by Joan Cohen
She looked at her watch. No call from Vince, who was probably still pissed at her. Cooking was unappealing, given how she was feeling, so she opened a can of chicken noodle soup and ladled some into a bowl. If only she liked to cook as much as she liked to eat. After surrendering the bowl to the capable ministrations of her microwave, Jeanne slit open her attorney’s envelope.
The lawyer apologized for his belated discovery that Jeanne’s mother had rented an additional safe deposit box to the one Jeanne knew about at Sovereign Bank. It was at the Bank of America and had only come to light recently. He would provide Jeanne with the contents as soon as he had filed the necessary paperwork and could gain entry to the box. Jeanne shook her head. No one could beat Fay Bridgeton at locking away the past. The microwave signaled the end of its heating and beeped several more times before Jeanne rose from her chair and rescued the soup.
CHAPTER 6
Dr. Chu’s office opened at eight, and Jeanne made sure she was the first phone call of the day. When she told the vet she was going to take her chances with the amputation, there was silence at the other end. She was afraid he would challenge her decision, but instead he offered to try to set up an appointment for that day at Angell Memorial Animal Hospital. Jeanne could have the necessary prep work done and get Bricklin’s surgery on the calendar.
Between the lengthy visit to Angell Memorial and an update to Scott, the dog walker, Jeanne didn’t get to her office till afternoon. With Bricklin’s surgery scheduled for the following Monday, she needed to change a few appointments, but instead of sending out emails, she became distracted by pop-up messages, not on her screen, but in her mind. How could she be doing this to Bricklin? How could she not? What were the odds she’d regret her decision, a decision Bricklin would be the one to live with?
She was surprised to see Vince’s name on her caller ID, the ring interrupting her self-torment. She wanted to ask if he was still annoyed with her, but the anguish caused by Bricklin’s illness spilled out instead, along with her feelings about the best of bad alternatives she’d chosen. “Aren’t you the person who doesn’t believe in second-guessing yourself?” he asked.
“That was before I was faced with such a complicated decision. How many variables does it take before an equation becomes unsolvable?”
“In cases where there are too many unknowns, I recommend taking the complaint up with the big guy in the sky.”
That would be helpful, Jeanne thought, if she were a believer. “At least I’ll know where to call if I decide to lodge a complaint with customer service.” She wondered if Vince would be offended if she told him she didn’t think humans were created in the image of God or that human life was any more sacred than other forms of life. In fact, she believed dogs were the most highly evolved creatures on the planet. Humans, she was sure, were over-evolved and destined to kill themselves off along with the rest of the animate world.
If Mariana Hidalgo hadn’t cleared her throat, Jeanne wouldn’t have noticed her in the doorway. Not that Mariana was easy to miss, her red hair and green sweater dress a veritable traffic signal, but Jeanne’s phone was still in hand and her thoughts on Bricklin. “Do you have a moment, Jeanne?” Mariana was a favorite of Jeanne’s for her sense of humor and organizational skills, both of which were required for a marketing events manager, the former for working with the sales organization, the latter for planning trade show participation. “I met with Bart this morning on the sales conference.”
Jeanne responded with mock seriousness as she gestured toward her table and chairs. “Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of his military theme?”
Mariana set her folder on the table and aligned the bottom with the edge of the surface. “Umm—not so much. I don’t know if you’ve heard the details, but Bart wants to open the meeting dressed in combat fatigues with martial music playing.”
“Oh, I can just imagine.”
“He’ll explain the theme to his reps—the way it ties in with our approach to the sales process in the coming fiscal year, kind of a take-no-prisoners approach.” Jeanne nodded. “He wants Jake to go next and tell the sales reps how the whole company is ready to support them as they march into combat.” Mariana paused and seesawed her pen on her pad. “Am I the only one who thinks it’s a little creepy to have Jake wearing his real combat fatigues from Afghanistan?”
“Jake told me he was okay with the theme, but I thought he was supposed to dress up like a general.”
Mariana shook her head. “Not enough of a battlefield quality. Bart wants everyone to feel we’re in this together.” She squirmed in her seat. “You too.”
Jeanne leaned back and hooted. “Maternity camouflage?”
“I wanted to congratulate you straight off, but I wasn’t sure if we were all supposed to know yet.”
“Oh, I’m guessing the whole company knows by now.”
“Word spread fast, because everyone was so surprised. . . .” Mariana’s hands began to flutter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to come out that way.”
A wry smile stretched one corner of Jeanne’s mouth. “No worries. I know what you meant.” Jeanne was okay with the idea she was no one’s image of a glowing young mother-to-be, but an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach testified to her concern she might be the butt of humor—not the teasing that comes with a big belly, but behind-her-back ridicule. Too late now.
Mariana grasped her folder. “I can email you when the rest of the agenda is worked out, and I know Bart wants to talk to you about what he’d like you to stress in your presentation. There’s one problem I need your help with, though. I asked Jake if I could meet with him, because Bart needs him more than once during the event. When I got to his office and started talking about supporting the troops, he turned toward the window. I thought he was listening, but then . . . it was creepy . . . he seemed to forget I was there. I didn’t know what to do, so I just left.” She pushed the folder over to Jeanne. “Can you talk to him about his role? These are my notes.”
“Probably a momentary lapse, given all that’s on his mind. I’ll handle it.” Mariana thanked her and made a speedy exit. Jeanne leaned back in her chair and groaned. “Jake,” she whispered to herself, “help me out here.” She opened the folder, skimmed its contents, and emailed Jake to set up a meeting. Good thing Bart was on the road, where Jeanne couldn’t get her hands around his neck. Let’s see how he likes it when his VP of marketing presents to the sales force with her belly bulging under a camouflage pup tent.
When Jeanne took off her coat at Weight Watchers, Maggie giggled. “What?” Jeanne asked.
“You’re showing.” She pointed to Jeanne’s stomach. “And early.”
Jeanne looked down. “It’s just a bump, don’t you think? Probably a good thing I told people at work.”
“And you’re just getting around to telling me?” Jeanne’s face fell. “It’s okay. I’m just happy you’ve decided to have it. After I heard your executive summary, I wasn’t so sure.” She leaned over and enveloped Jeanne in a hug. “I suppose Vince knows your decision.”
“He’s thrilled, but there’s a complication.” Maggie’s eyebrows rose. Lucy began setting up her flip charts on the easel, and the room grew quiet. “Subject for another conversation,” Jeanne whispered.
When the meeting was over, Jeanne weighed in—up two pounds. She groaned. “So, it begins.”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Maggie protested as she walked Jeanne to her car. “This weight gain is legit. Want to borrow some scrubs to wear to work?”
“I am going to need maternity clothes, although I don’t know when I’m going to find the time to shop. Can’t close the buttons on my pants.”
“Want some help? Shopping, that is, not closing buttons. I don’t have to work a week from this Saturday. If you can pull yourself away from your computer, I’ll go with you.”
“Really? Why would you want—I mean, are you sure that’s how you want to spend your Saturday afternoon?”
“It�
�ll be fun, and that’s the only way I’m going to hear about your complication. We can meet for lunch first. Make a list as best you can, and we’ll figure out the rest at the store.”
The next morning Jeanne called Dr. O’Rourke’s office and begged his receptionist to get him to the phone. When he came on the line, Jeanne could hear the concern in his voice. “Is something wrong? Any staining?”
“I’m fine. Sorry to drag you away from your patients, but I didn’t want to leave this in a message. I’ve decided to have the baby.” After he congratulated her, she asked whom she should see at Newford Wellman for genetic counseling. He told her what to do and transferred her back to his assistant. Jeanne felt good, more like herself, being decisive. She’d already committed herself publicly, but there was something official about telling her doctor. Her heart was racing, but whether it was from excitement or fear, she hadn’t a clue.
When the lawyer’s manila envelope arrived, Jeanne opened it eagerly. She told herself the contents were most likely pedestrian—birth certificates, insurance policies, paid-off mortgage contracts. The first document she saw was a death certificate for Thomas Bridgeton. The date was February 28, 1965, and the cause of death was head trauma—no surprise there. Jeanne’s mother had told her he’d died in an auto accident when he was fifty-one. Theirs had been a late-life romance by the standards of the day, and Jeanne was born when her father was forty-nine and ten years older than her mother.
She flipped over the certificate and laid it face down. The next page was a letter to Fay Bridgeton from a neurologist, Dr. Amos Kingman. Jeanne read it twice, the second time with hands turned cold and clammy. One passage leaped out:
Although I don’t have the means to be certain, I believe your husband suffers from Alzheimer’s disease. He is unusually young for such pronounced memory loss; however, cases like his do exist. They tend to be concentrated within certain families, many of whose members present with symptoms of the disease at an early age. The implication is that these early-onset cases have a hereditary component. You should take this into consideration if you are contemplating further pregnancies.
Jeanne shook her head slowly. Mother had told her Thomas Bridgeton was the smartest man she’d ever known. People like that just didn’t get Alzheimer’s at forty-nine or fifty, the doctor’s letter notwithstanding. Scientists didn’t know as much in 1965, undoubtedly the reason for what Jeanne was certain was a misdiagnosis.
Slapping the letter face down on the desk gave force to her denial, but there was no un-reading its message. If she accepted its premise, she’d have to accept that his disease was hereditary. The lights in the room seemed to dim as though there had been a brownout. She repeated “hereditary” to herself over and over until it lost its meaning.
A ragged-edged newspaper clipping poked out from the sheaf of unread pages. Her eyes widened as she read the headline, Disoriented Man Dies on Local Highway. Thomas Bridge-ton, afflicted with Alzheimer’s disease, had wandered from his home, where his wife had been distracted by a crying baby. When she realized he was gone, she’d called the police, but it was too late. He had walked up the ramp of the interstate and into the path of a tractor trailer.
“A crying baby.” Jeanne was numb. I was the one who distracted Mother, and if I hadn’t . . . Jeanne felt her temples beginning to pound. Did her mother blame herself or her infant daughter? Did she look at baby Jeanne and think if only . . . ? Maybe she was glad her husband was gone and felt guilty. Maybe, maybe . . .
Clipped to the article was a longer one, a feature story, sympathetic in tone. Fay Bridgeton, frazzled and exhausted, was caught between two dependents. Her husband suffered from Alzheimer’s disease, and his needs were endless, his requests repetitive. A wailing baby kept her from giving him timely assistance.
Jeanne wanted to share the writer’s empathy. The story was horrifying, revelatory. She wished her mother had ignored baby Jeanne’s wails and saved her father instead. She was furious at her mother for letting her father wander off, yet at the same time, she was ashamed of herself for being furious.
If only that moment in time could be undone. If only Jeanne had stopped crying long enough for her mother to hear the door close. If only her father had wandered in a different direction. Jeanne blinked back tears. She tried to put herself in her mother’s place, because Fay Bridgeton had surely felt the frustration of those if onlys more acutely than Jeanne decades later.
Jeanne could understand why a guilt-ridden widow would keep from her child the gruesome story of her father’s death, but why keep it from her adult daughter? Did Fay Bridgeton, diligent accountant, think she could relegate material information about the past to some obscure bank vault as though she were hiding assets or losses in an offshore subsidiary?
Jeanne grimaced as she pushed away the remaining papers. Her mother was a clever woman. She knew that after her death, the contents of this safe deposit box would be given to Jeanne. She didn’t care that her daughter would draw the only conclusion possible—her mother had been too much of a coward to tell her the truth.
The next morning, Jeanne was in no mood to shop. As soon as she was dressed, she would call Maggie to cancel. Dressing, however, was problematic, since none of Jeanne’s pants would close. Shopping would now be like work—she would have to do it whether she was in the mood or not.
Maggie had chosen the Cheesecake Parlor for lunch because of its diverse menu. In spite of the restaurant’s name, it offered healthier choices than cheesecake, and “Let’s face it,” Maggie had said, “pretty much everything is healthier than cheesecake.” Jeanne slid into a leather banquette across from Maggie, who wore a blue fleece top that matched her eyes. “See, I’m not always in scrubs. I couldn’t wait to wear these jeans, one size smaller than my last ones.”
Jeanne smiled. “I’m happy for you, although I’m headed in the opposite direction. Only thing holding my pants closed is the rubber band stretched between the button and buttonhole.”
They perused the limitless menu for several minutes until Maggie sighed and laid hers down. “Virtue is such a burden. I’m having the ‘heart healthy’ burger.” Jeanne didn’t feel virtuous and decided on a personal pizza.
The tea Jeanne ordered came right away, and she tipped the diminutive silver teapot and watched the steam rise from her cup and grow diffuse. Although the restaurant was noisy, the background buzz created a welcome illusion of privacy. When Jeanne raised her eyes, she found Maggie looking at her expectantly. “Remember? ‘It’s complicated,’ you told me at Weight Watchers. The it has to do with Vince, doesn’t it?”
Jeanne’s devastating discovery, courtesy of the estate lawyer, had overshadowed her previous concerns, and she’d forgotten her commitment to explain those complications to Maggie. She swished the teabag, debating how to begin. If she gave Maggie an executive summary, she’d be called on it, but it was hard to break the habit of netting things out.
Maggie rested her cheek on her hand and sighed. “Okay, I’ve got time.”
“I’m not certain Vince is the father of my baby.” Maggie’s eyes appeared as round and blue as the Wedgewood in Fay Bridgeton’s hutch. “It’s really only a tiny chance.” Jeanne related the story of Salientific’s summertime party and the champagne headache she and Jake had slept off together.
“Does Jake suspect? Does Vince?”
“Everyone at work thinks I used a sperm donor, although I’m not positive Jake bought it. When Vince finds out I used that as my cover story, if he hasn’t already, he’ll be furious. I mean, we’re not married. I don’t understand why he’s got this pride of authorship thing going. He wants me to have the baby, because he thinks motherhood would be good for me, or, at least, he doesn’t want to be the one to deprive me of it. He doesn’t seem ready to embrace fatherhood, though, just the legal and financial obligations.”
The food arrived, but Jeanne found she couldn’t eat with her usual relish. Maggie chewed thoughtfully. “Will you tell your ‘sperm donor,’ once y
ou know?”
“What’s the upside? I don’t know what Vince’s reaction will be if he’s not the father, but, for sure, he’ll be pissed I slept with someone else, especially a guy I report to directly. An angry, disappointed Vince would not only be a problem for me personally but for my career. His firm’s the primary investor in Salientific. If I tell Jake he’s the father, who knows what he’ll do. He’s been . . . well . . . not himself lately—a PTSD relapse, I think. If word got out, I’d have to leave the company. The more I think about it, the more I think I don’t want to know.”
Maggie laid her fork on the table. “Jeanne, are you listening to yourself? Upside, downside, career consequences—do you realize most people don’t make decisions that way about their personal lives? We’re talking about the implications of paternity for your child, not your career. You know you don’t have to wait for your amniocentesis to find out, don’t you?”
Nonplussed, Jeanne drew back. “You just don’t understand. Maybe it’s because you’re not part of a corporate hierarchy and don’t have a career path in your kind of work.” Jeanne covered her mouth with her hand, but Maggie’s stricken expression was instantaneous. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Maggie’s delicate complexion reddened. “No, Jeanne, you shouldn’t have, because you don’t know what you’re talking about. There are innumerable nursing careers. Do you think I have no aspirations?”
How had she so miscalculated where Maggie was coming from? Jeanne twisted her fingers in her lap. Another friendship was about to slip away. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t be a friend? If she cared about Maggie—and she did—why was she so thoughtless? “I’m so sorry. Sometimes, I don’t seem to be on the same wavelength as other people. I don’t know why.”
Maggie didn’t let up. “As for the paternity test, you don’t have to take it. You can just go on letting Vince think he’s the father and never tell him or your child you were too much of a coward to find out.”
