by Joan Cohen
The elderly woman rubbed her fingers across it. “Newsprint—someday it will be in a museum, probably where I belong. Your world is all digital. I’m glad I won’t be here to see that. You know, I’ve traveled all over the world covering stories, and in my day, I couldn’t be scooped by someone posting breaking news on the Internet.” She looked into the fire. “I was just doing human interest stories when I met your mother. We actually became friends.”
Jeanne didn’t think of her mother as a person who made friends readily, but then her mother had been young and probably traumatized by the accident. “I’m sorry I never heard her mention you. What was she like back then?”
“She loved your father very much, in spite of the nightmare she was living, caring for a man with dementia and an infant at the same time. We stayed in contact for a while, but when I became a foreign correspondent, we lost touch. No Face-book, you know.” She laughed.
“Did she talk about him? I . . . I don’t know much. My mother was a very private person.”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Hannah said, “but lunch is ready.” Jeanne wanted to help in some way, but Hannah deftly swept up the walker and raised Ruth out of her chair so she could grasp it. “You can bring the oxygen. That would help.”
“Thanks for offering, Jeanne. Hannah makes sure I get my exercise, even if it’s just from that chair to the table.” Once Jeanne and Ruth were settled in the dining room, Hannah brought out two steaming bowls of chicken soup, really more like a stew with chunks of chicken, potatoes, and vegetables fighting for space in the fragrant broth. “Nothing compares to Hannah’s soup for chasing away the winter chill, unless it’s brandy.” She winked at Jeanne. “They won’t let me have it anymore, since it fights with my medicine.”
The soup both warmed and soothed Jeanne from the inside out. She couldn’t remember when she’d last felt cocooned like this. A vision of Vince flashed into her mind, Vince with an apron and wooden spoon, Vince leaning over the stove and saying, “You’re gonna love this soup, babe. Isn’t she, Bricklin?”
“Your mother had her reasons, Jeanne, for sharing so little with you about your father. She’d endured the pain of watching his mind decline, the exhaustion of being his caregiver when she had you to care for too, and the terror of not knowing what was wrong with him. She watched you like a hawk to make sure you were a normal baby with no sign you might have inherited a disease from him.”
“But I thought his doctor diagnosed him as having Alzheimer’s.”
“That was his best guess, but no one knew for sure. The disease was less well understood back then.” Jeanne’s crestfallen look elicited a quick reach across the table from Ruth, who covered Jeanne’s hand with her gnarled fingers. “You were hoping I knew what was wrong with him, weren’t you?” Jeanne nodded. “This is about your future—yours and your baby’s. How far along are you?”
“Twenty-three weeks. A week from now, I might not be pregnant anymore.” How strange those words sounded, especially with the bitter note she couldn’t keep out of her voice.
“Ah, punishing yourself.” Jeanne searched Ruth’s eyes for her meaning. “Punishing yourself for conceiving a child when your mother meant for the risk to end with you. She owed it to you to make sure you never went through the hand-wringing she did over the future of a child.”
Hand-wringing over the future, Jeanne thought, a dubious talent she’d inherited. “Her plan didn’t work out so well. She just delayed my conceiving until, at the last possible moment, nature decided to play a trick on me.”
“Nature, God, the randomness of the universe . . . who knows? I had a similar experience earlier this year, when I was in hospice care—palliative treatment only. Insurance covers a maximum of six months, but most people die much sooner. I ‘graduated.’ Who knows why? You really want this baby, don’t you? Here you are only a week away from the legal limit, and you haven’t had an abortion yet.” Jeanne nodded and blinked her moist eyes. Ruth’s forehead creased into a hash of wrinkles.
“I’m so sorry for bringing my problems to you and ruining your Christmas Eve. Let’s not talk about the baby. The story you related in the paper was touching and beautifully written. I’m not surprised you became a success. If you and my mother were friends for a time, did she tell you about my father?”
Hannah took away the bowls and put china dessert plates and coffee cups in their place. Out from the kitchen came a platter of gingerbread men with red and green frosting faces and borders. Jeanne was transported to her childhood, to Fay Bridgeton’s holiday baking, and to a lost memory of hugging an aproned waist and being enveloped in her mother’s arms. Maybe it was her mother Jeanne didn’t know enough about or didn’t remember—or maybe had chosen not to remember.
“She showed me your father’s picture. You look like him, Jeanne. In spite of his being orphaned, he was lucky in his adoptive parents, who were warm and loving. Your parents complemented each other, she the disciplined and orderly type, and he the physical and more effusive of the two. She said he gestured with his hands when he talked. I’m afraid the depression and moodiness of his illness made her miss him even before he died.”
At that moment, Jeanne felt her mother’s loss in a visceral way. She had blamed Fay for the secrets, but oh, how hard his death must have been for her. Hannah poured the coffee and urged another gingerbread man. “Perhaps one for the road.”
Jeanne looked at her watch, mindful of Bricklin awaiting her return. “Is there anything else my mother told you about him? Did she mention interests? Hobbies?”
Ruth smiled. “He loved football, was a star offensive lineman in college, or something like that, a very physical person. Seemed like she named other sports too, said he played something in every season. Even after college, there was no end to his athletic injuries.” She put her hand to her forehead. “I’m afraid the details are a bit hazy.” Jeanne marveled at her memory, not in the least hazy—no Alzheimer’s there.
Hannah appeared and moved to Ruth’s side. “Let’s get you back into your comfortable chair.” Her meaningful glance at Jeanne was unnecessary, as she was already rising to leave.
“I hope my visit hasn’t been too taxing. This afternoon has been wonderful—magical.” After Hannah had helped Ruth back to her chair by the fire and thrown another log on the flames, Jeanne leaned over and took both Ruth’s hands in her own. “Thank you. Thank you so very much.”
“I’m glad you came to see me. Have a wonderful Christmas.” Hannah brought Jeanne’s coat and slipped a bag of gingerbread men into her hands at the door. Jeanne turned to wave, but Ruth’s eyes were already closed.
Christmas morning was overcast. Jeanne turned on every lamp in her condo trying to dispel the gloom with incandescence. She turned on her gas fireplace and sank to the floor to give Bricklin special hugs. There was no reproducing the coziness of Ruth MacGregor’s home, for its source was not simply the charm of her vintage home and antiques but the warmth of the woman herself.
As she contemplated the empty hours of the holiday, with the office closed Monday as well, she wondered what kind of Christmas Ruth MacGregor had planned. Were any of her friends still alive? Surely, she must have family—someone besides Hannah.
Jeanne remembered Thanksgiving at Dawning Day and how many residents had no place to go or were too infirm to travel. “Think you’re up to the role of therapy dog today?” Bricklin’s head tilted quizzically as he tried to divine her meaning.
Two hours later, when Jeanne pulled into the Dawning Day parking lot, she felt snug inside a red maternity sweater, and Bricklin sported a green ribbon and bow around his neck. She eyed the large holiday box beside her in its shopping bag and decided to take it in with her. What she would say to Maggie, she wasn’t sure, but she prayed the right words would come to her.
The volunteer manning the reception desk remembered Jeanne and assured her that, unexpected or not, her assistance would be welcome. “Do you know if Maggie is here?” Jeanne asked.
“
Someone else just asked me that,” she replied, stretching her neck to locate the source of the query. “Roberta,” she called out to an aide, “are you sure Maggie’s supposed to be here today?”
“Positive,” the woman replied, turning momentarily from the wheelchair she was pushing toward the elevator. Not wanting to cause any more commotion, Jeanne asked the receptionist if there was somewhere she could stow Maggie’s gift. She was just leading Bricklin out of the program director’s office, where she’d left the box with a note, when she heard her name.
Max Keystone’s bald head looked especially polished for Christmas, and his red-and-green bow tie gave him a jaunty aspect. “Max, you’re looking well.” She peeked past him into the empty dining room set for Christmas dinner. “Still spending your meals arguing with Rose and Marta?”
Max’s bow tie seemed to droop along with his smile. “Rose is gone, I’m afraid. She had a stroke right in front of us in the dining room.” Max’s eyes were wet.
Just like that—how fast life could change. “Remember Bricklin?” Jeanne asked, pulling the dog forward. Max bent over to pat his head, and others who either remembered Bricklin from Thanksgiving or were simply drawn to the handicapped canine filtered in from the lounge, where a group of teenagers was singing carols to the assembled.
When it was time for Christmas dinner to be served, Jeanne hung back till everyone was in place. Two new tablemates filled in where Max and Marta had been seated, so Jeanne offered to help serve the meal. Bricklin took up his post outside the dining room and waited for leftovers.
Jeanne couldn’t shake the empty feeling she’d had at home, in spite of Dawning Day’s festive rooms. She remembered her first visit and the magical moment that had moved her to her core, the infant that had enabled a great-grandmother to emerge from her dementia and reengage with life. Why are you back here—for another epiphany? She glanced over at Max’s table. Well, there it is—life can go south in a heartbeat.
A flushed resident at a corner table pressed his hand to his breastbone. “Heartburn again, Joseph?” an aide asked him. “Isn’t Maggie here?” she called to a coworker, who shrugged. Someone on staff would call the EMTs for Joseph, but Jeanne was worried about Maggie, whom she couldn’t imagine pulling a Christmas no-show. A supervisor had joined the aide at Joseph’s table. “I’m the most expendable,” Jeanne told her. “I’ll go check on Maggie.”
Bricklin, who’d been the recipient of varied treats from passing staff members, was none too pleased to be pulled out into the cold. Jeanne promised him a speedy return for leftovers and was glad no human occupied the car with her. A passenger might have asked her the question she was trying to ignore: what if Maggie shut the door in her face?
The waning light of the December afternoon reinforced Jeanne’s sense of urgency as she tried to make the fifteen-minute drive to Maggie’s Framingham apartment building in ten. The last time she had been there was after Maggie’s car accident.
Pressing the button to gain entry seemed pointless, since Maggie hadn’t answered her phone. The wrought-iron-and-glass door opened, and two young girls balancing gift boxes came through, followed by their parents. The mother smiled benevolently at Jeanne when she noticed her belly, and the father held the door until Bricklin had limped his way in.
Maggie’s sixth-floor apartment was at the end of the hall, and though Jeanne could hear laughter from one neighboring apartment and Yule-log music from another, no sound emanated from Maggie’s, even when Jeanne put her ear to the door. She rang the bell several times and could hear it ringing inside.
She tried the bell next door and hoped it would be heard over the din of the festivities. A muscular young man with a beer bottle in his hand answered the door. No, he didn’t know Maggie more than to say hi, and he didn’t have a key to her apartment. He was quick to close the door, leaving Jeanne standing in the hallway feeling like an interloper.
The Yule-log music came from a small television. Its sprightly owner was a white-haired woman who opened the door before Jeanne could ring. She wore a green wool coat with a sprig of artificial holly pinned to the lapel, and she was shocked to see a stranger outside her apartment.
“I’m sorry,” Jeanne said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The woman backed into her apartment and started to close the door. “Wait,” Jeanne blurted out. “I’m a close friend of Maggie’s, and she didn’t come to work today. She’s a nurse at Dawning Day, and she has health issues of her own, and, and . . . look, I really need to get in there. Do you have a key?”
The woman released her tight grip on the edge of the door and opened it wider. Her eyes dropped to Jeanne’s belly and the three-legged dog at her side and seemed reassured Jeanne wasn’t likely to be a burglar. “I have a key, but I’m not sure it’s appropriate for me to let you in. Why don’t you wait in the hall while I go in first?”
Relieved, Jeanne leaned up against the wall until the woman fetched the key and opened the lock. Maggie’s inert body was visible from the doorway. Jeanne rushed to her side and dropped awkwardly to the floor. She could hear the neighbor behind her calling 911.
Maggie was alive but unresponsive. While Jeanne patted Maggie’s hands and face, agonizing over her own uselessness, Bricklin pushed past her and tried to lick Maggie’s face. In his effort, he dislodged a Hershey wrapper from beneath her arm. It was hard to believe Maggie would be eating chocolate when she’d been dieting so rigorously two weeks earlier.
First, just one siren was audible. Then Jeanne heard another, followed by a commotion in the hall. Two EMTs strode into the apartment, a young man with a weight-lifter body and a delicate-looking blonde woman. “She’s diabetic,” Jeanne said, as they crouched beside her.
The young woman was already checking Maggie’s vital signs, so Jeanne backed away into the kitchen. What if . . . She opened the cabinet door under the sink to find the trash. There were too many candy bar wrappers in the pail to count. She carried the pail over to the EMTs. “What would these do to a diabetic?”
“Probably cause diabetic coma,” the woman answered. They thanked her and tested Maggie’s blood. Satisfied with their analysis, they put her on an IV, administering insulin for her high blood sugar and potassium and sodium for her dehydration. Jeanne watched them wheel her out on a gurney and started to follow. Bricklin lay on the floor panting and resisted Jeanne’s pull on the leash.
“What hospital are you taking her to?” she called after them. Bricklin would need her attention before she could follow. She took a bowl out of Maggie’s cabinet and filled it with water, which Bricklin lapped up from a prone position. She shouldn’t have kept him out of the house for so long. He didn’t have the stamina for it.
Jeanne dropped down into a recliner in Maggie’s living room. Dragging Bricklin off to Dawning Day had been a bad idea, partly an escape for her, partly a way to avoid thinking about how fast he was getting worse. She wondered if she’d always had this talent for self-deception.
Bricklin coughed several times and looked up at her from the floor. Leaving him in a freezing cold car at the hospital wasn’t an option. Maggie would be well cared for whether Jeanne followed or not and might even be upset to wake up and find Jeanne at her bedside.
She stooped down and stroked Bricklin’s head and neck and ran her hand several times down the length of his back. Her fingers came away with an airy cloud of fur. She rubbed it between her thumb and fingertips. Funny what she did from force of habit. As if it mattered now that he was shedding. “Let’s go home, sweet boy.”
CHAPTER 13
Bricklin’s quality of life was no longer debatable. He wouldn’t eat and resisted more than the briefest walk. Jeanne sat on her kitchen floor, legs splayed around her dog while she reached over her belly to hug him. Her own quality of life seemed equally bleak as she faced her twenty-fourth week, her private apocalypse. If only she hadn’t allowed herself to contemplate the joy of raising her son. If only she hadn’t forgotten who she was, how inevitable it was that she
’d push people away. She had no business having a child, no business at all.
Losing Bricklin and her baby in the same week—it was too, too much. Her tears, accompanied by uncontrollable sobs, brought forth a whimper from Bricklin, who tried to rise and offer comfort. “Down, Bricklin.” Wiping her eyes on her sleeve, she struggled to steady herself.
The deep blue sky and brilliant sun were an offensive mismatch to Jeanne’s mood. Light poured through the kitchen window and skylight, but she didn’t have the energy to shut it out. Two days till Wednesday, only forty-eight hours to pull herself together and do what she had to.
“I don’t know where you’re going, Bricklin. I’ve never believed in an afterlife, but wherever you are, he’ll be there too.” Her voice quavered. “Please watch over my son.” With soaked sleeve and stiff back, she pulled herself upright. Calm was unattainable. She’d settle for feeling numb.
Jeanne didn’t go into the office the next morning till all the arrangements were made. Dr. Chu would expect her at nine Wednesday morning. Bricklin would be given a shot to make him sleepy, and when he was finally euthanized, he would go peacefully in her arms. How serene they make it sound, she thought bitterly.
Jeanne’s abortion appointment would be at ten thirty the same morning, a scant two days before the legal limit for terminating her pregnancy. The weekend to follow was New Year’s. She would go away somewhere—anywhere—and promised herself that would make a difference.
Just before noon, Jeanne’s cell phone rang, and she was shocked to see Maggie’s name in the caller ID. “I have to take this, guys,” she said to Mariana, Clara, and the new marketing communications manager, who gathered their notes and left her office.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt a meeting. You can call me back.”
“We were wrapping up anyway.” Jeanne began pacing back and forth across her office.