by Joan Cohen
Jeanne observed him one morning, lying at her feet, as she sipped a cup of decaf. “I’m beginning to think James lied to me. I think your mother had a secret tryst with a Great Dane. I’m going to need a new job after this baby comes, just to keep you in dog food.” Mac stood and put his paw on her lap. She was scratching him behind the ears with both hands when she felt her stomach cramp.
She and Maggie had shared a Chinese takeout meal the night before. Perhaps the pork in her moo shu pancake had been past its prime. Ten minutes later she felt another stronger cramp. She texted Maggie. “I don’t think Chinese food was a good idea this late in my pregnancy. Do you have cramps too?”
Ten minutes later, after another painful cramp, Maggie replied, “No, I don’t, and besides, what do you think Chinese people eat when they’re pregnant? You might be having contractions.”
“You mean Braxton-Hicks, the false ones? I’m not due for a couple of weeks.”
“Could be. Lots of people get them off and on toward the end. Just keep track of how often they come and whether they’re getting closer together.”
“I’m supposed to come to Dawning Day this afternoon with Mac to introduce him to the setting and work on getting him to sit quietly when people pet him.”
“We can reschedule. Just let me know. I was supposed to be off today, but I might see you there. We’re short-staffed.”
Jeanne felt the contractions all morning, but they never got any closer together, so she did her best to ignore them. Not till she stepped in the door of Dawning Day did she feel a more painful one close on the heels of the previous one. She took a chair in the reception area after asking for Maggie. Was this contraction seven minutes later? Five? Mac sat on the floor beside her, his eyes on her face.
When Maggie showed up a few minutes later, Mac’s tail thumped against the floor. She leaned down and gave him a hug. “Aren’t you a good boy—you didn’t jump on me. He’s really—Jeanne, are you okay?”
Hands on her belly, Jeanne shook her head. “Maybe I should go home.”
“You’re not driving, and I can’t leave right now, so just hang out here for a minute till I can arrange coverage.” By the time Maggie returned, Jeanne was straining to control her groans.
In between two contractions, Jeanne pointed to her watch. “Five minutes apart—I think. Can we leave now?”
Maggie steered Jeanne to her car, although they had to stop during a contraction in the parking lot. Mac looked up at Jeanne and whimpered. “I’m okay, boy,” she said, turning to Maggie. “Do you think he knows I’m lying?”
“Outside my area of expertise.” She helped Jeanne into the car and opened the back for Mac. “Give me your cell phone. Is Dr. O’Rourke’s number in your contact list?”
“Why? Where are we going?” Jeanne asked, as they turned right out of the parking lot.
“Not to your place, that’s for sure. You belong in the hospital.” Jeanne was too absorbed in her contractions to object. She was vaguely aware of Maggie’s conversation with Dr. O’Rourke’s assistant as her contractions came closer together and began rising to an excruciating crescendo. She felt a desperate need to escape them, to somehow flee her body. The car had become a torture chamber.
Mac nuzzled Jeanne’s shoulder from the back seat, while Maggie drove white-knuckled down Route 30, accelerating across the double yellow line to pass any driver obstructing her. She stole looks at Jeanne, who alternated between fierce grimaces and moans. The in-betweens grew shorter. “Hang on, Jeanne.”
Maggie’s tires screeched as she turned into the circular drive in front of the Newford Wellman Hospital emergency entrance. She pulled Jeanne gently out of the seat she had soaked when her water broke and supported her until an orderly rushed up behind them with a wheelchair. They made it to maternity with little time to spare. The baby’s head was crowning. “Maggie, don’t leave me,” Jeanne gasped.
“No one’s leaving you,” Dr. O’Rourke said as a nurse brought Jeanne into the delivery room and checked her progress, “except this baby boy. First labors are usually protracted. Guess he hasn’t read the book. One last push, Jeanne.” She stared in wonder at the tiny wet being the doctor held up to show her, the umbilical cord still a physical connection between them. Severing it would begin her son’s journey away from her, but his precious beginning was hers alone.
“Look how beautiful.” Maggie’s words were barely audible over the baby’s wail. Jeanne was dumbstruck. She was a mother, impossible but true. She was Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, opening her front door to a world rich in color. She squeezed Maggie’s hand.
CHAPTER 18
Vince’s head and chest extended sideways from the hall into the doorway of Jeanne’s hospital room. “Permission to enter?”
“Granted.” Vince appeared older, weary, the way one looks when a good night’s sleep is nowhere near an adequate remedy. He seemed relieved at her smile.
“Maggie called to tell me.” He produced a bouquet of yellow roses he’d held behind his back. “Flowers may not be a creative gift, but I wasn’t sure of hospital policy about visitors with hot casseroles.”
Jeanne buried her nose in the bouquet. “Mmm. These are lovely.” She laid them on her nightstand. “I’m going home late this afternoon, and there are no prohibitions against casseroles in my condo.”
“I was afraid I wouldn’t be welcome. The hospital seemed like neutral territory.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, waiting for a response that didn’t come. “Is the baby in the nursery?”
She pointed to the opposite corner. “Sleeping.” Vince approached the bassinet with a reverence Jeanne found surprising. After a long moment poised over the swaddled newborn, he turned.
“I’m not good at judging resemblances, but this baby’s all you.”
“Red and wrinkled?”
“Beautiful.” He returned to her bedside, wafting the scent of roses into the air. “I didn’t come here to joust with you, Jeanne. I know that was often our way, teasing each other and keeping it light. I can’t speak for you, but for me it served to keep my feelings at arm’s length.” Jeanne stared. His eyes were moist. This was not the Vince she knew.
The advancing second hand of the wall clock filled the silence. “It’s weird,” he said. “I’ve had no time to think, yet I always seem to be thinking of you. I can’t erase what’s been said between us, but I need you to know—”
Jeanne wanted to be kind, but she couldn’t stop her tears, angry and sad all at once. She slammed her fist down on the bed. “Damn you, Vince. You always catch me when my hormones are in an uproar.” He handed her a tissue from the box on her tray. “You know that baby over there isn’t yours, don’t you?”
He nodded. “It’s Jake’s, and I don’t care. I’m sure that surprises you. It surprises me. I’ve let myself in on a secret I was keeping from both of us: I’m in love with you.” He perched on the edge of the bed and took her hands. “We had an unspoken arrangement: no commitments. Can’t we change that? I want us to be together, married. Please, Jeanne.”
She cast about for the right words, but Vince wasn’t finished. “I haven’t been honest with you, and for that, I’m sorry.” He dropped his hands. “I lied to you about never being a father.”
“You have a child?” Jeanne’s eyes widened. Her bon vivant image of him blurred at the edges.
“Had,” he said, looking away. “A car crash—just another crash like you see on the evening news—the accidents you never pay attention to while you’re draining your pasta or chopping tomatoes—until it’s yours, your story on the news.” The media’s relentless reporting on Jake’s suicide flashed through Jeanne’s mind.
“Toby, my daughter, loved riding in my Porsche convertible. What nine-year-old wouldn’t? The wind whipping her hair, the speed, they were much more exciting than running errands in her mom’s SUV. That kid was everything to me.” His voice caught.
“There were no laws then about how old you needed to be to sit in the front seat
. We were almost home when a delivery truck pulled out of a blind driveway on my right. I couldn’t see it coming from behind the trees until . . . The driver never looked, and I couldn’t stop in time. Totaled the car.” Vince’s voice quavered. “Toby didn’t survive. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve replayed that moment in my mind, trying somehow to change the outcome.” His finger traced circles on the sheet.
“Devastating,” she murmured.
“Dana must have heard the crash from the house, or maybe she heard the ambulance. I don’t really remember.” He sighed. “Do you know anyone who’s lost a child? Marriages seldom survive it. Ours didn’t. Dana said it wasn’t my fault, but, of course, we both knew it was.”
Jeanne shook her head slowly. “I can’t imagine ever getting over such a tragedy, but somehow you’ve managed to come back from it, even marry again—twice.”
“Once on the rebound, a short-lived mistake. I waited a long time after that. I don’t know that I loved Karen, but we were great together. She didn’t want kids—until she did. When we tried, though, I couldn’t.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I was impotent.”
No wonder Vince was like a Sunday driver behind the wheel. Jeanne was horrified remembering how she’d teased him about not having a midlife-crisis sports car in his garage. The complexities he’d faced—no surprise he’d seemed ambivalent about her pregnancy. How unnerving the prospect of fatherhood must have been. She put her hand on his arm, and he covered it with his. They sat in silence. When Vince collected himself, he returned to the bassinet. “What’s the baby’s name?”
“Thomas, my father’s name. I wanted my father to have a namesake, one I can get to know better than I got to know him, but, like me, my little Thomas won’t have a relationship with his father.”
“Thomas,” Vince addressed the cradle. “I’d like the chance to be your father, if your mom will let me.” His fingertips touched the tiny bundle.
“Vince, please bring him to me.” He lifted the infant tenderly and rocked him. Thomas opened his eyes when Vince placed him in his mother’s arms. Jeanne’s voice was gentle, her words carefully chosen. “I imagine a great deal of soul searching preceded this visit. I love you for that. I wish I’d known about Toby earlier, but I understand how hard it would have been, and still is, to share that tragedy.” Vince turned his head and wiped his eyes.
“Like you, I’ve learned a lot about myself over the last year. I treasure our relationship.” Why had she never told him that before? “I can’t marry you, though. I can’t marry anyone right now. Having fended off risk my whole life, now is my time to embrace rather than fear the future.”
“But we’re not so different. I’ve spent years driving with the brakes on, and not just behind the wheel. I couldn’t risk being responsible for another life. Maybe now, together—”
She shook her head. Vince’s face fell. She couldn’t help thinking, as he ran his forefinger over the tiny arm, he looked every bit the father forced to give up his baby. She reached out and stroked Vince’s damp cheek. “I’m truly sorry.”
“I understand . . . I guess . . . but it won’t change how I feel.”
As Jeanne brought the baby to her breast, Vince, downcast, rose to leave. He got as far as the doorway before he turned, his face brightening. “Thomas, sooner or later, you’ll crave comfort food. We all do. Ask your mom to call me.” He blew a kiss and was gone.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’ve been lucky in having family and friends in my corner as I worked on this manuscript. My husband, Bruce, in particular, has been unflagging in his support. I’m grateful to those who took the time to read Land of Last Chances and offer helpful observations and suggestions: Virginia Spencer, Maria Black, Victoria Williams, Terry Wise, Heidi Miller, and Susan Golub. I would not have completed this book without the moral support of Maria Black’s writing circle (and sanctuary), which, in addition to Victoria and Terry, includes Lydia Littlefield and Julie McCarthy. Thanks are due, as well, to Betty Sudarsky, a great sounding board, who helped educate me about diabetes.
My interest in Alzheimer’s disease began with the sad experience of watching my mother’s decline. Through my participation on the advisory board of the Boston University School of Medicine’s Alzheimer’s Disease Center, I learned about the facts and myths associated with Alzheimer’s, including its risk factors and the state of current research.
I’d like to think my knowledge will be out of date by the time this book reaches its readers, but in spite of all that research has produced, progress has been slow, and much is still unknown. Alzheimer’s is the only top-ten cause of death in the US that can’t be prevented, cured, or slowed (according to the Alzheimer’s Association). Specifically, I’m grateful to Drs. Lindsay Farrer, Carmela Abraham, and Robert Stern, and to Eric Steinberg, for sharing their insights with me.
I want to thank the editors, designers, and staff at She Writes Press, in particular Brooke Warner and Cait Levin, for their invaluable advice and guidance. Last, I must give credit to my advisors in the MFA in Writing program at Vermont College of Fine Arts. They set me on the right path.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Author photo © Julie McCarthy
Originally from Mount Vernon, New York, Joan Cohen received her BA from Cornell University and her MBA from New York University. She pursued a career in sales and marketing at computer hardware and software companies until she retired to return to school for an MFA in Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. She has been a Massachusetts resident for many years, first, living in Newton, where she raised her family, and later, in Wayland. She now resides in Stockbridge, in the Berkshires, with her husband and golden retriever.
SELECTED TITLES FROM SHE WRITES PRESS
She Writes Press is an independent publishing company founded to serve women writers everywhere. Visit us at www.shewritespress.com.
A Drop In The Ocean: A Novel by Jenni Ogden. $16.95, 978-1-63152026-6. When middle-aged Anna Fergusson’s research lab is abruptly closed, she flees Boston to an island on Australia’s Great Barrier Reef—where, amongst the seabirds, nesting turtles, and eccentric islanders, she finds a family and learns some bittersweet lessons about love.
Play for Me by Céline Keating. $16.95, 978-1-63152-972-6. Middle-aged Lily impulsively joins a touring folk-rock band, leaving her job and marriage behind in an attempt to find a second chance at life, passion, and art
The Geometry of Love by Jessica Levine. $16.95, 978-1-938314-629. Torn between her need for stability and her desire for independence, an aspiring poet grapples with questions of artistic inspiration, erotic love, and infidelity.
The End of Miracles by Monica Starkman. $16.95, 978-1-63152054-9. When a pregnancy following years of infertility ends in late miscarriage, Margo Kerber sinks into a depression—one that leads her, when she encounters a briefly unattended baby, to commit an unthinkable crime.
Shelter Us by Laura Diamond. $16.95, 978-1-63152-970-2. Lawyer-turned-stay-at-home-mom Sarah Shaw is still struggling to find a steady happiness after the death of her infant daughter when she meets a young homeless mother and toddler she can’t get out of her mind—and becomes determined to rescue them.
American Family by Catherine Marshall-Smith. $16.95, 9781631521638. Partners Richard and Michael, recovering alcoholics, struggle to gain custody of their Richard’s biological daughter from her grandparents after her mother’s death only to discover they—and she—are fundamentalist Christians.