by Cari Noga
At least a dozen were of Canada geese. It wasn’t quite as good as the stuffed gander in the basement of the museum, but it would do. He had spent the entire plane ride home reading and knew the sections about Canada geese by heart already. He flipped there again now.
“The markings of this species do not differ significantly from male to female,” he read. Robby frowned as he chewed his sweatshirt string. Which were the geese in the crash? He’d already learned only females incubated eggs. What if the geese that flew into the plane were females, with eggs about to hatch? Or had babies already? Left back in a nest somewhere around the airport? What would happen to them if the mother didn’t come back? Would they be safe? Would they go hungry? Would some other mother goose take care of them? Who could find out?
Dr. Felk. He’d e-mail him after school. How lucky that Dr. Felk had been at the museum that day. He had told Robby that today was his first day back after a week of being out with a bad cold.
Robby exhaled against the window, his breath fogging the cold glass, relieved by his plan.
Linda waved at Robby’s hooded profile framed in the school bus window, driver’s side, six rows back, as usual. She stood in the driveway, arms wrapped around herself, puffs of breath dissolving in the chilly morning air, savoring the moment alone, free of obligations, to-dos, and follow-ups.
At the end of the block, the bus turned and disappeared. Sighing, Linda turned back to the house. Twenty minutes before she was due at the sales meeting to review year-end figures. Enough time to make some calls for her unofficial job: managing Robby’s autism.
On the spectrum of autism disorders, he was considered “high-functioning,” somewhere between an Asperger’s profile and classic autism. For the future, that meant hope that Robby would live independently. For now, it was a sentence to the no-man’s-land between the neurotypical world and that of the “low-functioning”—six-year-olds who communicated in syllables, eight-year-olds still in diapers. There but for the grace of God, Linda thought silently at more than one heartrending parent support group meeting.
Yet there were still Robby’s high-functioning meltdowns to endure, the battles for school services, the summons from school, the hours arguing with the insurance company over coverage of his therapies. And now, exposure to aviation and ornithology to arrange.
Dr. Felk’s contact at the Smithsonian Air & Space Museum hadn’t been able to help. But there was the Henry Ford, a museum with historical aircraft in its collection. She knew Cathy Turner at work had a nephew or niece stationed at Selfridge on the other side of town. There was bound to be an Audubon chapter around. She went to Google.
Twenty minutes later she had marked her calendar with the next meeting of the Western Wayne County Audubon Club, found out the hours and rates at the Henry Ford, and e-mailed an appeal to Blue Cross over their latest denial. She’d stop by Cathy’s cube sometime that day.
Not bad progress, even though she’d pushed the clock and would be late for the sales meeting. It was worth it. She often thought of Robby’s brain as a kaleidoscope. It spun. It fractured. It was fragile. But it was also beautiful and original and bright. Dr. Felk had seen it. Maybe one of these others would, too.
Her cell phone rang as she thrust her arms into her coat.
“Mrs. Palmer? John Drake from Lindbergh School. How are you today?”
Linda’s arm froze halfway through her sleeve as Robby’s principal identified himself. “Fine, Mr. Drake. Is everything all right? Is Robby all right?”
“Yes, yes, everything’s all right. Quite all right, in fact. Robby’s teachers tell me he’s been doing very well lately.”
“I’m glad,” Linda said cautiously.
“Yes, it’s wonderful news. His behavior’s improved significantly. It’s been almost two months since he’s been to my office. His homework is nearly always turned in complete. And of course you knew about his aptitude for math and science, but I’m hearing from his other teachers that he’s keeping up this year.”
“That’s good to hear,” Linda said, wedging the phone between her ear and shoulder as she buttoned her coat. “Mr. Drake, I’m just on my way to work. Is there something—”
“Oh, well, then, don’t let me keep you. I just wanted to share the good news, and tell you that we feel the changes in Robby’s—um—situation warrant revisiting his IEP.”
Reaching into her purse for her keys, Linda’s fingers froze again. Revisit his IEP. School-speak for cutting back his services. He’s doing so well, might as well cut off the services that got him there.
“You want to get rid of Laura,” she said abruptly. For the first time this year, they had managed to get the services of a one-on-one aide written into the Individual Education Plan. She spent one study hall period a day working with Robby.
“Now, nothing is a foregone conclusion. That’s why we’re convening the IEP team.”
“Mr. Drake, Laura’s the reason Robby’s homework is complete. She’s the reason he hasn’t been to your office in two months. She just gets him.” Linda slid into her car.
“I’m glad she’s been such a positive force for Robby,” the principal said smoothly. “It’s my job to manage limited resources as efficiently as possible. If Robby no longer needs her—”
“He does still need her! He only sees her one period a day. I don’t see how you can be more efficient than that,” Linda protested, punching the garage door opener.
“I know this is difficult. And as I said, we’re only revisiting the IEP at this point. You and your husband will have equal input on any decisions made.” He paused. “How does next Wednesday work for you? One o’clock?”
The garage door creaked its way up. Her phone pulsed with a text message reminder of the meeting she would be late for. Mr. Drake waited. Silently, Linda screamed.
Jackie answered on the fourth ring, her throaty voice triggering a cascade of longing in Brett.
“Hell-low?”
“It’s me. Brett. Can you talk?”
“Brett?” Jackie’s voice hushed. “For a minute. I just got Jimmy down for a nap. Patsy’s watching a Dora DVD.”
“How was your trip home?”
“Fine. Except Jim gave me hell about that fur coat. You were right.”
“Are you going to donate it?” Brett asked hopefully. The furrier in their hotel lobby had talked Jackie, who said her Southern blood was freezing in her veins, into what he swore was the deal of the century. Unlike Richard, Jackie’s husband, Jim, presided over a well-to-do congregation. Still, to Brett, spending four figures on a coat felt far more sinful than what they did twenty floors above the shop.
“I guess. I don’t have a place to wear it down here, anyway. But I sure did like how that fur felt.” She sighed. “So, what is it? I don’t have long.”
“Richard wants us to come to Charlotte. Our whole family.”
“What?” Jackie’s voice lost its ladylike Southern-ness when she was upset. “That’s impossible, Brett. Out of the question.”
“I know. But he’s insisting. He asked me about what I learned at the conference, what my next step was. I said I wanted to visit, come see your operation myself.”
“Well, why in the world did you say that?”
“I wasn’t thinking.” Stung, she hesitated. “Well, maybe I was. I do want to see you again.”
Jackie snorted. “On a family vacation?”
“Eventually I’ll convince him that it should only be me.”
“Brett, I don’t know. Even just you, it’s such a risk. I never imagined you comin’ to Charlotte.”
“I know. And I hate lying to my family about it. Especially Amanda.” Brett paused, then plunged ahead. “I don’t think I want to lie anymore.”
“Now, what in the world are you talking about? Patsy, honey, just a minute. Hang on. I’ve got to get to her.”
The phon
e clattered down. On what? A granite kitchen countertop? A desk, on top of Jackie’s calendar with reminders to pick up the dry cleaning and Pasty’s next checkup? An antique table in the foyer where Pastor and Mrs. Longwood met their guests? There was so much she didn’t know about Jackie. Except how she felt around her. She recalled standing on the deck of the ferry together. Except for a kid absorbed with whatever was on his headphones, they were alone outside and dared to hold hands momentarily. Feeling both bold and blessed, she vowed to herself she would hide no more. Then she’d gone home and done exactly that.
“I’m back. God bless DVDs.” Jackie laughed harshly. “Now tell me what you mean, you don’t want to lie anymore?”
“Just that. I’m tired of pretending. Tired of the pastor’s wife stuff—the sanctimony, the self-righteousness, the appearances. It’s not what I signed up for.”
“What do you mean?”
“When Richard and I met, back in college, we were both about social justice. About loving one another and forgiveness and telling the truth. But that’s all gone now. He doesn’t care about what I do with the food pantry, just that I look like I’m a supportive wife and don’t go over my budget. And if anyone else in our church knew about New York, they’d freeze me out so fast—”
“Exactly! Exactly! Me too, Brett. Jim, if he found out—” Jackie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How can you even think about it?”
“I don’t care about those things anymore. Keeping up appearances. I don’t want my daughter to think I’m a hypocrite. I don’t want her to be one, either, blindly going along with all that self-righteousness.”
“Well, if that’s what you want to call it. I just call it making the best of things.”
“‘The best of things?’ Really?” Brett felt like she had in the fur shop, trying to make Jackie see what a foolish extravagance the coat was. “Jackie, look at us. You’re trying to keep a secret from a four-year-old. I’m feeling guilty for talking to you in my own house. Doesn’t seem like the best of things to me.”
“That’s big talk, Brett. Easy on the phone. Hard in the real world.”
“Maybe.” She sighed, remembering again lying to Amanda’s face. Maybe she was more bravado than brave, and as exasperated with herself as with Jackie.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about the plane that crashed. Some of the people on my flight were rebooked from that one,” Jackie said. “I sat next to one man. He said the last thing he remembers was the pilot’s warning, just before they hit the water. ‘Brace for impact,’ the pilot said. He was convinced it was a sign from God.”
“The pilot giving instructions was really God?”
“I think that’s what he meant.”
“What was God telling him?”
“That choices matter. And life is short. When your time comes, all the choices you’ve made, your whole life long, will impact what happens next. So straighten out. Live a life you’ll be proud of.”
Divine retribution for earthly misdeeds. Christianity 101.
“So are you saying that it’s over?” Brett asked incredulously. She had thought the crash was a sign, too—a sign that they were meant to be together, their stolen extra day thwarting Jackie from boarding the ill-fated flight. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. The line from the old song flashed in her head. Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign? Then again, everyone on the flight wound up fine. What sign could she extract from that?
Sounding exasperated, Jackie sighed. “It doesn’t have to be. But we’re not college kids. We live in the real world. And you know as well as I do, that world doesn’t want us.” Her voice wobbled. “I can give you what I did. A few days here, a few days there. Maybe even here in Charlotte. If you came when Jim’s away.
“But no husband or daughter, Brett. I can’t take the risk. I won’t.”
“Good morning. Today is February 8, 2009, and this is T-Day. Transfer Day. You’re listening to NPR.”
Deborah blinked groggily. NPR? Why was Steve Inskeep announcing her transfer? She must be dreaming. But she was awake. Wasn’t she? She rolled over to look at the digital date, glowing green on the bedside clock. Indeed, it was T-day, February 8.
“Good morning.”
She started. Christopher stood in their bedroom door, bearing two cups of coffee.
“That was so weird. I don’t know if I was just dreaming or awake. Is that—”
“Decaf. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks.” Forgoing caffeine and alcohol and mayonnaise and sushi, as she had since the last appointment with Dr. Singh, often felt as arbitrary as a rain dance, rituals that only deluded her into thinking she had control. Still, she followed them faithfully. What if they were right?
Christopher sat on the bed next to her, his weight solid and comforting compared to the wispy, ephemeral hope she allowed herself: that this third time would, indeed, be the charm. “Don’t you have an early class?”
“I got Foster to cover it.” He smiled at her, then kissed her forehead.
“What’s that for?”
“Just because.” He shrugged. “Because this does feel like the right thing to do. Either way, we can move forward now. And I think we’re stronger for all we’ve gone through, too.”
“Really?” She should have been ecstatic. But instead, she felt only more guilt. She hadn’t told him about Helen.
It was a white lie—a lie of omission, she told herself. Since they had unwittingly accepted the risk—to both her and a baby—the first two cycles, nothing had really changed.
Deep in her soul, though, she knew she was rationalizing, knew Huntington’s would be the tipping point for Christopher, pushing the risk level to unacceptable, and banishing embryos E, F, and G to the rubber gloves of the researchers in their white lab coats. And as their mother, that was the one thing she could not allow.
“Really.” He stood. “Drink up and get dressed. You need a full bladder, remember?”
She gulped dutifully. It allowed for a clearer picture on the monitor. It sounded minor, but feeling like she might lose control was the worst part of the whole transfer process.
Gratitude and guilt blended and blurred the rest of the morning, as Christopher acted more devoted husband and prospective father than at either of the two previous transfers. He dropped her off at the clinic door, then went to park. As she filled out the boilerplate intake paperwork, Deborah’s conscience poked her again: Changes in health history since your last visit. She checked none.
Dr. Singh met them with the news that E, F, and G all survived the thaw in good condition.
“You’re quite sure you want to go with all three?” she asked again. Two, the standard protocol, were transferred in both previous cycles, in order to manage the risk of multiples.
Deborah nodded.
“All right. I’ll see you in there.”
On the ultrasound monitor, she watched as Dr. Singh moved the three tiny white blobs, one by one by one, into the bluish, warped triangular field that was her uterus. She tried to conjure up the maternal connection she felt when she had argued for this last try in the hotel room and in the car, but controlling the urge to run to the bathroom required all of her concentration.
Instead, her mind leapt randomly. Helen. Could her prognosis really be that bad? Work. Phillip was already ratcheting up the pressure, even though the law school campaign wouldn’t go public for six months. The scattered red and pink hearts on the assisting nurse’s scrubs. Was it special pre-Valentine’s Day attire, or did she wear it regularly?
As they wheeled her out of the procedure room she felt ambivalent, frustrated, and uncomfortably full—the cocktail of gratitude and guilt churning in her gut.
NINE
We’ve got an update this Valentine’s morning on the cause of the ‘Miracle on the Hudson,’ that plane that was ditched in the Hudson River last month, resulting in the
safe evacuation of all one hundred fifty-five passengers and crew. Kimberly Jones is standing by in Washington. Kimberly?”
Brett caught the news update as she re-entered the kitchen with the sack of bird feed, now almost emptied into the feeder. She’d been so preoccupied lately she’d forgotten to fill it. They’d feast now, in her absence.
“Thanks, Bob. I’m here at an NTSB warehouse where the evidence from Flight 1549 is being collected. Investigators are telling us . . .”
She snapped off the TV. The story was more than a little foreboding two hours before the airport shuttle was due to pick her up for her trip to Charlotte, even without Jackie’s preachy seatmate echoing in her head.
She was going solo on the two-night, on-site, up-close, “bugs-on-a-windshield,” as Richard liked to say, tour of Jackie’s food pantry and mobile meal delivery operation.
Amanda’s being cast in the musical was a stroke of luck. Rehearsals meant the family trip just wouldn’t work, she explained to Richard, allowing just the right amount of disappointment into her tone. But on the bright side, she said, the trip would be more productive if her attention and time weren’t divided between family and food pantry.
Logical. Reasonable. Believable. But a complete lie, scheduled as the trip was to coincide with Jackie’s husband being out of town. Family and food pantry operations would be secondary, as they had been for the past month. The fallout included the empty bird feeder, a wrinkled pile of Richard’s Sunday shirts, and a cool distance from Amanda. Usually attuned to her daughter’s moods, Brett couldn’t read the reason, but it seemed to run deeper than disappointment over not going on a spring break trip.