by Joan Cohen
He advised against the testing, but if Jeanne insisted, he suggested she have her blood drawn at Newford Wellman. They would ship over the sample. The calendar was not her friend. Once she passed the twenty-fourth week of her pregnancy, she could no longer have an abortion. Pro-lifers were trying to get legislation passed that would remove that choice at twenty weeks or sooner.
Dr. Cross wasn’t finished raising issues. “I don’t know if cost is a consideration for you, but insurance doesn’t cover testing for predictive purposes, sometimes not even for diagnostic, when a person is already exhibiting clinical symptoms of dementia. Anyway, you wouldn’t want your insurer to know, would you? They’re not, in theory, allowed to boot you based on genetic information, but who knows? Our system of coverage in this country is a political football.” His tone softened. “Did you say you are or aren’t experiencing memory problems?”
After responding with an emphatic no, Jeanne bit her lip, remembering her panic over the missing notebook that had turned up in her desk. How sure of her memory could she be when she’d needed to search the parking lot for her elusive car? “Uh . . . do people ever imagine symptoms?”
“Not imagine so much as read too much into episodes of forgetting. You can have a neuropsychological evaluation if you’re concerned. Takes about three hours—an interview and a battery of tests.” Jeanne would have to wait another two weeks for a neuropsych eval, but she wanted to do it.
Alberta was not in her office that afternoon, although several people stood outside it peering at the now extensive display of childhood photographs. Jeanne had been debating the wisdom of consulting Alberta on the insurance issue raised by Dr. Cross. While all such conversations were supposed to be confidential, and Alberta took her job seriously, Jeanne found it hard to compartmentalize her appalling romance with Bart.
Sal Finiello and Mary Coolidge from engineering were laughing at a picture of a wispy boy with large ears, blond hair that stood up like a Hare Krishna’s, and suspenders. “Has to be,” said Sal.
“Bert Caldor from shipping, for sure,” Mary replied.
Jeanne looked over their shoulders. “I don’t know. True, Bert has a dirty blond Mohawk and looks like he isn’t exactly a foodie, but those ears . . . Unless Bert’s had his pinned back through cosmetic surgery, I’m thinking Bill Kane from support.”
Sal nodded. “You might be right, Jeanne.” Mary looked unconvinced. Jeanne’s eyes wandered to the gymnastics team photo she’d seen on her last trip to HR. She still didn’t recognize the child the red arrow designated, but that coach in the back row—if only she could place him. Sal and Mary had moved on to the next picture. “Think this girl could be Laurie Cronin from accounting?”
“No way,” Mary spoke with certainty. “That’s Lisa Sculley.” Sal agreed, and they each wrote down their guess. Mary turned to Jeanne. “We’re sharing answers, because if one of us wins, we’re splitting the turkey.”
“Clever strategy,” Jeanne said. “Save me a drumstick.”
Alberta appeared at her side. “No drumsticks for senior management, even if you win.” Her pink lipstick contrasted with dark pink lip liner surrounding it, which matched her snug sweater. “Can I help you with anything?”
Jeanne lost her courage. She would not discuss with Alberta whether there was insurance coverage for genetic testing—not that day, not any day. “Some of these are priceless,” Jeanne said, forcing a smile before she turned away.
Perhaps a sanity check was in order. She detoured through the lobby before returning to her office. No sign of the crash remained. The new windows were pristine and allowed the sun to pour in unfiltered.
“Hi, Jeanne.” Eduardo smiled and nodded.
Suddenly she knew. “Oh my God, Eduardo, you need to see this.” She grabbed his arm and pulled him away from the reception desk.
“Where are we going?”
“To HR.” Once they stood in front of the photo display, Jeanne jabbed her finger at the kid under the red arrow. “I don’t know who that is, but tell me if you recognize the man in the back row.”
Eduardo squinted, moving his face closer to the board. “The kid is Lisa Sculley, at least I think it is, and that guy in the back? Could that be the guy who crashed his car into the lobby? His name was in the news stories, Milton . . . Milton Cox.”
“Yes!” Jeanne said triumphantly. “Or his doppelganger.”
“His what?”
“He’s a dead ringer.”
“But this is a much younger man. Don’t you think it’s a coincidence?”
“I don’t know—maybe—but it’s been bugging me. Thanks.”
“Wait a minute.” Eduardo cocked his head and squinted at the picture again. “See this other kid?” He put his finger on a different face topped with a mop of hair. “Do you think that could be Parker Neal?”
Jeanne peered at the spot where Eduardo had left a fingerprint. “Could be—not sure.” Parker had been in the lobby the day of the crash and even commented to Jeanne on Jake’s couch leap. He would have said something if he’d recognized the driver.
Maggie looked wretched when she appeared that evening at the entrance to Starbucks. The pouches under her eyes were as purple as the area around the bandage on her forehead. Her bloodshot eyes met Jeanne’s, but her attempt to smile was feeble. “Jesus, Maggie, sit down. I’ll get you a hot drink.” The wooden chair opposite Jeanne creaked as Maggie collapsed into it.
“I’m fine.”
“Bullshit, you are.” Jeanne walked up to the register to order. While the barista poured two cups of decaf, Jeanne turned to check on her friend, who remained immobile, her jacket still buttoned, eyes downcast. Maggie’s bag had slid off her shoulder and lay on the floor. Jeanne placed one of the cups in front of her and slipped back into her chair. “Is this about your diabetes?”
“Did you ever feel like you were getting sucked back into your childhood, like everything you’d put behind you was pulling you back?”
“You’re not your parents. I know you’re having a hard time with your diagnosis, but, Maggie, you look like you need professional help . . . and maybe a prescription for antidepressants.” Jeanne inspected Maggie’s face more carefully. In spite of its roundness, there were hollows Jeanne hadn’t seen before. “You’re losing weight, aren’t you? Fast?”
Maggie’s mouth tightened at the corners. “We’re in Weight Watchers. That’s what I’m supposed to be doing.”
Jeanne was pretty sure diabetics weren’t supposed to cut way back on what they were eating, especially diabetics like Maggie, who’d just started on insulin. Maggie was a nurse, though. She’d know better than to abuse herself that way.
“I’m just a little down. I’ll bounce back.” Maggie’s eyes were wet, and she swiped them with the back of her hand. “The blurry vision that caused the accident—I’m worried about its effect on my work. What if I give someone the wrong medication?” She gave an angry pinch to a roll of fat on her stomach. “I’ve got to get this weight off. No more farting around.” She extricated her arms from her sleeves and let the jacket fall against the seat back.
“But you haven’t been—”
“I need the restroom.” Maggie leaned down and clutched her bag before rising from the chair. She swayed for a moment and crumpled to the floor.
Jeanne scrambled to her side. “Maggie!” The store manager rushed from behind the counter, his cell phone already to his ear. He untied his green apron and fashioned a cushion for Maggie’s head.
By the time the ambulance arrived, Maggie’s eyes were open. “She’s diabetic,” Jeanne told the EMT, who nodded and spoke reassuringly to Maggie. He checked her pulse and blood pressure before attaching electrodes to her chest. To Jeanne’s relief, the portable EKG machine showed a normal heart rhythm.
When the EMT pricked Maggie’s finger and checked her blood sugar, he frowned. “When did you last eat?”
“Um, this morning?”
“And you’re on insulin?”
&nbs
p; Clearly embarrassed, Maggie nodded and looked away. He urged her to let him take her to the emergency room, but, in the end, she signed a release form stating that against medical advice, she had refused. “I’m going to stay here and eat something, okay? My friend is going to buy me a sandwich.”
Jeanne fought down the urge to scold and brought a turkey sandwich back to the table. The EMTs packed up and left as soon as they’d finished their paperwork. A few patrons were still standing and staring, but Jeanne’s glare ended their rubbernecking. When the barista brought a fresh cup of decaf to the table, Maggie unwrapped her food. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I’m sure you think skipping a meal was dumb, but—”
“Don’t talk. Eat.” After calling Lionel Chambers to arrange for Bricklin to be fed and let out, Jeanne turned off her cell and waited for Maggie to finish. She could understand having the desire to fix a problem all at once. If Maggie could get her excess weight off, perhaps the diabetes would go away. Jeanne had no idea if rapid weight loss was an antidote for diabetes once someone was symptomatic. She suspected Maggie was treating a different condition altogether: self-hatred.
Managing people for two decades had given Jeanne experience with the neuroses of her subordinates. Anxiety, depression, or obsession was manifest in people’s behavior, even when they didn’t realize it. Jeanne was always sympathetic, sending them to HR for a referral, but she lumped these conditions together as productivity issues—just something to factor into her project plan. Never had she felt personally weighed down by their issues the way she did at that moment. Maggie’s pain was her own, and she felt unusually helpless. “Why aren’t you giving yourself credit for all the weight you’ve lost already?”
“I had no business getting this heavy in the first place. I knew the risk. When two people with diabetes have a baby, the odds are 50 percent their child will develop diabetes.”
“But that makes it your parents’ fault.” Fault? Maggie’s parents had only done what Jeanne herself was doing. Continuing her pregnancy put her child at serious risk of developing Alzheimer’s disease. Forty years ago, Maggie’s parents may not have known they were placing their unborn daughter at risk, but if they had, would they have been wrong to have her? What a child they’d had, a terrific person and a nurse to boot. She’d helped so many people. Surely Maggie didn’t regret being born.
Whom had Jeanne helped? In her head, she knew the companies she’d worked for provided value in the form of the products they sold. She’d contributed to generating the revenue that paid people’s salaries so they could support themselves and their families. Yes, she’d helped herself and many others make money, some of them serious money. Her work ultimately benefited many lives. But Maggie helped people one-on-one. Jeanne wondered why she couldn’t figure out how to do that for Maggie. She shut her eyes to keep out the questions.
Perhaps she could relate, after all. She remembered the box from her mother’s attic with its revelations lying beneath the stuffed animals. She, too, had experienced an unexpected tug from the past. She wouldn’t allow tonight to be about her, though. Any hope she’d had of Maggie’s being a sounding board on genetic testing was quashed. She reached out and rubbed her friend’s arm. “Tell me why you’re getting sucked back into your childhood. Reminds me of how I felt when I would come home from college for the holidays, full of womanly independence. My mother treated me in the same old way—told me to eat my vegetables.”
Starbucks closed at nine. The two of them were the last to leave.
Jeanne was a heavy sleeper, but that night she hovered between wakefulness and fitful dozing.
Two o’clock in the morning: lying on her back and staring at the ceiling, she considered her pregnancy issues, weighed alternative consequences, and debated with herself. She was a fierce defender of women’s reproductive rights, but she’d always thought of the women she defended in the aggregate. Now she was that woman. Was she supposed to consider morality alone, and if so, whose? Maybe her biggest problem was the “alone” part.
Three o’clock in the morning: she’d decided to have her baby because she wanted him, not because she opposed abortion. Someday, she imagined, fertilized eggs would be implanted in a robot’s uterus to satisfy both those who wanted to adopt and those who didn’t want to be pregnant. Abortion would just move the fetus to a different zip code, pregnancy would be optional, and both sides of the abortion debate would be served. Of course, there would be moral objections to that too, and some people wouldn’t want to know they had a child out in the world who might be suffering.
Four o’clock in the morning: lying on her stomach, hugging her pillow, she felt oppressed by the choices science was giving her. If there were no genetic testing, she’d have no way to know if she carried or had passed on an Alzheimer’s gene. Maggie’s parents didn’t know that by having a child, they were putting her at risk. Jeanne envied them. What if Jeanne found out she carried the gene, but the baby didn’t. Should she abort her pregnancy so her child wouldn’t be motherless? Give her baby up for adoption?
Rolling onto her side, she felt Bricklin’s warmth beside her. She had to help him onto the bed each night, but it’s where he wanted to be. He was still alive because she’d given him a chance, and he’d shown his will to live. Didn’t her baby deserve at least as much as she’d given her beloved pet? But who would raise her child if she couldn’t?
Five o’clock in the morning: on her back again, she tormented herself with her choice—find out for sure, and maybe not even for sure, if she carried the deterministic gene for Alzheimer’s, but possibly too late to have an abortion; settle for data on the predisposing gene alone. In either case, she would never have the clarity she craved.
Jeanne arrived at work late, exhausted, and in no mood to talk to anyone, but she had to call Sharon Basko with her decision. “I know you think this is a mistake, but I just have to know—all the genes they can test for: PS-1, PS-2, APP, APOE-e4. I can’t walk away from the chance to acquire more supporting data, no matter what the expense. I can afford to pay.”
“You don’t need to please me in this, Jeanne. It’s your call. I’ll let Dr. Cross know. I’d also like to set up a time to meet the baby’s father so I can learn his family health history and test him.”
Jeanne swiveled her chair and stared out the window at a sky that had no business being such a crystalline blue when life below was so complicated. “I should have explained when we first met that I’m pretty sure, but not entirely sure, which of two men . . .”
“I understand, Jeanne. Your situation is not as unusual as you may think. I’ll get back to you on the genetic testing. Okay? Good luck.”
Jeanne tilted her head back and let her arms hang down on either side of her chair. She hadn’t realized how tight her shoulders were till they dropped what felt like several inches. Tension drained from her muscles for only a few moments, though, before guilt pulled her erect.
For the first time in her life, Jeanne’s work was suffering. She forced herself to shift attention to her screen, where a report from Mariana on plans for January’s sales kickoff had languished in Jeanne’s inbox. The event seemed trivial.
As soon as she arrived home, Jeanne peeled off her work clothes. Only four months pregnant and already they were too tight. Could she be carrying an extra-large child? The maternity outfits she’d purchased with Maggie hung in the back of her closet. She thought she’d feel self-conscious wearing them so early in her pregnancy. If she ended up having an abortion, the change would appear more radical if she were already in tent-sized blouses.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the inside of her closet door and made a face. If only she had nothing more serious to worry about than the size of her belly. She pulled the elastic-paneled maternity jeans off their shelf and stepped into them.
Thanksgiving was less than a week away, and she had no plans for the holiday, her first since her mother had died. She felt a pang of longing for the house in Newford—not the
cold hollow shell it had become since her mother’s death but the Thanksgiving home of her youth, its windows reflecting the incandescence within, its air warmly scented by the oven’s savory promises.
A while back, Vince had hinted he might want Jeanne to come with him to New Jersey, where most of his large, noisy family lived. Thanksgiving was a big deal for them, with each household contributing its Italian specialty to his parents’ feast. That trip was off the table now, as Vince hadn’t called her since the conflagration over her attributing paternity to a sperm donor.
Somehow, she would manage to fill the day. Perhaps she and Bricklin would find a new conservation area and take a longer walk than usual. She always had work or industry news to catch up on that could fill a couple of hours. By then she’d be ready to prepare something special for herself, not turkey—the leftovers would last forever—but maybe stuffed Cornish hen.
Jeanne’s shoulders slumped. Who was she kidding? The day would be cheerless. She plucked her cell from its case and pulled up Maggie’s number. After six rings—Jeanne didn’t expect her to pick up—she left a voice mail. Silly, she supposed, but maybe, just maybe, Maggie would be her guest for Thanksgiving.
It was Saturday morning before Maggie called, leading with profuse apologies for her delay in responding to Jeanne’s message. “Don’t worry,” Jeanne urged. “I’m the one who’s usually apologizing to people. You can only return just so many calls during the workday. The important thing is you sound better than you did on Thursday.”
After Maggie assured her she was trying to be more sensible in coping with her diabetes, Jeanne extended her invitation, hoping she didn’t sound desperate.