Land of Last Chances

by Joan Cohen

  Jeanne saw an inkblot from her ballpoint on her notebook page. She hadn’t realized how heavily she was bearing down after writing, “1 copy of APOE-e4.” She remembered reading that the anomalies in one’s genetic code were like bugs in software. Software engineers liked to joke that bugs in their programs were just features. When the anomaly was in your own genetic code, though, the joke was on you.

  That night, Jeanne delved into the upper file drawer in her desk and widened the space between two Pendaflex folders to provide easier access to the one labeled “Thomas Bridgeton.” The contents were skimpy, but just the few manila folders within testified to her father’s existence and gave Jeanne a comforting sense of his corporeality. She removed the one holding the newspaper story “Senile Man Killed on Highway.” “Ruth MacGregor,” read the byline.

  Probably dead. It was worth a shot, though. Google didn’t disappoint. Ruth MacGregor had had a long career in journalism, much of it in the Boston area. She’d spent years at the Boston Globe covering everything from the statehouse to national disasters. Jeanne saw no entries indicating an obituary or memorial, so she tried the online white pages. Perhaps Ruth still lived in the area.

  Whether or not she was local, she had several namesakes, and Jeanne didn’t have time to call them all. Even contacting the Globe would result, best case, in getting handed off from one department to another. After the New York Times acquired them, the Globe had laid people off. She’d have to find someone old enough to remember Ruth. Ironic, she thought. In spite of everyone’s paranoia about electronic fingerprints, the past can be obscure. With no digital trail, Jeanne’s father was unknowable.

  Bricklin was losing patience with Jeanne’s reverie. His nose burrowed beneath the folder on Jeanne’s lap, sending its contents sliding to the floor. “Sorry, boy, forgot about you.” She surveyed the papers fanned out on the rug and rubbed Bricklin’s forehead. A rueful smile tugged at one corner of her mouth.

  “This is what I do, isn’t it? Bury myself in data from the past and analyze the hell out of it so I can better predict the future. Makes me not so good at noticing what’s going on or who’s around me. People leave me, and half the time I don’t even notice. Only you stay, Bricklin, and, really, what choice do you have?” She leaned over and kissed his muzzle.

  The nurse checked Jeanne’s weight a second time. “It’s correct,” she declared. “You’re up seven pounds this month.” Jeanne groaned. At this rate, she’d look like a giant helium balloon by the end of nine months. She reminded herself her pregnancy might end well before that, but the mere thought left her deflated.

  Lying on the table in Dr. O’Rourke’s examining room, she tried without success to turn her eyes away. “Looks like a boy,” the doctor said, smiling broadly.

  “A boy? You can tell already?”

  “Depends on the position of the baby, but your son is obliging us. Eager to show off his manhood.”

  Jeanne’s elation dissipated. A man she might not recognize twenty years hence, might not even live to see grow up. “I can’t . . .”

  O’Rourke frowned. “Can’t what, Jeanne? Still can’t decide about an abortion? In a month, you’ll be at twenty-four weeks, the latest you can go. Just the fact that you’ve waited this long—it says something, don’t you think? Get dressed, and we’ll talk in my office.”

  Sitting opposite him, there was no avoiding his stern eyes. “I’m being as patient as I can, Jeanne. I know how difficult this decision is, but you have your amniocentesis appointment coming up. It’s pointless to go on with these procedures—cell-free DNA, amnio, Alzheimer’s genetic testing—if you’re either going to terminate the pregnancy or not terminate regardless of the results.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s not that I don’t want my baby. I’m just not sure having him is the right thing to do, and I keep second-guessing myself . . . and third-guessing. The baby’s father—”

  He looked down at his notes. “Vincent Cavello?”

  “He may not be the father. I know I should talk with him, or both of them, but I can’t. There are professional implications that I don’t expect you to understand. I do need . . . want . . . to know, though, now—not after the baby’s born.” If I let it be born. “I’m going to send away for a kit.” She wished she could blame the doctor for her embarrassment, but the words coming out of her mouth the last couple of months were all unlike her. She felt possessed by an evil twin who was not so much evil as weak, needy, and indecisive.

  “Do you have DNA from either of these men?”

  “A toothbrush and a hairbrush—surely a lab can get his DNA from one of those and compare it to the baby’s.” After she and Vince had argued, he’d taken home his favorite tomato sauce pot but left his toiletries. If he’d taken only the latter, she would have had more confidence in his return.

  With trepidation, Jeanne crossed the threshold of the Weight Watchers meeting room. Lucy was already at her flip chart stand illustrating the perils of Christmas eggnog. There were a number of scattered seats open, but the one next to Maggie was taken by one of the regulars. Lucy’s eyes flickered from Jeanne to Maggie, but her animated delivery never faltered while Jeanne made her way to a seat on the opposite side of the room.

  Jeanne’s resolve to eat less and exercise more had flagged, but the distressing data supplied by Dr. O’Rourke’s scale had made her eager for the booster shot of Lucy’s cheerleading. In spite of Jeanne’s good intentions, her eyes kept wandering from Lucy’s face to the back of Maggie’s head, which surely, Jeanne thought, would turn in her direction. At a quarter of the hour, before Lucy’s wrap-up, Maggie gathered her coat and bag and hurried up the aisle, never glancing Jeanne’s way.

  When Lucy finished, Jeanne couldn’t get up. A weight greater than seven additional pounds kept her in her chair staring blankly at the “Healthy Rules for Eating” posted at the front of the room. Lucy’s acolytes dispersed after several minutes, and she sat down in the seat next to Jeanne. “She knew you were here.” Jeanne nodded. “Can I help?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but this problem is pretty far from your area of expertise.”

  “I’ll tell you what isn’t. Maggie is still dropping weight too fast, but when I tell her that, she just says she’s a nurse and has it under control.”

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “I know you overheard me warning Maggie about her dramatic weight loss. I hope that’s not what caused your falling out.” Jeanne assured her it wasn’t and thanked her again for her concern.

  The mall parking lot was so jammed that even the illegal corners were occupied with Mini Coopers—whose owners thought no one would mind—and Ford Expeditions parked in crosswalks. Who’d call the cops on them? they figured, two weeks before Christmas. Jeanne drove around in circles, wondering why she’d chosen Saturday for what was surely a fool’s errand. She ended up in a spot behind Macy’s at the opposite end of the mall from her destination.

  Though no lover of mall shopping, Jeanne was happy to escape the dank weather and step into the decorative wonderland of retail Christmas. As a marketing professional, she had to admire a creation that so raised the spirits without arriving in a shot glass. The aisles of Macy’s were crowded, and myriad strollers increased the degree of difficulty of getting from ladies’ shoes through jewelry, junior fashions, cosmetics, and out into the mall itself.

  She bypassed the freestanding stations where merchants hawked everything from wireless services to teddy bears that at second glance were bedroom slippers. The crowd thinned as Jeanne turned onto the wing leading to Neiman Marcus. The Emerald was open for lunch, but the memory of her evening there with Maggie stirred a queasiness that she knew was unrelated to her pregnancy.

  When she stopped before the window of Ferragamo, the display had changed. The bags were beautiful, but she didn’t see the one Maggie had so admired. The rich scent of leather greeted her as she entered. Before Jeanne could peruse the shelves, a smartly dressed young woman offered her assistance. Aft
er listening to Jeanne’s description, she guided her to a collection of red bags.

  So impractical, Jeanne thought, especially for someone who spends long hours in an assisted living residence. Maggie’s pocketbook probably lived in her desk drawer, but maybe that was the attraction. Jeanne tried to remember when she’d last made a frivolous purchase—a bandana for Bricklin’s neck—nothing for herself. “I don’t see it,” she said. “It was in the front window last week.” While the salesperson went to check in the back, Jeanne shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  Smiling and holding the bag in the air, the sales clerk emerged through a curtained door in the rear. It was even more expensive than Jeanne had anticipated, but she had her credit card on the counter before the clerk touched her register. “Christmas wrap, please.”

  Her purchase complete, Jeanne joined the line at a juice bar. She wondered what she was going to do with the bag she’d just purchased if Maggie rejected the gift. Jeanne had been imagining their reconciliation—even dreaming about it—creating in her mind a grateful Maggie willing to overlook Jeanne’s faux pas. Faux pas! She bit her lip at the thought of her self-serving minimization.

  “Can I help you?” the teenager behind the counter asked her with an attitude that implied it was the second time she’d had to ask. Jeanne apologized and ordered her orange-and-cranberry juice. She carried it over to one of the tables in the center of the food hall and settled into a wire mesh chair, her package balanced on her lap.

  Two women with strollers at the next table observed Jeanne with curiosity. Too old to be pregnant—that’s what they’re thinking. If I have the baby, people will ask if it’s my grandchild. A Salvation Army bell ringer set up his pot across the hall, and the jangling created an unpleasant discordance with the Christmas music emanating from a shop close by.

  When Jeanne turned to see where it was coming from, she spotted a face she recognized in the doorway of the athletic shoe store. “Milton,” she called out, leaping to her feet. He recognized her—she was sure of it. Maggie’s bag had slipped to the floor, though, and in the moment it took her to lean down and grasp it, Cox disappeared.

  Jeanne tried to speed through the mall, hoping to catch a glimpse of him in one of the stores to her left or right. Her head rotated back and forth as she glanced into each store, and she almost missed him hunched over behind a display of canisters in the tea shop.

  A young Japanese woman partially blocked the entrance, where she was offering samples of the day’s green tea to all who slowed their pace. She held out a plastic cup to Jeanne, who dodged her so she could reach Cox. “You’re the driver, aren’t you? You crashed into my company’s lobby in October.”

  “Unintended acceleration. Not my fault.” He replaced the canister he held on the shelf, knocking off another in the process.

  “I hope you weren’t hurt.”

  “Just shocked, I guess.” He picked up the container.

  “Is your name Milton Cox?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, why?” Jeanne was about to ask if he had been Lisa Sculley’s and Parker Neal’s coach when he interrupted. “Excuse me. I’m late for an appointment.” He bumped into the display and knocked several canisters onto the floor. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled to the woman at the door as he rushed out into the mall.

  “How rude,” observed an elderly customer, shaking her head.

  “Rude or odd,” Jeanne said, wondering if he were eccentric, although, she had to admit, he had every reason to think she was the odd one for chasing him down. Maybe she was. Weren’t behavioral changes part of Alzheimer’s? Jeanne was no longer certain her memory was reliable, and she had never realized how heavily her self-confidence depended on it. If her memory eroded and she couldn’t retain information, would she still be smart?

  Jake’s return to the office was uneventful, just as Jeanne had hoped. Better yet, his first staff meeting was calm, and other than Parker’s expression, a frown that deepened from a hint of displeasure to full-blown frustration, an atmosphere of comity prevailed. Jeanne hoped fervently Jake had seen a counselor at the VA but didn’t want to ask.

  When she checked her phone, she found an unexpected text from Vince. Businesslike, even curt, it requested a half-hour meeting at a nearby Starbucks. The subject line read “Salientific’s strategic plan,” a subject that would take more than a half hour to discuss. His lack of specificity was both annoying and out of character, and he didn’t say why he wanted to meet off-site. Still, he was a Salientific investor. Jeanne could hardly blow him off.

  Vince’s distant, professional manner lasted only as long as it took them to buy their coffee. After leading Jeanne to a table in the back near the restrooms and depositing his jacket on the back of his chair, he told her Parker had been to see him. Mystery solved, she thought, as he sat down opposite her. Vince got right to the point. “Why didn’t you tell me Jake was losing it?”

  “Because the episodes were intermittent, and I had every reason to give him the benefit of the doubt. His PTSD isn’t because he’s a flake. He served in Afghanistan. Anyway, he’s taken a week off, and since Monday he’s been much better.”

  Vince rolled his shirtsleeves and leaned his arms on the table. Hands that had once caressed her were tense. “Parker claims you’re the only member of the executive team who’s defending Jake. He claims you’re not objective. Why wouldn’t you be objective, Jeanne?”

  Had Parker implied she and Jake had an improper relationship, or was Vince inferring it from his words? She didn’t think Parker could know about her indiscretion last summer, but Vince’s question, so close to the truth, made her catch her breath.

  Making no particular effort to keep the ice out of her voice, she replied, “Jake is brilliant. He’s been a fine leader for Salientific and deserves a chance to get past this difficult period. If he can’t, or if it becomes manifest he isn’t capable of taking the company to the next level, I’ll support removing him. I believe the board should give him more time to—”

  “How much time? Till July or August, after you have your baby and return from maternity leave? Is that the strategy? You figure you’re already the apple of Jake’s eye, and if he were forced to step down, he’d surely reward your loyalty. He’d retain his position on the board and press the other members to make you CEO.” He sat back and took a sip of his coffee, finally lowering eyes that had been locked on hers.

  He wanted to see her reaction. In no way was this angry blast about the company. She’d never seen him so worked up over a business issue, even when large sums of money were at stake. “So, Vince, you think we need to embark on a CEO search? You’re an investor—go for it.” There was nothing left to say. Let Vince think what he wanted. She picked up her cup and was about to push back her seat.

  “Parker would be a good choice,” he said quietly. “I think it shows professionalism and grace that he’s been able to work for Jake, when Jake’s competing technology was the reason Parker’s last company went under. He deserves a shot at the CEO job.”

  She planted her cup and ignored the coffee splashed on the table. “What a crock! Parker has never been a CEO because he’s not good enough. He’s always been too in love with himself to do what he needs to do to get there, and he knows that soon he’ll be perceived as too old. Why aren’t you questioning his agenda?

  “It’s Jake’s vision,” she rushed to add, “that has set the company on the correct course, so, of course, Parker feels safe now making his move. Salientific is Parker’s last chance at the brass ring, and you think I’m the grasping one?” She was shaking.

  Vince struggled to speak in a measured tone. “If you were reasonable, Jeanne, you’d see that even at Parker’s age, he may have more of a shot at longevity in the job than you.”

  “How much shit are you going to throw against the wall, Vince? You think my favored status with Jake is because he’s screwing me in the supply room? You’re implying my hidden agenda is to save him until just the right moment to t
ake his place? Or is it my risk of Alzheimer’s? Is that where you’re going? You’re no longer privy to any personal agenda of mine. I don’t owe you anything but marketing’s business plan.” She withdrew a copy from her bag and dropped it in front of him on her way out.

  Lou was in the parking lot when Jeanne alighted from her car. “You okay? You don’t look so good.” Jeanne assured him she was fine, which she absolutely was not.

  She would have preferred to talk with no one, but he fell into step beside her as she walked toward the entrance. “Just wanted to let you know I met with Jake this morning. Very much on an even keel and reasonable. Don’t know if it will last, but, so far, your strategy of getting him to take a week off to collect himself is working. I have to tell you, though, I’m pessimistic about its lasting.”

  “Just talked with . . . one of our investors. Parker is still muckraking.”

  “I’ll have a talk with him. Don’t worry. I think Bart’s right about making no management change before the kickoff. Parker needs to keep his powder dry.” He laughed at his unintended reference to the kickoff theme, and Jeanne forced a smile.

  The ugly scene with Vince replayed itself in her head. At that moment, she hated him, yet she couldn’t make herself cease caring that he hated her. It was hopelessly complicated. If he were the father of her child, how could they go on this way?

  Her amniocentesis appointment was in two days. She was considered twenty-one weeks into her pregnancy, although nobody knew for sure. If she were going to have an abortion, she’d have three weeks to get it done, unless the social conservatives in Congress succeeded in changing the law.

  Friday morning ushered in a cold front. The thermometer outside Jeanne’s kitchen window read ten degrees. Just opening her back door for Bricklin deprived her of any lingering warmth from her bed.

  Although she had tied her chenille robe snuggly beneath her breasts, it fell open below her stomach. Bricklin was unperturbed by the frigid air, so Jeanne closed the door behind him, barely clearing his tail, and retreated to a heating vent across the kitchen. After she let him back in, she noted a poop a few feet from the deck. “I’ll have to get that later. Wish I could wait to get it till spring, or, better yet, wish you could scoop it yourself, Bricklin. Aside from not having an opposable thumb, you are a perfect pooch.”