The Pursuit Of Happiness

by Douglas Kennedy

  'How long might this go on?' George asked.

  'I don't know. Try to keep her fed and quiet. She should pull out of it in a day or two.'

  'And if she doesn't?' Mrs Grey asked.

  'Then,' the doctor said, 'we will consider other medical options.'

  I shut my eyes again. Only this time the desired effect happened. I fell into nothingness.

  When I opened my eyes again, I knew immediately that something was very wrong. It was the middle of the night. I could hear George snoring softly in the adjoining bed. The room was black. And hot. So hot that I felt sodden. Sodden to the skin. I also felt in urgent need of a toilet. But when I tried to sit up, I felt lightheaded, vertiginous, woozy. Eventually I managed to put my feet on the floor. Standing up took some effort. I tried to take a step and had to steady myself. My little episode earlier in the evening – my absent state, as Mrs Grey called it – must have been more serious than I realized. Because I felt truly weak.

  I staggered across the darkened room, feeling my way to the bathroom door with outstretched hands. Reaching it, I stepped inside and flipped the switch. The room convulsed into light.

  And I screamed.

  Because there – in the bathroom mirror – was a reflection of myself. My face was the color of chalk. My eyes were yellow. And the bottom half of my white nightgown was red. Crimson red. Drenched in blood.

  Then I felt as if I was falling into nothingness again. Only this time the plunge was accompanied by a nasty thud. Then the world went dark.

  When I snapped back to consciousness, I was in a white room. With harsh white light. And an elderly man in a stiff white jacket beaming a penlight into my eyes. My left arm was strapped to the bed. I noticed a tube protruding from the arm, then a bottle of plasma hanging beside the bed.

  'Welcome back,' he said.

  'Oh . . . right,' I said, utterly incoherent.

  'Do you know where you are?'

  'Uh . . . what?'

  He spoke loudly, as if I was deaf. 'Do you know where you are?'

  'Uh . . . well . . . no.'

  'You are at Greenwich Hospital.'

  This took a moment to sink in.

  'Okay.'

  'Do you know who I am?' the man asked.

  'Should I?'

  'We have met before. I am Dr Eisenberg – your obstetrician. Do you know why you're here, Sara?'

  'Where am I?'

  'As I said before: you are at Greenwich Hospital. Your husband found you on the floor of your bathroom, covered in blood.'

  'I remember . . .'

  'You're a very lucky young woman. You went into a dead faint. Had you fallen the wrong way, you could have broken your neck. As it turned out, you just have some minor bruising.'

  Clarity was beginning to return. I suddenly felt scared.

  'Am I all right?' I asked quietly.

  He looked at me carefully.

  'As I said, you only suffered some superficial bruising. And you lost quite a bit of blood . . .'

  Now I was scared. And very conscious. 'Doctor, am I all right?'

  Eisenberg met my stare. 'You lost the baby.'

  I closed my eyes. I felt as if I was falling again.

  'I'm sorry,' he said.

  I had my right hand to my mouth. I bit hard on a knuckle. I didn't want to cry in front of this man.

  'I'll come back later,' he said and headed towards the door.

  Suddenly I asked, 'Was it a boy or a girl?'

  He turned around. 'The foetus was only partially formed.'

  'Answer me: was it a boy or a girl?'

  'A boy.'

  I blinked. I bit down on my knuckle again.

  'I have some other difficult news,' he said. 'Because the foetus was only partially formed, we had to operate to remove it from your womb. During surgery, we discovered that part of the wall of your womb had been badly damaged by the abnormal pregnancy. So damaged, in fact, that it is highly unlikely you'll ever be able to conceive, let alone carry another pregnancy to full term. Understand: this is not a finite diagnosis. But from my clinical experience, the chances of you now being able to have a baby are, I'm afraid, improbable.'

  There was a very long silence. He stared down at his shoes. 'Do you have any questions?' he finally asked.

  I put the palms of my hands against my eyes, and pressed hard, wanting to black out the world. After a moment, Eisenberg said, 'I'm sure you'd like to be on your own for a while.'

  I heard the door shut. I kept my palms pressed against my eyes. Because I couldn't face opening them. I couldn't face anything right now. I was in a nose dive.

  The door opened again. I heard George softly say my name. I removed my hands. He came into focus. He was very pale, and looked like he hadn't slept for days. Standing next to him was his mother. I suddenly heard myself say: 'I don't want her here.'

  Mrs Grey blanched. 'What was that you said?' she asked.

  'Mother . . .' George said, putting a hand on her arm – a hand which she immediately brushed away.

  'Get her the hell out of here now,' I shouted.

  She calmly approached the bed. 'I will forgive that comment on the grounds that you have been through a traumatic experience.'

  'I don't want your forgiveness. Just go.'

  Her face flexed into one of her tight little smiles. She bent down close to me. 'Let me ask you something, Sara. Having self-induced this tragedy, are you now using disrespect as a way of dodging the fact that you've become damaged goods?'

  That's when I hit her. Using my free hand, I slapped her hard across the face. It caught her off-balance, sending her to the floor. She let out a scream. George came rushing forward, yelling something incoherent. He helped his mother back to her feet, whispering, 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry . . .' in her ear. She turned and faced me, looking disoriented, dumbfounded, robbed of her triumphant malice. George put an arm around her and helped her out the door. A few minutes later, he came back in as rattled as someone who had just walked away from a car wreck.

  'One of the nurses is looking after her,' he said. 'I said that she took a turn and fell.'

  I turned away from him.

  'I'm so sorry,' he said, approaching me. 'I can't begin to tell you how sorry . . .'

  I cut him off. 'We have nothing more to say to each other.'

  He tried to reach for me. I put my arm up to fend him off.

  'Darling . . .' he said.

  'Please leave, George.'

  'You were right to hit her. She deserved . . .'

  'George, I don't want to talk right now.'

  'Fine, fine. I'll come back later. But darling, know this: we're going to be fine. I don't care what Dr Eisenberg says. It's just an opinion. Worst comes to worst, we can always adopt. But, really . . .'

  'George – there's the door. Please use it.'

  He heaved a deep sigh. He looked rattled. And scared.

  'All right, I'll be back first thing tomorrow.'

  'No, George. I don't want to see you tomorrow.'

  'Well, I can come back the day after . . .'

  'I don't want to see you again.'

  'Don't say that.'

  'I'm saying it.'

  'I'll do anything . . .'

  'Anything?'

  'Yes, darling. Anything.'

  'Then I want you to do two things. The first is, call my brother. Tell him what's happened. Tell him everything.'

  'Of course, of course. I'll call him as soon as I get home. And the second request?'

  'Stay away from me.'

  This took a moment to sink in. 'You don't really mean that,' he said.

  'Yes – I really mean that.'

  Silence. I finally looked at him. He was crying.

  'I'm sorry,' I said.

  He rubbed his eyes with his hands. 'I'll do as you ask,' he said.

  'Thank you.'

  He was frozen to the spot, unable to move.

  'Goodbye, George,' I whispered, then turned away.

  After he left, a nurse
came in, carrying a small ceramic bowl, containing a syringe and a vial. She placed the bowl on the bedside table, inserted the needle into the rubber top of the vial, inverted it and filled part of the syringe with a viscous fluid.

  'What's that?' I asked.

  'Something to help you sleep.'

  'I don't want to sleep.'

  'Doctor's orders.'

  Before I could object further, I felt a quick jab in the arm. I was under within seconds. When I came to again, it was morning. Eric was sitting on the edge of my bed. He gave me a sad smile.

  'Hi there,' he said.

  I reached for his hand. He moved closer down the bed, and threaded his fingers through mine. 'Did George call you?' I asked.

  'Yes. He did.'

  'And did he tell you . . . ?'

  'Yes. He told me.'

  Suddenly I was sobbing. Immediately Eric put his arms around me. I buried my head in his shoulder. My sobs quickly escalated. He held me tighter as I cried. I was inconsolable. I had never known such wild, unbridled grief. And I couldn't stop.

  I don't know how long I carried on crying. Eric said nothing. No words of consolation or condolence. Because words were meaningless at this moment. I would never have children. That was the terrible fact of the matter. Nothing anyone said could change that. Tragedy renders language impotent.

  Eventually I subsided. I let go of Eric and fell back against the pillows. Eric reached out and stroked my face. We said nothing for a long time. I was still in shock. Finally, he broke our silence.

  'So . . .' he said.

  'So . . .' I said.

  'My sofa's not the most comfortable bed in the world, but . . .'

  'It will do fine.'

  'That's settled then. While I was waiting for you to wake up, I spoke with one of the nurses. They think you'll be ready to leave in about three days. So – if it's okay with you – I'll call George and arrange a time to go to your house in Old Greenwich and pack up your things.'

  'It was never my house.'

  'George was pretty emotional on the phone. He begged me to get you to reconsider.'

  'There is absolutely no chance of that.'

  'I intimated that to him.'

  'He should marry his mother and get it over with.'

  'Why didn't I think of that line?'

  I almost managed a small smile.

  'It will be good to have you back, S. I've missed you.'

  'I've fucked it up, Eric. I've fucked everything up.'

  'Don't think that,' he said. 'Because it's not true. But do keep using language like that. It dents your refined image. And I approve.'

  'I landed myself in this entire disaster.'

  'That's an interpretation – and one which is guaranteed to cause you a lot of useless grief.'

  'I deserve the grief . . .'

  'Stop it! You deserve none of this. But it's happened. And, in time, you will find a way of dealing with it.'

  'I'll never deal with it.'

  'You will. Because you have to deal with it. You have no choice.'

  'I suppose I could jump out a window.'

  'But think of all the bad movies you'd miss.'

  This time, I nearly managed a laugh. 'I missed you too, Eric. More than I can say.'

  'Give us two weeks together as roommates, and I'm sure we'll end up never talking again.'

  'An asteroid will hit Manhattan before that happens. There's a pair of us in it.'

  'Nice expression.'

  'Yes. The Irish have all the right lines.'

  He rolled his eyes and said, 'Yez lives and yez learns.'

  'Too damn true.'

  I glanced out the window. It was a perfect summer day. A hard blue sky. An incandescent sun. Not a single hint of an inclement future. It was a day when everything should have seemed limitless, possible.

  'Tell me something, Eric . . .'

  'Yeah?'

  'Is it always so hard?'

  'Is what always so hard?'

  'Everything.'

  He laughed. 'Of course. Haven't you figured that out yet?'

  'Sometimes I wonder: will I ever figure anything out?'

  He laughed again. 'You know the answer to that question, don't you?'

  I kept my gaze on the world beyond. And said,

  'Yes, I'm afraid I do.'

  Part Three

  Sara

  One

  THE FIRST THING I noticed about Dudley Thomson were his fingers. They were short, stubby, fleshy – like a link of Polish sausages. He had a large oval face. His chin was augmented by two tiers of fat. He had thinning hair, round horn-rimmed glasses, and a very expensive three-piece suit. It was dark grey with a thick chalk pinstripe. I guessed that it was made-to-measure, as it carefully encased his bulky frame. His office was wood paneled, with heavy green velvet curtains, deep leather chairs, a large mahogany desk. It struck me as a small-scale approximation of a London gentlemen's club. In fact, everything about Dudley Thomson reeked of Anglophilia. He looked like an overweight version of T.S. Eliot. Only unlike Mr Eliot he wasn't a poet, dressed in the raiments of an English banker. Rather, he was a divorce lawyer – a partner at Potholm, Grey and Connell; the white-shoe Wall Street firm of which Edwin Grey, Sr, was a senior partner.

  I had been summoned by Dudley Thomson to a meeting at his office. It was three weeks after I had been discharged from Greenwich Hospital. I was staying with my brother at his apartment on Sullivan Street, curling up every night on his lumpy sofa. As one of the senior nurses at the hospital had warned me, I would probably go through a period of depression and grief after my release. She was right. I had spent most of the three weeks inside Eric's apartment, only occasionally venturing outside for groceries or an afternoon double feature at the Academy of Music on 14th Street. I really didn't want to be around many people – especially those friends of mine who were married with children. The sight of a baby carriage on the street chilled me. So too did passing a shop which sold maternity outfits or infant paraphernalia. Curiously, I hadn't cried since that outburst in Greenwich Hospital. Instead, I had felt constantly numb, and wanted to do nothing more than sequester myself within the four walls of Eric's place. Which, with my brother's tolerant encouragement, was exactly what I had been doing – squandering the days with a stack of pulp thrillers, and working my way through Eric's extensive record collection. I rarely turned on the radio. I didn't buy a newspaper. I didn't answer the phone (not that it rang very much anyway). Eric – the most patient man on the planet – didn't worry out loud about my solipsism. Though he made subtle enquiries about my well-being, he never once suggested a night out. Nor did he pass a comment about my dazed gloom. He knew what was going on. He knew it had to run its course.