Appearances

by Sondra Helene

  The matter-of-factness Dr. Stern uses to present our treatment options gives me the sense that Elizabeth will need a miracle to stay alive. This doctor’s attitude toward her prognosis is very different than Varghas’s and Gold’s, and I begin to question their optimism.

  “We would use a combination of two drugs, carboplatinum and Taxol,” he says. At least this much is the same. “Standard protocol for advanced lung cancer.” I can’t help but be stung by his use of advanced, which somehow sounds worse than Stage IV.

  “How often would we come for treatments?” I ask, leaning forward.

  “Every three weeks,” Dr. Stern says. “And she—you,” he says, now addressing Elizabeth, “should pack a lunch. Plan to spend the entire day.”

  “Will any of this make me better?” Elizabeth whispers.

  “That remains to be seen,” the doctor says. “Frankly, some patients respond better than others. It’s idiosyncratic, just like people. There’s no way to predict whose treatment will be successful.” He pauses. “I’ll take questions.”

  “What about clinical trials?” Jake asks. From his tone, I can tell that he’s steamed; why didn’t the doctor raise the possibility of a trial himself? “What can Dana Farber offer us that Beth Israel won’t?” Jake demands. I smile despite myself upon hearing him adapt a line that he has probably used in business.

  “There is a new drug, Iressa,” the doctor stammers. “But I don’t advise it. Elizabeth will have better success with the standard protocol.”

  “Why?” Jake asks.

  “Iressa is designed for those with the EGFR mutation.” Because it’s 2003 and genetic testing is not mainstream, Dr. Stern believes that the long wait for genetic testing will compromise Elizabeth’s treatment. Like Dr. Varghas, he urges immediate chemo. “If she responds well and the tests later show EGFR, Iressa can be Elizabeth’s second-line drug.”

  Elizabeth tucks her hair behind her ears, and I detect that her hands are shaking. I write EGFR mutation and Iressa in my notebook so I can look them up when we get home.

  “Chemotherapy is much easier to tolerate than it used to be,” Dr. Stern says, for the hard sell. “We have far better antinausea medications.”

  When we leave this last office, I am startled to find that we’ve been inside for only thirty minutes. I take a long, steadying breath. The looks on Elizabeth and Jake’s faces suggests that their hopes are dashed. I can’t believe that doctor’s icy demeanor.

  Back at the car, Jake jiggles the keys in his pocket and asks the obvious question. “Who do you like better, Varghas or this asshole?”

  “I like Varghas much better,” I say.

  “No question,” Jake says, turning to Elizabeth. “What about you?”

  “Varghas. Definitely Varghas.”

  We climb into the Range Rover. Elizabeth slides into the passenger seat, and I buckle up in the back. “But do you think it’s okay to go to Beth Israel when Dana Farber is supposed to be, you know, Dana Farber?” I ask, even though I know that both hospitals are affiliated with Harvard Medical School and have fine reputations.

  “Both doctors gave us the same treatment plan,” Jake says, “and Varghas is more compassionate, willing to explain everything. We need someone like that.”

  “He gave me hope,” Elizabeth says.

  “That’s true,” I say.

  “Now I’ve got a question for you, Samantha,” Jake says. The edge in his voice takes me by surprise. I look up to see him glaring intently in the rearview mirror, key poised before the ignition. “Are you going to be there for us? For our family?”

  “What? Of course I’ll be there.”

  “Okay,” Jake says, starting the engine, but he doesn’t seem satisfied.

  “Why are you even asking me this? I’m here now, aren’t I?” I try to catch Elizabeth’s eye in the rearview mirror, but she has put on her sunglasses and turned away.

  Jake cranks the wheel, and the Rover jolts out of the parking space. Then Jake stops us short with the emergency brake and turns to me in the backseat.

  “I don’t want Richard within a mile of this,” he hisses. “Do you understand? He should never be involved or know anything. No access. Whatever he finds out, it can be through the grapevine.”

  Elizabeth adds nothing, signaling her assent.

  For a few seconds, there is silence in the car. I can hear my heart pounding and Elizabeth breathing. Even in this dire circumstance, it is Richard who tops their minds.

  “Why would you bring up Richard now?” I ask.

  “He wished this on Elizabeth,” Jake says.

  “That’s unfair,” I say. Jake is twisting things.

  My body feels rashy, as if my clothes have suddenly turned to sandpaper. These words squeeze my heart like a vise. Having to promise Jake and Elizabeth not to tell Richard anything more keeps me where I’ve been all these years, in the middle, alone. In another moment I might have pushed back against their demand, but I’m exhausted from the doctors’ visits and dread, now shocked by Jake’s petty priorities.

  “I just need ten years,” Elizabeth says, as if part of an altogether different conversation. “I just need to see my kids grow up.”

  Chapter Seven

  As businessmen, Richard and Jake had both managed seasons of scarcity and plenty, but it did little to increase their mutual understanding.

  In the late ’80s, just after we married, Richard’s business went through a rough patch. Interest rates were at historic highs; it was a tough climate for private equity. Richard’s investors demanded higher returns, but the margins didn’t allow it. “Having money doesn’t mean having sense,” he was quick to say of others, complaining that his clients called only to “cry me the blues.”

  It was around then that Jake called in a favor to Richard, his new brother-in-law. At Elizabeth’s suggestion, Jake asked Richard if he had any office space that Richard could spare, that Jake might occupy—for free—to get back on his feet.

  As grueling as business had become for Richard, for Jake things were worse. He had earned steady commissions as a real estate broker, but then the company he worked for went bankrupt. Jake and Elizabeth found themselves forced to sell their house in Weston and rent a modest apartment in Watertown. Brooke was a baby, and the apartment was too small for a home office. Jake couldn’t afford to have an infant crying in the background, to be distracted while trying to woo potential investors for his new venture. To Richard, Jake framed the favor of the office as a convenience, but I knew it came from desperation. He had already borrowed money from his parents just to keep him, Elizabeth, and Brooke afloat.

  “Anything is fine,” Jake assured Richard. “A closet, a storeroom. It’s temporary.” But as soon as Richard agreed to give Jake the office, I knew we were in for trouble.

  Resentments already simmered between the two men, and, on top of that, their personalities clashed. Richard’s coldness and indifference toward Elizabeth were snowballing and beginning to make even me uncomfortable. My gut warned me that doing Jake a favor was not a good idea, but it was almost impossible for Richard to say no. Here, Richard had a chance to live up to our family code, and, to his credit, he did, sort of: he told Jake that he could occupy one of Richard’s office suites rent-free. In exchange, Jake had to give Richard the right of first refusal to fund Jake’s projects.

  According to Richard, that was when the problems began. In that simple transaction—one man asking a favor, the other granting it with conditions—a grave misunderstanding occurred. As Richard told it, Jake quickly started to take advantage. In addition to having the office and using Richard’s receptionist and secretary, Jake went on the market, leveraging Richard’s name and reputation for his own profit.

  “Without me,” Richard complained, “Jake couldn’t get financing from a bail bondsman. He might have a head for deals, but he has no capital.”

  While Jake did give Richard first rights on some of his early closings—a strip mall, a forty-unit apartment building at
a T stop —in a skittish, cash-scarce economy, those deals fell through.

  Jake’s “temporary” situation continued for a few years. Richard worked long days and nights in his penthouse office, watching accounts dwindle, trying to balance the payouts he owed banks and other lenders against cash on hand, contemplating the real possibility that he could lose everything he had worked for. Jake, meanwhile, worked sixty hours a week from Richard’s third floor and borrowed living expenses from his parents. He canvassed New England in a used car, casing the region for real estate.

  Slowly, breakthroughs came. Jake’s contacts eventually flooded Judy, Richard’s receptionist, with calls. This was in the ’90s, before some offices had digital voice mail, when receptionists spent a considerable amount of time dictating and delivering messages.

  Jake’s cash deals were numerous but small fry, well below Richard’s interest and his fund’s threshold. When Richard didn’t stand to benefit from Jake’s profits—and when Jake, according to Richard, began to abuse his staff by treating them as if they were incompetent—Richard pressured me to broker a deal between them.

  “He’s your brother-in-law,” Richard said. “Call him and tell him to pay me.”

  The next day, I did just that. After allowing Jake to fill me in on several of his latest closings, I saw my chance. “Now that you’re making real money, why don’t you offer Richard some rent?”

  “I knew it,” Jake said. “He put you up to this, didn’t he? Why doesn’t Richard call me himself?” I had the same question.

  Jake and Richard did manage to work out a reasonable rate for Jake’s tenancy: $400 per month. Good, I thought. Of course, I wanted them both to succeed—our families depended on it. I was heartbroken when Elizabeth had to sell their house. It hurt me to see her struggling and was strange for us to be on unequal footing; I felt guilty and awkward whenever I even bought a new blouse.

  Then Jake got a lucky break. He became involved with Stars, a national discount retailer looking to make inroads in New England—what would become his specialty. He scouted suburban sites where Stars might want to bulldoze and locate; he invited franchisees on real estate tours in a leased Audi. Because he was now paying Richard rent, Jake didn’t think he owed him anything anymore. In the ultimate rebuff, Jake used an outside partner to finance Stars’ relocations because he would be able to control the majority of the deal.

  When I visited Richard’s office, if the two men crossed paths in the stairwell, they avoided eye contact. Soon Jake was making deal after deal and didn’t need Richard anymore. He had a new luster and with it came the intensity of a hard-nosed businessman. Eventually, Jake rented his own suite of penthouse offices in the financial district and left Richard without expressing gratitude. Richard felt like a used dishrag.

  The tension in my family came from two places: Richard and Jake¹s business issue on top of Richards¹ allergy to my family’s closeness. Richard and I had opposite goals involving the people I loved, which caused a deep wedge in our marriage.

  I remembered two incidents. The first was when my mother invited us to my father’s birthday brunch at their two-bedroom condo. The slick high-rise overlooked a pond, part of Boston’s historic string of treescapes and waterways called the Emerald Necklace, everything bursting in autumn colors. Alexandra, Richard, and I were the last to arrive, which embarrassed me. Richard had awoken late that morning and, oddly, before he would leave had insisted on reading the entire New York Times.

  “My allergies are bothering me,” he explained, sneezing twice in quick succession to prove the point.

  I observed his reddened face and suspected he was allergic to my family.

  When we arrived at my parents’ building, we took the elevator to the fifth floor. My clammy hands stuck to the knob as I turned it. The first people we saw were Elizabeth and Jake, sitting around the glass dining room table, immersed in conversation. I leaned over to kiss each of them hello while Richard rushed his greeting and disappeared into the kitchen. Jake, following Richard with his eyes, smirked. Alexandra ran past the adults and took her place on the sofa in the den, with her cousins.

  Richard then appeared in the doorway and, with a jerk of his head, motioned me to the kitchen. We loaded our plates with bagels, lox and kugel, a scrumptious noodle pudding that was my mother’s specialty. When we were ready to sit, Richard scanned the dining room, but the only open seats were near Jake. We hesitated. Elizabeth; my father; my brother, David; and his wife, Jill, were also seated at the glass-top dining table, and Richard felt less resentful, at the time, toward them. We sat. But as soon as Richard lifted a forkful of kugel, Jake stood, picked up his plate, and moved to the den on the pretense of supervising the kids. My mother came out of the kitchen and we locked eyes. Here we go again.

  “Jake?” my father said. “Were we finished talking?”

  “I’m in here, with the kids,” Jake shouted back, a bit too harshly.

  After Jake’s antics, Richard gave Elizabeth his back. He turned to David. “Skiing this winter?”

  “No plans yet,” David said, chuckling. “But I can see you’re planning ahead. Will your house be done?”

  “I’m leaning on the contractor to make it happen. I can’t wait. It’s going to be our own little slice of Aspen in Vermont— right, Samantha?” Richard asked, as I forked food around on my plate.

  “Love log homes,” David said.

  Elizabeth squirmed. “Richard,” she said, trying to engage him, leaning forward and torqueing her neck. “We’re actually going to Aspen at the end of February.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes and gave her a quick turn of his head. “Okay,” he said. Then he turned his back and continued talking to David. “We’re skiing next weekend. Mount Snow got a foot for our annual Thanksgiving run!”

  “Richard, once you build, will you still ski out West?” Elizabeth tried again.

  Richard deliberately finished chewing his bagel. “This is the second time you’ve interrupted me.” He took a gulp of orange juice and banged his glass on the table. “I’m leaving,” he announced, standing.

  Elizabeth’s face reddened. “I just wanted to be included,” she said, stunned.

  The rest of my family was shocked into speechlessness. My gut instinct was to protect my sister, not my husband. I could see that the party was excruciating for him, but I couldn’t get past his bad behavior. I followed Richard as he ran out.

  “Wait,” I pleaded. “She just wanted to talk to you.”

  “I’m out of here,” he growled. He pushed past me and slammed the door.

  There was silence in the room, except for Alexandra, now weeping. Jake jumped off the sofa and walked toward me.

  “After all Richard did for you? How could you be so childish?” I asked.

  “Get used to it. We don’t like each other,” Jake said.

  “What is wrong with this family?” my father shouted from the table, his birthday brunch ruined. “You’re telling me we can’t enjoy a meal together?”

  ONE YOM KIPPUR I hosted Richard’s family for break the fast. Yom Kippur is the holiest and most sober of high holidays, when Jews fast to atone for their sins. For those of us who are observant, once we reach the age of thirteen, we consume no food or drink.

  I consider myself a spiritual Jew. I don’t derive much meaning from hearing and reciting Hebrew itself, but I love the rich, rabbinical debates captured in the midrash. Was there really a God who recorded each of our names in the Book of Life, listing who would live and who would die? I doubt it. Although I know most prayers in Hebrew by heart, it is always the rabbi’s sermon at temple that I most enjoy, the practical wisdom he imparts. Of course, the topic of any sermon on Yom Kippur is forgiveness. Yearly, as we acknowledge and atone for our sins, we make space in our hearts to forgive others, who in turn forgive us. At least, that’s the way it’s supposed to go.

  Since we’d gotten married, Richard and I had been members of the synagogue where his deceased parents had belonged, wher
e he attended Hebrew school in short pants as a child. I would have preferred to have joined a new synagogue together as newlyweds—a fresh start, claiming an area of our lives as our own—but Richard wanted to extend his family’s tradition, and I acquiesced, hoping to nurture a rare connection to his past.

  Every Yom Kippur, Richard had the honor of holding the Torah while the rabbi and cantor recited prayers; the three of them circled the congregation. These holidays were almost as important to Richard as his business. When Richard entered the synagogue, men shook his hand, and a profound peace settled on my husband’s face when he chanted in Hebrew.

  After Richard returned the Torah to the ark, he walked back to me, Harrison and Alexandra in our seats, nodding and saying, “Good yontiff (meaning good holiday) to those he passed.

  “I had the heaviest one,” Richard whispered in my ear as he sat.

  “I noticed,” I said, and we shared a laugh appropriate for temple. Torahs could weigh as much as thirty pounds.

  That year, Rabbi Bromberg ended his sermon with a quote from the scholar Hillel: “Do not do unto others what you would not want done unto you.” I tried to live my life like that but at times I knew I had failed.

  After the service, Richard’s extended family came to our house for break the fast. By the time we got home from temple, it was seven o’clock. I knew everyone would be ravenous for that first bite of food. I had prepared a traditional meal of bagels, whitefish salad, sablefish, lox, and herring. Richard’s sisters, brother-in-law, nieces, and nephews swarmed the house, arming themselves with salads, fruits, and desserts.

  “You made it to the finish line,” Richard said, as he leaned down to kiss his thirteen-year-old niece, Chloe.

  “I’m starving! This was the first year I fasted, Uncle Rich.”

  “I’m proud of you,” Richard said. “Eat, eat—there’s plenty.”