Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

“Other people know now,” she argued. “You could talk with them.”

  “They’re not you. I need you on my side. I’ve been miserable these last ten days.”

  She wanted to believe, wanted to think that the tears in his eyes last night had been sheer relief that she was here. It was an encouraging thought.

  Gesturing for him to sit, she poured two juices and was in the process of carrying over their coffees when he took a mouthful of salsa and set down his fork. The tremor in his hand had been pronounced.

  “No better?” she asked softly, taking the stool beside his.

  He shook his head.

  “How did your parents take it?”

  “Stoically.” He cradled his coffee with both hands. “Dad was quiet. My mother refuses to consider the ramifications for my career.” He hesitated. “They haven’t called you?”

  She shook her head. She had never been close to Julian’s parents, had always guessed that they viewed her as the second wife, maybe the trophy one. Maybe it was her childlike voice, or the fact that she hadn’t given them a grandchild. She bought them Christmas gifts, sent birthday cards, and pulled out all stops when they visited Philadelphia, though that wasn’t often. And she had her own parents, little more than an hour away.

  “It’s okay,” she said to Julian now. “They’re dealing, just like you. Has word spread at the hospital?”

  “Some. I didn’t get in until midday Friday. A few friends came by then. It’s awkward until they realize I’m still me and”—he tapped his head—“all here. Dan was great in Durham. And Antoine wants to play golf. He says it would be good for me, though I think it’s guilt on his part. But I have to hand it to him. He isn’t running away.” He stopped short.

  “Others have?” Nicole asked.

  Julian held up a hand and left the room, walking with the slightly uneven gait that he usually tried to hide. He returned a minute later, wearing wool socks.

  “Who ran away?” she asked.

  “The support staff. Hey, I was only in for half a day, and the whole idea is still strange to them. They don’t know what to say. You’d think they would, given what they do for a living. But this isn’t a patient. It’s me.”

  “How’s the limp?”

  “You saw. It comes and goes. There’s some relief not having to worry that someone will see.” He rose again and, heading for the living room this time, fiddled with the thermostat.

  When he returned, Nicole touched his hand. It was cold.

  “I get chills,” he admitted quietly and busied himself with the French toast.

  Chills were a side effect of the meds he was on. Between that, the yellow tinge to his skin, and the pronounced tremor in his hand, it was obvious they weren’t helping.

  She ate silently beside him for a short time, liking the good will between them, liking that he was eating, liking that he seemed more relaxed with her, his old self in some regards. From having sex? Maybe. Men took pride in that.

  But there was an elephant in the room, looming hairy and large. Sitting back with barely half of her breakfast eaten, she said, “Have you done anything about the other?”

  “Stem cells?” He eyed her French toast, and asked, “Do you want that?”

  She moved her plate closer and waited until he had finished most everything there. Naturally lean, he was now leaner than ever. For missing her? Disinterest in food? Nausea, which would be another side effect of the meds?

  “Stem cells?” she prompted softly, gearing up for what she feared hearing. Impending doom? It seemed so long ago that she’d used the phrase with Charlotte. She had managed to push it aside for a while, but here it was again, front and center.

  Setting down his fork, he rested his bad hand in his lap, and looked at her. “No. I haven’t done anything yet.”

  “Why not?” she asked in surprise. He had been so determined when they’d discussed it last.

  He reached for his coffee, but she took the cup before it reached his mouth, and topped it off with hot, fresh brew. As before, he held it with both hands.

  “Why not, Julian?”

  He was studying her strangely. “This is not a discussion you want to have.”

  “I know that. But I don’t want to be ignored anymore.”

  “I never ignored you.” He considered, modified. “I just turned away when you said things I didn’t like.”

  “If you want me involved in your life, you have to let me in.”

  “I want you involved in my life,” he said. “That’s one of the reasons I haven’t moved forward on this. I knew you were against it.”

  Wow. “Does that matter?”

  His eyes were intense. “Yes. It matters a lot.”

  “Because you want me to support what you do?”

  “No, because I want your opinion. You have common sense. I depend on it.”

  “You do? But you’re the doctor. You know more.”

  “Maybe about medicine. Not about life.”

  Nicole didn’t know what to think. Julian depending on her was a heady thought.

  As she watched him, he grew self-conscious. “I also have questions. It isn’t an easy decision.” He looked out the window, then back. “Can we go for a walk or something?”

  “Don’t you have to get to the hospital?”

  “Why?”

  Here was bitterness. She was waiting to see if it would become anger and snowball into an accusation against her, when he let it go.

  “I have a two o’clock meeting,” he conceded, slipping into the old Julian, professional and composed. “It’s a first pregnancy. There are early signs of left ventricular hypoplasia in the fetus and, understandably, the mom is off the wall. I can’t do the surgery myself, but since it’s my technique, I may be able to reassure her. My name is still worth something.” He rose. “Out?”

  * * *

  They walked leisurely. Though the heat and humidity were high, the familiarity of the city was reassuring at a time when their lives were in flux. Julian held her hand and, later, looped her elbow through his. He seemed to want the connection. Hungry for it herself, Nicole refused to think beyond the moment.

  Eventually reaching the park at Rittenhouse Square, they found an empty bench by the fountain, where the movement of water could soothe. Pedestrian traffic was light, but the normalcy of other people was calming as well. Julian stretched out his legs, ankles crossed, and though his arms were folded, their elbows remained linked.

  When he asked about Kaylin, Nicole described her visit in a levelheaded way. She even remained composed when he asked about Angie. From the perspective of Philadelphia and Julian, the issue of Tom just didn’t seem as important, though Julian asked all the right questions regarding loyalty to Bob. Same with not selling the house. Nicole was still trying to process the meaning of that.

  The questions ended. Tearing her eyes from the fountain, she found him studying her. She smiled, puzzled.

  “Your voice is different,” he remarked. “The way you speak. It’s more blunt.”

  “Like Charlotte?” she asked, feeling a fondness she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of not so long ago. Either old habits died hard, or new ones were, yes, more forgiving.

  Whatever, he gave a short shrug with his brows. “I couldn’t say. I barely knew her.”

  Accepting that at least, Nicole explained, “She’s had to deal with a lot in her life, so she doesn’t waste words. When she speaks, you listen. People tune me out sometimes. I feel like I need to fill the silence, whether I have something to say or not. It’s the insecure me.”

  “It’s the sociable you, and I like your voice,” he said gently. “It’s unique.”

  “Childlike?”

  “Sweet.”

  She sighed. “Then along came reality.” She waited. He looked torn, but they had to discuss the next medical step. Sitting in the midmorning quiet of a public garden was as good a place as any. “Your turn,” she cued.

  Releasing her arm, he leaned forward, put
his elbows on his knees, and knotted his hands. He was slow to speak, seeming to struggle, unsure where to start. Finally, with the quickest glance back at her, he said, “I’ve been reading MS blogs.”

  That surprised her. He had always resisted. “You said they didn’t relate to you.”

  “They don’t in the sense of work. It’s what I do for a living that makes this so bad for me. But that doesn’t mean others don’t have problems. And some of them don’t have access to the kinds of doctors we do.”

  She might have said he was right, that it was about time he moved past self-pity and looked outside himself. But that would have been filling the silence again, and she was through doing that. Julian needed to talk. She waited for him to go on.

  Finally, frowning at the ground, he said, “I feel like I’m on a precipice. I know that sounds melodramatic, but I’ve never been in a situation like this. My patients have. They put the lives of their babies in my hands all the time, or they used to. I was the one in control. But I’m not now. I can’t control the doctor, can’t control the process, can’t control the results. I read those blogs and tell myself that if I return to a more conventional treatment plan, I could go on for a long time with maybe minimal decline. Then I think of the things that I love that I wouldn’t be able to do.” His frown deepened, dark brows more pronounced in profile. “I ask my patients to take risks. Can I not do it myself?” He considered that, hands clenched tighter. “So I’m here on the edge, knowing that if I decide to jump, I could either fly or fall.” When he looked at her, he was fighting tears. “I don’t know what in the hell to do.”

  Heartbroken, she came forward so that they were arm to arm, thigh to thigh, and leaned into him for several minutes. Then, feeling trepidation, she turned her head on his shoulder. “You still want that cure.”

  His eyes were frightened when they met hers, his voice low. “Yes.”

  His fear somehow modulated her own. “Umbilical cord stem cells,” she breathed, just to be sure.

  He nodded. “If I’m going for it, I’d rather go for it all.”

  “In spite of the risks?” she asked, and held her breath.

  He hesitated, then said softly, “I want a cure. I tell myself that it doesn’t matter as long as I’m alive. Only it does. I want it for me, but I also want it for you, for us, so that I can be the kind of husband you deserve. And I want it for others who are facing what we are.” Voice still low, he said, “Here’s another way I’m different from those bloggers. I’ve seen the success that can come when you take a chance on a new technique. I know how breakthroughs happen. It has to start with someone being willing to try.”

  “It could go bad,” she whispered, feeling like she was on a precipice herself. He wanted her support. She could be the one pushing him over the edge.

  “I know. That scares the shit out of me. But these meds aren’t working. I don’t need blood work to tell me what’s happening. If I’m not off them soon, my liver is gone.” His breathing was unsteady. “I want to try, Nicole.”

  And there it was, a choice as simple as loving him and wanting him happy. This was the hand they’d been dealt. The cards said that if he ever had a shot at winning, he needed this.

  His eyes mirrored that need. She was lost in them for a final, pleading moment, before ceding the fight. “Then you should.”

  He gave a little jerk, clearly surprised. “You didn’t think so before.”

  “I didn’t understand how torn you were. I wasn’t sure you’d thought it through.”

  “Oh, I have. I’ve thought it through six ways from Sunday. I could die. I could live and be cured and still not be allowed in the operating room. I could live but be severely debilitated just because of the treatment. I could live and be a vegetable. I know the risks.”

  The final, pleading moment was hers now. Once the words were said, they couldn’t be taken back. But he wanted this. She could only imagine how much.

  Taking a last breath, she swallowed, then said softly, “There’s something that could lessen them.” She loved him and, fly or fall, she owed him this. “Charlotte had a baby.”

  His expression was blank. Which has to do with what? it said. After a minute of utter silence, though, the blankness dissolved.

  “She had my baby?” he whispered in horror. Sitting up straight, he exhaled in a sharp gust. “My child?”

  “It isn’t yours or hers now.” Briefly, she explained.

  His expression went from shock to confusion. “She said nothing.”

  “What could she say? Think about it. What were her choices?”

  He sank back against the bench. To his credit, he remained stunned. “And you’re sure it’s mine?”

  “She says she wasn’t with anyone else. If she had been—if there was the slightest chance the baby wasn’t yours—she wouldn’t have confessed to having the cells.”

  “Cells from a child guarantee at least a partial match.” But he was still struggling with the other. “She carried my child for nine months without a word? Who helped her?”

  “No one. She was alone.”

  He considered that in silence.

  “Would you have fought her?” Nicole finally asked, because that did impact her. Oh, abortion wasn’t an option. None of them would have wanted that. But had Julian taken the baby, Nicole’s life would have radically changed, and not only in the sense of having a baby to raise. Surrogate motherhood was one thing, but a baby conceived in a moment’s betrayal? Charlotte would have forever been part of their marriage. The marriage might not have survived.

  He was a while thinking about that, before finally shaking his head.

  “Do you want to know about the baby?” she asked cautiously.

  He thought again, then shook his head once more. “I can’t. Not now. Tell me about the cells.”

  “They’re frozen. Charlotte owns them until the child is eighteen.”

  He considered that, then let out another breath. “I’m not sure if this makes my decision easier or harder.”

  “Why harder?” she asked.

  “It’s suddenly real.” Un-Julian-like, he pushed a hand through his hair, then clung to the back of his neck. “If there’s a match, I’d have an edge. That may be too good to pass up. But it could still backfire.” His eyes shot to hers. “I could still die.”

  “Not a good word, Jules,” she warned quietly. “Do you trust Hammon?”

  “Yes.”

  She took his hand—so cold again—and held it to the pulse at her throat. “Like your patients trust you?” When he nodded, she said, “Then if anyone can minimize the risk, it’s him.”

  * * *

  They were quiet returning to the house. Julian didn’t rush to pick up the phone, but sat in the living room, brooding. Nicole guessed that a small part of him was still trying to process the fact of that night ten years ago having produced a child. More, though, to judge from the indecision on his face, he was revisiting those six ways from Sunday with this new information.

  When she came to sit on the arm of his chair, he slipped his own arm around her waist. When she brought him lunch, he ate everything she served. And when he went off to his two o’clock meeting, she gave him a hug and let him go. She didn’t ask what he was thinking, and though she was dying to know, she wouldn’t hover. They were in this together. She believed that now in ways she hadn’t before. She knew her husband. He was a self-contained man. He would speak when he had something to say.

  * * *

  When he returned from the hospital, he did. While there, he had called New York. Peter Keppler agreed with him about the liver problem and, understanding the next step, returned him to a more conventional drug. Julian also called Mark Hammon, who apparently began the conversation holding to the idea of an autologous transplant, until he electronically accessed the latest blood work.

  “My counts are too low,” Julian told Nicole now. “We won’t be able to get a good collection of cells from me, so it’ll have to be donor cells. If Char
lotte is telling the truth, those UCB cells would be a gift. Mark is excited. That’s the first time I’ve heard it from him. But he’s cautious. He wants me to think through everything again. He also wants me to recuperate.” Cautious himself now, he said, “I want to go to Quinnipeague, Nicki. It’s the best place to rest. And Charlotte’s there. She and I have to talk.”

  Nicole’s first high little voice cried no no no. She had just found her husband again and couldn’t bear to risk losing him to a woman with whom he’d had an affair, or whatever you wanted to call it. Seeing them separately was one thing, but together—and on Quinnipeague? Her island? Her haven—which wasn’t the haven it used to be, thanks to these very same two people?

  When the deeper, grown-up voice emerged, though, it said that, of course, Julian had to talk with Charlotte. Nicole had opened the door to that herself by telling him about the cord blood. He and Charlotte had a connection that wasn’t ending anytime soon.

  She wasn’t sure which frightened her more—his having a stem cell transplant or his seeing Charlotte. But both were part of the new reality. If Angie was right, Nicole had to accept it and move on.

  That said, moving on involved Charlotte in more ways than one. That cord blood could either save or kill. Having encouraged Julian to use it, Nicole felt the weight of responsibility. She wanted to share it with the woman who had made it possible.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  CHARLOTTE FELT THE WEIGHT. IT had been on her shoulders for more than a month, heavier after she told Nicole about the baby and even heavier now. Hour after hour with no word? She was dying to know what was going on but was reluctant to inject herself into what had to be a difficult time between Nicole and Julian.

  When finally, finally on Wednesday morning Nicole texted, she was relieved only until she read the note. Sitting at Leo’s desk, she reread it in dismay, then held the phone away and cried, “I’ve been waiting to hear for two days, and this is the best she can do? Returning tomorrow, can u pick up at pier?”

  “Text her back,” Leo suggested and, of course, it was the sensible thing to do, only Charlotte hadn’t been good at being sensible since Nicole had left. Too much was at stake—Julian’s health and Nicole’s marriage, not to mention the future of her friendship with Nicole.