John helped me with all of this more than the therapists I’ve paid over the decades. He took on my pain. When I told him, I saw him weep, and with each of his tears I felt lighter. It was miraculous, really. “You had a heinous crime committed against you, and they should have been punished,” he had said. “But they won’t be. So the least you can do is not punish yourself.”
But yesterday, today, tomorrow, I feel as though the world is punishing me. Threatening to take it all away. Time hangs heavy. I feel the tick of every second of the clock, and the empty hours stretch in front of me. I honestly don’t see a way out.
56
Deborah
AFTER I HANG UP THE phone, I move around the house, breaking things.
So that . . . person . . . that Helen, is pregnant. She broke the pledge.
Smash goes the blue living-room lamp, the one John and I picked out in Florence together for our first house, amazed that money was starting to come in after the years of penury. He said the blue matched my eyes. A pang at that memory. Then, smash goes silverware from the drawer. I hurl forks and knives onto the floor. A hailstorm of sharp edges, and I am sorry there is no one here to get pierced with them. I am utterly alone in this house. Not even a goldfish, hamster, lizard, the pets of the children’s innocent years.
This wasn’t part of the plan. The plan has gone awry. I was to live the rest of my days with dignity. Mrs. John Taylor. Not to have a trail of litter behind me, false wives, bastard children, child brides. It is disgraceful. It is undignified. I even did what certain people suggested that I do when this stink became public: I resigned my posts. My chair at the head of the South Peninsula Garden Club. Member of the board of the Palo Alto Junior League. Member of the steering committee for the Peninsula Open Space Preservation Society. I shed them all.
I can’t help but blame this all on the messenger, that girl detective. She called me again after she visited LA to interview Helen, and casually dropped the bomb in passing. No doubt she enjoyed breaking the news. But I won’t go down easily. An agreement is an agreement.
I book my flight to LA.
57
Helen
A BOY. I AM CARRYING a boy. This is shocking news. This is unwelcome news. Unacceptable. What can I do with a boy? There is no boy in my future.
I found out this morning, got the call from the laboratory. The woman on the other end of the line, the technician, was inclined to be playful. “You have a healthy child,” she said, “Nothing to be alarmed about from the amnio.” “That’s a relief,” I said. My whole body relaxed. What would I have done with a Down syndrome child or child with some other severe birth defect? It would have been aborted. That would have been my only option.
“Don’t you want to know the sex?” asked the woman. I had forgotten about that, so sure was I that my child was female. “Of course,” I replied, and waited. But the technician turned coy. “Want to guess?” she asked. This irritated me. I said, “Boy” just to be ornery, and heard a congratulatory, “That’s right!” “A boy?” I asked, incredulously. “Yes, and it sounds as though that’s what you wanted!” I hung up without saying goodbye.
What do I know of footballs and lizards and wet dreams? I was prepared to deal with the PMS and first love of a girl, but not the onslaught of testosterone. This will take some adjusting. This will take some thinking about.
It has been a rough day so far. Even the overwrought parents got to me in a way they usually don’t. Often I retreat to a zone in the center of my brain that controls all the outgoing signals. The eyes, opening wide while listening and narrowing in thought at the right moments. The voice, firm yet full of compassion. The hand, reaching out to almost touch an arm, but holding back in case that’s too much of an imposition. It doesn’t mean I’m not capable of being kind. I just get so fatigued and cranky and unable to do my job well. For their sake, it’s better that I fake it, look at the children without seeing them, pat their little heads, smile at them. Good oncologists are good actors. This doesn’t make them bad people.
I would have thought so when I was younger, even post medical school. I thought sincerity was the requirement. Now I strive for authenticity. Quite a different thing altogether.
But today things aren’t going well. My control center isn’t operating properly. Earlier, I reached out and actually touched a father who jerked back angrily. To him I was the big bad cancer monster delivering the news of the impending death of his beloved son. Beloved son. I think of blue blankets, and tiny infant footsie suits printed with bats and balls or outer space or railroad motifs. I shudder. I am ashamed in the midst of my irritation. I slip off my shoes, prepare to change into the sneakers I wear home for comfort.
Sally, my favorite nurse, knocks, then opens the door to my office. “There’s someone here who won’t leave,” she says, and grimaces.