“I know, Ross.” There was a long pause over the phone line. I could hear Ross swallow his tears, gulp for air, exhale his anguish.
“My dad dropped dead of a heart attack when I was five years old,” Ross said.
“I know,” I said, nodding, thinking of the photo on Martha’s mantel: her husband, young, tanned, wearing swim trunks, a son standing on either side of him, Ross in his arms.
“My mom raised me and my brothers alone. Can you fucking imagine?”
“Your mom’s awesome,” I said, thinking of Martha as a young widow—three young boys.
“I don’t remember my dad.”
“No. A five-year-old doesn’t remember much.”
“Maura’s not even five yet.”
“I know, Ross,” I said, my voice breaking. “I know.” The implications were heavy, like a tree branch covered in too much snow. Maura—without Claire, not remembering.
“Tell Maura I love her,” Ross said. “And tell her that Claire loves her.”
“I will,” I promised. “Take care of Claire. Call me later.”
Before I called Tim to tell him the news, I sipped at my tea and thought it through. Maybe this was good news. Better to take out too much than to risk leaving any of the cancer behind, right? Why leave any of the organs that could potentially breed the cancer later? Get them out of there! Give her a clean slate. A fresh start. This was Claire we were talking about. Sure, she’d be sad about the hysterectomy; she’d mourn the loss of her fertility, but she’d get over it. She’d have a new plan by morning.
Feeling resolute with the soundness of my theory, I called Tim.
“I’ll be home in half an hour.”
“You don’t have to,” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Really! It’s going to be okay. She’s going to be okay.”
“I’m coming,” Tim said. “I’ll be there soon.”
When Tim walked through the door, he slung his arm around me and pulled me in for a hug.
I embraced him quickly and then pulled away. “What’s new at the restaurant?”
“Helen.”
“Seriously. What went on today? Sondra? Philippe? Any news?”
“Let’s sit down,” Tim said, reaching for my elbow.
“I’ve got laundry in the dryer,” I said, sidestepping him.
“Helen!” Tim stood before me like a blockade. “Stop. Let’s sit down and talk this through.”
“No.”
Tim pulled me into a hug, and as my cheek brushed against the soft wool of his sweater, I began to cry. I cried until I couldn’t catch my breath.
That night, I sat in the Jacuzzi tub with Maura across from me and Sam in my lap. When Maura laid soap bubbles on Sam’s legs, my new daughter squealed. When Sam smiled widely, her two front teeth poked out and her dimples deepened. She was precious. I thought of Claire, how she would never leave Maura. I thought of Sam’s biological mother, how she must have struggled.
I had read accounts of mothers who placed their daughters on the side of the road, maybe in a box that had once held vegetables. I thought of Sam’s mother, raw from childbirth, yet walking miles to find the perfect spot to leave Sam to spare her daughter from a worse fate. I imagined her hiding behind a row of bushes, watching as passersby commented on the abandoned baby, the will it must have taken for her to stay still when every instinct in her body must have been to return. How her heart must have lurched. How her insides must have grown dark and hard, as if her heart had turned to stone.
After bath time, when Sam was dried, powdered, and dressed, and Maura was comfortable in her Dora pajamas, Tim put on a movie and we all piled into our bed. I cuddled into Tim’s chest and Maura made a pillow of my hip and little Sam snuggled inside the triangle that our legs made. A half an hour later, Maura and Sam had drifted off to sleep. The two girls had inched toward each other, curled into each other like cashews, four little hands balled together like a bouquet. Spikes of Sam’s licorice hair and Maura’s chestnut hair fanned around their sweet faces, two perfect peaches of cheeks, pouty pink lips.
“How’d it go today with Larry?” Tim asked. Though he had already taken his after-work shower, I could still sense the scent of rosemary on his hands.
“Good,” I said, still trying to isolate the feelings with which that encounter had left me. “A little awkward, but having the girls there helped. We kind of just stared at them. We didn’t talk that much.”
“It’s a good start, right?”
“It was nice having him there,” I admitted. “He held Sam like it was nothing.”
“What’s he think about Claire?”
“Reminds him Mom, of course.”
“What’s next with Claire?”
“Chemo, Ross said. In two weeks.”
“You’re doing a really good job, you know? With Claire and the girls. They’re lucky to have you.”
“You didn’t know me back when my mom was sick, but I was a real jerk. It’s not often that we get second chances, but with Claire being sick now, it’s like my chance to make it up to Mom.”
My mother died on a Monday. I had gotten up around seven o’clock and walked past her room. She was up already, propped against pillows, a folded newspaper with a crossword puzzle on her lap. Thinking back, I don’t think she slept much in those last days.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked her, though I knew that Claire had already been in. An untouched piece of toast and a cup of tea sat next to Mom on the end table.
“A hug would be nice,” she smiled. Her skin, as thin as vellum, stretched across her cheekbones.
I bent down to hug her, placing my hands on her shoulders—knotted knobs poking up at her nightgown.
“I love you,” she whispered into my ear.
“I know,” I responded.
I hated her hospital bed. I hated the smell of the Tiger Balm that Claire rubbed on her back. I hated the cluster of brown plastic medicine bottles on her nightstand.
As I began to stand up, Mom cupped my face in her hands—cold, frail, bird-bone hands. She forced me to look at her. “I love you. I really, really love you.”
My cheeks flushed hot, my nose began to tingle, and my mouth darted downward. I tried to say it back, I know I did. I remember the words fighting against the cement in my throat. But the cement won, and the words never came out. I nodded and left her room.
By that night, Mom had slipped into unconsciousness. Claire was ready. If memory serves, I believe she had a to-do list for that exact moment. The doctors were called. Hospice sent a full-time nurse. My mother was an only child and her parents had already passed on, so there was no other family to call except for a few great aunts and uncles. After Claire made those calls, I watched her from around the corner as she picked up the line, wrapped the spiral phone cord around her finger, and called Larry. “She’s unconscious,” I heard her say, her voice cracking for the first time. She wiped her face with her sleeve. He must have said something kind, because kindness is Claire’s kryptonite, and she just stood there with a wide-open mouth, a silent cry bellowing from within her, and tears streaming down her face. Once she had composed herself, she said. “Okay. Yeah. Come on over.”
There was a moment while Mom was unconscious, while we were waiting for Larry and for the doctor to arrive, when Claire was on the phone taking care of the business of dying, and I slipped into Mom’s room and climbed into her bed. I did what I hadn’t been able to do just a few hours before. I hugged her, as I should have a thousand times in the past, and I whispered to her, “I love you. I really, really love you.”
Chapter Nineteen
The next day, Sam and I drove Maura to school, and then headed to the hospital to see Claire. Larry was waiting for us in the lobby. I had called him earlier that morning. We entered the elevator with hardly a word. When we exited, Larry touched my elbow. “Are you sure this is a good idea? Me coming to see her?”
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I said. “But if not now, when?”
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nbsp; A nurse led us back to Claire’s room, where my sister was hooked up to an IV, her poor arms mottled and bruised purple from all of the abuse they’d endured these last few days. Ross was on the phone with his mother. Claire was staring at the television with the sound turned down. A notepad lay across her lap. What morbid to-do list was my efficient sister working on now? I wondered.
“What’s he doing here?” Claire asked, though her voice sounded weak, like she didn’t have enough energy to muster indignation.
“He’s our father, Claire,” I said softly. “You’re sick, and he wants to see you. Let him see you, Claire. Can we just be a family through your sickness, please?”
“How are you, dear?” Larry said, walking tentatively toward her.
“Not so good, apparently,” Claire said.
Ross finished his call and stepped over to us. He held his hand out for Larry to shake.
“You remember Larry, right?” I said to Ross, thinking that our wedding was the last time anyone had seen him.
“Thanks for coming,” Ross said.
Ross huddled over Claire, kissing her forehead and telling her that he was going to run home to get some of their clothes. He kissed her again, and then left. The three of us looked up at the muted television.
“Seeing you here brings it all back,” Larry said. “Your mom, how sick she was.” Larry’s mouth pulled tightly to the side. “I came to see her at the hospital, toward the end, only days before she went home to die.”
“I know,” Claire said.
“You never told me that,” I said to Claire.
She shrugged. Was there more that I hadn’t been told?
“She forgave you, you know,” Claire said in little more than a whisper, slowly smoothing the blankets, tucking the edges under her legs. “The sicker she got, the more forgiving she became. She said that we should forgive you, too.”
“Through it all, she was one hell of a woman.”
“I couldn’t do it,” Claire said. “And…” She took a long breath, and then another. “I think my grudge distracted me from the grief. Still, I was furious that she forgave you so easily.”
“You had every right to be mad.”
“I did,” Claire said, but there wasn’t any heat behind her words. “I still struggle to…understand those years.” She looked at him, took another breath, narrowed her eyes. “You and Mom separating, then Mom getting sick, and all of us just falling to pieces.”
“Your mother and I—”
“Not that,” Claire interrupted. “I can understand you and Mom. What I never understood was how you justified leaving us.”
Larry closed his eyes, opened them. “I wanted to come back,” he told her. “I tried.”
“It was too late,” Claire said.
He wanted to come back when? I thought, my mind reeling. Before Mom died or after?
“The shame I felt grew bigger every day,” he said. “After your mom died, I’d come around. Tell myself that, after everything I had done, I could at least be there for you girls. Each day got harder, though, not easier. The reality that your mother was gone stared me in the face. The hurt I caused her before she was even sick. All I could think was I took her last few years. I was ashamed and finally got to the point where I could barely face you kids. I told myself that you were better off without me. That you didn’t want to see me, anyway. But hell, I tried all sorts of things to ease my guilt.”
The nurse came in and took Claire’s temperature, her blood pressure, and listened to her chest. “I need to take a little more blood,” she said apologetically.
“I hardly notice anymore,” Claire said, unfolding her arm.
We stared at the television while the nurse took the blood, and then kept staring at it until the room turned dark and Claire grew sleepy. Larry and I slipped out and stood in the bright hallway.
“Do you want to get coffee?” I asked.
We walked down to the cafeteria and filled our cups. He took his black; I poured cream and sugar into mine.
“Your sister doesn’t look so good,” Larry said as we were walking back through the corridor.
“Well, she just had surgery,” I said defensively. “She’ll perk back up.”
“I think you—we—need to prepare ourselves for the worst-case scenario.”
I stopped and turned to face Larry. Two doctors in scrubs walked by.
“No way,” I said. “Claire is going to be fine.” I could feel the heat in my cheeks, the thump of my heartbeat. “She’ll turn this around. Times have changed since Mom. Prognoses are better. You don’t know Claire like I do. You haven’t seen what she’s capable of.”
“She’s a tough gal, I know that.”
“Tough doesn’t begin to describe her. There’s no way in hell she’s leaving Maura like Mom left us.”
Larry looked at me for a silent moment and then said, “Your mother would have done anything to stay.”
“Mom was the best mother in the world, but she was too accepting of the hand she was dealt. Claire’s different. She’s got the faith, but when it comes to Maura, she’ll sell her soul to stick around. She’ll beat this, you’ll see.”
Larry nodded and placed a hand awkwardly on my shoulder. “I hope you’re right.”
Two weeks later, Sam, Maura, and I drove to the Fairfax Hospital campus. As I remembered, there was a playground, conveniently nestled in front of the children’s wing. Larry was waiting for us.
“Maura, honey, you remember that I promised you McDonald’s for lunch, right?” I asked.
“Aunt Helen, guess what? I want chicken nuggets, french fries, chocolate milk, and a girl toy.”
“Great! But do you remember that I said we’d have to make one stop first?”
“You have to see a doctor,” Maura said.
“That’s right. It’ll be quick, and while I’m in seeing the doctor, our friend, Larry, is going to watch you and Sam. You remember Larry, right? He’s the one who helped you make the fishing pole at the park a while back.”
“That was so much fun,” Maura gushed.
“Thanks for doing this,” I said to Larry, setting Sam down and handing her diaper bag to him. “I really didn’t want to give everyone something else to worry about. Especially if there’s no reason, right?”
“I’m happy to help,” he said.
“Make sure Maura keeps her mittens and hat on,” I said, adjusting Sam’s earflap hat and snapping her coat. “It’s not too bad with the sun out today.”
“Take your time,” he said. “The girls will be fine.”
Once inside, I took the elevator to the third floor and found the office marked Genetic Counseling. I signed in, took a seat in the waiting room, and flipped mindlessly through a People magazine.
After a short wait, I was called. A genetic counselor named Michelle completed a family tree of my medical history, an array of branches, some diseased, some not. I told her about Mom, about Claire, about Mom’s mom.
“The fact that your mother and sister have both been hit with ovarian cancer puts you at an elevated risk, obviously,” she said.
Obviously.
“We’ll draw blood. We’ll test you for a variety of things, including the mutations of the BRCA1 and BRCA2 genes, either of which would mark you as genetically predisposed toward several different cancers.”
“Claire tested positive for those,” I told her.
“But you never had the test?”
“I was going to, a few years back, after my sister did it. But I got busy…Well, I guess I changed my mind…chickened out. At the time, I was dealing with infertility. I thought if I came in, the doctor would find something that would confirm my inability to have a child. I was afraid of hearing that—more afraid of that than of finding out about the cancer gene,” I admitted.
“The gene is quite indicative,” Michelle said. “Women who carry the harmful BRCA1 or BRCA2 mutations are definitely at an increased risk, especially when there’s family history.”
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nbsp; “That doesn’t sound very good for me,” I said. “I guess I’ll just hope like hell that I don’t have the gene.”
“Hope. Pray. It can’t hurt.”
Next, I met with a gynecologist who performed a pelvic exam and ultrasound to look for any ovarian lumps.
“You look good,” he said. “But given your history, I’d recommend repeat exams every six months.”
“In other words,” I said to him, “I’ll spend the rest of my life seeing doctors to make sure I’m still well, until the day that I’m not.”
“It just means that you need to be extra careful,” he said, shaking my hand and leaving the room.
Exactly an hour later, I returned to the playground. Larry was sitting on the bench with his coffee cup, his newspaper still folded at his side, his eyes fixed on the girls. Maura was climbing on an apparatus that resembled a giant molecule, and Sam was sitting in the sand, picking at tiny pebbles, her cheeks as red as roses.
“How’d it go?” I asked, scooping up Sam and pressing her cold cheek against mine.
“Good,” he said. “Sam took her bottle and ate some Cheerios,” he reported. “Maura fell and skinned her knee a bit, but she got right back up.”
I smiled. It was nice hearing Larry talk about the girls.
“What about you? How do things look?”
“The ultrasound was clean,” I said. “They drew blood to see if I’m predisposed. It’ll take weeks, maybe longer, to find out.”
Larry nodded, his mouth twitching. A minute or so passed. I sat down. He offered me a stick of Juicy Fruit. He cleared his throat. “You don’t remember my father, your Grandpa Bob. He died when you girls were little. Heart attack. Except for his time in World War II, he never left West Virginia. He was the toughest guy I knew. One time, he cut his leg with a piece of farm equipment. It was deep and needed stitches, but he didn’t believe too much in doctors. He gathered what he needed—needle, thread, alcohol. Sewed it up himself, right there at the kitchen table, without saying a damn word.
“As a kid, I worshipped the ground he walked on, but he ruled with an iron fist. The worst thing you could do was disobey him. One time, in the dead of winter, he made me sleep in the garage because I asked him for clarification on a chore I was doing. He said I should’ve been paying closer attention. Maybe he was right.
Daughters for a Time Page 18
