochures from the trash-can, flattened my angry creases, and read the papers obsessively. As we lay in bed at night, he repeated the facts like a prayer: The Machine can create an image showing the precise location of tumours, of cancer. If confirmed early, the survival rate is high.
The banging fades and all I hear is the heavy beat of my heart. And then, Martin’s whispered voice as he curled desperately around me in the dark, “The machine produces a magnetic field that is 10 times stronger than earth’s. A gravity-field that holds you close.”
The noise erupts again and I think about the sound of Benji’s truck as we tore down the dirt road past the water tower. I told him to keep the engine running. I wanted to feel the rumble in my body when he touched me. He kissed my neck and I closed my eyes and held my breath. He ran his fingers across my body, reaching for my hands. I grabbed his wrists and slid his hand under my blouse. I spread my arms like wings.
“Please remember not to move,” says the technician, and I notice that it is quiet again. “The next scan will be seventeen minutes long.”
Benji will be showing up at the diner soon, and he’ll wonder at the darkened windows.
What will he do, when he realizes I’m not coming? How long will he wait for me before he leaves? I try to imagine his face, his skin, but I can’t.
When the clang of The Machine ignites I close my eyes and open my sweaty palms. I soar like a trembling bird, alone in the sky.
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