“You know,” I blurted out, along with a slight chuckle, still visualizing that map, “my roommate was friends with him, and one time he drove that kid to a sperm bank. He picked him up in his crappy old Dodge Dart and hid a Playboy in the glove compartment to give to him as a joke before he walked into the clinic.”
Becca’s cheeks turned bright pink.
It occurred to me that I was now having a discussion about fertility with a girl I really liked.
There was a lull. We both looked down at the parquet floor.
“Yeah, I’m not surprised that guy banked,” she said. “I mean, you gotta figure, if they’re going to try to save your life, they might as well try to preserve your ability to have children. They did that with me, too. I had an operation to shift my ovaries out of the line of radiation. I hope it worked. The technology keeps improving, but there are no guarantees that guy”—she cleared her throat—“or I will be able to have kids one day.”
“So we’ll adopt!” I blurted out like a reflex. It was a cross between a joke and the truth. I couldn’t explain it, but part of me wanted to be with this girl no matter what.
Becca’s wide grin turned into a soft chuckle. When she looked over at me, her eyes were glistening.
I tried to get back on more solid ground. “So, you’re okay now, right? You feel okay? I mean, you look great,” I said, putting my hand on her knee.
“Yes, thank God.” She turned her head to the side and pretended to spit—a superstitious gesture both she and her mother continue to do. “I go for checkups and will for the rest of my life, but yeah, they say after five years you’re cured, and it’s been seven.”
“It’s gotta be the magical video, right?” I smiled.
“Gotta be.” She laughed.
“Then I need to see it!” I kicked off my sneakers and placed my feet on her coffee table.
“What about our picnic?”
“We can go afterward. Unless you’ve got Bachelor Number One coming over on his motorcycle to pick you up for dinner. I hear he looks great in leather.”
“You’re an ass.” Laughing, she grabbed the remote, pressed play, and curled up beside me, her head against my chest.
Had it been a movie of my own friends acting like idiots, my cheeks would have ached from smiling. But because I didn’t know these people, I found Becca Night Live more touching than comical. When I saw the handwritten messages on the closing credits, I grew somber. I couldn’t believe that someone this young, healthy, and vibrant had almost died. I wished I had known her then. I wished I could have protected and guarded her. I wished I had been a member of that cast.
The picnic in Central Park never happened. We ended up watching the video, laughing, flirting, and eating manchego cheese and Greek olives on the floor of her apartment for the rest of the afternoon. Like the klutz I am, I managed to spill red wine all over her beige area rug. But, unlike my ex-girlfriend, who would have deemed that grounds for breaking up, Becca dismissed it. She grabbed a towel and a bottle of club soda from the fridge, and we got down on our hands and knees to blot out the stain. After sunset, we walked up to the roof of her building. I stood behind her, wrapping my arms around her denim overalls, and we lifted our eyes toward the Fourth of July fireworks exploding over the skyline. They sparkled against the blackness of night, and when they dissolved, the reds and blues merged into a vibrant violet hue.
“Wow, look at that,” Becca said, pointing to the sky. “It’s like Harold went to town with his purple crayon!” She slipped her fingers into mine and kissed my knuckles.
And that’s when it hit me. My father would say it was a Sicilian thunderbolt, but I’d just call it clarity. Either way, I could see our future sketching out before us.
Almost two decades later, that area rug is still around (although it has been resized and reincarnated as the welcome mat for our apartment), her beloved denim overalls have found a home in our daughter’s costume bin, and the Becca Night Live video (complete with the now-laminated pink sticky note) is the reason we will be the last remaining people on Earth to own a VCR.
The original cast is now grown up. Some have even become my own friends. A few months ago, when Jordana offered to host a “cast party” on the Fourth of July at her country home in honor of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Becca’s kicking cancer, I thought it was a brilliant idea. Although my wife has always abhorred being the center of attention, she agreed to it for the sake of reuniting the group. After all, the last time the five of them were in a room together was at our wedding, nearly thirteen years ago.
Though work was extraordinarily stressful in the days leading up to the reunion, I wanted to create a special tribute. As husband of the guest of honor, I thought it was only right that I do a little something in addition to the expected toast. To me, the Fourth of July marked the night I fell in love with Becca on the roof of her apartment building. The fact that it happened to be the anniversary of her remission made it that much sweeter.
“What did you have in mind?” Jordana asked, when I called from my office on the Wednesday before the holiday weekend. I sensed the slightest hint of passive-aggressiveness in her voice when I raised the idea of a formal homage to Becca. As my unofficial sister-in-law and my former law school study partner, Jordana was almost as transparent to me as my own wife. And the tone of her question made it abundantly clear that she considered the details and planning of this weekend to be her baby.
“Don’t worry, nothing big. We both know how she hates the spotlight. I just thought it might be nice to transfer the cassette to a DVD and make copies for everyone.”
“Sorry, I made them months ago. They’re already gift-wrapped,” she said dismissively.
Of course she thought of it. Compared with Jordana, other type A’s were slackers.
“Oh, okay. Well, I was also thinking of maybe making a video of my own. Maybe a tribute to Becca? What do you think?” Creative stuff wasn’t my forte. Plus, even after all these years of being Becca’s husband, I remained on the periphery of this group. For them, her illness was a crystal-clear, collective childhood memory. For me, the window into that part of my wife’s life would always be foggy; no matter how hard I tried, I’d never be on the inside. They’d always know her in a way I never would or could.
“I guess,” Jordana said halfheartedly. “I suppose you could—”
My second office phone line started ringing, but I chose to ignore it when I saw the managing partner’s number pop up on the caller ID.
“Do you need to get that?” Jordana asked.
“Nope.”
“Well, look at you, letting a work call go to voice mail! I’m impressed, Counselor. It’s about time you relaxed a little. Are things slow at work?”
Fortunately, I didn’t have to concoct a plausible explanation for the alleviation of my caseload, because as soon as the landline stopped ringing, my cell phone began to vibrate. It was Becca, which was odd, since it was four o’clock. We never spoke at this time of day. Normally, she’d be chatting with other moms at the bus stop or walking home with Emma, getting a synopsis of her day. “Jord, hold on—that’s Bec on the other line.”
“Becca? Now?” Jordana asked. She and my wife had committed each other’s daily schedules to memory.
I put Jordana on hold and then heard the words I had been dreading ever since I’d fallen in love with Becca on that Fourth of July.
I never called Jordana back.
Later, as I recorded my video for the cast reunion, it wasn’t just a heartfelt tribute; it was a mea culpa—a plea to regain my wife’s trust, to be forgiven for hurting Becca in a way I had never imagined I could, and an appeal to be allowed back into her life.
Chapter 3: Jordana
The fact that Nolan placed me on hold and never clicked back to our conversation that afternoon wasn’t surprising. He had a tendency to do that sort of thing, especially when Becca or his boss was on the other line. Like a well-intentioned but absent-minded professor, he�
��d get distracted, forget about the original caller, and then send an apologetic e-mail later in the day when he remembered. Sure enough, that evening I received a note:
So sorry about cutting our discussion short. I’ll figure something outfor Becca’s tribute. Anyway, quick question—would you be able to babysit Emma tomorrow? She doesn’t have day camp and Bec and I have to do something. I seem to recall you sayingyou’d be taking offwork to do last-minute preparations before the weekend. Any chance Emma can tag along withyou? Thanks. —N
A smile spread across my face as soon as I read his message. I had been trying to find time to steal Emma away. I had tons of photos of Becca and Emma and thought a collage would be a meaningful present for Emma to give to her mom. Since the reunion would be an adults-only weekend, a collage also seemed like a nice way for some of the old friends who didn’t know Emma to see the sweetness of Becca’s relationship with her daughter. This babysitting request couldn’t have worked out better. Plus, the fact that it came from Nolan, as opposed to Becca—the one who always arranged for anything related to Emma—could mean only one thing: Nolan had his own surprise in store. Becca and I tell each other everything, and she’d made no mention of any plans that day. I wondered if he would take her on a day trip to the beach, or perhaps a picnic in Central Park, like they were supposed to have on that July Fourth when they started dating. I was dying to know but decided not to ask, for fear I’d mess the whole thing up and let it slip. Instead, I happily agreed to spend the day with Emma and left it at that.
Nolan dropped Emma off at my apartment early Thursday morning on his way to the office, and I put her to work immediately.
“How about this one of Mommy and me on the swings?” Emma asked, sitting cross-legged among a sea of glossy four-by-six-inch prints on my living room floor.
“That’s perfect! Put that in the ‘keep’ pile. I took that one of you guys at a playground in Riverside Park. I don’t think you were more than two years old.” I couldn’t believe she was about to enter second grade.
“My hair was so short! I looked like a boy!” She scrunched up her nose and squinted her eyes, deepening the dimple in her upper cheek.
“Well, it did take a while for those gorgeous curls of yours to appear.”
She had already moved on and gotten her fingerprints all over the next photo. “Was this when I was born?”
I reached for the picture, gently rubbed off the print marks with the edge of my shirt, and took a closer look. It was the one of Becca seated in an oversize rocking chair in a hospital nursery, feeding a tightly swaddled Emma her first bottle. I smiled, recalling what a joyous and emotional day that had been for the entire family. Every time I glance at that shot, I reprimand myself for not wearing waterproof mascara; I shed so many tears the day Emma was born that I looked like a raccoon.
“Yup. You were less than an hour old when I snapped this one.”
“Aunt JoJo, you were there?” she asked. “You went to California to see me get born?”
“Psh! Are you kidding me, girlfriend? Have I ever skipped any of your dance performances or piano recitals? Did you really think I’d miss your big debut?”
She smiled. There was that dimple again.
“You rock,” she said, and put her palm up for me to high-five. The smile stayed on her lips until she broke into song, decimating the lyrics of a Beyoncé melody and shaking her tush on my Persian rug.
I love my sons dearly, but Emma is the girl I never had. I feel tethered to her and want to protect her the same way I would if she were my own flesh and blood. Yes, she is the child of my best friend (which automatically makes her special), and yes, the fact that she happens to be an absolutely delicious kid by nature doesn’t hurt. But it’s more than that. I can relate to her because I was Emma. As an only child myself, I understand the bond she shares with her parents; I had, and still have, a similar one with my own mom and dad.
As with most kids, my greatest fear as a child was losing a parent, not just because I loved them intensely, but because without one of them, our family would diminish by a hefty 33.3 percent and that was one-third closer to being left alone.
But unlike Emma, I didn’t grow up with a parent with a cancer history. Sure, Mom and Dad could have fallen ill at any point, but statistically they were at no greater risk than the general population. That can’t be said of Becca. Of course, with a quarter century under her belt, she’s had a damn good run. But I’ve been to the dark side with her and am well aware that any point the nightmare could creep into our lives, just as it did twenty-five years ago. I can’t predict the future, but I can do my best to be a consistent, loving, and dependable presence in Emma’s life and give Becca the peace of mind of knowing that, God forbid there should ever be a need, I’m here as her understudy.
Up until eighth grade, Becca and I shared everything: clothes, strep throat, cassette tapes, and earnings from our lemonade stand. Cancer was the first thing we didn’t take turns using or divide evenly. To this day, I still wonder why she was hit while I was spared. It was unfair. I promised myself that if I couldn’t shield her from pain, I’d do everything within my power to enhance her joy. And I have done my best to live up to that promise. I’ve celebrated every birthday, toasted every success, danced at her wedding, and held her hand across the armrest on our flight to California to witness Emma’s birth through gestational surrogacy. Having a relationship with Becca’s only child is part of my commitment. And this reunion weekend, the latest milestone, is yet another opportunity for me to show my dearest friend how much she is loved and how grateful I am to have her in my life.
Just as we were gluing down the final photographs of the collage, my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID; it was Becca’s mom.
“Hi, Arlene!”
“Hi, Jordy, how’s girls’ day going? You having fun?”
“Of course we are! In fact, we’re just about finished with our art project.”
“Wonderful! Then my timing is perfect. How’s my Emma?”
“She’s right here. You want to speak with her?”
“Yes, please. If it’s not too much trouble.”
I cleared my throat and channeled my best Mary Poppins/Julie Andrews accent. “Well, Miss Emma is quite busy and may be in a meeting at this juncture, but if you would be a dear and hold the line, I will do my very best to try to find her. One moment, please . . .” Emma giggled.
“Oh, I do appreciate it. Thank you, dahling.” Arlene played along, accent and all.
“Miss Scardino.” I beckoned, still in character. “There is a call on the line for you. Some woman by the name of Grandma. Do you perchance know of anyone by that moniker?”
Emma cocked her head to the side. “I know Grandma, but who’s Monica?” she whispered, perplexed.
“It’s Grandma, you silly goose,” I said, and handed her the phone.
As I cleaned up the glue, glitter, and markers, I overheard Emma telling Arlene about our day. How she’d had fun decorating the collage, how I’d let her make cookies while the paste dried, and how she didn’t mind being inside because it was too hot even to go to the sprinklers in the park. Given that our previous girls’ days had involved restaurants with singing waiters and trips to Broadway shows, I had been worried she might be bored, so hearing her positive review made me happy.
“Grandma wants to speak with you,” Emma said, arm extended, receiver in hand.
“Hi,” I said. “Sounds like you got the lowdown on our day.”
“Yes, I may sign up for my own day with Aunt JoJo!” Arlene laughed. “Anyway, Bec called and said they won’t be back until later this evening. Jerry and I are home and can watch Emma until they return. I’m sure you have lots to do for the weekend. Can I come over and pick her up?”
“Oh, did Becca say where they went? I’m so curious. I didn’t want to ask, but I’ve been dying to know what they’re up to.”
“Me too, but no, she didn’t say.”
“Well, I guess we’l
l find out soon enough. Emma’s just about finished with her project, and I have to pick up some stuff on the West Side, so let me bring her to you. I can get across town in twenty minutes.”
“Perfect. Thank you,” she said. “See you then.”
When Nolan and Becca bought their apartment and declared they would stay in the city to raise Emma, thus opting out of the suburban exodus that had claimed so many of our peers, Arlene and Jerry sold their house in Queens and moved a few blocks away. Some people would cringe at the idea of their parents or in-laws living within spitting distance, but Arlene and Jerry were incredibly cool and respectful of boundaries. They had their own lives, filled with friends and theater subscriptions and lectures at the 92nd Street Y, but were now available at a moment’s notice. It was a perfect setup and one I completely understood. Had I gone through what they had with Becca, I, too, would do everything in my power to be a part of the daily lives of my child and the miraculous grandchild I’d hoped for but never expected to have.
“Awesome day,” I said to Emma on the sidewalk in front of Jerry and Arlene’s building.
“Your mom is going to love your gift! I’ll take a video on my phone of her reaction when she opens it this weekend and show it to you when we come home. Okay?”
“That sounds great!” Arlene said, patting Emma’s ponytail.
Emma nodded. “Thanks, Aunt JoJo.”
“My pleasure. Love you, kiddo.” I gave her a hug.
“I love you, too. Bye.” She held Arlene’s hand as they walked into the apartment building. When I turned and headed toward Columbus Avenue, I could hear Jerry bellow, “Hey, squirt!” from their lobby. I smiled to myself, envisioning the scene I’d witnessed countless times since Emma was able to walk. I knew in that moment that Jerry was crouching on his knees like a catcher behind home plate, and that his granddaughter was running full speed into his arms. Their routine always reminded me of the embrace Jerry gave Seth the day we visited Becca’s hospital room all those years ago—that single, engulfing squeeze that conveyed unconditional love, gratitude, and a sense that this man took nothing for granted.
The Cast Page 4
