Stalked: The Boy Who Said No

by Patti Sheehy

  Frank laughed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s our baby either way.”

  Magda smiled. “Are you sure you don’t want a boy?”

  “I want a baby—whatever we have.”

  “Good. That’s how I feel too.”

  Frank and Magda were so excited they could hardly sleep. They talked into the wee hours of the morning about what it would be like to have a child of their own.

  They made plans for the baby’s christening and talked about the colors for the nursery. Frank told Magda he hoped the baby would look like her, and she said she hoped it would look like him.

  Frank was afraid something might go wrong with the pregnancy, but he didn’t want to voice his concerns to Magda. She must’ve been thinking the same thing. She said she wanted to wait a few weeks before telling anyone—even her parents—the news.

  Frank felt like he was harboring an amazing secret, like he was the first man in the world to have a baby. His friends kept asking him what he was always smiling about, and he told them “the weather”—even when it was raining. He’d never been so excited in his life.

  All of that paled when he first felt the baby kick. For several days, Magda had sensed butterflies in her stomach, but she thought it was gas. A week later she felt the baby move.

  Three weeks later, Magda placed Frank’s palm on her swollen belly and covered his hand with hers. “There,” she said. “Do you feel it?”

  Frank felt what he thought was his child’s foot kicking against his wife’s stomach. It was a moment he would never forget. He wiped a tear from his eye.

  Frank accompanied Magda to all her doctor’s appointments to make sure her pregnancy was progressing normally. By the end of April, she looked like she would burst. Her breasts had almost doubled in size. She cupped her stomach with both hands when she walked, and she held the small of her back with one hand when she stood.

  At one o’clock on the afternoon of May 5, 1970, Magda called Frank to tell him her water had broken. Frank called Magda’s parents and asked them to come to the Union City Hospital.

  Frank was a wreck, pacing the floor like a caged animal. Drinking great quantities of coffee, he was so wound up he asked every doctor and nurse he saw about Magda’s condition. None of them knew a thing. Time unraveled at the pace of a drugged turtle.

  Finally, the doctor emerged from the delivery room, removing a pair of latex gloves from his hands. His surgical mask sat beneath his chin. He was smiling ear to ear. Frank looked at him, sensing good news.

  “Is Magda okay?”

  “She’s fine. You have a healthy baby girl.”

  “A girl,” said Frank, elated. “Darlene. Little Darlene.” He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer of thanks. “Does she look like Magda?”

  “She’s beautiful, just like your wife.”

  Frank laughed and hugged Magda’s parents. He went home that night feeling like he had conquered the world, like he had a hundred medals on his chest.

  Darlene was the spitting image of her mother. From the very start, she was the apple of Frank’s eye. He held her, fed her, and diapered her. He walked with her at night so Magda could get some sleep.

  As Darlene grew, the couple realized that they needed more space, so they bought a house in Lincoln Park, a short drive from Union City. Darlene’s room was decorated with pictures of fairies and a zoo of stuffed animals. Darlene liked to dress up in sparkly things, the more sparkles the better. A swing set occupied a small plot of land in back of the house. Magda went back to work in New York City, and her mother and aunt helped with child care.

  By 1975, Frank and Magda were living the American Dream. Magda had earned a bachelor’s degree in computer science and had attained her goal of becoming a computer analyst. Frank owned a Blimpie’s franchise in Montclair, New Jersey, where he sold sandwiches, sweets, and beverages. He would soon open another franchise.

  Frank and Magda had made a number of friends and enjoyed a full social life. The couple’s calendar was crammed with an endless parade of weddings, showers, and baptisms. They entertained at home, dined out in restaurants, and had just seen the summer blockbuster movie Jaws.

  Magda was loving and cheerful and could not have been more fun. Frank had a beautiful wife, a good job, and a five-year-old whom he adored. He was happy and content. He had no idea life could be so good.

  That summer Frank and Magda rented a rustic cabin in the Pocono Mountains for a week with some friends. Overlooking Sunrise Lake, it was a quiet spot with oak, maple, and cedar trees circling a pristine body of water. Pine scented the air.

  Perched high, the cabin provided a spectacular view. It had three bedrooms and a large, wraparound deck. Frank liked to get up early, make coffee, and watch the mist rise over the lake. Dew sparkled from evergreen needles. It was his quiet time, his time to think and reflect.

  Motorboats were forbidden on the lake. Frank wasn’t sure why. Perhaps, it was so not to disturb the tranquility of the area. Or maybe it was to protect the wildlife. Occasionally, a canoe paddle slapped the water.

  The two couples spent their time hiking, fishing, and swimming. From the deck, they watched snow-white ducks skim the lake and listened to the trill of birds and the honk of Canada geese. Darlene spent her time practicing the doggy paddle and splashing around in her yellow Mickey Mouse tube. On several nights the vacationers ate the day’s catch, freshly filleted trout. The men argued over who had caught the biggest fish. Although Darlene declared it “yucky” and covered her eyes, fish cleaning held a fascination for her. She was curious about the fish’s organs and ran to Frank’s side whenever he was about to slice open a trout.

  The next-to-last night of their vacation was hot and humid. Nobody felt like cooking, so they decided to eat at a local restaurant. As they waited in line to be seated, Frank wondered about the yellow silk scarf Magda had tied around her neck. It struck him as odd—she never bothered with scarves in the summertime. He turned to her and asked, “Aren’t you hot with that on?”

  Magda drew a noticeable breath, raised her hand to her throat, and fingered the scarf.

  “I’m fine,” she said. But her voice was strained.

  “I know you’re fine,” Frank said lightly. “I just thought you might be hot.”

  Magda shook her head and stiffened before releasing his hand. “I’m not hot.”

  She turned to her friend and said, “I’m off to the ladies’ room. Want to join me?”

  Magda turned and walked away. Frank shrugged his curiosity to his friend and decided not to press the point further.

  Although the temperature climbed well into the nineties the next day, Magda wore her scarf again. She sat on an Adirondack chair reading a romance novel with the brim of her straw hat covering her neck. She had turned up the collar of her blouse. Frank made a mental note, but did not question her about it.

  As the day progressed, Magda became more and more distracted. She would read a couple of pages of her book, place it on her lap, and stare into space. She was a voracious reader, devouring books one after another. This was not like her.

  “What’s the matter?” Frank asked. “Aren’t you enjoying your book?”

  Magda looked at him blankly, like she didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “What?” she said and then looked down at her book. “Oh, no, it’s fine.”

  Late that afternoon Magda excused herself to take a shower. As Frank walked past the bathroom he thought he heard Magda crying. He listened at the door, wondering what could be wrong.

  He knocked softly. “Are you okay in there, honey?”

  The pipes moaned as Magda turned off the shower and hollered back, “I’m fine. Really!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, don’t worry about me. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  Hearing the hum of Magda’s hair dryer, Frank closed the bedroom door to allow her to dress for dinner. He wondered whether he had imagined her sobs.

  When Magda came down the stairs, she w
as wreathed in smiles. She was dressed in a sleeveless shirtwaist with her collar upturned and the same scarf wound around her neck. A pair of red, beaded earrings dangled from her lobes.

  Magda chatted merrily at dinner, refilling glasses with beer and iced tea and serving hamburgers, potato salad, and Jersey corn. Everyone loved the juicy beefsteak tomatoes. She served Breyers vanilla ice cream and ripe watermelon for dessert while the conversation turned to politics and sports.

  After dinner the couples played a game of hearts. As usual, Magda counted all the cards. Twice she dumped the queen of spades on Frank. Twice she took the jack of diamonds. As usual, she won.

  It was a wonderful week and, with the exception of the scarf, everything seemed perfectly normal.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  When they got home, Magda sat at the kitchen table in white shorts and a blue blouse that hugged her waist. She slipped off her sandals, crossed her legs, and began twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Darlene ran outside and hopped on the swing. Every time she pumped her legs, the swing squeaked in protest. Frank would oil the chains later, but right now he had more important things on his mind.

  He put a kettle of water down to boil and made Magda a pot of orange pekoe tea. She liked it light and drank it plain, no milk, no sugar, no fuss. He unwrapped a sleeve of graham crackers and reached for the jar of peanut butter.

  He placed the snack on the table in front of his wife. Magda nib- bled on half a cracker and then pushed the plate away. She wiped her hands on a napkin and turned her gaze toward the hallway. The suitcases sat on the floor.

  “I need to unpack and do the laundry,” she said.

  “I know, but right now we have to talk.”

  Frank sat on the chair opposite Magda and took her hand.

  Magda nodded, her gaze drifting out the window. They heard a basketball bouncing down the sidewalk. A boy challenged someone to play.

  “Okay,” said Magda. She sounded resigned. A minute crawled by while they listened to the hum of the refrigerator.

  “Do you want to tell me about the scarf?”

  Magda released Frank’s hand and touched her scarf with her fingers. “It’s nothing. It’s just—”

  “If it’s nothing, let me see.”

  Magda sighed, used one hand to lift her hair and the other to unknot the scarf. Frank sucked in his breath when the silk rectangle slipped to the floor. He stood and ran his fingers over Magda’s throat. Lumps lined both sides of her neck.

  “How long have you had these?”

  Magda hesitated. “A few days. I noticed them before we went on vacation. Do they look bad?”

  Frank shook his head, wondering what in the world could’ve caused such a thing.

  “Bad enough. Do they hurt?”

  “Not really. Do you think I should see a doctor?”

  “Yes, I think you should see a doctor. In fact, I think you should make an appointment right away.”

  A week later Frank and Magda sat awaiting test results in the pine-paneled office of Dr. Vincent D’Alessandro. A prayer plant grew next to a snake plant in a yellow glazed pot on the doctor’s desk. Its mahogany-spotted leaves were open, supplicant. Frank wondered whether the doctor had chosen to combine those varieties of plants on purpose. Their juxtaposition seemed significant.

  Magda and Frank stood when the doctor entered the office. He was in his mid-forties with graying hair and a small paunch. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed his warm brown eyes and a stethoscope circled his neck. Thick-soled shoes supported his feet. He took a seat behind his desk and looked back and forth at Frank and Magda in a paternal fashion.

  He took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” he said. There was a slight break in his voice.

  Magda and Frank exchanged worried glances. They had no idea what the news could be.

  Dr. D’Alessandro hesitated. “There’s no good way to tell you this.”

  “Please,” said Frank. “Just spit it out.”

  “The tests show that Magda has Hodgkin’s disease.”

  Frank and Magda looked at each other, puzzled. Neither of them had ever heard of this disease. But the look on the doctor’s face told them that it might be something serious. Frank was the first to speak.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. What exactly is Hodgkin’s disease?” The doctor’s eyes clouded over. He looked somber and sad.

  “It’s a disease of the glands. It often strikes people in their twenties.”

  “Okay,” Frank said, slowly digesting this information. Whatever it was, he couldn’t imagine it could be that bad. He looked at Magda. Her face was strained, and she held her body the way she did when she expected bad news. But her complexion was rosy, her weight normal. With the exception of the lumps, she looked perfectly healthy.

  “What can be done about it?” Frank asked. “Will she need surgery?”

  The doctor’s face grew grave. “Well, as you know, this is a form of cancer—”

  Suddenly, Frank felt like the floor had collapsed beneath him. The room swam before his eyes and his vision blurred. The air became still. He heard Magda suck in her breath. He watched the blood drain from her face as she raised her hand to cover her mouth.

  “Cancer?” Frank croaked. “I’m sorry, but my wife doesn’t have cancer. Look at her. She’s the picture of health. This must be a mistake. Besides, she’s only twenty-four—far too young to have cancer.”

  The doctor entwined his fingers and placed them on the desk in front of him. It reminded Frank of how he folded his hands in grammar school. “I’m sorry. I know this comes as shock to you both. But Magda does indeed have cancer.”

  Frank’s first instinct was to grab Magda by the hand and run out the door. He told himself this had to be a mistake. That the tests must be wrong. That she had been misdiagnosed. Instead, he took a deep breath to steady himself. He looked for Magda’s reaction. Her expression was frozen, as if she were silently processing the information.

  “Well, what can be done about it?” asked Frank, surprised that his voice sounded so harsh.

  “Hodgkin’s is a very serious disease. We need to conduct more tests to see whether the cancer has spread. In any event, Magda will have to undergo chemotherapy and radiation therapy.”

  Frank furrowed his brow, trying to maintain his equilibrium. He didn’t want to show his alarm in front of Magda. “Can this thing be cured?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Chemotherapy is very powerful at killing cancer cells. But it doesn’t discriminate. It kills bone marrow as well as healthy cells, making it very tricky. Sometimes you think you have killed all the cells, but they are stealthy.”

  Frank tried to wrap his mind around what the doctor was saying. He sat in silence for a minute before he managed to ask, “What can we expect in terms of side effects?”

  The doctor’s gaze fell upon Magda. He puffed out some air. Frank could tell this was a difficult conversation for him. “Your wife will lose her hair and will be very nauseated.” He pursed his lips. “She will develop mouth sores, lose her appetite, and drop some weight.”

  “How much weight?” Frank asked, more to hear the sound of his own voice than to learn the answer. He felt disoriented and was desperate to act like he was in control.

  The doctor studied Magda for a moment. “It depends on how her digestive system responds to the treatment. But twenty to thirty pounds would not be out of the question.” Magda was slim, and Frank tried to imagine what she’d look like with that kind of weight loss.

  “Anything else?”

  “She will experience a great deal of fatigue and will require a lot of sleep. It won’t be an easy or pretty process for either of you. But it’s her only chance.”

  Frank felt like a jackhammer was pounding in his chest. “So you’re telling me that this disease could kill my wife?”

  The doctor glanced out the window. Frank got the feeling he was trying to avoid the question. Finally, he said, “No one knows w
hat the future will bring. But as it stands now, without treatment, she will be dead within three years.” He hesitated. “Even with treatment there’s no guarantee she will live that long.”

  Frank sat back in his chair and reached for Magda’s hand. Neither of them had the wherewithal to speak. Moisture sprung to Frank’s eyes, and Magda wiped a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. Her jaw trembled as she tried to control her emotions.

  Dr. D’Alessandro studied them for a moment before grabbing a pen. The sound of paper being ripped from a notepad sliced the air. A string of dried glue hung from the corner of the pad. The doctor rolled it into a ball between his thumb and forefinger and dropped it into the wastebasket.

  “We don’t have all the answers yet,” he said. “We need to run more tests—biopsy the liver and lymph nodes. We can either do them here in Montclair, or I can refer you to the top man in the field at Mount Sinai Hospital in New York City. He’s had some success with this disease.” He scribbled something quickly on the slip of paper and handed it to Frank.

  “Here’s the name of the man I recommend—Dr. Hoffman.” He nodded toward the reception area. “Have my secretary make an appointment for you.”

  “How soon do we need to move on this?” Frank asked.

  Dr. D’Alessandro tapped the face of his watch with his forefinger and said, “If she were my wife, I’d have her at Mount Sinai Hospital first thing in the morning.”

  Frank nodded to Magda, and they stumbled out the door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Magda was beginning her thirteen-week course of chemotherapy when Frank went to the local library to do some research. He was eager to learn all he could about Hodgkin’s disease. He pulled pertinent books and magazines from the shelves, and settled himself at a long, wooden table. While the material was difficult to understand, he got the gist of what he sought, and it was devastating.

  The literature confirmed that the average life expectancy for Hodgkin’s disease following diagnosis was three years. But the doctor failed to mention that no one, but no one, survived the disease. It was a virtual death sentence.