Dr. Foreman clears his throat. “Besides head trauma, the patient broke several ribs, fractured her jaw…” He walks past Tishman to the window, yanks closed the blinds, and continues, “…and sustained extensive internal injuries. She had one operation upon arrival to repair her spleen.”

Tishman buries his reddening cheeks in his notebook. Dr. Foreman turns back to the group. “Posturing occurred only on day one. The patient has had no seizures since. There has been no clotting, the fluid in her ventricles have receded, and brain swelling has reduced considerably.”

“Pupil reflex? Response to stimuli?” a female resident asks.

“None. Pupils are fixed. The patient does not respond to light or pain.”

The students scribble furiously.

A basketball star throughout his years at UCLA, Dr. Foreman is my father’s age and about two feet his senior. A physician at the tippy top of L.A. Magazine’s “Best Of” list, he’s a neurosurgeon with incontrovertible capabilities and experience. To question anything Dr. Forman says or does is out of the question. He is the only person I have ever seen my father defer to about anything.

“That’s good, right?” Daddy asks when the lesson concludes.

Dr. Foreman shuffles through the papers on his clipboard as the residents file past him and out the door. Their relief is evident in the bursts of muffled laughter as their steps fade down the hall.

He looks up. “Sorry?”

“What you said about the reflexes and the swelling going down?”

“It’s not bad, Mr. Goldstein,” he states. “At this point, ‘good’ is not on the menu. As I’ve mentioned, the longer your daughter remains unconscious, the lower her odds are for recovery. I’m sorry,” he says, his tone softening, “I wish I could be more encouraging.”

“I-I…Christ…excuse me.” Daddy takes his glasses off and presses his knuckles into his eyes.

Dr. Foreman turns and makes a note on my chart, allowing my father time to compose himself. Daddy takes out his handkerchief, blows his nose with two short honks, and repositions his glasses.

“Look, Dr. Foreman—”

“Call me Jim, if you prefer.”

“I’ll stick with Doctor.”

Dr. Foreman nods.

“I-If there is anything that can help,” Daddy says, shifting his weight, struggling to find familiar footing, “anything, some piece of equipment you might need—money is not an issue.” My father is back in business, trying to suss out the negotiation strategy for my survival.

Foreman’s long face droops. He gently places his large hand on my father’s back. “Mr. Goldstein, thank you, but we have everything we need.”

Daddy coughs his comprehension into his hanky then concentrates on folding it into his pocket.

“Oh, I forgot to mention, your ex-wife called my office,” Dr. Foreman says.

My father’s head shoots up. “Merilee?”

“She left a message but no phone number. I’d like to get back to her.”

“No. No, don’t do that.”

“It might be helpful for Jackie.”