Emma, remembering this, finds herself smiling, thinking of that irrepressible laughter. But at once this becomes painful: as soon as she realizes she is smiling she remembers. This memory is so different from the way things are now that it is excruciating, and the idea of Peter shouting at Tess for laughter is intolerable, like sacrilege. And that car trip was so utterly different from what she knows now of the last car trip the two girls took together that Emma cannot allow herself to compare them without that feeling of rising panic.
She shakes her head to clear that memory from it—it burns—and she reads on steadily, at length. She concentrates on the story, which is about the Abominable Snowman, in Tibet, and a gang of international criminals, and kindly people of great virtue and courage, and of course the indefatigable, stouthearted, high-minded Tintin. When Emma lets herself think about the characters in the book—the nice ones—tears gather in her eyes. She weeps furtively for the lonely misunderstood Abominable Snowman, and for the kind Tibetan who risks his life for Tintin. Emma will now weep at anything.
Her reading voice, she believes, is soothing Tess. Emma believes that, on some level, Tess knows that Emma is there in the room with her. She believes that somewhere in Tess’s hidden, quiet, resting mind she can hear her mother’s voice. Emma believes that this steady sound will maintain the connection between herself in this world and Tess, wherever she is. Emma hopes that her voice will draw Tess back into this world, where her mother is waiting.
Just before three-thirty Doctor Baxter arrives. It is in the afternoon that he always comes, but usually earlier than this. Does his lateness mean anything?
Emma sits up straighter when he comes in. She leans forward in her chair, setting her feet neatly side by side. She feels that if she is very good, very polite to the doctor, perfectly courteous, if she can achieve a kind of perfection through her behavior, Doctor Baxter will tell her the things she wants to hear. This is another of her superstitions.
“Good afternoon,” Doctor Baxter says, his eyes sliding over Emma at once and moving to Tess. He is polite but impersonal, it is clear that he is not here for conversation. He is here on his own business, and Emma’s presence is incidental. He will tolerate it, he will be courteous, but that is all. Emma sits up very straight in her chair. She would stand eagerly, and come over next to him at Tess’s bedside, but she has done this, and he has not seemed pleased. He seems to want to be the only person leaning over Tess. He seems to think that his right to Tess’s body is now greater than Emma’s. She cannot deny this. She cannot deny him anything. She must trust him.
Doctor Baxter is not very tall, only just taller than Emma. He is mostly bald, with deep horizontal lines in his forehead. His eyes are small, blue and very intent. He wears pale reddish tortoiseshell glasses. Now he moves past Emma and stands before Tess, his eyes on the heart monitor. He watches the screen as it flickers with that brilliant white tadpole, jittering endlessly along the black stream.
Emma, watching, tries to make her own face bright and interested, in case he turns to her. She tries to look alert and responsive, someone he can tell things to. Doctor Baxter does not look at her. He picks up Tess’s hand and says, “Tess, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand.”
Waiting, Emma feels her mouth suddenly go dry. She feels tears threatening, a lump in her throat. Panic hovers around her: she must not cry in front of the doctor, she must not. She presses down the lump in her throat, swallows, blinks. Then Doctor Baxter sets Tess’s hand back down on the covers, and he straightens up. He makes a notation on the chart, Tess’s chart, which he has on his clipboard.
“Well?” Emma manages. She can no longer endure the silence. “How does it all look?”
Doctor Baxter turns to her. “About the same,” he says. He stoops slightly, bending over Tess’s face. He pulls down her eyelids, separately, and flashes a tiny bright light into each one. He picks up Tess’s hand again and presses his thumb deep into the pale flesh of her wrist. Emma watches him without breathing. She watches him as though he had water, and she were dying of thirst. She knows that he is listening, through his hand, to the deep murmurs of Tess’s poor damaged body, that Tess’s blood is speaking to him. Mute, Emma waits. She cannot bear to ask again.
None of Emma’s thoughts has words. What she wants is what she is, it’s all she is. She never forms to herself the sentence she’s thinking; she’s living it. That’s all there is to her, that one sentence.
Doctor Baxter pulls down the sheet. Tess’s small body, in its hospital gown, lies trustingly before him. Her feet turn slightly out, relaxed. He picks one up and runs his thumbnail up its outer edge. The foot twitches slightly.
Emma takes her courage in both hands. “What does that do?”
Without looking at her Doctor Baxter answers. “This is called Babinski’s sign. It concerns the amount of blood in the brain.”
Emma feels her heart pounding. “And?” she presses. “What does it show with Tess?”
“When I run my finger along her foot,” says Doctor Baxter, “the toes normally respond by turning down, reflexively. If the toes turn up, there may be a dangerous amount of blood in the brain.”
“Oh,” says Emma. She is having trouble breathing, the information is so powerful, so momentous. She has no idea why the test works, why this response is so. She would not dream of asking him: she feels she is only allowed a certain number of questions. “And?” she finally says, fearful, desperate. “What do her toes do?”
Without speaking Doctor Baxter does the test again. His nail slides smoothly along the outside of Tess’s foot. Emma stares at Tess’s toes. Magically, as the doctor’s nail reaches the upper half of the foot, Tess’s toes suddenly curl downward.
“Oh,” says Emma again. Gratitude floods through her. “It’s good.” She looks at Doctor Baxter. He doesn’t look at her, but he nods.
“Isn’t it?” she asks, insisting.
But he will not give in. He will not allow her to flood with hope. Ignoring her question he turns to her, his face neutral. An absolute barrier surrounds him. His mouth is set with his own thoughts.
“It’s a satisfactory response,” he says. “But there is no change,” he finishes, reminding Emma that despite the beautiful rippling of the toes, that breathtaking signal from the interior, brilliant, commanding, like the sudden gleam from a lighthouse, Tess’s mind is still shrouded, fogbound, silent.
Doctor Baxter waits politely. He does not want Emma to entertain unreasonable hope, she can see that, and he also does not want her to break down and weep. These are things he resolutely wants nothing to do with. He does not want her to ask him for anything more than information.
Emma blinks, and her mind turns panicky. All day long she has waited for this moment, her one moment with the doctor, who is her only hope. She depends upon him in order to be able to continue with her life. When the moment of her audience arrives, she is confused and overwhelmed. She is struck dumb with terror. She is afraid to ask technical questions, even when she has rehearsed them. In his presence, under his neutral, impassive gaze, her mind locks. She knows she will stutter, pronounce things wrong, sound moronic. She knows the words, the names. She knows about the dural hemorrhage. She knows that Tess tested at seven on the Glasgow scale of obtundation; she knows that ten is the worst, deep coma. She knows that obtundation means unconsciousness. She knows all these things; she cannot risk saying them, talking about them. Fear makes her stupid. She reverts to clumsy, childlike questions that suggest a deep and abiding ignorance.
“But what do you think?” she asks desperately. She now stands up, regardless of the risk of offending Doctor Baxter.
“There hasn’t been much change,” he says. His voice is not unkind. He slides his pen into the metal clasp at the top of the clipboard, but doesn’t move. He waits. He’s giving her this long moment of attention. Does this mean that he’s sorry for her? Does this mean he’s letting her know that she should not be too hopeful?
“But it doesn’t me
an anything bad, does it?” Emma says. “I mean, the brain may just be recuperating on its own, mending, but she’ll still, she’ll still …” she stops. Terror has seized her speech, and her voice breaks. “… come out all right?”
Doctor Baxter looks at her for a moment. She can’t read his expression. Then he nods.
“It’s possible,” he says.
Emma can think of nothing more to say. After a moment Doctor Baxter steps politely toward her, making her retreat from him, since there is not room enough for him to get by unless she moves. She steps backwards, toward the hard-backed metal chair, and he passes her without looking, on his way to the door.
“Excuse me,” he says, as he passes.
That’s all. Her moment with the doctor is over.
At just past six, the hall door opens. Emma looks up: it is Warren. This is the first time he and Emma have been alone together since the accident. Warren’s face is tense, his mouth tight.
“Hello,” he says stiffly, and steps inside. He is beautifully dressed, dark pinstripe suit, broad lustrous tie. He looks polished, gleaming. How can he look, at six o’clock in the evening, so unrumpled, wonders Emma. Did he go home and change, after work? Emma resents his nattiness, deeply and instantly. She resents his dressing up, showing himself off, here, visiting his daughter, who is unable to see him. Emma feels vivid with hatred for him.
“Hello, Warren,” she says.
Then, as she says his name, she begins suddenly and unexpectedly to cry. Cramping, powerful sobs take over her body, and she bends forward in her chair, her face covered by her hands. She cannot stop. Over and over she is shaken by long hideous sobs. Warren draws near, uncomfortable. She feels him standing next to her, and out of embarrassment, or out of consideration for him, she tries to stop crying. She cannot. The sobs hurl through her like blasts of wind. Warren leans past her, to the windowsill, where there is a box of Kleenex. He hands it to her and pats her awkwardly on the back. His touch is uneasy, as though he has never touched her body before in his life, as though he’s never patted another human being before.
“Shh-hhh,” he says, sounding insincere. “It’s okay.”
Emma doesn’t answer. She is furious. What is okay? It’s intolerable, absurd, for Warren to say that anything is okay. Her anger makes her cry harder. The crying has now taken her over completely, and she makes terrible sounds, great racking moans, loud and awful, as though she were near death—long shuddering gasps that shake her whole body. At the bottom of each sob her body is empty, airless. She sobs again, draws gustily in and the breath floods back into her, opening her lungs for the next cry. Her cheeks are flooding with tears, her chin is wet, her throat, her neck, her wrists.
When she manages at last to stop crying, when the heaving sobs slow and lessen, Emma stands up. She lifts her face to look at Warren. She takes a Kleenex, blots her eyes, blows her nose, sighs. She knows she is now red eyed, swollen nosed, which pleases her. She wants Warren to see how bad things really are, that everything is bad. That he can’t simply put on beautiful clothes and make things all right. Warren’s face is now close to hers, it is right in front of her. She is closer to him, physically, than she has been in years. She sees that, though his mouth is tight and pinched, unfriendly, his eyes, like hers, are sad.
He is Tess’s father.
Emma puts her arms around him and lays her head on his shoulder. Warren doesn’t move at all, he stands stiff and resistant within the circle of her arms. But she holds him close against her, she holds his grief to hers, and after a moment he puts his arms around her and holds her. Then he begins very gently to sway, holding her close and swaying very slightly, almost as if they were about to dance, holding her, rocking her back and forth.
Emma holds Warren tightly, in a way she has not been able to hold Peter since it happened. Warren’s body now seems unfamiliar to her: the shape, the height, the heft of it are wrong. She has forgotten his smell. But still she feels right, holding him tightly in her arms, and she closes her eyes, swaying with him, letting him rock her, rocking him. She feels him begin to cry, too, his chest suddenly heaving against hers, a breath taken, then let out slowly, in miserable graduated gusts. When she hears this she begins to pat his back, slowly, gently, sliding her hand on his back in small soothing circles, as though he were a child, as though she loved him.
Emma stands facing the door to the hall, which is still open. Over Warren’s shoulder she sees Peter appear in the doorway. Seeing her, he stops. She watches him, saying nothing. Her arms stay around Warren, and she goes on patting his back, gently. Peter stands with his briefcase in one hand. His clothes are wrinkled; he looks rumpled and undistinguished. Emma despises him for this: how can he come to see Tess in such a state of disarray, looking as if he cared so little?
Peter waits, but Emma does not change her position or speak. The two watch each other. Finally, Peter, his face dark, moves into the room. He sets his briefcase, with some emphasis, down on the empty bed. Warren hears him and pulls himself away from Emma, his head bent. Emma hands him the box of Kleenex, still looking at Peter. Warren blows his nose, wipes his eyes, tries to compose himself.
“Hello,” Peter says, coolly, to Emma.
“Hello,” says Emma. She does not move.
“Hello, Peter,” Warren says awkwardly. He gives a sideways wave. His head is still down, he is trying to recover.
“Hello, Warren, “Peter says courteously. He turns from them both and stands over Tess’s bed. He leans over her silent form.
“Hello, little chickadee,” he says quietly. He puts his hand down to stroke her hair.
“Don’t,” Emma says suddenly.
Peter looks at her.
“Don’t touch her,” Emma says.
Peter’s mouth tightens. He withdraws his hand and straightens. “How is she?” he asks Emma. He speaks gently and matter-of-factly, as though Emma were a panicky animal.
Emma shakes her head, looking at the floor.
“What did the doctor say?” Peter perseveres.
“Nothing new,” Emma says. She folds her arms.
There is a silence. Warren sniffs, wipes his face. He tries to blow his nose discreetly.
“How long do we go on waiting like this?” Peter asks.
Emma shakes her head.
“Is there anyone else we could talk to? Should we think about getting a second opinion?” Peter asks.
Emma stares at him. She can hardly answer. She feels deeply bound, immobilized, by inertia and fear. It is hard enough to get through each day. The idea of changing everything, doing something else, something different, seems terrifying to her. She does not dare disturb things here, she cannot imagine destroying the delicate equilibrium of this silent room, of the hope that clings lightly in the corners, like cobwebs. She does not dare risk angering Doctor Baxter. She cannot imagine telling him that she is challenging his authority with a second opinion. She cannot risk his anger.
“Maybe we should,” Warren says. He looks at Emma.
“Who should we ask?” Emma says, helpless.
“I could ask my doctor to suggest someone,” says Peter. “We could get a referral to the head of Neurology at Columbia-Presbyterian, maybe.”
“At another hospital?” says Emma. “We don’t want to move her, do we? And suppose he says we should do something different? Then what? Which doctor do we trust? How do you know what to do?”
There is a silence. Warren and Emma look at each other, then away. Peter looks at Emma. She does not look at him, she will not meet his eyes. Beside the bed, the heart monitor silently records the steady courses of white stars across its deep black screen.
Emma knows that Peter is looking at her. She does not want to look at him, or talk to him. It is too hard. She is concentrating on something. She is concentrating on how to get through the next moment. And then the moment after that. Peter is in the way of this. Everything is in the way of this, but especially Peter.
“Do you want me to talk to Doctor
Hendricks about it?” Peter asks Emma.
Emma says nothing.
“Emma?” Peter says. Now his voice contains a trace, a very faint trace, of impatience.
Emma lowers her eyes, not looking at him. She shakes her head.
There is a silence in the room. Peter looks down again at Tess. He watches her face, steadily, intently, as though he were reading her. He draws nearer, leaning down slightly, though he doesn’t stretch his hand out again. He gazes down at her. His eyes are tender. Emma looks up. She sees him watching Tess.
“Don’t,” Emma says without inflection.
Peter looks up. “What?”
“Don’t look at her like that,” Emma says.
There is a silence.
“Emma,” Peter says, “don’t go too far.”
Emma does not answer. There is nowhere that is too far for her to go. She would do anything. She is trying to get through the next moment.
Warren straightens his shoulders finally, returning himself to the public person. His voice is now courteous, impersonal. He says to Peter, “How was the traffic coming uptown?”
Peter stares at him, then answers. “Not too bad, actually,” he says coolly. “I’m not late because of the traffic. I’m late because I stopped at the apartment.”
There is a silence. Both men have, at different times in their lives, said “the apartment” and meant the place they lived with Emma.
Emma says nothing. She does not ask Peter why he stopped off there, what he has brought. She cannot remember what the apartment is like, why he might want to go there. She cannot focus on it. She is trying to get through the next moment. It is exhausting.
She wishes both of them would go. She wants to get out one of Tess’s books and read to her. She has a feeling that this, right now, might be a crucial moment. It might be. Right now, Tess’s consciousness might be beginning to rise, light might be beginning to break across it. Right now might be the moment when Tess should hear her mother’s voice, reading aloud words that Tess knows.
This Is My Daughter Page 38