—
It wasn’t until Eloise was older that Hyland started seeing a boy in his dreams. Hyland would be stuck in a castle fortress, or learning how to fly, and a boy would arrive, seemingly an ally.
Once, Hyland had a dream about being a bartender (he’d bartended, badly, on Martha’s Vineyard one summer) in a bar full of his worst architectural clients, all of them ordering fancy drinks he couldn’t remember how to make. Suddenly, the boy had shown up beside him, cheerfully grabbing bottles and flipping them around like Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail.
(When Hyland mentioned the dream to his analyst, his analyst pursed his lips. Latent gay tendencies, Hyland had imagined him jotting down in his secret little pad. Wants to “mix drinks” with Tom Cruise. But it wasn’t sexual, truly. It was more a feeling like “Oh, thank God. I’m not alone in this.”)
At least it wasn’t his mother anymore. The boy showed up infrequently, and unlike everyone else in Hyland’s life (and dream life), he didn’t seem to need anything from Hyland. The boy just appeared in the spaceship, tunnel, or weird old house-that-was kind-of-like-his-boarding-school-dorm and joined in whatever hunt, escape, or challenge was going on. He looked at Hyland with affection. Even, sometimes, with pride.
One night, Hyland dreamed of sitting at the edge of a lonely pond in winter. It was bone-chillingly cold. Hyland was exiled from somewhere or something, this wasn’t made clear. He tried to find a way out of the woods, but kept circling back to the frozen pond. He felt the acidic beginnings of despair. He sat on a log. It was silent.
The boy appeared. He carried a hockey bag and two sticks. This boy, so carefree, his face ruddy. He tossed a puck onto the ice.
Hyland looked down to see that he was already wearing skates.
4
Eloise
In the dining hall, about a week into my new, boarding-school life, a girl named Raphael (seriously; she was Italian, from Italy) asked me about my parents. I related the narrative I’d been given: a mother with a history of mental illness who dreamed of a non-crazy baby; a virile father; a kind surrogate who vanished as soon as I was born.
“So you’ve never met your real mother?” said Raphael.
“I’ve never met my surrogate mother, no,” I said.
“Oh my God,” said Muffy (I know; she was from Connecticut), a skinny blonde who was eating her peas one by one.
“I wonder if she looks like you,” said Muffy’s identical twin sister, Trina (also anorexic).
“Because you don’t look anything like your mom,” said Muffy.
“Your mom’s really pretty,” said Raphael. “I saw her on Orientation Day. I like her red hair.”
“What are you saying?” I joked, trying to be brave.
“Oh my God, nothing! You’re pretty too! Just…in a different way,” said Muffy.
“Don’t get so sensitive,” said Trina.
I left dinner with a bad feeling in my stomach, and not just from the turkey loaf. My therapist had taught me to call the voice in my head the Tape Recorder of Doom when it said things like You are ugly, no one loves you, your mother and father might die tonight. And I tried. But sometimes, it didn’t feel like a tape recorder at all. It felt like what was real. Cough syrup seemed to be helping.
That night, when the syrup made me less terrified and more sleepy, even languid (great word), I started thinking, again, about how I could locate my real mom. I didn’t even know her name. I started thinking about who, besides my parents, might know something.
I came up with my crazy grandmother, who was another person I’d never met. Another road Suzette said it was “best not to go down.”
I knew a few things about my sole surviving grandmother:
1. Her name was Carolyn Greene.
2. She lived (not by choice) in a mental institution called Bellevue. It was hard to find info about Bellevue—it had been renamed NYC Health + Hospitals/Bellevue—but I knew the address: 462 First Avenue, New York, NY.
3. Carolyn’s disease was called bipolar disorder with psychosis, which meant she thought everyone was out to get her. This is not the same as hearing the Tape Recorder of Doom, but much, much worse. The Tape Recorder of Doom is a normal thing for a young girl to hear, and is otherwise known as being anxious, so stop worrying, Dr. Kendall, your daughter is fine, not completely nuts like your mom. (An aside: maybe Dr. Kendall could use some new meds, as well?)
4. I was never brought to visit my crazy grandmother because she had threatened to come to Houston and burn down our house. She believed my dad was evil/the devil/part of a government conspiracy to ruin her/the universe as we knew it. My parents agreed that having her in my life was a bad idea. (They agreed about pretty much everything, leaving me feeling like the perpetual third wheel.)
As if it were fate, during Dinner Announcements the next night, Ms. Phillips announced a field trip later in the semester to the Museum of Natural History in New York City. I was the first one to sign up. After I signed up, I went to the auditorium, where they were holding tryouts for the Pringley Girls a cappella group. I watched the tryouts, wondering if I could find the courage to give it a shot. If I went for it, I decided, I would sing an Ella Fitzgerald song—“Love for Sale” or “They Can’t Take That Away from Me.” (I sang Ella in the shower, and to be honest, I was kind of good.)
In a red velvet chair, watching other girls with more courage than me but not necessarily more talent, I mused about my real mother. Who was she? Did she hear the Tape Recorder of Doom? Did she have black hair like me, just a bit curly—and brows that needed serious tweezing? Did she also love to swim? Was she a good singer? How could she give me up—just hand me to the Kendalls and disappear? Was she dead?
I was pretty sure she wasn’t dead. I would know. I just knew I would know.
Somehow, and without any Robitussin, I walked to the stage and waited in line. When it was my turn, I stepped into the light. “Hi,” I said. “Um, I’m going to sing ‘The Nearness of You.’ It’s an old Ella Fitzgerald song.”
“OK,” said a tall brunette sitting in the front row with a clipboard. “Let’s hear it.”
I took a deep breath. I closed my eyes and thought about being held in someone’s arms, close and warm. Safe. The words spilled out—rich, deep, lovely.
When I finished, there was the deadest silence I have ever experienced. I narrowed my eyes to try to see what the brunette thought. She was looking at me with a half smile on her face. “Excellent,” she said, nodding.
I smiled.
That night, I did not drink any cough syrup. This seemed like a significant step for me. I thought about my real mother as I fell asleep. She must have cradled me as a baby—at least once. While I was singing, the feeling of being held wasn’t like a dream. It was like a memory.
5
Suzette
After a fitful night in Alberto’s bed (he insisted he sleep on the couch) and two of his strong espressos, Suzette arrived at the hospital. A television crew waited in the hallway. Suzette held up her hand as they approached and turned to Alberto. “Please, Suzette,” he said. “Any publicity is good for us.”
“We’d appreciate a quick word, Dr. Kendall,” said a woman in a chic, cream-colored suit.
Suzette sighed but acquiesced. “You could have told me to wear lipstick,” she said, sotto voce, to Alberto.
“Yours is a natural beauty,” he replied.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” said Suzette. “All right, let’s do this.”
The newscaster lifted her microphone. “Tomorrow morning, Dr. Suzette Kendall will perform a very complicated, very long heart surgery here at the Heart Centre,” she said to the camera. “Dr. Kendall, can you explain the Ross procedure?”
“Of course,” said Suzette. She explained the operation as simply as she was able, but the woman cut her off.
“That sounds very dangerous,” she said, her brow creasing.
“It is heart surgery,” said Suzette.
“Why w
ould you operate in such an involved manner, when you could just replace the valve with one made of plastic?”
“There are many advantages for a biological valve,” said Suzette. “But most importantly, an artificial valve requires the patient to take blood thinners for the rest of their life.”
“Yes? And the problem?” said the reporter, her voice light but her question rude.
“Well, for one thing, a patient shouldn’t be pregnant while on anticoagulants.”
The reporter nodded, moving on. “What is the success rate?” she asked.
“For the procedure worldwide, I’m not sure. But I have never lost a patient during the procedure.”
“Never?”
Alberto stepped in front of Suzette. “Dr. Kendall is one of the most accomplished surgeons in the world,” he said. “And now she must get to work.”
“We will be waiting to hear the news of the surgery,” said the newscaster. Suzette smiled, deciding to ignore the note of menace in her tone.
The Rwandan children looked small and scared in their halogen-lit rooms. To a one, they were gravely ill, their valves severely compromised. Without heart surgery, they would die before long. Even with surgery, Alberto had told Suzette, their chances weren’t great.
Angel was a small girl with close-cropped hair. Alberto introduced Suzette, and Angel said, “I am very pleased to meet you.”
Suzette grinned at her formal tone. “I’m glad I can help,” she said. “Do you have any questions for me, Angel?”
“You will make me well?” said Angel.
“I’m going to try my best,” said Suzette.
“And I can still have a baby?” said Angel.
“I hope so,” said Suzette. “But you’re only eleven years old. You don’t need to worry.”
“Do you have a baby?” said the girl.
“I do. I have a daughter. But actually, another woman was pregnant, not me. She gave the baby to me.” Suzette smiled, trying to be positive.
Angel narrowed her eyes. Her eyelashes were lush against her ashen skin. Her arms were stick-thin. “The mother, she died?” she asked.
“No,” said Suzette. “It was…a job for her.”
Angel looked dismayed. “Oh, no,” she said. “That’s bad.”
“No—it was…it was a complicated arrangement.”
Angel crossed her bony arms and stared at Suzette.
“The point is that there are many ways to become a mother,” said Suzette. When Angel turned her head away, Suzette said gently, “Let’s make you well, OK?”
Angel turned back, nodded slowly. “Yes. It’s my heart,” she said, bringing her small hand to her chest. “My heart is sick,” she said.
Suzette placed her hand atop Angel’s and they sat quietly for a time.
—
Suzette scrubbed in and stood next to Alberto in the OR. The plan was for her to observe for a day. On the table, a nine-year-old boy was prepped for surgery. Suzette watched the fragile expanse of skin over his rib cage rise and fall. His lips were parted beneath the oxygen mask.
“You are here for how long?” asked Mugwaneza Cyilima, the doctor who had accompanied the children to the world-class hospital, which had been built in Sudan to serve the nine neighboring countries.
“I don’t know,” said Suzette. She had told Hyland it would be a week, but now that she was here, Suzette didn’t ever want to leave.
“I am here for three days only,” said Mugwaneza. “I will watch the surgeries, then go home. There are many others…” He trailed off, opening his hands to convey multitudes.
Suzette nodded. She had been told that Mugwaneza was one of two pediatric cardiologists in his entire country.
“The children will stay for six weeks at least,” said Gwyneth, a nurse. “They get so homesick without their parents, but we must make sure they’ve recovered.”
Suzette had little patience for pleasantries in the OR. She turned to Alberto. “Let’s begin,” she said. He nodded. The staff seemed reassured by her brusque demeanor. Alberto readied the scalpel.
When the boy’s chest was open, Alberto cut a glance to Suzette. The left atrium was huge, the boy’s heart so enlarged it was practically beating out of his chest. Suzette had never seen a heart so diseased, except in training videos. She was overcome with sadness. If Eloise had not been treated, her fever could have led to this.
Suzette knew what Alberto’s look meant—he could not repair the valve, and would have to replace it. “Start bypass,” said Alberto.
“Bypass on,” said the nurse.
Suzette listened to the robotic symphony sustaining life as the boy’s heart, slowly, stopped. Gwyneth readied the tools. Alberto breathed in. He looked again at Suzette, raised an eyebrow. “Tomorrow, it is you,” he said.
“I’m ready,” said Suzette.
—
That evening, after Alberto had completed five successful surgeries, Suzette made dinner—noodles with butter and the desiccated contents of a jar labeled “Italianate Blend.” Thanks to Hyland’s skills, she had never really learned to cook.
Juggling motherhood and work during Eloise’s earliest years had been torture: Suzette would wake with a sense of dread, scrambling to figure out how she’d get through the day—the endless to-do lists, Hyland’s hatred of his job, the nannies and their myriad needs. Suzette loathed saying goodbye to Eloise. “Mommy!” Eloise would wail, reaching out. And after a while—even worse—Eloise stopped caring when Suzette left, simply turning toward (and gazing lovingly at) the nanny. Suzette almost quit her job a thousand times, but something in her could not do it.
Suzette savored their weekends together as a family: they went to museums, zoos, Asian markets, thrift stores. They napped together in Hyland and Suzette’s big bed, then woke and ate apples with peanut butter. On Eloise’s first day of kindergarten, Suzette had felt bereft. Luckily, Meg—who knew the feeling well—spirited Suzette off to Perfection Nails, where they toasted Eloise with plastic glasses of champagne and gave their pedicurists ridiculous tips. (Lenny was long gone—to Las Vegas, he had told them, where he planned to open his own salon and remain “single and out and about.”)
“To Eloise,” Meg had said.
Tears had leaked from Suzette’s eyes. “To Eloise,” she’d said. “I love her so much.”
“It’s a bitch, that’s for sure,” Meg had said, summing up the situation perfectly, as usual.
The years had passed so quickly, as the greeting cards said they would. And while the daily chores often seemed thankless, there were transcendent moments almost every day: watching Eloise and Hyland dissolve into laughter watching The Jerk; tasting a pizza Hyland and Eloise had made together; playing Holiday Charades on Christmas. It wasn’t until Eloise was fourteen that she’d stopped wanting to spend her weekends with her parents. In a matter of weeks, it seemed, she became a stranger. Suzette missed the Eloise who had been her best friend, who had wanted to spend the summer watching classic movies and trying new restaurants with her mom.
—
“Suzette, this spaghetti is delicious,” said Alberto. “But are you with me? You seem a million miles away.”
“Sorry,” said Suzette. “Here, don’t forget to squeeze lemon on top.”
“Perfect,” said Alberto.
After dinner, they stayed at the table, sharing a pot of mint tea. “You think it is possible, the Ross procedure in this OR?” Alberto asked, rubbing his eyes, stubbing out his cigarette and lighting another.
“Yes,” said Suzette. “It’s possible.”
“We’ll see,” said Alberto. “It remains to be seen.” He took her hand, but instinctively she pulled away. They had known each other for a long time—neither needed to say a word.
6
Eloise
As it turned out, New York City was nothing like Houston. Having been to only one city—my city—I thought they were all similar: shiny, busy, filled with swanky cars and people with impressive hairdos. God, I was wrong. A
s soon as the Pringley School bus dropped us off in front of the Museum of Natural History, I could tell Manhattan was different. The air literally smelled like chestnuts roasting on an open fire. People didn’t smile. Their clothes were black and gray. They seemed much more important than the people at home.
After I hadn’t even gotten a callback for the Pringley Girls, things had gone downhill. It was easier to guzzle Robitussin in boarding school than at home. Nobody was checking my grocery bags or my wastebasket. You could get other stuff, too. One of my new, druggie friends had even provided me with the number of her NYC dealer. I was sticking to cough syrup, but it seemed like I needed more every night to shut up the Tape Recorder of Doom and fall asleep, which was worrisome.
My plan was straightforward: board the bus from Pringley to the Museum of Natural History, escape the school group, ride the subway to my grandmother’s mental hospital, pump her for my real mother’s details, then embark on my Journey of a Lifetime. (Yes, I had capitalized it in my head.) I had a credit card for emergencies, and obviously figuring out who I really was, where I came from…if my real mother could explain me to myself, maybe help me feel less raw and lonely…well, if a Journey of a Lifetime isn’t an emergency, then what is?
At my old high school and now at Pringley, I tried to fit in. I missed being in elementary school, back when Jenni and I had each other and didn’t really care about everyone else. I tried not to think about the day I stood in the cafeteria with my tray of pizza scanning the room, looking for Jenni, with whom I’d eaten lunch every day since kindergarten. When I saw the back of Jenni’s blond head at the popular girls’ table, I felt my stomach drop. I approached, and Mindi glanced up and then back down at her salad. She whispered something, and Mandi and Joni giggled. Jenni turned around and looked at me. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi,” said Jenni.
“Is there…room for me?” I asked.
Jenni looked at Mindi, who shook her head. Jenni’s face was blank. She could have stood up for me, but she did not. I nodded, made a face like it was fine, and walked away. I didn’t cry until I was in the girls’ bathroom.
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