by April Henry
“It’s that damn QualProd shopping channel. J.B. had a business meeting yesterday, so I had to take Eric over to Mom’s while I was at Moyter’s.” Claire was momentarily distracted by the idea of J.B. having a business meeting. The last “business” she had known J.B to be involved in had resulted in him and some of his biker friends serving eight months in jail, charged with possession of marijuana with intent to distribute. When she tuned in again, Susie was saying “So I go to pick him up, and there’s Mom watching the TV, but no Eric. I’m like, ‘Mom,’” Susie’s voice arced in a sarcastic singsong, “‘where is your grandson?’ Mom admitted to me that she wasn’t too sure where he was. She told me she figured he was being good because she hadn’t heard him. Well, she was a mom long before I was, so she should know that if your kid is quiet it’s because he’s doing something you don’t want him to do.”
“Where was he?”
“I finally discovered him in the back bedroom. He’d found a pair of scissors and he’d cut out all these pictures from one of her QualProd catalogs. But I guess he must have gotten bored with that, because when I found him he’d chopped off a big hunk of his hair. Now he’s got a bald spot right above his forehead.”
“At least it will grow back.”
“Wait, it gets better. When I come back from yelling at Eric, I find Mom with her hand in my purse. She jumps about a mile, and I see she’s got my Visa card in her hand!”
“What did she do when she saw you?”
“She starts in crying, saying that there was some temporary problem with her card and that she just needed to borrow my card until the next billing cycle began on her card. Of course my bullshit detector was going off big time. You know what I think? I think she’s an addict. I mean, I can live with her watching TV all the time, she’s always been like that, but this QualProd business is something else. It’s like that’s all she’s interested in. I opened up the fridge the other day to put Eric’s sippy cup away, and all she had in their was a half-empty tub of margarine and some Cool Whip. She’s not eating right, she’s not taking care of herself, and I doubt she’s even going outside all that often. And now she’s maxed out her credit card buying junk.”
“We have to do something,” Claire said, feeling a wave of exhaustion. “Ill call the credit card people. But even if I pay off her charges, that’s not going to solve the underlying problem.”
“She’ll just keep buying more junk. J.B. downloaded a bunch of info off the Internet. I think we should do one of those interventions like they do for alcoholics. Stop by my work and I’ll give you a set of the materials so you can get ready.”
Claire hesitated. “You mean meet you at the funeral home?”
“Don’t go all girly on me. It’s a business, not a house of horrors. Plus I’m backed up here. I’ve got three heads to do before the end of the day.”
###
The woman in the coffin wore a maroon cotton housedress and a black cardigan sweater. Her face was like yellowed ivory, carved with the lines of years. On the white satin pillow, her thin black hair, barely flecked with gray, lay straight and limp.
“She looks like she just got off the boat,” Susie said. Her voice held a note of tenderness that Claire didn’t remember hearing before. “I doubt she ever did her hair.” She plucked a photo off the woman’s chest just above her folded hands, and handed it to Claire. “What do you think?”
At first Claire didn’t even see the woman in the Polaroid picture, which showed a bride and groom who looked to be about sixteen grinning foolishly at the camera. Then she spotted the woman who now lay in front of them. She stood at the edge of the picture, her face caught in profile. Her expression was stern, her nose prominent, and on her head was what might have been her one concession to vanity, a black straw hat decorated with an improbably large cluster of red cherries.
“She looks like she didn’t put much stock in gussying up,” Claire said. Rather than place the photo back on the corpse’s chest, she handed it to Susie.
“Still, I’ll bet she was gorgeous when she was young. Judging by the picture, I’m guessing the only thing she did to her hair was wash it and comb it. So I’ll just put it back with a few nice waves in it.” Susie picked up a cordless curling iron.
“Did you have to get her dressed or anything?” Claire was gradually losing her fear of the corpse. The room was cold and sterile, all white and stainless steel, but Claire was relieved that there weren’t any instruments, drains or equipment visible. There was a sharp smell in the air, like bleach or chemicals.
Susie laughed. “No, by the time I get them, they’re already embalmed, dressed, and have some basic thick makeup. These guys need me for the women’s touch. I curl the hair, maybe tease it to make it look like there’s more than there is. It’s pretty much what I tried to do at Curl Up and Dye, you know, make the best of things. The good thing here is that the customers here don’t talk to me. The bad thing is that they can’t move or turn their heads. Then again, when I was working with live customers I couldn’t fix a bare spot in front by clipping hair from the back and gluing it on with mortician’s wax.”
“Where you’d learn all this?”
“Most of it is just common sense. Plus I replaced someone who was retiring, so she spent the first few days with me until I got the hang of it.”
“Doesn’t it give you the heebie-jeebies?”
Susie shrugged. “Not really. Death happens. The best thing you can hope for is to meet it with some dignity. And hair makes the body. Even if you’re alive and especially when you’re dead. At the very end, when a woman needs someone looking out after her, I can be here. If our own mother died, wouldn’t you want her to look good?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Speaking of mom, I brought in all the stuff you’ll need to work on. It’s all over on that counter.”
“I don’t understand what there is to prepare.” Claire picked up the half-inch thick stack of papers. The top sheet was headed, “So You’re Going to Have an Intervention.”
Susie had curled the hair that showed, and now she sprayed it to keep it fluffy against the pillow, gently shielding the dead woman’s face with her free hand. “What, do you think Mom is going to come right out and agree with us that she needs to have the QualProd channel blocked? She’s going to fight like a cornered rat. She’ll come up with a dozen different reasons why she doesn’t need to do it, and we’ll have to have an answer for each one. And when that doesn’t work, then she’ll go on to attack us as individuals.” She set down the hairspray and then picked up a pink plastic cosmetics case.
Claire was impressed. “Is that all information J.B. got off the Internet?”
“What? No, that’s just common sense.” Susie clicked open the cosmetics case. “What do you think I should do about make-up? I’m thinking just a touch of blush and leaving everything else alone.”
Claire tried to regard the older woman with the same detachment that seemed to come naturally to Susie. “Probably. She doesn’t look like she ever wore makeup.”
Susie nodded. “Sometimes the family leaves me special makeup that their mom used to wear, but there’s nothing like that for her. Look at those eyebrows. They’ve never been plucked.” She gently brushed a pale pink swath on each cheek. “Almost done. Just got to make sure the earrings are on straight.” She paused, checking details. Her eyes stopped on the woman’s hands, on her gold wedding band. Sighing, she closed her pink cosmetic case and set it down. Susie slid the wedding ring off the woman’s right hand and onto her left.
UDY11
Chapter Fifteen
BYRLVR
Down came Lori’s REJECTED stamp on the application. After a week back at work she was finally getting the hang again of deciphering the peculiar shorthand of license plates.
GLF NUT
Lori checked the license plate request against the state’s Vulgar List of words and alphanumeric combinations. Forbidden were obscenities, sex or excretory-related words, the promotion of religion or d
rugs, and words that meant something dirty in another language. She even halfheartedly took it into the bathroom to check out the words in a mirror, but the letters said nothing when reversed. Clearly, the owner, a guy in his mid-fifties, was simply telling the world that he loved to play golf. And since the computer showed that no one else had the plate, Lori stamped the application “APPROVED,” and put it in her outbox.
Lori’s was still puzzling over IMAYSGY when her phone shrilled into life. “State of Oregon’s Motor Vehicles Division, Specialty Plate Department. Good afternoon, this is Lori. How may I be of assistance to you today?” She had even gotten used again to the whole awkward string of phrases that Roland, after attending an expensive four-day seminar about delighting the customer, now insisted was essential for answering the phone. In Lori’s limited experience, however, the listener tended to became impatient and annoyed long before she finished.
“Lori, it’s Tessa at WeeCare.”
“What’s wrong with Zach?” She had the same feeling she had when she sometimes went down the stairs too quickly and then discovered, too late, that there was still one more step to go. The feeling of beginning to fall.
“When I woke Zach up from nap time he felt hot to me, so I took his temp. He has a fever of 101.” A fever, Lori thought, a fever doesn’t have to mean anything. Kids are always getting sick. “But it’s not just that,” Tessa continued. “Zach’s got, like, a kind of rash on his face. Like little red spots. I don’t think it’s measles, but I don’t know what it is.”
On the fifteen-minute drive from work, Lori’s hands began to hurt from clenching the steering wheel. The words Jesus no please ran through her brain over and over. It was a chant, a prayer, a dirge. Jesus no please. In the little office behind the front desk, Zach lay on a cot. His eyes were closed and he looked pale and clammy. Tessa was sitting beside him. Leaning forward, she began to talk to Lori, but Lori couldn’t pay attention to the other woman’s words. She bent over her son.
Tiny red dots were scattered across Zach’s face. It looked as if he had had been pricked from the inside with needles. Petechiae, Lori thought. Dr. Preston had taught her the word that signaled a platelet count so low that the skin began to spontaneously hemorrhage. She tried to reassure herself that it might not mean anything. Maybe it was just a side effect of his maintenance chemotherapy. Only this morning she’d had to admonish Zach for jumping on her and Havi’s bed. He was too healthy, too full of life, for it to be anything serious. Lori stroked back his hair from his damp forehead.
Opening his eyes, he squinted up at her painfully. “Mama, I want to go home.”
“Just let me make a phone call, sugar.”
Lori used the phone in the outer office. While she waited as they paged the doctor, the daycare’s secretary gave her a shaky smile and turned away to wipe her eyes. Anger surged through Lori. She could tell that this plump woman with her poodle perm had already written Zach off, was even doing a little pre-mourning for him. What she didn’t understand was that Lori would never let Zach die. Never.
Dr. Preston said that Lori should bring Zach straight to the hospital to be admitted. Late in the afternoon, he would stop by to examine him. He offered no speculation and no reassurances.
After a deep breath, Lori dialed another number.
“Buzz’s Transmissions.”
“Havi, it’s Lori.” Like a swimmer braving icy water, she plunged in. “I’m at WeeCare. Zach’s running a fever and has some skin hemorrhages. Dr. Preston says he should be admitted. He’ll come by around six to do a bone marrow. I’ll see if Claire can watch Max. Can you meet me at the hospital?”
“Sure.” The word was as heavy as a sinking stone. “I’ll be there.” He hung up without saying good-bye.
###
When Dr. Preston came back with the results of the bone-marrow aspiration, he motioned Lori and Havi out into the hall. He suggested they go in the nurse’s lounge, but Lori would not let even a sleeping Zach out of her sight. When he had realized they were going to the hospital, not home, he had come to life, screaming that he didn’t want to go to the hospital again, that he hated her. He kicked the back of her seat and threw himself from side to side in his car seat. Tears had burned their way down her face, but Lori had not let them stop her from driving to the hospital as fast as possible.
“This is very difficult,” Dr. Preston began. Lori ‘s chest tightened. There was a weight like a boulder on her lungs. She put her spread fingers over her chest. “Zach has had a relapse.” He forced a brighter tone. “Even so, our chances of getting him back into remission are still quite good. But we do need to -”
Havi’s hoarse voice interrupted him. “Zach can still be cured, can’t he?”
Lori turned to stare at him, her mouth half-open. How could he ask that? He had been there when the doctor had explained it the first time. She had given him all the booklets to read.
Dr. Preston began to stammer. “The outlook for a cure at this point is, is, is ... not good. But we can probably get him into remission again.” He swallowed and continued on, his voice getting softer and more mumbly. “Since Zach has already failed a fairly aggressive therapy, it’s doubtful that a second round of chemotherapy could produce a cure. Some of his leukemia cells have developed resistance.”
“What about a bone marrow transplant?” Havi’s dark eyes were full of pain. “I know you said there’s not a perfect match on the list, but can’t we do it with a less than perfect match?”
The doctor shook his head. “There’s not even a close match on the national registry, Mr. Estrada. That’s a dead end.”
“Then why can’t you just give him more drugs, enough to kill off those resistant cells?”
Dr. Preston’s voice was careful. “If we gave him higher doses, we might kill Zach’s leukemia. But we’d probably also kill Zach.”
“If we get him back into remission, how long will it last?” Lori asked. She could see the truth was dawning on Havi, that this was the beginning of the end.
“Probably its duration will be shorter than this one has been.” This one had only lasted a few weeks, Lori thought. “And then we would try for a third remission. However, each remission tends to be shorter than the one preceding it. Eventually...” Letting his words trail off, Dr. Preston looked down at his empty hands.
Havi turned to Lori. The skin on his face looked like it was cracking. Tiny muscles tightened and jerked in his cheeks and forehead. The muscles around his eyes spasmed. “Let’s take him home. Now.”
A startled Dr. Preston said, “You can’t do that!”
“Why not? What’s the use of more drugs that will only make him miserable while we postpone the inevitable?”
Lori laid a hand on Havi’s arm, but he shook it off. She said, “As long as there is any hope, we have to keep Zach in treatment.”
‘You’re gonna let them torture him more? For what?” He looked at her with hooded eyes. “Lately, he’s been feeling okay. Maybe not like he used to - but ... better. Let him enjoy what he has now. What you’re suggesting, I wouldn’t do to a dog. And certainly not my son. This, this” - he waved his arm at the antiseptic-smelling hallway, the dimly lit rooms, each with its still prone figure, the sickness and death that surrounded them, -”this is cruel! Let’s take Zach home and make him as happy as we can.” His voice cracked on the word “happy.”
“Hav,” Lori said as gently as she could, “we don’t have a choice. Not when there’s any chance left.”
“You heard him.” He jerked his chin at Dr. Preston, who looked as if he wished he could just disappear. “What chance is there?”
Lori’s insides knotted up. She would have to tell Havi. There was no way around it now. She had imagined this moment in a hundred different ways. Maybe a grown woman would reappear in their lives when they were old and passions faded. Or Havi might see a child on the street who looked so much like both of them that he would just suddenly know. Someday she might get good and drunk and her secret would c
ome tumbling out. But this, this she had never imagined.
“Dr. Preston could you excuse us for a minute?” Without saying anything, he left, his silver head down so he wouldn’t have to look at them. Lori pulled Havi into a little alcove at the end of hall. For Zach, she would sacrifice all her secrets, risk fracturing her marriage, open herself up to his hatred and scorn when he learned that she had given away their child. She opened her mouth and took a deep breath.
“Havi, I have something to tell you.”
###
The phone call interrupted the game of Monopoly Claire and Charlie were trying to teach Max. None of them was paying much attention. Presented with a dinner of homemade macaroni and cheese, Max had picked up his fork and pretended to eat. Instead he had only scraped the noodles into piles, a trick Claire remembered from her days as a reluctant eater. Now one of Charlie’s rich homemade brownies lay untouched in front of him, next to a glass of milk and a stack of play money. It saddened Claire the way he hadn’t asked any questions about what was wrong when she had picked him up at school. It was like he didn’t want to know.
“Claire - is Havi there?” From the question it was clear it must be Lori on the other end of the phone, but her voice was nearly unrecognizable, strangled by tears.
“No, he hasn’t come by yet. What’s wrong?” To judge by the way Lori sounded, the news about Zach must be very bad indeed. Was he dying? Max was staring down at his brownie but Claire could tell he was listening to every word. She got up and took the phone into the kitchen.
“He left, he just left. I have never seen him so angry. And so cold. I don’t even know what he’s going to do. I told him about,” Lori’s voice caught, “about our daughter. Because after Dr. Preston said the remission had failed, Havi said we should just take Zach home, that we should sign him out against medical advice and just take him home. He said,” Lori gasped out, “he said we were torturing him. Experimenting on him. So I told him. Everything. About how I couldn’t make myself have an abortion, and about how I decided to give, give, give the baby away. And I told him that you are looking for her. I told him that we can’t give up on Zach even though his remission has failed. That we can’t stop fighting for him while there is still a chance. After a while I was just - babbling. I knew I was talking too much, but I was frightened by the way he was looking at me. I knew when I stopped talking he was going to do or say something awful, but finally I had to shut up. He just looked at me and he didn’t say anything. I put my hand on his arm and said his name and he looked down at my hand like it was some kind of spider.” Her words were coming between gulps of tears. “His face was like a rock. He didn’t cry, he didn’t yell, he just looked at me and he left. I don’t ever want to see him look that way at me ever again.” There was a long moment where all Claire could hear were Lori’s sobs. “But I don’t think he ever will look at me again. In any way. I don’t think he’s leaving me. I think he’s already left. It’s over. And for what? Tell me for what? I have lost my marriage and I am probably going to lose my son. Why?” Her voice was naked with pain.