Before my car accident, I might have shared this with Marty, and we would have gotten through it together. Now we were separated by lies and the miles that buried them from view. I was alone, and the touch of the plane’s tires hitting the ground severed the ties between us even further.
CHAPTER 24
I arrived at New York’s Memorial Hospital the following day for the meeting with David Stevens, the Sammlers, and Dr. Phillip Greene, head of pediatric oncology, and the one presiding over my daughter’s case. I had slept fitfully the night before, and by five I was wide awake; I headed out, not sure what to do with myself. I ended up at the hospital around seven. The parties involved were scheduled to meet at nine o’clock. Did I really think if I got to the hospital early, I would be able to see my daughter sleep?
I sat in the coffee shop while the hospital slowly came to life around me, remembering a time when the milieu transformed me too. When I headed to Dr. Greene’s office on the third floor, I was ushered into the stark white room by a plump, middle-aged woman. My daughter’s parents were going to be joining us. I was a mess inside, but I wore my distress beneath the layers of clothing I’d chosen for the occasion. They arrived shortly, apologizing for the delay, and were accompanied by a little man with a horrible toupee. His briefcase was larger than his body.
“There was terrible traffic on the Tappan Zee,” the pleasant-looking blonde woman said, as if she owed me some type of explanation. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she whispered, “for coming at all.”
The man, my daughter’s father, was less apologetic, eyeing me with cautious disregard before extending a casual smile.
“David Stevens,” the tiny man beside them said as he offered his hand. “I’m glad to see that you’re taking this as seriously as we are. Thank you for being here.” We all took our seats in the now-crowded office.
I watched them closely. The husband took his wife’s hand casually into his own. I admired the open display of affection.
Dr. Greene was a pleasant-looking man, probably in his early fifties. He seemed anxious to get right down to business, while I was busy appraising my daughter’s parents. Mrs. Sammler had these sad eyes I empathized with and understood. Just because I didn’t raise the sick girl didn’t mean that I was incapable of feeling strongly about her. I once believed I cared for her enough to give her the life I couldn’t. I loved her in deep, subtle ways, the ways that mothers experience when they nurture a child in their womb and watch it enter the world.
I had selfish reasons to be here, to save my child, but I also didn’t want another parent to lose what Marty and I had lost.
“You’re familiar with leukemia?” Dr. Greene began, directing his question my way.
“Probably not to the degree I need to understand it now.”
“Leukemia begins in the marrow of a cell and is characterized by the uncontrolled growth of developing marrow cells. There are two major classifications: myelogenous or lymphocytic, which refers to the type of cell involved. Of these two forms of leukemia, either can be acute or chronic, giving us four types of classified leukemia. Michelle has what we call acute lymphocytic leukemia, ALL for short.”
I nodded.
“ALL is the most common form of leukemia in children, accounting for eighty percent of the cases. In acute cases, we have a rapidly progressing disease. It begins with an accumulation of immature, functionless cells in the marrow and blood; the marrow eventually cannot produce enough normal red and white blood cells and platelets, causing anemia, and eventually, the inability of the body to fight off infection.”
My brain was processing the ugliness of this disease.
“Michelle was brought to us when she was eight. We treated her with chemotherapy, and she went into a normal remission. In the majority of cases, children whose cancer is in remission live long, healthy lives, but Michelle’s recent relapse indicates a more progressive and perhaps life-threatening form of the disease. Even with another course of treatment, the odds of a relapse are greater and her long-term survival rate is poor. In cases like this, we’ll do another round of chemotherapy and hope for an extended remission, but a bone marrow transplant is her best option.
“When Mr. and Mrs. Sammler initially told me Michelle was adopted, it was reasonable to say that our chances of either of them being a match were remote.”
I was buried in details that stretched from bad to worse. This is where David Stevens chimed in. “Ms. Parker, while California law prohibits a birth parent from looking for or contacting their child until they are eighteen, there are also such laws that protect the birth parent from being contacted by the child, and in this case, by the adoptive parents.
“Adoptive parents of a person younger than twenty-one can receive information on the birth parents if there is a medical necessity or extraordinary circumstances that justify the disclosure. We would all agree that this situation falls within the range of medical necessity and extraordinary circumstance.” He didn’t wait for my opinion. “The Sammlers were particularly concerned as to how you might interpret their phone call.”
I felt Mrs. Sammler’s eyes on me, studying me. She had to see the good in me, that I would never have fought for my privacy on this matter.
“What’s the likelihood that I’m a match?” I asked.
“It’s not that simple,” said Dr. Greene. “See, how it works, and I told the Sammlers this before they phoned you, a full-blood sibling, meaning a child created by you and the person that fathered Michelle, could be the match we’re looking for.”
I vaguely remembered Mr. Sammler asking if I had other children. If I had said yes, I meant Ari.
“She doesn’t have a blood sibling, a full-blood sibling.”
The worry that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Sammler was hard to take in.
“I thought you said you had other children.” Mrs. Sammler glared at me.
“Yes, I have other children, another child,” correcting myself, “but not with Michelle’s father.”
With that, Mrs. Sammler began to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said. As if it were my fault. As if I gave her a damaged good and couldn’t fix it.
I tried to say more, but she stopped me. I had given up my child. She didn’t know what kind of person that made me, not then, and not now. That was when Mr. Sammler began to wipe his eyes and openly cry. He didn’t even try to hide his whimpers or cover his face. He was a man that was visibly humbled by the threat that crept into the room. Glancing at Dr. Greene and Mr. Stevens, my business sadly finished here, I slipped out the office door.
I returned to the hotel after four that afternoon, and before taking off my coat, picked up the phone and dialed our home in Los Angeles. It was one there. Ari would be napping, and I was irritated that I didn’t get to speak with him before he went down. My mother answered on the first ring.
“I’m worried about you.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I had to make an early start today, and I’m just getting back to the hotel. How’s Ari?” I had a feeling my mother didn’t believe any of this, that she knew everything that was going on, but I was too tired and too jet lagged to argue.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. Is Marty coming home for dinner with Ari tonight?”
“He has a business dinner. I thought you spoke to him about that. Should I have him call you when he’s done, or will it be too late?”
I pondered this. Every day that went by, this secret and its power to destroy us became stronger. I hated more than anything keeping things from him, but I was frightened by his reaction. If I told my mother I didn’t want him to call me, it would open up an entire new assortment of problems.
“Sure,” I mumbled, “have him call my cell.”
“I love you, Jess.”
“I love you too, Ma.” I hung up the phone before she said anything else.
The ringing startled me from a deep sleep. It felt like three in the morning when I groggily whispe
red hello into the receiver, but it was just after twelve. It was Marty.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” he said.
“Hi,” I said.
“I miss you.”
“You too,” I muttered.
“How’s the mystery assignment coming along?”
“Good. Busy. How’s Ari?”
“He misses his mommy. So do I.”
“Give him extra kisses and hugs from me,” I said, aching for my son. Leaving him had never been part of the plan. One day I would tell him why, and maybe he would deem his mommy a hero.
“Are you okay?” Marty asked.
“I think so. I will be.”
“Do you want me to come out there? I can always visit a few people in the city.”
“You don’t have to. I’m making arrangements to fly out tomorrow.”
“Okay. Well, go back to sleep. You sound tired.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“I love you,” he said.
“I love you too.” But I never ended up calling him. While I slept that night, a thought formulated in my head. At first, it was merely a whim, then it turned into something larger, a plan, a scene from a movie, and I had the starring role.
Dialing Boston information, I jotted down the number that the monotone recording gave me for BrinkerHarte, the name I heard for the first time in Catalina when Jonas and I shared words on a white table. When Beth informed me he had married Emily, I assumed the rest of his plan was in place with their picture-perfect little pathology lab.
Don’t get me wrong. I had thought about Jonas over the years. There were times when I’d recollect the way he touched me, not in the biblical way, but the lasting way, the kind that leaves an impression without actual touch. I would awaken from a dream, and he would be all around me, so near I could feel the palms of his hands. Songs, in particular, brought him close. They’d play, and I’d be back in time connected to him again, feeling how deeply he once cared and believing that that alone could ever make me complete. I often asked myself, on those occasions, how we could have felt so deeply and yet have so much separateness between us? I used to worry that time would eventually erase my memory altogether, that slowly I would lose parts and pieces until there was nothing left. But I was foolish to think that Jonas, and what he left with me, could ever disappear.
I didn’t like that he was intruding on the life I’d created with Marty and Ari. He had always been the past, the great lesson I was supposed to learn. He was the lanky boy I’d met as a kid, the gentle one on a cool summer night, and that’s where he remained, never growing older like the rest of us, a timeless picture in my mind. I forbid myself to create an image of him today, Jonas coexisting somewhere with everyday issues and problems. I was mad at him and life for the intrusion, mad that he could so easily slither back into my world and uproot it. I wondered if he ever thought of me, of that summer. Was I merely a passing fancy like my mother used to say to her friends when she thought I wasn’t listening, or had I been what he had been for me, the great love of my young life?
I knew what I had to do, but I was frightened. It was after nine now, and I had spent the better of the last hour ruminating, going over my options. I presumed the best place to find him at this hour would be at his office, so I set forth on my mission.
My fingers were trembling. I was a grown woman with a husband, child—two children, I corrected myself—yet he could still unglue me, take everything that was once solid and secure and turn it into mush.
Yes, Jonas had resurfaced from the past, and it was time, I’d decided, for the past to meet the present.
“BrinkerHarte,” the receptionist echoed into the phone.
“Uh, yes, I’d like to speak with Dr. Levy, please.”
“One moment, please.”
A few seconds passed before I was transferred somewhere, and another monotone voice came on the line.
“Dr. Levy’s office.”
I looked down at the pendant that hung from my neck. It was moving up and down, up and down, in rhythm with my beating heart.
“Yes, is Dr. Levy available, please?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“Jessica Tau—” I stopped myself. “Jessica Parker.”
It was so close. Jonas was so near. I could hang up and tackle this on my own like I intended; but I pushed onward, holding onto the phone as if it were a flotation device, and I was the sinking ship.
“This is in reference to?”
“I’m a friend, an old friend.”
“The doctor’s in a seminar this morning. Would you like to leave a message?”
“Yes, I mean, no, no, thank you. I’ll try back later.”
CHAPTER 25
“I hope it’s okay I’m here,” I said to Mrs. Sammler. “I thought maybe I could see her before I left.”
She was in the hallway outside Dr. Greene’s office when I arrived at the hospital the next day.
“You’re leaving?” I don’t know why she acted surprised. We both knew I was of no use to them.
“Soon,” I said. “There’s something I need to take care of first. Then I’ll be going.”
She took some time answering; then like an old friend, she reached for my arm and said, “Come on,” and led me down the hall. Her courage left me speechless.
I followed her through a maze of hospital corridors before we settled on a group of elevators. She was shorter than I was, and her blonde hair a mass of tight curls. I saw through the heaviness in her eyes an appreciative hazel green.
“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” she said to me in the sterile elevator; gone were the misgivings from the day before.
I said, “You needn’t apologize. It would have been worse had you not contacted me, and there was a chance I could help.”
She nodded her agreement. “Michelle has always been an easy, spirited child, so full of life. I think about what we could have done to prevent this.” For whatever the reason, Mrs. Sammler felt the need to talk with me, and I didn’t mind. It felt soothing to concentrate on someone else’s pain, even if it so closely hinged upon my own.
“You can’t blame yourself.”
“Then who should I blame?”
I know she didn’t mean to point fingers when the accusation came out of her mouth. The question had been raised before. Dr. Greene had assured us that leukemia was not a disease passed down to children, but I think we all could agree that some things were easier to believe than others. She was asking, I think, about her faith.
“Looking for answers distorts the truth,” I said. “It tricks you into believing you have some control over the situation. We’ll never be able to understand why bad things happen to good people, so don’t do this to yourself, Mrs. Sammler. Don’t punish yourself for things that are beyond your control.”
“How do you know all of this?” she asked me, seeing for the first time that I was a person and not some teenager who had a lapse in judgment. I couldn’t tell her that my husband once said the same thing to me, that my advice to her was easier to give away than to keep for myself.
The doors of the elevator opened, and we stepped out onto a floor that resembled a children’s playroom, not a hospital ward for terminally ill children. I was nervous for a dozen reasons, each one causing the steps in my daughter’s direction to falter. I was about to see her for the first time. It could very well be my last. The irony of it all would cause anyone to lose her footing.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
“That’s a question I should be asking you.”
And then she did something wonderfully bold. She took my hand into hers.
Michelle was asleep when we reached her door. Mrs. Sammler poked her head in and found her clutching her favorite teddy bear, whose name I learned later was Benjamin Owen.
“Come take a look,” she said to me.
She led me into the room, and there I was, standing over her. This was my daughter, Michelle.
My eyes took her in all at once, leaving little room for the tears that were forming. She was as beautiful as I’d remembered. The Sammlers had to have seen the resemblance. Maybe that was the reason they couldn’t look away when I first walked in the room. To see the adult version of their little girl had to be startling. Ari never resembled me as closely as this precious child did.
“She’s beautiful,” I spoke, feeling the tightness in my throat.
“She looks like you.”
“Thank you, but I was never as pretty as she is.”
“She’s a terrific kid,” she said. “You’d be very proud of her.”
“You’re the one that should be proud.”
“We are.”
You couldn’t miss the stacks of cards that filled the room, the hand-drawn artwork from her friends, the get-well wishes too serious for such a young girl. Mrs. Sammler adjusted the wires connected to some important-looking apparatus and then turned to me. “Take as much time as you need. I’m going to step outside to speak to one of the nurses.”
The door closed behind her, and I was alone with my daughter, Jonas’s child. She was a stunning eleven-year-old with long, golden hair, a tiny, perfect nose, and a heart-shaped freckle on her cheek. Resting peacefully under the covers, a narrow foot emerged from beneath the sheets, revealing toenails polished in pink. She didn’t look sick. To the contrary, everything about her looked alive and peaceful, with the exception of the tubes and wires that were connecting her to lifeless equipment. Her red lips forced what resembled a smile. I was grateful that her dreams were giving her the satisfaction that the real world could not. Did she know I was there? Did she dream I would come to her?
My fingers grazed the colorful toes as my mind shuffled through the years, resting on the only time I held her. I zoomed in on the memory and how my hands once dwarfed the tiny parts of her. They say it goes by fast, but this was a blink, the years in between nothing more than a blur. Her skin was cool, so I pulled the blanket over her and slipped the foot beneath.
I would have liked to have held her again. If I did, she would feel all the reasons I gave her up. She’d know how much I loved her, and how I would still do just about anything to save her. Instead, I watched her sleep, listened to her breathe.
What We Leave Behind Page 21