I met Shoshana at the hospital the next morning. She had made me an appointment with an OB in the hospital who’d examined me and then agreed to order the test. And Dr. Mizrahi was able to order that your blood be drawn too.
Shoshana hadn’t known how long the test results would take when we’d spoken on the phone. “I can find out for you,” she’d said. “But my best guess is that it might take a few days. The Sabbath starts tomorrow night.”
I’d forgotten about the Sabbath. But I’d figured as long as I had the results by Sunday morning, that was good enough. The machines could breathe for you until then. I could stay with you until then.
But the universe had other plans. Dr. Mizrahi met us at the phlebotomy lab.
“He’s all right now, but Mr. Samson had a bit of a rough night,” she said soon after she said hello.
“Please call him Gabriel,” I told her and Shoshana. They knew our secrets. It felt strange for them to refer to you so formally. “What happened?”
“He spiked a bit of a fever,” she said, as I followed her inside. “The resident in charge thought he might have been developing sepsis, but they increased his antibiotics and gave him acetaminophen. The fever came down. He’s stable now.”
“Sepsis?” I asked; hardly anything after that word had registered.
“Unfortunately, it happens sometimes with patients on life support. It’s a serious infection. But Gabriel seems to have avoided it, at least for now.” Dr. Mizrahi had stopped walking once we entered the lab. I’d stopped next to her.
“He could die at any time?” I asked. “From sepsis?”
“There are many risks to being on life support,” she answered.
I thought about asking her to lay them out for me, but instead I said, “Is there a way to get these test results today? Or tomorrow? I don’t want him to die without knowing.” I felt my throat constrict and wondered, for a moment, if that would actually be easier, to let you die of another cause instead of making the decision myself. But the idea of your body becoming septic, poisoning you from the inside out, made me shudder. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t let anything like that happen.
“I’ll see what we can do,” Dr. Mizrahi said.
Then a man with kind eyes and a long, curly ponytail took my blood and promised to send the results as soon as they were in. And then we came here, to you.
? ? ?
SO HERE WE ARE, GABE. I did better when I walked into your room this morning. I didn’t fall apart. I’m steeling myself. I’m being strong. For you. For the baby. I’m pretending this is a job I’m responsible for that has to get done. I’m doing the best I can.
The nurse who was in here when I arrived said that you could hear me. I know what Dr. Shamir said about your brain, but the nurse said to talk to you anyway, and so I did. I am.
I’ve told you our story. I’ve asked you questions you’ll never be able to answer. I let you know about the baby. The baby that might be ours. Or might not.
I don’t know what would be worse—if it is, or if it isn’t.
I’m holding your hand now. Can you feel my fingers on yours?
The hospital never should have put you on these machines, but no one knew, and now you’re here and they can’t take you off them unless I say it’s okay. I’m trying so hard not to be angry at you for that. But really, Gabe, how could you have put me in this position? How could you ask me to kill you? Did you think at all about what making that choice would do to me? I’m going to have to live with this the rest of my life, Gabe. I know, already, I’ll experience this in my dreams, over and over. I’ll feel the starched sheets, I’ll hear your steady mechanical breaths.
Do you think it’s okay if I climb in there with you? I’ll be careful. I won’t touch any of your tubes. I won’t hurt your broken arm. I just . . . I want to hold you again. My head feels so good on your chest. So right. It always has.
You’ve shaped me. Did you know that? You; September 11th. The person I am, the choices I’ve made. They’re because of you. Because of that day.
Is it all right if I kiss your cheek? I just want to feel you against my lips once more.
Nothing I do will bring you back, will it?
I have to accept that.
lxxx
My son,
I don’t know when I’ll give you this letter, if I do at all—when you turn eighteen? When you graduate from college? Will I wait and leave it to you in a safe-deposit box to open after I die? Or maybe you’ll grow up knowing all of this. Maybe the secret will be too much to keep.
I need to tell someone what happened these past two days—they’ve been the hardest days of my life so far—and I’ve been so grateful that you’ve been here with me, a part of me. I read an article once, when I was pregnant with your sister, about prenatal consciousness. It’s possible that somewhere deep inside your mind, you have your own record of this, your own memories. But in case you don’t, I’m sharing mine. Because these last days should be memorialized.
Yesterday I found out who your father was. And this morning I killed him. I was sitting with him when it happened. His head was resting on my shoulder. My lips were pressed into his hair.
His doctor, Dr. Mizrahi, walked in and asked me if I was ready.
I tried to say the words. I couldn’t. I just nodded.
“You’re doing the right thing,” she told me.
Your father was brain-dead. He’d been in an explosion in Gaza. He would never recover. I’d talked about that with her, over and over. He had no chance of getting better.
I nodded again. Even though I knew I was doing the right thing, it was so hard. So hard it was nearly impossible.
She watched me for a moment; I could see the well of sympathy in her eyes. I was glad it was her doing this and not someone else—she’s been so kind to me, and to your dad. “You can hold him,” she said.
That’s when I pulled him closer to me, when I wrapped my arms around him and rested my own head on his. “Is this okay?” I asked her.