Land of Last Chances

by Joan Cohen

  When she leaned down to kiss the top of his head, she noticed his panting sounded a bit hoarse. Even Bricklin was affected by the punishing cold. After sipping her coffee, which was almost too hot to drink, Jeanne felt sufficiently fortified to collect the newspaper from the porch. She was most of the way through the front page when she realized she had no idea what she was reading. She was about to have a long hollow needle penetrate her baby’s inner world, and nothing from the outside world was of equal importance or interest.

  The amniotic fluid withdrawn would tell her more than she already knew about the presence of genetic anomalies. But paternity, that “Who’s your daddy?” question, was data she’d been ambivalent about learning. Either Jake or Vince would be problematic as the father.

  She pushed aside her coffee along with the newspaper and crossed the kitchen to the drawer opposite her sink. Two large Ziploc bags were all she’d need. She carried them into her bathroom and gingerly withdrew Vince’s toothbrush from her toothbrush holder. She dropped it into the first bag with the utmost care, as though she were the one responsible for the lab’s sterility. The hairbrush from the middle drawer went into the second bag. She’d put off the paternity test for too long, but this exercise felt like pursuing a forensic investigation of a crime.

  A bottle of aftershave sat on the counter, and, on impulse, she opened it and held it to her nose. She could almost see Vince there, a genie freed from the bottle, towel wrapped around his waist, slapping lotion on his freshly shaved cheeks and chin. She closed the bottle and dropped it into her bathroom trash. Before leaving the house, Jeanne made certain she drank a large glass of water, as instructed, so she would arrive at the hospital with a full bladder.

  When the procedure was over, she was told to go home and rest. There might be cramping or other side effects. The nurse asked if someone was there to drive her. Jeanne lied and assured her a cousin was in the cafeteria waiting for her.

  On her way through the waiting room, Jeanne heard someone call her name. Fran Margolis rose from her seat. Jeanne recognized her immediately, although it had been several years since they’d worked together at LMN Corporation, where Fran had been the HR director. A young pregnant woman seated beside Fran rose too and smiled as Fran introduced her daughter, Liz. Liz glanced at Jeanne’s belly, her eyes registering momentary confusion.

  “Wow, Jeanne,” Fran said. “Didn’t realize how out of touch we’d been.” She gave Jeanne a quick hug. “Belated congratulations on your marriage and . . . and . . .” Liz, who’d checked Jeanne’s ring finger, was discreetly nudging her elbow into her mother’s side. “Oh, sorry. Since I retired from human resources, I seem to have lost certain . . . uh . . . sensitivities.”

  “Liz is observant. Don’t worry about it. You know me—always trying to be a step ahead. Too busy to take time for marriage.”

  “Do you know what you’re having yet?”

  “A son.” Why had she said that instead of just “a boy”? She needed to keep her distance. She had to remember her vow that no child of hers would one day wish he’d never been born. Abortion now would be the lesser pain. “I really have to get going. Liz, good luck.”

  “Jeanne,” Fran called after her. “Let’s get together for lunch. I’m listed in Weston.”

  “Sure.” Jeanne wouldn’t call. She didn’t trust herself to pursue another friendship, as much as she liked Fran. After the blowup with Maggie, it was clearer than ever; there was no point. Maybe, instead of worrying about Alzheimer’s, she should be worried her child would inherit her impaired relationship gene. Too bad there was no amnio test for that.

  Someday there would be a test for everything. By then, scientists would have figured out the genetics behind every human characteristic. In spite of the ponderous debates over what ethical restrictions should apply to prevent designer babies, people would create them anyway, if not in this country, then somewhere. The probability something that can be done will be done is always greater than zero. There will be babies destined to become killing machines, sex kittens, geniuses, Olympians . . .

  Jeanne unlocked her car and slid into the driver’s seat with difficulty. Again, she’d have to adjust it farther back. It was becoming more difficult to find a comfortable position anywhere.

  CHAPTER 12

  “This is Ruth MacGregor. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m able.” The quavering voice sounded elderly, yet there was a clarity to it that said, I’m still going strong. At least, that’s how Jeanne interpreted it. She very much wanted Ruth MacGregor to be in full possession of her faculties.

  Jeanne left a message explaining only that she was eager to talk with Ruth about an article she’d written a number of years ago. “Desperate” would have been more accurate than “eager,” but she didn’t want to sound as though she were as off-kilter as she felt.

  It had taken Jeanne a number of phone calls to track Ruth down, and every day that went by brought Jeanne closer to her go or no-go abortion date. She craved information, anything at all, that might shed so much as a lumen of light on her father’s life and illness.

  Jeanne sat on her couch holding her phone, even after she’d ended the call. Bricklin lay at her feet, and she automatically patted his head. What if Ruth didn’t return the call? What if she visited family for a month at Christmas?

  Bricklin, who was not satisfied with less than her full attention, laid his head on Jeanne’s feet. He was panting hoarsely again. She checked her contact list for the vet’s number. She really should have called Dr. Chu before this, but she’d told herself the rasping was caused by the greater exertion required with only three legs.

  After leaving a message that she needed an appointment as soon as possible, she slid down off the couch and lifted Bricklin’s muzzle into her hands. She kissed him on his forehead, a gesture of affection he returned with a few well-placed licks on her nose.

  The following afternoon, while Jeanne sat nervously in the corner of Dr. Chu’s examining room, Bricklin trembled. Dr. Chu checked Bricklin’s temperature, inspected his mouth, and ran his hands over the dog’s body. When he’d finished his examination, his voice was gentle but his message harsh.

  He couldn’t be sure, but he suspected a tumor in Bricklin’s lungs. Jeanne started shaking her head before he finished. “That wasn’t supposed to happen,” she protested. “They said they got the whole tumor. The margins were clean.”

  “With this type of tumor, the shoulder isn’t usually the point of origin. It’s the lungs, and, unfortunately, it may have been too small to be picked up on an X-ray when Bricklin had his amputation. I’ll contact your veterinary oncologist at Angell and let him know Bricklin will need to be seen.”

  Since he had to be sedated for his X-ray at Angell, Bricklin spent the next day at the animal hospital, while Jeanne tried not to think about what she was going to hear at the end of the day. As soon as the automatic doors opened, her heart beat faster. Stepping up to the reception desk, her fight-or-flight response took hold.

  Please, please, please, she repeated to herself during her wait on the hard bench of the waiting room. Whom was she entreating, Vince’s big guy in the sky? She would have burned incense on any altar and petitioned any god if it would have brought good news.

  The oncologist confirmed Dr. Chu’s suspicions. Bricklin’s lung tumor was unusually aggressive. When an assistant brought Bricklin into the office, Jeanne began to cry. “Can you treat it?”

  “It’s inoperable, I’m afraid.”

  “How much time?” she managed to get out.

  “That’s hard to say. Honestly, not long, but you’ll have to be the judge of that yourself. With a euthanasia decision, the issue is quality of life.” While Jeanne struggled to get control of herself, he waited with long-practiced patience. “I’m so sorry. He’s a sweet dog.”

  Jeanne gave Bricklin a boost into the back seat of her car and started the engine. She only managed to get a quarter of a mile down the VFW Parkway befor
e she was sobbing and had to pull over. Sweet dog? More like her best friend, the only one she could count on, the only one she hadn’t pissed off.

  Jeanne sat brooding at her kitchen table, trying to find the energy and appetite to prepare her dinner. It took a return call from Ruth MacGregor to rouse her. Jeanne thanked her effusively for calling and described the article she’d referenced in her message. “You wrote it more than forty-five years ago. I was hoping you might perhaps have some memory of it.” She held her breath.

  “Fay Bridgeton is your mother? I do indeed remember her. Does she still live in the Boston area?” Jeanne explained her mother had died the previous summer. Ruth sighed. “I’m getting used to that. All of us dinosaurs are gone or going.”

  “I’d like to meet with you, if it wouldn’t be an imposition. I know it’s close to Christmas, but . . .”

  “Oh, that’s no problem, but I can’t meet you. I’m pretty much housebound now. You’ll have to come here. Do you know where Stockbridge is?” Jeanne hadn’t been to the Berkshires in years, since an old boyfriend who played the cello insisted they drive out to Tanglewood to hear Yo-Yo Ma. Jeanne would have driven to Eskimo country to meet with Ruth MacGregor and readily agreed to an appointment Saturday afternoon.

  Jeanne’s next call was to Scott. She left a message on his voice mail that she needed his help on Saturday. “I know that night is Christmas Eve, but if there’s any way you can swing it . . . Call me when you have a minute to talk. Bricklin is sick again.”

  Hearing his name, he looked up at her. “C’mon boy. We’re going for a long walk. I’ve finished throwing myself a pity party. From now on, you’re going to be living the high life.”

  Alberta’s email invited everyone to the lobby at eleven thirty for the awarding of a fresh turkey to the winner of the photo contest. Jake traditionally dismissed his employees at three o’clock the Friday before Christmas weekend, but many cubicles seemed to empty out after lunch. Alberta’s timing guaranteed a good turnout to admire the formidable turkey sitting on the reception area’s coffee table.

  In spite of Eduardo’s hawking his punch, the bowl attracted few takers until Bart moved to his side and produced a bottle in a paper bag. “Secret sauce,” Bart announced, and before Eduardo had time to react, dumped the contents into the punch bowl. After that, Eduardo could scarcely keep up with the demand.

  Alberta shushed everyone so she could announce the winner. “Where are the pictures?” a Rastafarian-haired systems engineer yelled out.

  “No way to bring all those to the lobby,” she said, “or fit all of you in the hallway in front of my office, but the names are posted on the board now, so you can see how all those beautiful children turned out.” Alberta shot Bart a dirty look. “Okay, drum roll, please. The winners—with a joint submission—are Sal Finiello and Mary Coolidge!”

  After the cheering subsided, Louis asked his two engineers how they intended to share their prize. “Just like you taught us—by collaboration.” A couple of groans accompanied by “brownnose” and “suck-up” emerged from the group, but Sal just grinned. “Mary likes the white meat, and I like the dark.”

  Jeanne spotted Lisa Sculley, punch cup in hand, leaning against a doorway. She was a slender woman with shoulder-length gray hair and a lined face unadorned by makeup. Comfortable with her age, Jeanne thought, in contrast to Parker Neal, who had appeared the same age as Lisa in their childhood photo. Jeanne made her way over and wished her a happy holiday. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, was the coach in your picture Milton Cox, the fellow who crashed his car into our lobby?”

  “I wasn’t in the building that day, but when I saw his name in the paper, I realized he was the guy Parker Neal and I took gymnastics with. Milton would be much older now, so maybe he got confused. Probably shouldn’t still be driving. Weird, huh?”

  “What was Parker like back then?”

  Lisa shrugged. “Oh, you know . . . the same.” She lifted her cup and sloshed the meager remaining punch. “Think I’ll refill.”

  After Jake wished everyone a merry Christmas, the party broke up. By the time Jeanne returned to her office and packed up her laptop, it seemed everyone had fled the building to begin the holiday. It was family time.

  Jeanne carried her family within: her mother in her memories, her father in her imagination, her child . . . Her child was no more than a transient, a reverse silhouette on a sonogram. Thank God she had Bricklin, even if she only had him for this Christmas. He was her family.

  Route 128 southbound was as congested as on Friday afternoons in the summer, when it seemed the entire population of metropolitan Boston was endeavoring to reach Cape Cod. Christmas week, too, was popular with vacationers. Ski racks and Thule packs rode atop their SUVs, dwarfing Jeanne’s businesslike sedan. Make way for families and fun, they seemed to say.

  She wished she could stop at her mother’s house in Newton, but, of course, no one was there. A sense of desolation settled like a weight on her chest. All that stood between Jeanne and a cheerless Christmas weekend was Ruth MacGregor. She prayed Ruth would give her a shred of the family history she craved.

  The overnight snow obligingly finished while Jeanne was still enjoying her morning coffee. By ten o’clock, the wind had pushed out the clouds before them, leaving an intense wintry blue framed by Jeanne’s sunroof. She had counted on a two-hour trip west on the Mass Pike, but traffic was heavy until she reached Sturbridge. Most everyone took the exit for Route 84 to Connecticut, New York, and points south, so the reduction from three lanes to two actually opened up the highway.

  Just after the Westfield exit, the road began to climb. Jeanne couldn’t decide if the Berkshires were giant hills or small mountains, but either way, her ascent up the highway inspired her the way a glimpse of an unexpected view made her catch her breath. Stalactites hung suspended from the rock formations the Pike had created as it sliced across Massachusetts. Jeanne felt the pressure of the climb on her eardrums, a not unwelcome muffling that matched her sense of entering a quieter world.

  The main street of Stockbridge was dominated by the Red Lion Inn and its generous veranda. Perhaps she shouldn’t arrive at Ruth’s empty-handed. It might be her lunchtime, and even if it weren’t, she would surely offer Jeanne refreshments. The charming lobby of the inn was a Victorian delight with a large tree and a roomful of seasonal trimmings. Jeanne couldn’t see the piano but heard the Christmas music as soon as she stepped inside. She passed it, tucked into a parlor, on her way to the gift shop.

  All the merchandise in the shop basked in the warm light of well-placed spots and floods. Jeanne had a vague idea about a gift, perhaps a jar of homemade preserves, but stopped before an arresting display of children’s gifts. A diminutive onesie on a hanger had a sleigh embroidered on the front and a matching Santa hat. In front of it sat a wicker basket filled with small stuffed animals. She picked up a sweet bunny with a red bow tie around its neck. So soft, it reminded her of the silky fur on Bricklin’s head, and she couldn’t resist holding it to her cheek.

  In the next room, Jeanne spotted a jar of apricot preserves with a calico wrap and straw ribbon. She handed it to the cashier. “You want that too?” asked the rotund matron behind the counter. She pointed to the rabbit in Jeanne’s other hand.

  Jeanne’s face flushed. Don’t do this to yourself, she thought. “I . . . uh . . . yes, I want it.” She laid the bunny gently on the counter and took out her wallet.

  Ruth MacGregor lived in a cottage on Main Street a short distance beyond the shops of town. Jeanne didn’t need to see the date plaque mounted on the gray shingles to know the house was of an early vintage. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see it in a Norman Rockwell painting, since the famous illustrator had lived and worked in Stockbridge.

  A young woman with the elongated features of a Modigliani answered the door. “Ms. Bridgeton, come in, come in out of the cold.” She shivered and pulled at the sleeves of her white turtleneck. “I’m Ms. MacGregor’s aide, Hannah. She�
��s eager to see you. There aren’t many visitors anymore, especially since her husband died.”

  Was it possible the house actually smelled like gingerbread? Jeanne took in the pine walls, braided rugs, and wicker chairs, all of it so authentically country without the preciousness Jeanne saw on the covers of country life magazines in the supermarket.

  A frail woman, as yellowed and brittle as the clipping Jeanne had brought, sat in an upholstered fireside rocker. Her bright eyes and broad smile kept Jeanne from immediately noticing the plastic tube leading to her nose from the oxygen tank on the floor. A walker was parked close at hand. “Jeanne, please excuse me if I don’t get up to greet you.”

  Jeanne grasped the shaky extended hand. “No need. I’m just so happy you were willing to see me—that you even remember the article you wrote about my parents.” Hannah brought Jeanne a chair and placed it close to Ruth before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “My memory is great. Unfortunately, the rest of me isn’t doing so well.” She called out to Hannah, “Jeanne will be joining us for lunch.” Her raised palm held off any protest. “Hannah’s chicken soup is irresistible, and there’s gingerbread for dessert.” It was settled.

  Jeanne didn’t want to tire her out. Perhaps Ruth napped after lunch. She looked as though the sum total of her energies lay in her eyes and her smile, as though she might disappear like the Cheshire cat, leaving those to fade last along with any knowledge of Jeanne’s father. Jeanne pulled out the yellowed article from her mother’s safe deposit box and laid it on Ruth’s lap.