A Woman's Place

by Barbara Delinsky

  “Not if you spread yourself too thin.”

  “But I don’t.”

  He stood and looked down at me. “If you’re thinking to change my mind with arrogance, you’re mistaken. You have to make choices.” He reached for the door.

  “Where’s the choice here?” I rushed out. “Nothing I’ve done or said in this room has mattered. You knew what you thought about me the first day you met me, and it hasn’t changed. I haven’t had any choice. It’s been out of my hands from the start.”

  He closed the door behind him without argument.

  I rose from my chair, paced to the side of the office, then back. I looked at my watch. I looked at Morgan’s report, unheeded on top of my file. Oh, I had a choice, all right. I could go to the press and start yelling and screaming about the injustice of what I’d been through. Forget Hillary Howard. A local weekly was small potatoes. The Globe would love the story. The New York Times would love the story. So would Dan Rather and Barbara Walters. I could do the talk show circuit. I could become a spokeswoman for every woman who had ever been wronged. I could write a book.

  But hell, I didn’t want to do any of that. All I wanted was my kids.

  Something was very weird here.

  I gave Morgan’s report a little push. Beneath it were the children’s school records. Curious, I gave the records a little push.

  I whipped my hand back and folded my arms at my waist. I wasn’t a snoop.

  Then it hit me that that file was mine. The court may have put Jenovitz to the task, but I was the one paying him to do it. Hadn’t I just sent him a check?

  Still, I listened. There was no sound on the outer stairs. If Jenovitz’s two previous returns were any indication, I could expect to hear his footsteps for five, maybe six seconds before the door opened.

  Alert for that sound, I flipped through the file. I didn’t know what I was looking for, didn’t know why I was looking at all. Curiosity, perhaps. Or defiance. Whatever, I saw Carmen’s letterhead, and Art Heuber’s letterhead. I saw court records, and Jenovitz’s own typed notes. I saw a memo from the clinic where my abortion had been performed, pulled it out, skimmed it, fitted it neatly back in front of a piece of stationery with the official seal of the Essex County Probate Court at the top.

  Something else was at the top, a handwritten note above the letterhead. To this day I don’t know what made me look closer. But I did. I pulled it out and had read enough, when I heard Jenovitz’s footfall on the stairs.

  I hesitated for only as long as it took me to realize that I was stealing what was rightfully mine. Then I folded the paper, put it in my pocket, and slipped into my seat.

  The door opened. I looked at Jenovitz in the same way I had every other time he had returned. I didn’t look guilty, didn’t feel guilty. If my heart was thudding, it could as easily have been from agitation as from elation or sheer and pervasive relief. Relief was what I felt, all right. I felt as though a band had been removed from my chest, a weight from my shoulders, cuffs from my wrists.

  “We don’t have much time left,” Jenovitz advised me. “Is there anything more you want to say?”

  I cleared my throat to keep my voice from shaking. “A question, actually. Out of curiosity. Was there anything I might have done differently in the course of this study to have earned your respect?”

  He neatened the papers and closed the file. “You might have indicated that you wanted to change. But I never got that from you. You seem to feel that you’re doing just fine, and that if there are problems in your life, they’re caused by others. Sometimes, Claire, we have to take responsibility for our actions.”

  I couldn’t have agreed with him more.

  With my elation threatening to show, I mustered my composure, thanked him for his time, and left.

  Ten minutes later, I unfolded the letter I had filched and spread it flat on Carmen’s desk. It was a form letter assigning the Raphael matter to Dean Jenovitz. It gave dates and noted enclosures. There was nothing remotely personal in its body.

  The personal note was at the top. It was a scrawl in the same blue ink as the judge’s signature at the bottom. Knowing the letters in that name helped us decipher some of the less legible letters in the note.

  “Dennis Raphael seems sincere,” it said. “Let Father win this time.”

  seventeen

  Snow was falling when I returned to Reaper’s Head, large flakes drifting steadily down to settle in clumps on the needled boughs of the pines. Though this wasn’t the first snow of the season, it had that freshness. Dirt disappeared. Dusk sparkled. The artist in me saw things differently when they were reduced to white and green—or white and gray on pavement, or white and red on the rows of mailboxes I passed.

  Then again, it could have been the woman in me seeing things differently now that I had found a method to the madness of the court.

  I parked beside the keeper’s cottage, scuffed my way to the door just for the joy of seeing the snow bunch ahead of my feet, let myself in, and set several bags on the kitchen counter. I was making dinner for Brody. We were celebrating, and though I would have liked to have had the children with us, it was enough to believe that they would be soon enough.

  Brody called at six to say that he was going running, snow and all. He called at six-fifty to say that he was back, then again at seven-ten to say that he had just showered and would be heading over soon. He called again two minutes later to say we might well be snowed in, and could he pick anything up on the way.

  I had shrimp and scallop risotto, a spinach salad, and a crusty Italian bread all set to eat, and didn’t need anything else but him.

  When he arrived at seven-thirty, I didn’t need the food, either. Snow-flecked coat and all, he was food enough, hot, moist, filling. We partook of each other right there by the front door, and were licking each others’ lips, contemplating seconds, when the phone rang.

  “Let it ring,” he whispered.

  But the mother in me couldn’t. With a promise to return—and laughter when we tripped over each other’s unraveling arms, legs, and clothing—I made it, breathless, to the phone seconds before the answering machine would have clicked on. “Hello?”

  “Meet us at the hospital,” Dennis said in a voice I barely recognized. “Kikit’s sick.”

  My breath caught. All laughter died. “Allergy sick?”

  “Yeah. We’re in the car. The driving’s lousy, but it was faster than waiting for an ambulance.”

  I heard him swear, heard, muted, the prolonged blare of his horn and the awful, awful sound of Kikit wheezing. Clamping the phone to my shoulder, I threw Brody a frightened look and started pulling on my jeans. “Did you give her epinephrine?”

  “That and antihistamine, but late. She didn’t call me right away.”

  “Put the phone to her ear.” The wheezing came louder. “Kikit? Sweetie, it’s Mommy. You’re going to be fine. Just relax and try to breathe slowly. Don’t be scared. I’ll be at the hospital soon after you get there, okay?” I was pushing at the buttons of my blouse. “Breathe slowly, slowly.” I demonstrated with the cadence of my words. Calm was the last thing I felt but the best I could do for Kikit just then. “Slowly and evenly. Don’t try to take in too much air at once.”

  Her half-sobbed, half-wheezed, “Mah-mee,” nearly broke my heart.

  “Don’t try to talk,” I shoved my blouse into my jeans, “just breathe slowly and relax, okay, sweetie? You don’t have to breathe deeply,” I knew she couldn’t, “you’ll do just fine with shallow breaths, but don’t be frightened. You’ve been through this before. You know how it goes. I’m going to hang up now and go out to the car. I’ll meet you at the hospital. The doctors will make it better, they’ll help you breathe, just like they always do. You’ll be fine, baby, okay?” I had the jeans zipped and was hunting for my shoes. Brody produced them along with his own. “Be brave, just a little longer. You’re such a good girl. Can you let me talk to Daddy?”

  I pictured her nudging away
the phone, which was all she would have the strength to do, what with itching and swelling and struggling to breathe. Dennis’s “Yeah?” sounded scared.

  “Keep her calm. I’m leaving now. I’ll see you there.”

  Brody had my coat waiting when I hung up the phone. Within minutes we were on the road.

  Between my fear for Kikit and the weather, the drive was a nightmare. The snow was mounting fast. Visibility was poor. Traction was iffy, with nary a snowplow in sight. That fear and the impotence I felt found expression in anger—at Dennis for letting her eat something she shouldn’t have eaten, at the town crews that I imagined were sitting in the local diner chowing down lemon meringue pie until they deemed it time to plow, at whatever fate had set the snow to falling in the first place.

  I’m not sure I would have made it had I been driving my own car. Even the Range Rover fish-tailed around a corner or two, but Brody was an ace. We pulled up to the emergency room entrance and parked directly behind Dennis’s car. His wipers had stopped mid-swipe on the windshield and were already spattered with snow.

  Johnny was sitting straight in a chair in the waiting room. The instant he saw us he bolted up and ran across the room. He took my hand and started pulling me forward. “We were gonna eat supper out, but the lines were awful for Chinese and pizza, so we got take-out from Mad Mel’s and brought it home, and Dad took all the nuts off the salad, so we don’t know what it was. She just got up when we were done and went to her room.”

  We had reached a small cubicle. Brody put an arm around Johnny to hold him back while I slipped inside.

  Kikit lay on the examining table. Had her face not been swollen, it would have been swallowed up by the oxygen mask that covered it. I couldn’t tell if the wheezing had begun to ease; the mask muted the sound. I could see large hives on her bare chest and imagined, from the way she was squirming, that they were everywhere. One small hand had already been hooked up to needles. A blood pressure cuff was in place. Hovering close were two doctors and their stethoscopes, one nurse, two IV bags, and Dennis, who was holding her free hand, leaning in, talking softly. His tone was soothing, in stark contrast to the look of panic he sent me.

  “Here’s Mommy,” he said. He moved aside to make room for me, but he didn’t release Kikit’s hand.

  “Hi, sweetie.” I stroked her hair. It was damp. Fresh tear tracks disappeared into her hairline, no doubt a product of the IV insertion. Her skin was flushed. “See, I told you I’d come. How do you feel, baby? Any better yet?”

  Her eyes were small and frightened in her bloated face, opening to see me, then closing again. My own flew to the doctors.

  “It may take a little while,” the older of the two said. “She was well into the reaction by the time your husband gave her the first shot.”

  Dennis looked devastated. His voice was low and hoarse. “It would have been even longer if Johnny hadn’t heard her wheezing. There were pine nuts on the salad. I combed through the damn thing and thought I got them all. She’d already eaten her hamburger by that time and didn’t eat more than half of the salad when she said she was done. She must have started to feel lousy but not wanted to say anything.”

  Of course she hadn’t wanted to say anything, I thought hysterically. Her last attack had immediately preceded our separation. No doubt, she connected the two.

  “She must have thought I’d be angry,” Dennis went on, “and no wonder, I’ve done it before.” He leaned in again. “But I’m not, Kikit. I’m not. If anyone was at fault, it was me. I didn’t do a good job getting rid of those nuts.”

  Her eyes remained shut. When a tiny tear escaped from the corner of one, Dennis made an anguished sound. “This isn’t your fault, baby, none of it. Not even now. I should have checked up on you sooner, but I was trying to do all those things in the kitchen that Mommy always does. I love you, Kikit.” Worriedly, he asked me, “Where’s Johnny?”

  “Outside with Brody.”

  “He blamed himself for not hearing her sooner.”

  I brushed the tear from Kikit’s eye and kept my hand touching her, so she would feel me. “It wasn’t his fault.”

  “It was my fault.”

  Damn right, it was your fault, a tiny voice inside me said. She was in your custody. It was your job to see she stayed safe. Now it’s twice that she’s gotten sick when I haven’t been around!

  But that angry voice died a quick death. “It wasn’t your fault either. Allergic reactions happen. You tried to avoid it. At least this time we know its cause.”

  The doctor pumped up the blood pressure cuff and released it, listening to Kikit’s pulse. Shifting the stethoscope to her chest, he listened there, then took the hypodermic needle the nurse offered. At the same time Dennis’s hand tightened around Kikit’s, I flattened my own on her forehead, bent low, and talked her through the shot. The fact that she made barely a sound said something about how sick she was.

  “It was a candy bar last time,” Dennis said close by my ear.

  I looked at him fast and whispered, “What?”

  “A candy bar,” he repeated quietly enough that Kikit wouldn’t hear. “I found the empty wrapper in her room a few days later. It was a kind of candy I’d never heard of. The list of ingredients included nuts, but I didn’t think she would have deliberately eaten them. So I went out and bought a bar. It was smooth chewing. She wouldn’t have detected anything if she hadn’t read that list.”

  In a flash, I relived the agony of wondering what she had eaten and how we could protect her when we didn’t know, not to mention the guilt of fearing that there had been something in the casserole I had made—all the while Dennis had known the truth.

  I stared at him in disbelief.

  To his credit, he didn’t look away.

  “Did she know it was the candy?” I asked.

  Dennis’s nod was superfluous. Of course she had known. That would explain why she hadn’t been freaked out more than usual by the attack that she’d had. It would also explain the way she had cried and blamed herself that day when she learned we were separating.

  She hadn’t mentioned the candy to me. I wondered if Dennis had told her not to. But I wondered about something else more.

  “What about the medicine?” I whispered.

  He shook his head. “I couldn’t find it. I swear.”

  A sound from Kikit, a small cry behind the mask, brought my attention back to her, but her eyes remained closed. “I’m here, baby. It’s okay. Mommy and Daddy are here. The doctors will make it better. Just be cool, be cool, like a brave, brave little girl.”

  We continued to talk to her, taking turns, using the same encouraging tone. One IV bag came down and another went up. The doctors gave her another dose of antihistamine and, after a period of time had elapsed, another of epinephrine.

  Usually the worst was over in an hour or two, and by the third, we were on our way home. This time was different. The wheezing went on.

  Dennis left to check on Johnny. I glanced at the door when it opened a minute later to readmit one of the nurses. On the other side, Dennis had his arms around Johnny. Seconds after that, he returned. I actually felt better with him back, less alone.

  The doctors conferred with each other at the far end of the cubicle. Their voices were muted, their faces grave. I knew what worried them. If Kikit didn’t start responding to the medication soon, she would be in trouble. Much more swelling in her air passages and she would suffocate.

  Dennis and I exchanged frightened looks.

  The doctors returned. One held the oxygen mask more firmly in place. The other monitored Kikit’s lungs with his stethoscope. The one holding the oxygen mask adjusted the speed of the drip. The one monitoring her lungs checked her blood pressure. With pale faces and anxious eyes, they listened and watched and waited, while we looked on in horror.

  Do something, I wanted to cry, only I knew there wasn’t anything more they could do. A tube in her trachea couldn’t convey air if her lung capacity was too diminished
to hold it. Nor could they risk an overdose of the medication and the potentially fatal complications that would cause.

  Her eyes were closed. Her face had a bluish tinge. The doctors had begun to talk to her, too, but while we pleaded, they commanded.

  I think I died ten deaths, standing there looking helplessly on while her breathing grew more and more shallow, more and more clipped. Tears streamed down my face. I felt Dennis’s arm around me, heard his frantic, “Come on, Kikit, come on,” then the doctors’ more demanding urgings. I prayed silently, desperately, and put a hand to my mouth to stifle an anguished cry when the cutting sound of her breathing suddenly eased.

  It was a minute before I heard the doctor’s relieved, “There you go, sweetheart. That’s better,” and realized that she wasn’t dead at all but over the hump. The downward spiral had stopped. I held my breath over the next few minutes until her color began to improve. Then I smiled through my tears and cried out sigh after thankful sigh.

  It was only then that I saw Dennis. He was against the back wall of the cubicle, bent from the waist with his hands on his knees, making the same kind of relieved sounds I had, only deeper. I touched his shoulder. He hung his head lower, seemed to gather himself, then wiped his face with his palms. His eyes were red when he stood, but he was marginally composed. Still, I didn’t object when he put his arms around me. We held each other for a minute of silent, shared relief before returning to Kikit.

  The improvement was slow but sure. When I felt certain that Kikit was out of the woods, I went looking for Johnny. He was still with Brody, just outside Kikit’s cubicle. Brody was sitting against the wall, Johnny sandwiched between his legs. Neither of them knew how bad things had been, yet when I appeared, two backs went ruler straight, two faces asked the same frightened question.