We moved to San Francisco so he could complete a plastic surgery residency at UCSF, and we’d go to Golden Gate Park on the days they closed the road, sit there on the grass with the children—there were just two of them then—letting them run and crawl. They, and everyone around us, were our entertainment in those cash-strapped days. San Francisco in the eighties was a colorful place. Or perhaps it always is. John would sketch the people, sometimes quite adequately. Once he drew an elderly couple sitting on a bench outside the arboretum, and was so pleased with himself that he showed it to them. They were excited, and asked him if they could buy it, assuming he was a professional artist. He was flattered and simply gifted it to them, but not before they insisted on him signing it. This made him blissfully happy. But although drawing was a talent of his, it was a small talent, and I told him so, that day, as we walked home. I’ve never seen him so cut up. He stopped pushing the double stroller on the corner of 15th Avenue and Geary, and stood there, blinking tears from his eyes. He admitted then that he had registered to take drawing lessons at a night class over at San Francisco State. He’d been afraid to tell me. For good reason. I said absolutely not, that I could not have him fragmented in that way, I needed him to focus, and he said, “Deborah, one day you will kill me.” We didn’t speak for three days. Unusual for us, as those were our good times. At least in my mind. Anyway, he never drew anything again, or if he did, never showed it to me.
Piano playing was another minor talent he had. Previously, before we moved to San Francisco, while still in medical school in Chicago, John played around town in jazz clubs, anywhere that needed an opening act for a headliner. He’d walk over his audition tapes, and got a surprising number of gigs. Leaving me home alone with Charles as a baby. John never slept, or hardly slept in those days, between his surgical residency and piano playing. God knows what was keeping him going. Sheer adrenaline. But his piano, like his sketching, was not his life’s work. Medicine was. And if he hoped to excel at it, he had to devote himself to the study of it. I told him. Repeatedly. He needed to be reminded, was easily distracted, and I kept him on track. I was not going to have an adult life that in any way resembled my early one.
John would have been happy as a general practitioner, would have stopped his education there. I insisted he proceed into surgery. And once we were there, I insisted he specialize. He was the one who chose plastic surgery over neurosurgery, which is what I wanted. He was surprisingly forceful about this. “You don’t think much of my artistic talent,” he told me, “but I could use it in reconstruction work.” From the beginning he was determined that he wouldn’t do cosmetic plastic surgery, only medically necessary procedures. He endured the six additional years of residency required to be board certified at UCSF, and then got a fellowship at Stanford, after which he was almost immediately hired.
About ten years ago, he opened the Taylor Center for Pediatric Reconstructive Surgery, as it was originally called. Against my wishes. His goal was to treat children only, victims of fire or birth defects or other traumas. He hoped that some insurance payments coupled with grants would be enough to allow him to see a substantial number of patients who couldn’t afford to pay, who didn’t have insurance. But, as I predicted, that was harebrained from a financial perspective. So about six years ago he took on a partner who specialized in cosmetic procedures, and changed the name of the clinic to the Taylor Institute of Plastic Surgery. Three years ago, they took on another partner due to the great demand for what John called vanity procedures. He would have nothing to do with that side of the business.
Whether John was happy or not in the later years is a difficult question to answer. He was a complicated man. He still smiled at me over breakfast. Still sang or talked to himself in the shower. In fact, that’s how I usually gauged his moods, by listening outside the bathroom. He gave away a lot in his discussions with himself, in his brief bursts of words and song. Once I heard him say, “Oh MJ, don’t be silly, that’s a zone 12 flower.” In fact, when MJ’s name came up it was usually in the form of a fond reprimand. Helen’s name appeared less frequently, but when it did, it was only her name. Helen. Spoken almost dreamily.
I think the three of us together added up to the perfect marriage, and he needed all of us in order to have a balanced life. Of course, he paid a high price for achieving that balance, for attempting to satisfy the needs of three women. I know I’m echoing the jokesters when I say I’m not surprised he had a heart attack.
Now that John is dead I have to admit that I was tired, too. Tired of being the puppet master. Tired of playing God of John Taylor’s world. Even God needed the seventh day to rest. Every once in a while, amidst the chaos, and grief, and guilt, I feel a deep sense of calm. I was—am—ready for the next phase of my life to begin. Without John.
35
Samantha
WE FINALLY HAVE A BREAKTHROUGH.
All parking lots and street parking in downtown Palo Alto, near the Westin, have two-hour time limits. I’d instructed Mollie to dig up tickets given to cars that had exceeded the two-hour limit on the afternoon and evening of May 10. It was a long shot, but you never know.
Mollie found forty-three tickets from that Friday starting at 4 PM and ending at 10 PM for the streets surrounding the Westin. I go through the painstaking work of tracking each ticketed car to its owner, and calling each of them. Mostly I get voicemail, and leave messages. But one of the names sounds familiar: Thomas Johnston. A city address, in the Mission, in San Francisco. Then I realize: MJ Taylor has a brother named Thomas, and her maiden name was Johnston. We have a match.