JT whacked the paper aside. “Don’t push me.”
“Or what?” Charlie said. “What can you do?”
JT didn’t answer. He whirled on his heel and stormed out of Charlie’s office, slamming the door so hard the walls shook. As he crossed through the outer lobby of the bank he muttered loudly, “You’ll find out what, old man! I’ll fix you and your whole damned family! Just wait!”
Elizabeth Caruthers
Some days I hate Jeffrey. Other days I realize I’m still in love with him; then I hate myself. I want to stop thinking about him, but I can’t. Forgetful as I’ve become, why can’t I forget him for even a minute? In the darkest part of the night, when everyone else is sleeping, I lie here remembering his warm breath in my ear, the weight of his body circling me like a protective shell. I can picture mornings when the kids climbed in bed with us and wriggled around until we looked like a spaghetti bowl of arms and legs. Memories like that are so painful, I almost convince myself that it would be a blessing to drift into that black hole and remain there. In the light of day I can think more rationally and then I accept that those memories are what I have to hold on to, if I’m to keep my sanity and make it through this.
Jeffrey wasn’t always this way. At one time our life together was absolutely wonderful. Things began to change about a year after he bought the store. At first he’d come home bubbling with enthusiasm. All through dinner he’d talk about how great business was, how he was gonna upgrade his merchandise and expand the store, how he’d change the look of Westfield.
Failure, that’s what changed Jeffrey. He’s always expected everything to be storybook perfect, even people, and especially himself. After all that pursuit of perfection, look where we are now. Both of us are broken—his spirit, my body.
Mom’s right when she says JT hates himself. He hates himself and me too, because neither of us are what we once were. I understand his anger, but that doesn’t make it any less painful.
The problem is Jeffrey can never settle; he always wants more. He wanted a store that would make him the envy of all the merchants in Westfield. Instead of trying to have more than everybody else, I wish he could’ve seen we already had everything that mattered. Try telling that to JT, and he’d think you were ninety-nine cents short of a dollar.
He’s not one to take suggestions from anybody. Daddy tried to tell him he was getting in over his head, but he said Daddy had a negative attitude. JT developed this nasty streak when the business didn’t pan out.
There’s only one thing JT hates more than being wrong, and that’s Daddy being right. One time I suggested maybe he should have listened to Daddy’s warning, and JT nearly went ballistic. At that point I backed off and started giving him some space. I figured he’d calm down once the expansion was finished and business picked up again. Besides, with two kids I had more than enough to keep me busy.
Before we were married Jeffrey said he felt just as I did about having a large family, so I thought he’d be glad we were expecting a third child. I thought maybe it would take his mind off of his business problems, but it was just the opposite. He said we had trouble enough and didn’t need any more babies. I’ve always felt children were a blessing. Until you hold your baby in your arms, you can’t begin to imagine the size of the love inside of you.
When I was ten, maybe eleven, I had two best friends, Jeanne and Emily. Jeanne wanted to be an actress, Emily a model. “How about you, Liz?” they’d ask. “What do you want to be?”
“A mother.” That’s what I’d say, every single time. While Jeanne and Emily were busy reading movie magazines, I’d be down the block watching Missus Tillinger’s babies for free.
Of course nothing ever turns out the way you think it will. Jeanne went to Hollywood, but last I heard she was a secretary. Emily married a forest ranger and moved to Canada. And me? I’m back at my parents’ house allowing some stranger to care for my three babies.
Maria Ramirez is nice enough but she’s still a total stranger, and it kills me to think she’s the one mothering my children. It ought to be me. Me or Mom—at least she’s their grandma. Of course that’s not likely to happen; Jeffrey has made it obvious he doesn’t want Mom around. Before I came home from the hospital, she’d help out with the kids whenever she could. Then JT told her to stay away. It’s a shame, because David and Kimmie both adore her. Christian, well, he’s still an infant. The first few months of a baby’s life is when they come to know the touch and smell of people. If Jeffrey continues to keep the kids from us, how can Christian ever get to know Mom? Worse yet, how can he get to know me?
Jeffrey’s trying to force Daddy to give him the money he wants, and he’s using our kids as leverage. Unfortunately, the one who suffers most is me. Me and Mom. I haven’t seen David and Kimberly since the week after Christian was born, and I haven’t seen Christian since we left the hospital. As much as I miss Jeffrey, I miss the kids a whole lot more.
You’d think Jeffrey acting that way would be cause enough for me to hate him, but I don’t. It’s not that easy to stop loving someone. You feel hurt and angry, you sizzle like there’s a bonfire inside of you, but at the end of the day you’re still in love. If Jeffrey came to me tomorrow, wrapped his arms around me and asked me to come home and be his wife again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I might say I’d do it because of the kids, but that would be a half-truth. I want my life back—a husband who loves me, my kids close by, all of us living together, breathing the same air. If I had Jeffrey and the kids alongside of me, I know I could defeat this monster inside my head.
Mom and Dad aren’t quite so forgiving. They really hate JT these days. It’s obvious by the way they speak his name, like it’s something with a bad taste. That’s why I don’t tell them everything. They’d only hate him more than they already do.
I’m sure Mom knows anyway. Times like that she starts her “Let’s-cheer-Liz-up” act. “You look lovely today,” she’ll say. “Lots more color in your cheeks.” She doesn’t want me to know she’s worried about me, so I play along. It’s our own little game. She pretends I look better, and I pretend to feel better.
Next week, I start the radiation treatments that will hopefully shrink this tumor. I pray it works. Let me live long enough to see my babies grow up, I ask. Then I’ll go willingly. I want my children to know how much I love them. I want them to soak up the smell and touch of me, because that will stay with them long after I’m gone.
I wish I could tell you I’m not afraid, but I’m so scared that at times I can barely breathe. I know I’ve got an uphill battle on my hands, but I’m going to give it everything I’ve got so I can live long enough to raise my children.
Pray for me.
November 1984
Elizabeth returned to St. Barnabas Hospital for her radiation treatments. Most people traveled back and forth, arrived in the morning, got a quick zap of radiation and were home by supper. But the complications of Elizabeth’s case meant someone had to watch over her night and day. Her progress had to be monitored in minute increments.
On the second Tuesday of the month, Claire packed a bag containing five cotton nightgowns, a bathrobe, slippers, and the book Elizabeth would probably never read. Then together they left for the hospital. Moments after Elizabeth arrived, a transport aide whisked her off to an icy room where she lay in a coffin-like machine that growled and clicked as they ran several new CT scans. The technicians measured her from the tip of one ear to the other, from the bridge of her nose to the top of her head. They analyzed those measurements crossways, at right angles, and upside down until finally they concurred on the precise spot for placement of the powerful radiation beam.
On Thursday, the day of Elizabeth’s first treatment, Claire arrived early carrying a huge pot of yellow chrysanthemums. She placed the flowers on the windowsill, angled them toward the sun, then suggested, “Why don’t I run out and get us a container of that good coffee from the diner?”
“No, thanks.” Elizabeth wrinkled her nose a
nd shook her head.
“How about a bagel? With cream cheese?”
“Unh-unh.”
Before Claire could suggest Taylor ham on a roll, the breakfast tray arrived: orange juice, oatmeal, and runny eggs. Elizabeth pushed it away.
“Eat something,” Claire said. “You’ve got to keep up your strength.” She opened the napkin and handed it to her daughter. “Maybe a little bit? Just a bite or two?”
“Later.” Elizabeth dropped the napkin onto the tray, leaned back, and closed her eyes. “There is one thing I’d like. Would you call JT and ask him to bring the kids to see me?”
“Sure,” Claire answered, although she knew how he would answer. What to do, she wondered—ease away from the issue or let her daughter be disappointed as she’d been disappointed so many times before?
“Actually,” Claire said, “you’re in the acute care wing now, and in this area they have strict rules about not allowing children to visit.”
“Oh.” Elizabeth slumped deeper into her pillow.
“But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to check.”
Elizabeth opened her eyes and smiled, just a slight curve on the right side of her mouth.
Moments later the nurse came to take her to Radiology.
Two days after the third radiation treatment, Cyndi, the day nurse who had just started her shift, noticed Elizabeth’s skin glistening with perspiration, yet to the touch she felt cool, clammy almost.
“Are you warm?” Cyndi asked.
Struggling to slow her breathing, Elizabeth shook her head.
“Any pain?”
Elizabeth nodded and placed her hand on her chest.
Within minutes she was on her way back to the radiology department, where they found a blood clot snaking its way toward her heart. Elizabeth’s last memory came as a blur of faces hovering over her and the sound of a faraway voice calling for oxygen.
When she awoke Elizabeth was in a cavernous room with bright lights glaring against white walls. A monitor beeped as neon green lines rose and fell with her heartbeat. There was no television, no chair for visitors. The only sounds came from the whirring and whooshing of machines, the click of heels against a tile floor, and the drone of muffled voices.
Elizabeth lifted the oxygen mask from her face. “Where am I?” she asked Lucinda, the nurse next to her bed.
“The Intensive Care Unit,” Lucinda answered and continued writing on Elizabeth’s chart. “You’ve got to leave this on,” she added and carefully replaced the oxygen mask.
With her right hand Elizabeth lifted the bottom edge of the mask. “What happened?” she asked, then replaced the mask.
“You suffered a pulmonary embolism.”
Elizabeth’s blue eyes began to fill as she mouthed, “What now?”
Lucinda tenderly touched Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. Doctor Sari found the clot before it had time to do any real damage. He’s got you on blood thinners to prevent a recurrence.”
She adjusted the IV drip, then smiled. “Your job is just to relax and get some rest. We’ll take care of everything else.”
~ ~ ~
For the eight days Elizabeth remained in the Intensive Care Unit, Claire was the only visitor. She arrived early and held her daughter’s hand for the full twenty minutes visitors were allowed. Then she left the ICU, sat in one of the gray plastic chairs lining the hallway, and waited for two hours until the next visiting session. Claire was the first visitor to enter the Intensive Care Unit in the morning, and she stayed until the ICU doors closed at night.
“Daddy said to tell you he loves you,” she whispered into Liz’s ear. “JT knows what’s happened and he’s promised to come, as soon as he can find someone to watch the store.” Claire lied about JT coming to visit, but she said it to encourage Liz and lift her spirits.
She’d driven to the house to tell Jeffrey of Liz’s condition. When no one answered the door, she penned a quick note and left it in the mailbox. So what she’d said wasn’t a complete lie. Claire thought that once Jeffrey learned the seriousness of Elizabeth’s condition, he’d visit.
It never happened.
On the very same day as Elizabeth’s pulmonary embolism a sheriff’s deputy delivered a summons notifying JT he was being sued for non-payment of rent. He had sixty days to come up with eight-thousand dollars. If he didn’t, the door of Caruthers Couture would be closed.
For weeks JT had suspected this might happen, so he’d begun to cart home some of the merchandise—velvet dresses, satin shawls, fringed evening gowns, even a large jewelry display case. He had no idea what he might do with those things but figured they were better off in his possession than with a pack of bill collectors. When he finally received the summons his guestroom already held racks of clothing, dozens of sequined purses, and a trunk full of glittery rhinestone jewelry.
Once the threat of losing his store became a probability, JT sunk into the blackest mood imaginable. Day after day he’d leave the children with Maria Ramirez, then hurry into Caruthers Couture to wait for cash-carrying customers. Every day grew longer than the one preceding it. Since he had little to do, he focused on his growing hatred of Charlie McDermott and counted the days until his store would be padlocked.
Finally, when JT reached a point of desperation, he visited Liz. He had come up with a plan to refinance their home. With a new mortgage, he could get enough money to tide him over.
“The house is in both names,” Harold Bollinger, the loan officer at United Trust, told him. “You’ll need your wife’s signature for refinancing.”
“Can’t I just sign for her?” JT asked.
“No, absolutely not,” Harold replied. “It’s against the law unless you’ve got power of attorney. Do you have power of attorney?”
“Uh, sort of.” The minute the words left his mouth, JT knew he had blown it. He’d stumbled over the words and sounded like a man lying.
Harold Bollinger narrowed his eyes and looked down his nose. “There’s no ‘sort of’ with loan applications. Either you produce a notarized document stating that you have power of attorney, or you get your wife’s signature.”
“Uh, my wife’s more than willing to sign these papers,” JT replied nervously, “but unfortunately she’s in the hospital and can’t get here.”
“No problem. We’ll prepare the paperwork, and you can take it to the hospital for her to sign.”
Harold Bollinger, a banker for some thirty years, noticed the nervous twitch in Jeffrey’s left eye and added, “Of course, her signature will have to match the signature we have on file.”
JT had planned to copy Elizabeth’s signature onto the bottom of the loan application, but Harold Bollinger’s warning made him nervous. For days he practiced signing her name, but each time it appeared shaky, loopy where it shouldn’t be and squiggly at the tail end of certain letters. He searched the house until he came across a document bearing her signature, then he taped it to the glass window and tried tracing her name through a ray of sunlight. He did this with four different pens and a fat black marker, but nothing worked. The signatures looked so different that even a half-blind monkey would know it was a forgery.
After days of trying, JT finally decided to go to Saint Barnabas and ask Elizabeth to sign the loan application. He hated the idea of going there; just the thought made the hair on the back of his neck bristle. The possibility of running into Charlie McDermott—or Claire—made it worse. As far as JT was concerned, Liz’s illness was destroying his life as well as hers. The McDermotts were forcing him to beg for something that was rightfully his.
His hatred of Charlie simmered and came to a slow boil. Day after day, hour after hour, JT reminded himself that if Charlie had given him the loan he needed, he wouldn’t have a summons hanging over his head. He wouldn’t need to refinance the house. And he wouldn’t be facing this confrontation with Liz.
~ ~ ~
By the time JT worked up enough courage to go to Saint Barnabas, Elizabeth had been transferred f
rom the Intensive Care Unit back to her old room with the yellow chrysanthemums on the windowsill. Just as he’d feared, both Claire and Charlie were there. They stood alongside Liz’s bed with somber looks.
Doctor Sorenson was also there. She gave Jeffrey Caruthers an icy nod. “I assume you got my message. I’m glad you could make it.”
Jeffrey had not gotten the message, because ten days earlier he’d stopped retrieving messages from an answering machine that offered nothing but bad news and foreclosure threats. Nonetheless he returned her nod.
Elizabeth smiled at her husband and stretched out her right hand. The left lay limp in her lap. “Hi,” she said, glad to see him.
JT gave her a nod but remained where he was, standing out of reach with his hands locked behind his back.
“I’m glad everyone is here today,” Doctor Sorenson began, “because I have some unpleasant news, and I believe Elizabeth will need the support of her entire family.” She shot an accusatory look at JT, then continued.
“I’ve decided to terminate Elizabeth’s radiation treatments. It’s been seven weeks, and unfortunately there’s no indication that the tumor is responding.” She slid two X-ray films onto the light panel. “This is Elizabeth’s first CT scan, where we can see the size of her tumor before radiation treatments.” She pointed to the dark mass.
“And this scan”—she directed their attention to the next X-ray—“was taken two days ago. As you can see, the size of the tumor has actually increased.”
Elizabeth eyes grew teary.
JT stepped back, edging himself a bit closer to the door.
Charlie asked, “What now? Chemotherapy?”
Doctor Sorenson shook her head. “Afraid not. Chemotherapy is a shotgun approach. We can’t target just the cancerous cells, so the toxic drugs kill the good cells as well as the cancerous ones. Elizabeth is too weak to tolerate that.”
Cracks in the Sidewalk Page 6
