At Kathy’s block party there were clowns, face painters. The local fire truck drove Gracie and a gaggle of pals around the block. An older couple came up and introduced themselves; they had read about Gracie’s story, and the man had built her a Victorian dollhouse, complete with gingerbread trim. They brought a photo of it. “Gracie’s Mansion” was hand-lettered above a light blue front door.
“When she comes home, swing by and pick it up,” they said. I love their optimism. When.
Around five o’clock, as the party took on a mellow vibe, Marty Markowitz, Brooklyn borough president, arrived. He stood on our porch to address the crowd. He declared this “Gracie Day” and wished her well. I cried and said something inarticulate. Brian welled up and said something articulate. Gracie shrieked and ran in circles and generally embarrassed us with her appearance of good health. “She really is sick,” I wanted to tell people. “I swear.” Gabriel fell asleep over Brian’s shoulder.
All afternoon Gracie, who’d only lived in Brooklyn for one year, was claimed by folks all through the neighborhood and beyond, claimed by the working-class guys who drank at the bar where they ran a fifty-fifty raffle for her. Claimed by a young man from the DMV. How could he know how much his generosity meant? He was barely more than a teenager, with his teenage girlfriend by his side whom he called “my fiancée,” both of them barely looking old enough to drink, much less marry, or care about sick children they’d never met, but there he was with an envelope stuffed full of cash. He’d taken up a collection at work and wanted to deliver it in person. Claimed by the mother and daughter who rang our doorbell, long after the party was over, with two fluffy stuffed chairs they’d bought at Target—one Elmo, one Dora—to take with us to North Carolina so that, as the mother put it, “your little ones can be comfy at least.”
Without the block party, we might have raised enough money, maybe. But we would have missed out on knowing the full kindness of strangers, the power of a few determined friends, and the deep heart of Brooklyn. And it was also good that we raised the money because, as it turned out, we needed every cent.
At the end of the night, exhausted and grateful beyond all measure, I hugged Kathy. “You did this. You are superhuman. My God. How are we ever going to thank you?”
“Come back and be my writer-mom friend again. Let the girls grow into truculent teenagers together.” Pause. “OK?”
That she posed it as a choice was her parting gift.
DURHAM
31
The day before Thanksgiving, we flew to Durham. Brian and I held hands across the narrow aisle. Gabriel stood on Brian’s lap, peering up his nose, convinced that, given enough time, he’d find treasure. Gracie kept up a happy running monologue of questions and assertions.
“I am going to see Eden again. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
“Look, Mama, we are up. We are going up.” She was obsessed with the clouds, their fluffiness. Were they cold? Were they scratchy? Could they hold you?
“If you jump high enough, can you get from the ground to a cloud?”
“Maybe,” I said, noncommittal, wanting to promise nothing, wanting to get off the subject of clouds, uncomfortable cousin to heaven. But she was curious.
“If I called ‘Mommy’ from the sky, could you hear me?”
“What do you think?” I don’t know, don’t want to know.
“You say the answer.”
“Yes, I would hear you.” I hope.
“Are the clouds soft? Will they snuggle you, like a blanket?”
“Look,” I said, “here comes the lady with snacks.”
“I want a fuzzy drink. Daddy! I see animal crackers. Get me animal crackers. Don’t give Gabriel the elephant. No! I want the elephant, Daddy!”
Gabriel is giving you his stem cells, I wanted to say. Let him have the ever-loving elephant.
After a very long time, we were nearly there.
“We are going down, Mama. Look down!”
Down was the gentle green of Raleigh-Durham, a mild landscape. No dramatic cliffs, no edge of ocean, no peaks, no dense tangle of buildings. Just a few lakes, lots and lots and lots of trees, and a modest-sized city in the distance.
Gracie was pulling on Brian’s collar, “Did Gabriel eat my cookie?”
Quiet, hush, hush. We’ll give you anything you want. We are flying to the hospital in North Carolina. Everything is about to change.
When we stepped off the plane, the air felt like a skim coating of whipped cream applied to the skin. That’s good; air is oxygen. We were all for oxygen.
We collected our stuff, rented a car, and drove to Alexan Farms, the condo complex we’d seen only online. Our sublet unit was much bigger than our place in Brooklyn but too near a busy road. I looked out the window at the cars whizzing past. They were about a hundred yards away, but only a quaint wood fence with wide-spaced slats separated us from them. I gestured with my head toward the road and said to Brian, “How would that be for an ironic twist?”
I went to the management office, Gracie in tow as evidence. She skipped ahead of me into the lobby where a tall bronze horse raked the air with its hooves. She ran her hands along its muscled legs, “What makes him so cold?” I rambled about the core temperature of metals, realizing that, on the inside, Gracie herself was essentially gilded.
“Are you chilly?” I pulled the cuffs of her pink shirt out from the sleeves of her darker pink sweater.
The woman at the desk stopped typing as soon as we walked in. This must be the South, I thought, if people pay attention to an opening door. I explained our plight. She gave me a rueful look. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I hate to disappoint the transplant families. We try to accommodate y’all in every way we can, but we don’t have any units left except that one by the road.” Her obvious distress at not being able to help, the look on her face as she glanced from me to Gracie and quickly away, this was something new.
Gracie had always looked and seemed healthy enough to pass. We hadn’t yet been subjected to the double-edged blade of pity and kindness most people display when encountering a visibly sick kid. I was at once piqued; this woman assumed my life circumstances were worse than her own (never mind that they likely were); and then grateful (she knew, she understood); and then flooded with a quick dose of potential power—the sick-kid trump card!
I tried to look somber. “Well, we really need the next unit that comes up. My son is only one and a half, and he’ll be home with the babysitter while I’m at the hospital with my daughter, so I’d feel much easier if we were away from the road.” She nodded and promised to relocate us if possible. Gracie said, “No! I don’t want to move again!”