Land of Last Chances

by Joan Cohen

  “I’m calling to thank you for—for saving me. I don’t know why you came over, but if you hadn’t . . .”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure why either. I’ve never had good intuition about anything but market segment growth.” She laughed ruefully.

  “Mrs. Eberhardt next door was very impressed. She told me everyone needed a friend like you. Look, Jeanne, can we get together? I don’t want to have this conversation on the phone. I have a long shift tomorrow. Maybe Wednesday?”

  Jeanne felt herself choking up and struggled for a matter-of-fact tone. “Tied up all day, I’m afraid. Bricklin’s cancer has defeated him, and I have to end his suffering.”

  “I’m so sorry. He’s an awesome dog. People at Dawning Day still talk about him.”

  “Yeah, Wednesday’s pretty much a lost cause. I’m having my abortion right after I leave the vet.” There was a long silence on the other end. “Maggie?”

  “How about if I come to your condo Thursday after work? You may not feel up to dinner out. I’ll bring takeout.” After agreeing on a time and ending their call, Jeanne leaned back in her chair and stared at the ceiling. Maybe something of this miserable year was salvageable.

  After a sleepless Tuesday night, Jeanne got down on the floor and embraced Bricklin. She could feel his heart beating beside her. He’d moved little since the night before. Christmas and its aftermath had left Jeanne emotionally depleted, while Bricklin was physically as weak as the Dawning Day residents they’d visited.

  “I need to talk to you, sweet boy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to at Dr. Chu’s office.” She stroked his head. “I thought I was so clever naming you after Dan Bricklin, ‘Father of the Spreadsheet.’ You have nothing in common with the analytical. You’re all love, joy, warmth, and loyalty. You’ve taught me how overrated words are, since we’ve never needed them for our special kind of intimacy. I’ll never ever forget you”—she hesitated—“as long as I can remember anything or anyone.” If Bricklin minded the tears spilling into his fur, he didn’t show it, so intent was he on licking Jeanne’s face.

  Dr. Chu let her remain in his examining room after Bricklin died. She hadn’t been able to tell when sleep became death. She leaned across his warm body and rested her head on his. “Don’t know how I’m going to walk out that door, boy, and leave you behind.” She sighed. “At least I know you’re off leash forever.”

  When she heard voices and the sound of dog nails in the hallway, she kissed Bricklin’s head and stroked his body one last time. Wiping her eyes, she let herself out and drew the door closed behind her. Bricklin’s collar and leash were in her hand, but she couldn’t bear to look at them. The receptionist didn’t stop her to pay.

  Though she was shivering by the time she reached her car, she didn’t turn on her engine, allowing the cold to penetrate her limbs and numb her toes as she stared unseeing out the windshield. When she could no longer delay leaving for the hospital, she turned on the ignition and drove slowly down the street.

  The hospital’s bustling crowd usually annoyed Jeanne, since it obstructed her path as she hurried between work and the medical appointments that pulled her away from her office. For once, it was comforting to be part of the anonymous flow through the halls, not the only pregnant one, nor the oldest, youngest, fattest, thinnest, tallest, or shortest. White coats threaded their way through dark parkas, and a phone was ringing—Jeanne’s cell, which she’d forgotten to turn off.

  “Jeanne, I’ve been trying to reach you.” There was urgency in Sharon Basko’s voice.

  “I’m in the hospital for my . . . procedure.”

  “I know about your appointment. I just don’t know why. Your amnio results just came in, and the baby is free of the conditions we were testing for. It’s your decision, of course, but I thought you’d be happy. I know you don’t have results yet from your DNA sequencing for early-onset familial Alzheimer’s, so that can’t be your game changer. Something else must be going on. Do you want me to come down so we can talk? There’s still time before your appointment.”

  The elevator doors were about to close, but Jeanne waved off a man who reached out to hold them for her. She turned away from the doors and lowered her voice. “It’s convoluted. There are too many reasons not to have this baby, and, honestly, I don’t have the strength to wrestle with the issue anymore. I’m all out.”

  “I hear that in your voice. Still, I’m here if you need me. Okay?”

  Jeanne thanked her and went upstairs to check in. She took the clipboard and forms she was offered and sat down to fill them out. When she heard a familiar voice speak her name, she looked up in surprise. “Maggie, why did you come? I appreciate the moral support, but—”

  “I’m not here to support you, at least not because of your abortion. I came to tell you I would be delighted and honored to raise your child, though I’m sure you’ll never need me to.” She took the seat next to Jeanne and removed the clipboard from her hands. “Please don’t have an abortion.” She took Jeanne’s hands in hers. “You want this baby. I just know you do.”

  Jeanne reached out and hugged her. “That’s a kind and selfless offer. I understand you feel responsible for my decision, but you shouldn’t. I had no business asking you to make such a sacrifice, and there are other reasons to end my pregnancy. There are risks that have nothing to do with you.”

  “Which worries you more, the risk of Alzheimer’s or the risk of being too much like your mother? Are you even sure you understand who she was? The woman who packed that box in her attic loved you. No matter how much you think of yourself as damaged goods, if she hadn’t given you love, you’d probably have ended up in the penitentiary.”

  Jeanne opened her mouth to speak, but Maggie was intent on finishing what she’d come to say. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings. I have to tell you what I think, even if you never speak to me again. You’re so good at managing risk in your business, you think you can squeeze the risk out of relationships. You can’t, but the risks are so worth it. You would be a great mother, and I believe you’re hungry for this child. Please, please, think about why you’re doing this.”

  Jeanne wasn’t sure when Sharon came in, but it was sometime during Maggie’s entreaties. “I decided not to wait to see if you’d call me, Jeanne. Most of us do better with a friendly face at a time like this. I didn’t realize someone was already with you.” She introduced herself to Maggie and turned back to Jeanne. “On the phone you sounded like you’d made up your mind. Is Maggie right? Are you sure of your motives? I’m not trying to influence your decision, just help you think it through. You know I’ll support you either way.”

  Jeanne looked from one to the other. Rather than supported, she felt overwhelmed. “I’ve been thinking, thinking, thinking for months now. I’m so weary.” As the little resolve that was propping her up drained from her body, she slumped in her seat. They sat silent, waiting for her to speak. “Maggie, maybe you’re right, and a few decades with a shrink would fix me right up, but I’m out of time.” Sharon had pulled a chair in close where she could face them both. “Aren’t I morally bound to save this fetus from what might be a tragic existence? I admit, I can’t exactly quantify the risk, hard as I’ve tried, but why take the chance?”

  Maggie groaned and looked at Sharon. “This is my friend Jeanne, whom I’ve really come to care for and respect, but help me out here. I feel like she’s spent her life wandering through a spreadsheet, and now she’s wondering why the columns don’t foot.”

  “Ms. Bridgeton, we’re ready for you.” A nurse stood in the doorway beside the reception desk.

  Jeanne felt as though weights were tied to her limbs. Even breathing was a trial. They were talking about her as though she weren’t there, looking at each other in a way that seemed to continue their conversation without the need for words. The nurse in the doorway cleared her throat. Jeanne felt her resolve weakening. “But there are reasons . . .” Her voice trailed off. “The father . . .”

  “Ms. Br
idgeton, we really do have to start, or you’ll have to reschedule.” The nurse looked down at the paper in her hand. “Although, I see we’re at the deadline, twenty-four weeks.”

  The deadline, the line of death, the line everyone crosses—her mother, her father, Bricklin, and now her son. Was Maggie’s assessment of her correct? Was she trying to do what seemed to be right for the wrong reasons, or were her reasons right but the choice wrong for other, more important reasons? A cost-benefit analysis was never really objective. Emotion was the thumb on the scale, and maybe sometimes it was supposed to be.

  She rose and picked up her coat and bag. “Thank you both so very, very much,” she said to Maggie and Sharon. The nurse made way for her to enter, but Jeanne mumbled a quick apology and turned into the hospital corridor.

  Jeanne’s condo was quiet. A trip to the mailbox revealed a condolence card from Scott, enclosing several beautiful poems about the death of a pet. The envelope had no stamp. He’d brought it there in person. She placed the poems on her night table, where she hoped they’d be a comfort this first night without Bricklin. Her mind was a cascade of words and pictures—Maggie’s, Sharon’s, Dr. Chu’s. They slid by like shuffling cards. She’d been trying all day to process them, but too much had happened, and she found herself caught up in second-guessing. “We’re ready for you now,” the nurse had said, but Jeanne wasn’t ready. Was it a failure of courage or an act of courage to walk out the door?

  She desperately needed to curl up with her dog and talk out her thoughts to him, but there was an enormous empty space where Bricklin was supposed to be. The space was much larger than the mass of an eighty-pound dog. It was larger than the room or the house and could only be comprehended by one who had loved and lost an animal. She massaged her abdomen and spoke to her child. You’ll have a dog. That much I can promise you.

  After ten minutes of staring at the ceiling, Jeanne got out of bed and retrieved her mother’s attic carton. She had to dig to find her tiger and bear. Clutching them to her chest, she returned to bed and closed her eyes.

  Jeanne was surprised to see Alberta’s eyes looking like her own—red rimmed and puffy. Jeanne, however, had not applied under-eye cover-up and an abundance of eyeliner and mascara in a failed attempt to conceal the effects of a night of crying.

  “What’s up, Jeanne. Are you sick?” After Jeanne’s description of the previous day’s trauma with Bricklin, Alberta looked at her curiously. “I didn’t figure you for such a softie. Good to know.”

  Was that how people saw her, as bereft of emotions, or was Alberta just a person who’d never had a pet and was surprised at the depth of her grief? Knowing people might think her tears self-indulgent exacerbated the pain. “And you?” Jeanne asked. “You look like you’ve had some bad news of your own.”

  “Just allergies,” she replied, not even attempting to put over the lie.

  “Yes,” Jeanne said dryly. “It’s amazing how many allergens one finds in an office.” She was sure Alberta’s problem was related to Bart, but she wouldn’t go there unless Alberta did.

  Alberta rose and closed her office door. “Guess I need a Bart-free environment.”

  “He’s a great sales manager,” Jeanne said gently. “Maybe it’s time to let him be just that. He’s got the sales kickoff and beginning of the new fiscal year to worry about. Do you think you can stay away?”

  “I know he can’t afford any distractions right now. The one he wants to eliminate is me.” Alberta balled up her fists. “I would have less of a problem with getting dumped if he weren’t pursuing other . . . distractions.”

  “Mariana? She doesn’t welcome his attentions.”

  “I didn’t either, at first. He shouldn’t be able to keep doing this to women. I wonder if his wife knows.” She slammed a file drawer closed with her foot. “I wonder if I’m the only fool who took him seriously when he said he’d leave her for me. He deserves a—a Lorena Bobbitt kind of punishment.”

  Jeanne wished she could think of something creative to say, but Alberta’s situation was a cliché. She wondered if Alberta realized that. She hoped not. Surely it would magnify her pain to know how unoriginal she was, how many women—millions maybe—had fallen for a line of bullshit like Bart’s. Jeanne looked down at her belly. Was Alberta any more of a fool than she?

  “I’m sorry, Jeanne. You must have come down here for a reason.” Relieved to move on, Jeanne posed her question regarding health insurance for her baby. When she rose to leave, she asked Alberta if she’d be at kickoff.

  “Do I have a choice? Jake told me he wants the management team there for the first morning to ‘salute the flag’ and the closing session to respond to any unanswered questions. I guess you’ll be there for the whole conference.”

  “Look for my presentation the first morning. Given that I’ll be appearing in costume with a pregnant belly, I should be good for a few laughs. I’m not sure the reps will pay attention to what I have to say.”

  “Don’t worry about how you look. Everyone respects you.” Jeanne was surprised at the compliment. So much had happened to make her reevaluate her self-worth. It wasn’t that she didn’t measure up; she’d omitted criteria. If only she’d given herself an annual review against the right objectives, the human ones. Could she honestly say that the good things she’d done for her people were motivated by caring rather than pragmatism? Did those deeds still count if it was the latter? She was no saint, but was she a calculating bitch or somewhere in between?

  Maggie came over that night and brought takeout as promised. The aroma filled the kitchen and was impossible to resist. The Chinese feast was complete with spring rolls, barbecued spare ribs, beef lo mein, shrimp with lobster sauce, and moo shu pork. “I know it’s too much,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure what your pregnancy appetite was in the mood for. Tonight, we’re not counting calories, points, or anything else. It’s all healthy, or at least the edamame is. I brought that too.”

  “Let me pay you back.”

  “Not a chance. You think someone with a gorgeous pocketbook like this needs help with the bill?” She proudly produced her new purse.

  “I’m so glad to see you using it, because I really wanted you to have it. After I left it, I was afraid I’d made a mistake—afraid of insulting you again. I didn’t want you to think I was trying to buy back your friendship.” Maggie reached out to hug Jeanne with her free arm. “Give me that bag of food before it starts to leak.” A small grease stain was spreading across a bottom corner of the paper bag.

  While Jeanne set out chopsticks alongside the dishes and glasses, Maggie found a couple of serving spoons and large plates to capture sauce from the dripping cartons. She sipped the glass of merlot Jeanne provided and settled into the chair across from Jeanne, who brought a bone dish for the ribs and a pitcher of ice water to the table. Maggie regarded Jeanne critically and shook her head. “Yesterday must have been brutal for you. I can see it in your face, the exhaustion. I’m happy you made the decision you did, but I’m sorry to have contributed to your pain.”

  “You were honest, and, yes, it hurt.” Jeanne picked up her egg roll with chopsticks and took a tentative bite. After it fell back into her plate, she sat contemplating it as though it represented an engineering problem.

  “Was I unfair?”

  “I wish.” Jeanne picked up her egg roll with her hand and took a large bite.

  Maggie took another sip of her wine. “You’re the one who needs this. On top of your anxiety over the abortion, you’d put Bricklin down in the morning.”

  “When I was driving to the hospital from the vet’s office, I tried to pull myself together by thinking about the places he loved. Once I had his ashes, I would sprinkle them there. Then I started wondering where my own ashes would end up.” Maggie groaned. “The funeral director would ask people where I’d been happiest, and I’d end up in an urn at the center of some conference room table in the office. Pathetic, huh?”

  “What on earth made you schedule Bric
klin’s vet appointment the same day as the abortion? Were you punishing yourself?”

  Ruth had asked Jeanne the same thing: was she punishing herself for conceiving a child? Jeanne hesitated. “I’m not sure. I was tired of searching for answers. I wanted all the bad stuff to be over so I could go back to a time when I saw things with clarity, when I was good at imposing order on life.”

  Maggie smiled. “Your definition of ‘life’ is pretty narrow. With a lens closed up that much, you can see whatever you want with clarity—a patch of blue in a sky actually covered with clouds. My grandmother used to say, ‘One sparrow doesn’t make a summer.’”

  “It must be nice to have known such a smart grandmother. My child won’t have one, but maybe he could have a godmother.” Jeanne looked at Maggie with pleading eyes. “It’s a symbolic position. You don’t need to pay for college or anything.”

  “Of course I’ll be his godmother.”

  Jeanne patted her stomach. “You’re a lucky boy.”

  Maggie cocked her head. “You know, I’m the one who owes you, not the other way around. You saved my life. I don’t know what made you come to my apartment after I was such a bitch to you.”

  “You weren’t a bitch. You reminded me that people are complex and that I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Pretty lame, huh? Needing reminding at my age that there aren’t any shortcuts to understanding people or predicting behavior? You can’t just click the Maggie icon on your computer’s desktop and bring up her profile: name, address, personality—sweet and selfless.”

  “If you were lame, I was worse. I let my diabetes diagnosis make me crazy, even though I counsel my Dawning Day patients to deal with their diagnoses. I ate the bare minimum, even though I know better, and when Christmas arrived, I felt sorry for myself.” Her eyes brimmed with tears.

  Jeanne leaned across the table and laid her hand on Maggie’s. “I felt sorry for myself too. That’s why I went to Dawning Day on Christmas.”