Cracks in the Sidewalk

by Bette Lee Crosby

  Both lawyers shook their heads.

  “My client adamantly refuses to allow visitation,” Sarnoff said.

  Dudley Grimm added, “My client feels equally strong about her right to spend time with her children.”

  Seeing no hope of settlement, Judge Brill mandated a psychologist’s examination of all parties involved as well as the attending physician’s report on Elizabeth Caruthers’ medical status.

  “Let’s find out exactly what we’re dealing with here,” he said. He rose and left the room.

  A Summer of Madness

  On the hottest day ever recorded, a day when most people did nothing but gulp down glasses of iced tea and wait for the weather to break, Claire and Charles McDermott trekked across an asphalt parking lot in Newark, New Jersey.

  “I still don’t see why the judge is making us talk to the psychologist,” Claire grumbled. She fanned the sheet of directions in front of her face, but the small breeze it gave off hardly made a difference.

  “You ought to get rid of that attitude before we go in here,” Charlie suggested. “That’s the sort of negativity the psychologist is going to be looking for.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Claire started fanning herself again.

  “It’s not a question of sides,” Charlie replied. “Remember, we’re not doing this for ourselves. We’re doing it for Elizabeth.”

  “We shouldn’t have to do it at all.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Doctor Belleau’s office was on the third floor but because of the extreme heat the elevator, like most everything, had stopped working. After trudging up three flights of stairs, both Charles and Claire arrived at his office red-faced and soaked with perspiration.

  “I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Doctor Belleau apologized, extending a cool, air-conditioned hand.

  Despite the clamminess of her hand in his, Claire forced a smile.

  “These things happen,” Charles gasped, still red-faced and trying to catch his breath.

  “And at the most inopportune time.” Doctor Belleau laughed.

  Although he had a pleasant enough smile, Claire thought the doctor seemed terribly young. He had the appearance of someone she’d expect to find jogging through the park, not delving into a person’s innermost thoughts.

  “Have you been in this business for long?” she asked, trying to sound friendly and not overly critical.

  Doctor Belleau laughed again.

  “Thirteen years. But I get that question often. I should be thankful for looking younger than my years, but in this profession a youthful appearance can be a detriment.”

  Claire smiled. It was going to be more difficult to dislike Doctor Belleau than she’d originally anticipated.

  “What I’d like to do,” he suggested, “is speak with each of you individually. Afterward we’ll all sit down together.” He led Claire back to his office, leaving Charles to wait in the reception room.

  Once in his office, Doctor Belleau sat Claire in a high-backed leather chair and placed himself across from her. “Are you comfortable?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Okay then. I’m going to record our session. Why don’t we start with you telling me a little bit about yourself?”

  “Well, um,” Claire stammered. She wasn’t prepared for this—she’d figured on questions about Liz, about the children, even about Jeffrey, but she’d not anticipated telling her life story.

  “There’s not all that much to tell,” she finally said. “I’m a wife and mother. I live for my family. Elizabeth, she’s my only child, and I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if someone had taken her from me the way Jeffrey has taken the children from Elizabeth.”

  “Are you angry with Jeffrey for keeping the children away from your daughter?”

  “Yes, I’m angry. Wouldn’t you be if someone took your kids?”

  “Unfortunately, I don’t have any children,” he answered, which, as far as Claire was concerned, was not much of an answer. She began to feel less inclined to like the young Doctor Belleau.

  “Why do you think Jeffrey wants to keep the children away from their mother?”

  “Does it matter why? It’s wrong!”

  “Would you still feel it was wrong even if he were doing it for their good?”

  “He’s not! He’s doing it for the good of himself. So, yes, it’s wrong.” Claire hesitated just long enough to gain control of her anger.

  “No one has the right to take children away from their mother. Jeffrey is not just keeping them away from Liz. He’s also keeping them away from me and their grandfather.”

  “How would you feel if Jeffrey agreed to allow the children to see their mother but not you?”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Claire snapped. “I’m their grandma. Why would he do a thing like that?”

  Doctor Belleau shrugged and waited for her to continue.

  “Spite,” she finally said. “Pure spite. Jeffrey is a mean-spirited person. He’s the type who would do something hateful like that. Why else would you take little children away from a grandma who loves them?”

  “Do you think Jeffrey feels spiteful toward you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” Claire answered, “but he does. Maybe he realizes I’m onto him. Maybe he’s worried I’ll tell people about his chippie girlfriend.”

  “Would you?”

  “No, but not because of him,” she said. “I wouldn’t do it because it would hurt Liz more than it would hurt him.”

  “If you had the chance to hurt Jeffrey without upsetting Liz, would you?”

  Claire turned away and didn’t answer.

  “Okay then,” Doctor Belleau finally said. “Let’s talk about your grandchildren. Since they’re so young and impressionable, do you think their mother’s condition might upset them?”

  “Christian is an infant. He wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “What about the older children?”

  “David and Kimberly have seen Liz sick before. She went through a rough time when she was carrying Christian, and she was sick quite often.”

  “More than morning sickness and headaches?”

  “Yes. Sometimes she was bed-ridden for days on end.”

  “Who cared for the children then?”

  “I did, of course,” Claire said. “I’m their grandma.”

  “And now that Jeffrey has someone else taking care of the children, how does that make you feel?”

  “How should it make me feel?” Claire said angrily. “I’m the grandmother! A mother should be there to care for her daughter’s children, not locked out of the house like some stranger!”

  “Have you tried to telephone the children?”

  “Of course. Elizabeth and I have both tried, but Jeffrey doesn’t answer the phone. If he does happen to answer, he says they’re sleeping or playing outside. He makes up any excuse to keep us from talking to the kids.”

  “Have you considered that they might actually be sleeping?”

  “They’re not,” Claire replied disdainfully.

  Doctor Belleau continued to ask difficult questions, making Claire believe he was trying to trick her into saying things she had no intention of saying. Gradually her answers slipped into brief one word statements—yes, no, perhaps. Once that happened, Doctor Belleau suggested it was time for him to talk with Charles.

  The doctor escorted Claire to the reception room. Claire planned to warn Charles of the doctor’s trickiness, but there was no chance. Doctor Belleau waited while Charles replaced the magazine he’d been reading, and then the two of them disappeared down the hall together. After that Claire could only sit and worry as the minutes ticked by.

  Eventually they called for her to join them. The moment she entered the room, Claire noticed Charlie’s calm demeanor had given way to the gruffness she’d expect if he’d gotten a speeding ticket or had an exceptionally bad day at the office. Claire settled into the third leather
chair and before she had time to cross her legs, Doctor Belleau turned on the tape recorder again.

  “I understand that your daughter, Elizabeth, now resides at your home and you care for her, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” Claire answered. “She wanted to go back to her own house where she could be with her husband and her children, but Jeffrey wouldn’t hear of it. A sick wife was supposedly too much for him to deal with.”

  “But isn’t it true that Elizabeth isn’t simply sick, she’s dying?”

  Charles angrily spoke up. “So are you. You’re dying, I’m dying, we’re all dying, every last one of us. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Yes, but wouldn’t you say Elizabeth’s death is imminent?”

  “No one but God knows when someone will die. Life doesn’t come with guarantees. In the blink of an eye you could be struck by a car, hit by lightning, shot by an intruder.” Charles stared square into the doctor’s face. “How imminent is your own death when you consider that these things can happen?”

  “Isn’t there a difference in that those are unexpected occurrences, whereas based on Elizabeth’s medical condition, her death is expected?”

  “Expected when? A year? Five years? Ten years? Nobody knows. Right now the growth of that tumor has stopped, and she’s doing quite well. Maybe next week or next month some pharmaceutical company will announce a miracle drug that can get rid of the tumor altogether.”

  “Do you believe that will happen?” Doctor Belleau asked.

  “Can you swear it won’t?” Charles answered.

  Doctor Belleau checked the time and waited to see if Charles would say something more, but he didn’t.

  “Well,” the doctor finally said rising. “Our time is up, so let’s leave it here.”

  Claire and Charles took one last gulp of cool air; then they walked back down the three flights of stairs, climbed into their sweltering car, and drove home.

  “When do you think this weather will end?” Claire asked, fanning her face.

  Charlie shrugged and cranked up the air conditioning to maximum. “Is that better?”

  “A bit,” she answered, although her face still felt flushed and her blouse soaked through with perspiration.

  They talked about stopping for milk, paying the paperboy, and that evening’s television programming, but neither of them said a word about Doctor Belleau’s questions.

  ~ ~ ~

  Two days later the telephone rang while Claire folded laundry in the basement, so Elizabeth answered it.

  “Missus McDermott?” the caller inquired.

  “No, this is her daughter,” Liz said.

  Doctor Belleau then identified himself and explained that he had actually hoped to speak to her.

  “The court has requested that I interview all parties involved in your plea for visitation,” he said. “I was hoping you’d have a few minutes. Of course, if you’d prefer to do this in person—”

  “No, no,” Elizabeth answered nervously. “This is fine.”

  They talked for several minutes, and then Doctor Belleau asked why Elizabeth thought her husband refused to let her see the children.

  “Do you know I have a malignant brain tumor that’s terminal?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am aware of that.”

  “Well, that’s why. He claims he wants to wean the children away from whatever attachment they have to me so they won’t notice when I die.”

  “Not notice? Is that what you think?”

  “No, that’s what Jeffrey said.”

  “What about you, how do you feel?”

  “I believe my sweet babies need every good memory of me that I can cram into their heads. Then when I’m gone, they’ll be able to remember how much their mother loved them.”

  For several heartbeats Doctor Belleau said nothing. Finally he cleared his throat and asked if Elizabeth thought she was physically strong enough to hold the baby or care for the older children.

  “I’d have to sit to hold Christian,” she answered. “Mom and Dad are here to help me, so I don’t think that’s a problem. David and Kimberly adore Mom, and they’d be no trouble at all.”

  “Your mother seems quite stressed,” he said. “Do you think she could handle taking care of you and the children at the same time?”

  “You don’t know Mom,” Elizabeth replied laughingly. “She could run a hospital and a nursery school at the same time if she had a mind to.”

  “Ah, yes,” Doctor Belleau said, chuckling. “I know what you mean. My mother raised five sons, and she’s the same—tough as nails but soft as an old shoe.”

  Elizabeth laughed again. “You’ve got it.”

  They talked for a few minutes more, not about Jeffrey or the plea for visitation, but about Liz’s love for her children and how she missed them. Eventually the doctor thanked her for her time and hung up.

  When Claire came from the basement carrying her basket of freshly-folded sheets and towels, she asked, “Was that the telephone?”

  “Yes,” Liz answered, “but it was for me.”

  Claire smiled and continued upstairs with her basket.

  Elizabeth Caruthers

  This hateful thing inside my head is tearing my family apart, piece by painful piece. Mother and Dad think I don’t see this, but I do. In the evening they sit across from each other for hours without speaking. That’s not like either of them. It used to be that Mom would chatter endlessly—telling Dad about all the things he needed to repair, gossiping about a neighbor, making plans for the weekend. Now she’s got nothing to say, because of me. She and Daddy think about me all the time but it’s too painful to discuss, so they sit there and say nothing.

  The irony is if you measured my tumor it would be small enough to hold in your hand, like a bird’s egg or crabapple maybe. But inside your head it becomes enormous, bigger than anything you could ever imagine. It takes over your life and spreads itself into the center of everything. People start edging their way around it, the way they would an elephant standing in the middle of the room. We all know it’s there, but given its size and capacity for destruction we pretend not to notice. We don’t even speak of it because calling attention to it might unleash its fury.

  Dad’s worse than Mom in some ways. He’s convinced himself there’s a cure right around the corner—a new drug or some miraculous regimen of chemotherapy they’re hiding from us. Me, I know better. I know if such a thing existed, Doctor Sorenson would have given it to me.

  I feel sorry enough for myself, but I feel even sorrier for Mom. I’m her whole life. She’s been like that as far back as I can remember. Most moms shoo their kids out to play, but not my mom. If I asked to make cookies, she’d stop whatever she was doing just so we could make cookies together. I can’t remember a single instance when she was too busy to spend time with me or my kids. So I keep asking myself, what is she gonna do with all that empty time when I’m gone? Hopefully, she’ll be able to spend time with the kids. My babies are the only part of me she’ll have left.

  I know JT believes seeing me will upset the children, but I can’t understand why he wants to keep them away from Mom. She’s never done anything except love and care for them. But, no, Jeffrey would rather pay Missus Ramirez to watch them and then complain about how he has no money.

  I suppose he can’t comprehend the meaning of a close family. He distrusts everybody and thinks if somebody does something good, they’re after something. His parents are that way too. His mom reminds me of an icy statue. She’s totally aloof and has no use whatsoever for children of any size. I guess that’s why he’s the way he is.

  I know I should feel a ton of hatred for Jeffrey, and plenty of times I do. Other times, I actually feel sorry for him. You’d think he has nothing but meanness inside of him. But truthfully, I think that meanness is just his way of covering up the hurt. With all the time I spend lying in bed, I’ve given this a lot of thought.

  It’s impossible for me to forget how close Jeffrey and I once were
and how many thousands of times he’s said how much he loved me. That’s why I find it hard to believe his heart is as callused as he pretends. I think he’s afraid to face the fact that I’m dying, so he tries to convince himself that he doesn’t care. I pray Jeffrey comes to his senses while I’m still alive because if he lets this drag on until after I die, the guilt of it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The sad truth is that I am going to die. I know it. I’m not giving up, I’m simply being realistic. I can feel this thing pressing against the inside of my brain again, and over the past two weeks the headaches have started coming back. I haven’t told anyone yet, not even Mother. Before I tell her I want to talk to Doctor Sorenson and see what she has to say about it. She’s the one person who will tell me the truth, even if it isn’t what I want to hear. I believe she’s fighting this thing almost as hard as I am.

  For several months I was getting better; it felt almost like the tumor was gone. I’m still taking the chemotherapy treatments, but something has changed. I worry that one of these days I might slide into an awful oblivion and never come back. What if I never have a chance to say goodbye to the people I love? That thought scares me the most.

  Every night I ask God to please let me spend some time with my babies before I lose what’s left of my mind. I want to be able to tell each of them how very special they are and how much I love them. Tomorrow I think I’ll write each of them a long letter that they can keep after I’m gone—but of course, a letter is nowhere near as sweet as whispering those things in your child’s ear.

  Several Weeks Later

  Judge Brill began sorting through his mail, a stack of documents that would have been half the size were it not for frivolous actions and over-zealous lawyers—lawyers who thought delaying tactics could enable their clients to get away with almost anything. After two hours into the task he came across the envelope from Doctor Peter Belleau.

  “About time,” the judge grumbled. He slit the envelope open and thumbed through the contents.

  “Elizabeth Caruthers appears extremely well-adjusted given the prevailing circumstances,” the first report read. It continued for almost two pages and ended with, “Based on my telephone interview of Elizabeth, I have concluded that she exhibits deep and sincere feelings for her three children. It is therefore my recommendation that the court grant visitation as her request appears to be reasonable, well-intentioned, and without malice.”