Pascal's Wager

by Nancy Rue

  “Have you considered that you might be biting off more than you can chew?” Nigel said.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t considered that at all. If my approach is now to take someone else’s work to a new level, I want to make certain that level is high enough to be considered original research in itself.”

  “Even a lower level than what you’ve proposed could be considered ‘high enough.’”

  “Maybe for the committee,” I said. “But not for me.”

  He locked gazes with me for a moment, then returned his glasses to his face and flipped through my pages again.

  “You realize, of course,” he said, “that it is ultimately up to me to tell you when you have solved your problem.”

  I hadn’t realized that. It had never been an issue, and I didn’t see how it was now.

  “At some point,” he went on, “I may indeed feel that you have shown that something is not true, which is also interesting. Even being able to show a class of examples not previously known—”

  “I know I can solve this problem,” I said. “All I need to know is whether you have any doubts about my ability to do it.”

  “About your ability, no,” he said.

  “Then I’d like to proceed,” I said.

  The arm that reached out to hand me my proposal was stiff. I suddenly didn’t want to leave it this way. I smiled at him as I took the folder.

  “Just so you’ll be reassured,” I said, “I’ll leave the work I’ve already done in your box.”

  He peered at me from behind his glasses. It wasn’t the look of reassurance I’d hoped for. Whatever was there, I couldn’t read it—and I couldn’t leave it alone.

  “You think I’m being too aggressive,” I said. “But I don’t see it that way. I hear graduate students reevaluating their commitment to their studies all the time. I don’t do that. I know what I want and if I drive myself harder than anybody else to get there, it’s because I know where ‘there’ is.”

  Nigel slowly removed his glasses and tucked them into his pocket. To my surprise, he smiled back at me in a wry way.

  “My dear,” he said, “if you always know where ‘there’ is, you possess a secret I’m not privy to.”

  For the second time that day, I was at a loss for words.

  SEVEN

  Freda Webster-Claire—the woman who was setting me up with a caretaker—arrived at Mother’s house just as I was shoving the last of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. As I opened the front door, I saw that she was one of those women who has enough hair for thirty-seven people and uses it as punctuation. She hurried up the front steps, hand already outstretched, hair in exclamation points.

  “You must be Jill,” she called. “Freda Webster-Claire.”

  “Come in,” I said.

  “Wonderful.”

  I led her through the foyer and into the living room, where I’d put a legal pad and a couple of pencils on the coffee table as a signal that I wanted to get right down to business. Freda was too busy saying how wonderful the décor was to notice. The minute we sat down, she reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “This must be incredibly hard for you,” she said. “How are you doing—really?”

  “I’m fine.” I withdrew my hand and reached for the legal pad. “Should we start with my questions or yours?”

  Her smile didn’t fade—I doubted that it ever did—as she folded her hands neatly around her knees and nodded, though at what I wasn’t sure.

  “Why don’t we start with what’s on your mind?” she suggested. “Then I think you’ll feel more comfortable.”

  I wanted to tell her that I’d feel more comfortable if she stopped acting like I was the patient. Instead, I gave her my list of questions: What exactly does a caretaker do? How much was one going to cost? What accommodations did I have to make for her? Freda waited until I got through the entire list before she said, “Now, are you certain it’s the best choice to have a caretaker here, as opposed to putting Mom in an assisted-living situation?”

  “You mean a nursing home?”

  “No,” she said patiently, “assisted living is not a nursing home. We wouldn’t recommend a nursing home for Mom unless she required bathing, changing, feeding—that sort of thing. As I understand it, she is still doing all those things for herself. In assisted living, Mom could continue to do that, but remembering to fix the meals and so forth would be left up to someone else.”

  “My mother,” I said, “will be fine here. Dr. McDonald seems to thinks she needs a caretaker.” I tapped the list of questions on the legal pad. “That’s all I really need to know about.”

  Freda’s smile went soft, and she patted my arm. “Wonderful. Let’s focus on that for right now.” She consulted her notes. “Her insurance will cover 80 percent for a full-time caretaker, and her supplemental policy will cover the rest. Your mom certainly had her affairs in order, which is wonderful.” She cocked her head, creating a comma with her hair. “You know, I think it makes it that much harder when a bright, together person suffers from dementia.”

  I glanced at my watch. “And what does this caretaker do?”

  Freda ran through the list of household duties, including dispensing medications, making sure “Mom” was bathing regularly and otherwise keeping up with her hygiene.

  “She’ll report to you daily any changes she sees in your mom’s behavior,” Freda said.

  “Daily,” I said.

  “Yes. When you come in from work or after dinner when Mom is settled in for the night—whatever is comfortable for you.”

  “She and I can work that out, I’m sure,” I said. “And she’ll have my cell phone number.”

  “Wonderful idea,” Freda said. “That way she’ll be able to reach you at a moment’s notice. What do you do, Jill?”

  “I’m a graduate student.”

  “Wonderful,” Freda said. “That’s perfect. You’ll have the time to spend with Mom, then. So many people have full-time jobs, and they’re just overwhelmed when something like this happens.”

  “Right,” I said dryly. “Well, that about covers it for me.”

  “My turn, then!” she said, hair in exclamation points again as she reached for her briefcase. “I just have a few things. I like to make sure my families know what may lie around the corner so they’re not blindsided. You’ll find out that I’m very protective of my families. I already consider you and your mom to be—”

  I cut her off before she could say “family” again. If she’d uttered it, I probably would have ripped out a semi-colon or two.

  “Wonderful,” I said. “What things?”

  There were more than just a few. She spent the next thirty minutes going over them. I was going to have to become acquainted with Mother’s finances so I could take them over when she was no longer able to. There was a “wonderful” financial counselor available to assist me. I was probably going to have to handle her retirement from Stanford, and there was a retirement counselor at the hospital who could walk me through that. Then, of course, there were the family and friends to deal with who would have various reactions to “Mom’s” changing behavior. Freda herself would be happy to help me through that, but I could also select my own therapist, whatever I felt most comfortable with.

  Comfortable? If I made all the appointments with the people she suggested I talk to, I’d be wound up like a spring. But I took every business card she tucked into my hand—including the one with the name of the caretaker she was recommending—and continued to nod in hopes that full agreement would get her out the door sooner.

  But even after she’d snapped her briefcase shut and appeared to be ready to leave, she leaned toward me yet again and put her hand on my knee.

  “Let me just say this,” she said. “You seem to be very capable and independent, and I think that’s wonderful.”

  You think everything is wonderful, I thought.

  “But the time is going to come when this is all going to seem like too much for you
,” she continued. “Promise me that you won’t be too proud to give one of us a call. It doesn’t have to be me.”

  Good thing! I thought.

  Freda looked directly into my eyes, her own a practiced firm-but-friendly. “Now promise me.”

  I held her gaze and said, “Thanks so much for all your help. I’ll call Ms.—” I glanced at the top card in my palm—“Rose right away and set things up with her.” I shook Freda’s hand solidly and couldn’t resist saying, “You’ve been wonderful.”

  “Oh,” Freda said as she stood up, “I never did have a chance to look around. Do we have time to do that?”

  “Not really,” I said. “What’s to look at? My mother has lived here for twenty-five years, so it’s not like I’m bringing her into foreign territory.”

  I could have bitten off my tongue. Freda’s eyes lit up, as if she’d just hit pay dirt—some misconception I had that she could help me with.

  “But you see, it is foreign territory to her now,” she said. She walked briskly into the foyer and looked around. From there she could see Mother’s study door and she made a beeline for it, with me trotting along behind. I’m sure my nostrils were flaring.

  “This is obviously where she did her bookkeeping and such,” Freda said. “And I’m sure at one time it was neat as a pin in here.”

  I had to admit she was right about that. I hadn’t been in this room since before the accident, and it was currently far from pinlike. A drawer in the oak file cabinet was yawning open, exposing its untidy contents. A checkbook lay face down on the desk amid a jumble of papers, and a pile of unopened mail was spilling out of the In basket and onto the floor.

  “The more cluttered things are, the more confused Mom will become,” Freda said, “so you’ll want to have this tidied up before her arrival, or she may think she can come in and pick up business where she left off. These things lying around will be reminders to her.” Freda curled her fingers around my upper arm. “We can send someone over to help you get organized—”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said.

  “How about the other rooms? Where is her bedroom?”

  “I think I have the idea,” I said through my teeth.

  “Wonderful. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” She at last turned toward the door, but her glance obviously caught the two photographs on the shelf, because she stopped. They were the only two pictures Mother kept in frames. One was of the two of us the day I graduated from Princeton, which resembled one of those Civil War era portraits of people who looked for all the world as if they were suffering from hemorrhoids. The other was of Mother with her father, the day she graduated from UCLA—after only three years, she’d told me at least a half dozen times. She and her father were shaking hands. He was looking into the camera with all the expression of a dial tone, but Mother was gazing up at him as if he were the one who’d just pulled off summa cum laude and she was bursting with pride at the feat he’d accomplished. I knew that photograph was one of her most prized possessions. There had been no photo of her graduation from medical school at Vanderbilt. Her father had died by then, and there was no one to make proud but herself.

  “I know it’s hard,” Freda said at my elbow. “And I won’t try to tell you that you’ll adjust to the idea that she’s not the same person she was before—”

  “Good,” I said. “Thanks again for coming.”

  She sagged ever so slightly, and she gave the stairs to the second floor a wistful look before she gave in and went out the front door.

  I’m sorry you’re not comfortable with that, I thought as I closed the door behind her. Maybe there’s a counselor we can set you up with so you can process it.

  I looked at my watch. It was ten till three. There was just enough time to race back to the math department and help Deb. I was turning out the light in the study, purse slung over my shoulder, when the phone rang in there, so softly I could barely hear it. Mother had obviously turned this one down instead of yanking it out of the wall completely. I pondered not answering it, but in spite of myself, I could hear Freda telling me all the things I was now responsible for. I picked it up.

  “Elizabeth McGavock, please,” a tired-sounding woman’s voice said.

  “She isn’t here,” I said. “May I take a message?”

  “This is PG&E calling. To whom am I speaking?”

  “If you’re calling about a special offer, we’re not interested,” I said.

  “No, I’m calling regarding her account,” the woman said. “When is a good time to reach her?”

  I had a sinking sensation. The power company didn’t usually call to congratulate you on how beautifully you were handling your bills. I gripped the receiver.

  “This is Jill McGavock,” I said. “I’m her daughter. I’m handling her financial affairs now that she—while she—how can I help you?”

  The woman then crisply informed me that Mother was two months behind in paying her gas and electric bill. She’d promised to make the payment last week, and she had, but the check had arrived made out not to PG&E but to herself. They were about to turn off the power.

  “Don’t do that,” I said. “I’ll get a check to you. How soon do you need it?”

  “This afternoon by 5:00 P.M.”

  “What does she owe?”

  “The amount is $456.17,” the woman said.

  I bit back a You’ve got to be kidding!, and promised I’d have it there within the hour.

  How I was going to do that, I wasn’t sure. Mother’s checkbook was there on the desk, but who could tell how much money she had in her account? She hadn’t entered anything in it since August, as far as I could tell. The mail that was spilling out of the In basket included several bank statements, but until I could make some sense out of all that, I was hesitant to write any checks on it. And besides, what about a signature? I was going to have to get Power of Attorney. Of course, I could go to the hospital and ask Mother to sign a check, but the mere image of me telling Mother I’d been rummaging through her personal papers left me cold.

  I dug in my purse for my own checkbook. I had about $1200 in my account, but that had to last me until the end of January. On the other hand, the reaction I could picture on Freda’s face when she got word that I had taken my mother home to a house with no gas or electricity made me pick up a pen. Mother could reimburse me later.

  By the time I got all of that taken care of, it was 4:15. The tea would already be winding down, and I wasn’t in the mood to face Deb. So I went back to the house to look up the name of Mother’s lawyer and get started on the Power of Attorney ordeal. His secretary promised she would have him call me as soon as he was free, so while I was waiting I attacked the unopened mail. I groaned with each envelope I opened.

  PG&E weren’t the only ones who hadn’t been paid for several months. Pacific Bell was threatening to disconnect. The cable TV company had already discontinued service. American Express was “concerned” about her lack of payment since she’d been such a responsible customer for the last twenty years. The bottom line was, she was not to attempt to use her Gold Card until a full payment—of over five thousand dollars—was made.

  Frantically I searched for letters from her insurance companies, but there were none. A hunt through the filing cabinet reassured me that both premiums came directly out of her paycheck. Which reminded me, her job was another thing I had to take care of and soon.

  I called Ted Lyons and arranged to clean out her office the next day. Then I went back to opening the mail, only to find out that all of the checks Mother had written the week before to pay the bills had been made out to herself. They’d been returned with a variety of cryptic notes. I sighed and got out my checkbook again and paid all except American Express and the cable company. Nurse Rose didn’t need cable as far as I was concerned.

  The lawyer didn’t get back to me until almost seven that night. He was sympathetic to the point of nausea—who wasn’t?—and promised to have the Power of Attorney papers in order for
me the next afternoon.

  I tried to find something to eat in the refrigerator and after throwing away every container of leftovers I opened, I opted for a sandwich in the hospital cafeteria when I got there and took it up to Mother’s room. Max, of course, was already there, pacing like a caged bear. When I walked in the door, he pulled me into his arms and broke into sobs.

  Come on, Max, please, I wanted to say to him. Cant we handle this like adults?

  But I could no more pull away from him than I could spit in the poor man’s eye. I let him hold me until he got hold of himself, and then I gently pried myself loose. He went to the corner to blow his nose, and it was then I saw that Mother was in a wheelchair, leg stuck out in front of her like a cannon ready to fire. She was parked by the window, staring out.

  She looked so little to me. It always struck me when I hadn’t seen her for a while that she was so much smaller than I was. In one of the few references she’d ever made about my father, she’d told me I got my legginess from his side of the family. She was a petite five foot four with birdlike bones, and now, garbed in hospital attire that swallowed her, sporting a brace that tripled the size of her leg, she seemed tinier than ever. The confidence, the vitality, and the brilliance that had always given her stature were gone.

  I stopped, frozen, at the foot of her bed. So what did that mean? If her mind was going, did that mean it would take her persona with it? Would she still technically be a person at all?

  Even as I watched her, Mother’s eyelids drooped and her head lolled to one side as she dozed off.

  “They’re still giving her something for the pain, thank God,” Max said. “I keep thinking, ah, the drugs will wear off and she’ll look at us and we’ll have Liz back. I keep thinking it over and over.”

  I nodded toward the door and led him out into the hall.

  “What?” he said. “God forbid you should hold something back from me, Jill. I know I’m not family, but I—”

  “I’m not holding anything back, Max,” I snapped, “if you’ll give me a chance to get it out.”