It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t awful either. They were drifting on calmer seas. Even Grace and Teddy seemed to have noticed.
Tim forgave her, and so how could she not forgive him? They’d both strayed from their marriage, but they also both realized that they wanted it to work. Over the last days at the summer house, Tim conceded that he’d thrown himself into work, not wanting to face the troubles at home. He wanted to try harder, he said now, be more present in their marriage. And Jess acknowledged that the more Tim had insisted everything was fine between them, the more she’d retreated.
When they got back from the summer house, the first thing Jess had done was to toss every single Post-It pad into the trash. From now on, only talking was allowed. Don’t think it, say it! they joked, even though it was the complete opposite of what they counseled Grace and Teddy to do (think before you say something you’ll regret).
Now she wanted to hold her husband, run her fingers through his hair. And that’s what she’d been doing the morning Arthur set out for his daily walk on the beach. A knock on the bedroom door was the first inkling that something might be amiss. The night before, the sisters had discussed an intervention. They were worried. Worried Arthur wasn’t safe living by himself up in the house in Maine. Even Gloria offered to chime in, wield her influence and convince him it was time to move closer to the girls. They wanted him to see a doctor to make sure everything was all right. They’d gone to bed that night with a game plan in hand: they’d approach Arthur after lunch. The trick would be not to alienate him. He could be so stubborn and might dig in his heels further, insisting he was perfectly fine living by himself.
But, of course, all those plans were derailed.
Jess’s office line lit, and she picked up her desk phone. “Are you ready?”
She looked at the wall clock: 12:30 already. Lunchtime. “Yep, let’s go,” she said to her husband, tossing another sheet of paper into the trash. They had a lunch date downtown. The significance of those three words twined together did not escape her. Jess rarely found time for lunch in her days, for dates in her life, or for downtown in general. The fact that she had all three scheduled on her calendar today made her feel unusually lucky.
She felt a stab of pride. She knew it was silly, but she and Tim had endured a lot. They’d earned every hard-won moment that they got together. If someone had asked her six months ago if she believed in reincarnation, she would have laughed. But now, she wasn’t so sure. Her own marriage had undergone a metamorphosis. Second chances weren’t necessarily second-rate. Sometimes, in fact, they could be quite wonderful. She grabbed her purse off the desk and went to meet her husband.
Virgie
Virgie watched as one patient, then another was called into the warren of corridors unfolding behind a large beige door. She checked her watch. She’d been at the hospital for four hours already, wheeled in and out of an MRI. Her blood had been drawn from both arms and multiple veins. She’d postponed her appointment to the first week of August after they’d discovered Arthur’s body on the beach. There was simply too much else to deal with. Now here she was, remembering her dad’s advice that she should get checked out.
Maggie pumped her foot next to her, pretending to read a magazine, but Virgie knew her sister was as nervous as she was, if that was possible. She’d insisted on coming to the hospital and leaving the kids with a babysitter. When Virgie first met with the doctor this morning, explaining her symptoms, he’d asked her to do the Romberg test, which required her to walk along a straight line. “Isn’t that what they do to catch drunk drivers?” she joked. “Yes,” he said. “But it’s also a good test for general balance.” Virgie was surprised that when she tried to put one foot in front of the other, she wobbled off course several times. That got her heart racing.
“Virginia Herington?” a nurse dressed in light blue scrubs asked now, emerging from behind the door with a clipboard.
“Yes, here,” Virgie said and stood.
“I’m right behind you,” Maggie whispered.
“Hi, there. How you doing, honey?” The heavyset nurse, who had startling green eyes, smiled warmly at her.
“I guess I’ve had better days,” Virgie offered.
“You and me both, honey,” said the nurse. “Isn’t that the truth?” They followed her down a long hallway lined with paintings of the sea to an office on the right, where Virgie had begun her day.
The nurse gestured them inside, saying, “Have a seat, ladies. Dr. Reynolds will be right with you.”
“Thank you.” Two leather chairs faced the desk, and she and Maggie settled into them, their skin making squeaky noises against the leather.
“Nice-looking family.” Maggie nodded to the pictures on the desk that showed Dr. Reynolds with his dark wavy hair and mustache, his wife with a blond pixie cut, and two beautiful girls. “That’s a good sign.”
“Really?” Virgie asked. “How so?”
Maggie shrugged, then giggled nervously. “I have no idea. I just find it comforting that your doctor has such a beautiful family.”
At that moment, Dr. Reynolds walked in. “Hi, Virginia.”
“Hello.” She waited. She’d always been an intuitive person, and Virgie was confident she’d be able to tell if the news were good or bad by the intonation of his voice. But he sounded noncommittal. He nodded at Maggie and extended his hand. “You must be Virginia’s sister.”
“Yes.” Maggie took his hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Maggie.”
As he positioned himself in his chair, a manila folder in his hands, Virgie waited for the doctor to look at her. When he lifted his eyes and met her gaze, she knew.
“So, as you’re aware, we’ve done some tests, and I think we have a pretty good idea of what’s been going on with you lately.” He paused and pressed his fingers together.
“Yes? What is it?”
“Well, your guess about multiple sclerosis turns out to be a good one.”
Virgie let the words sink in. Multiple sclerosis. MS. Her great-grandmother had it. Now she did. Maggie reached across the space and squeezed her hand.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s not the news you were hoping for,” he said quietly. Virgie shook her head.
“No,” she struggled to say. “Are you sure? Is there any chance it could be something else?”
He set down the folder on the desk and flipped it open. “I’m afraid we’re pretty sure. As sure as you can get in the world of medicine, that is. Many of the symptoms you mentioned are indicative of MS. The tingling sensation, the fatigue, blurred vision, slurred words. That’s why we did the MRI.” He paused, waiting for her to take it in.
Virgie thought back to all of the incidents that had begun to add up, like mile markers pointing the way to a final destination. Shortly before she left for vacation, her vision had gone blurry on the air one night, and she’d had to wing it, making up the introduction to her piece on a local Seattle bakery that baked only gluten-free goods. It unnerved her, not being able to read the teleprompter, but she chalked it up to fatigue and congratulated herself on making it through her segment. Then there had been the creepy-crawly feeling along her legs, the balance problem, and, of course, the night she’d blacked out on the bedroom floor.
“So, we performed the MRI,” Dr. Reynolds continued. She worked to focus on his words. “And the results . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, see for yourself.” He scooted his chair over, close enough that Virgie could detect the scent of stale coffee on his breath. With a pen, he pointed to little white beads resembling a string of pearls that traveled along her brain. “If you look here and here along your corpus callosum,” he said, highlighting an area in white, “you’ll see some lesions. These are typical for patients with multiple sclerosis.” He paused, waited. Virgie studied the picture before her. “Sclerosis means ‘scarring,’ he explained. “In MS, the body’s immune system attacks the coating that surrounds the nerves and then scar tissue forms. When that happens, the nerves can miss signals or miscommunic
ate. Which explains the tingling or numbness you’ve been experiencing in your arms and legs.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, but she could feel herself fading. Lesions. Scarring. Missed signals. The world was slipping away from her. Oh, no, not again, she thought. And it just kept slipping and slipping until it was no longer there.
When Virgie came to, she was lying on a table, a sheet of scratchy paper underneath her. A vaguely familiar face appeared by her side.
“There you are,” she said, as Virgie’s eyes blinked open. “We were wondering when you’d come back to us.”
Virgie struggled to remember where she was. A doctor’s room. What had happened right before she passed out? Oh, right. MS. The doctor had given her a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. She shut her eyes again. She didn’t want to wake up. She wanted to go back to sleep, to dream until she could wake up in a world where she was healthy and Arthur still alive.
“Your sister’s here,” said the woman, who Virgie now recognized as the kind nurse who’d shown them to the doctor’s room earlier.
“Hi, honey.” Maggie’s concerned face hovered above her. “Do you think you can try to sit up?” The nurse helped Virgie up and handed her a paper cup filled with water.
“Whoa,” she said, feeling suddenly queasy. She waited a minute, then took the cup and sipped. “That’s better,” she said. “Thank you.” Virgie struggled to recall what the doctor had said about MS. Would she be okay?
“You fainted,” Maggie said now, rubbing her back while the nurse checked her vitals. “At least this time you were sitting down, though.”
Virgie began to smile, but at that moment, Dr. Reynolds knocked and entered the room.
“Feeling better?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” Virgie began, but he held up a hand.
“No need to apologize.” He sat down on a swivel stool across from her and folded his hands. “It can be quite a shock.”
“Her vitals are fine, Dr. Reynolds,” the nurse said as she ducked out of the room.
“Good. Thank you.” His kind eyes studied Virgie. “Are you feeling up to a few more questions?” She glanced at Maggie, then nodded.
“Okay. Good. So, tell me what you do for work.” Dr. Reynolds listened thoughtfully while she explained she hosted her own show on a Seattle news station.
She stopped herself. “Wait. Will this interfere with my job?” The diagnosis was still too new, too raw.
“Probably not,” he offered. “It’s hard to say. It’s early. It’s quite possible you won’t have a relapse for another ten years and you’ll lead a perfectly normal life in the meantime.”
He pulled a prescription pad from his white jacket pocket and began scribbling. “We’ve made some remarkable advances in medication that can help reduce the number of exacerbations and even slow the progress of MS.” As he wrote, Virgie struggled to understand the meaning behind his words.
“Wait. Are you saying this is a life sentence?” She could hear the stitch in her voice. “There’s no cure? It will eventually get me in the end?”
She watched as he ripped multiple white sheets of paper off his little pad. “I’m afraid we haven’t found a cure for MS, per se, but many people with MS go on to live long, happy lives, often with minimal relapses. In the end, something gets us all, doesn’t it?”
She knew he was trying to be supportive, but Virgie didn’t want to hear it. She was accustomed to dealing in blacks and whites; there was the truth and there was not-the-truth. She wanted time lines, promises that she would continue to lead a long, productive life with, perhaps, a few minor setbacks.
He handed over the prescriptions. “I’m prescribing Avonex for you to start. It’s a shot that you’ll need to take once a week. You can administer it yourself. Leslie, our nurse, will show you how. There are other drugs available on the market, but let’s wait and see how you do with the Avonex. Many of my patients have had good luck with it, meaning it’s helped delay or even stop the onset of further lesions. There’s also a prescription here for Prozac. Some of my patients find it helps them deal with the initial diagnosis.”
His delivery was so matter-of-fact that Virgie found herself wondering how many times a day he gave this little speech. “Does it work immediately?”
“What, the Prozac?” he asked. She nodded.
“Usually it takes a few weeks before you’ll start to notice a difference. But again, if you don’t feel like you need it, you shouldn’t feel compelled to fill the prescription.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure I’ll need it.” She folded the prescriptions over and stuck them in her purse. “What else could happen?” she pressed. “There are other scenarios you’re not telling me about.” She felt the silence sit between them as he pondered her question.
“The disease progresses in different ways for every individual,” he explained delicately. “For the kind you have, relapsing/remitting, most patients do quite well for many years before they notice any significant impairment, like having to rely on a cane for balance.”
“A cane?” She felt her eyebrows shoot up involuntarily. “I can’t use a cane! I’m only thirty-five.”
“Whoa. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Dr. Reynolds held up two hands. “I didn’t say that you would need one, only that some people do, and not for quite a long time. Physical therapy can be helpful, too. But let’s explore that possibility later, if we need to.”
Maggie reached across for Virgie’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. You’ve given us a lot to think about,” she said.
Dr. Reynolds nodded and stood. “I know I have, and I’m sorry it’s all so overwhelming. Why don’t you review the materials that Leslie will give you and we can set up a time to talk later, once you’ve had a chance to digest everything?”
Virgie nodded, but she hoped Maggie was listening. Because the doctor’s words were spilling over her, great, crashing waves of information.
When he left, Maggie leaned in and hugged her. “Oh, Virg,” she said gently. “I love you. We all love you. We’re going to get through this, okay?” Her big sister’s words were all it took for Virgie to break, great sobs wracking her body for the first time since Arthur’s body had washed up on shore. She was crying for herself, for her dad, for Gloria, for all of them. Life was so short. You never knew how good you had it.
Until you didn’t.
Maggie
Maggie drew a warm bath for Luke and tested the water with her hand. She swirled around the bubbles that clumped together like tiny islands. “Perfect,” she declared. Luke lowered himself in, sinking his entire body into the suds until only his face peered out. “I’m going to throw in some laundry while you soak,” she told him.
“What?” he pulled his head up slightly, unable to hear underwater.
She laughed and repeated her words. “Okay.” He sank back down.
They’d arrived home yesterday, though frankly it felt like minutes ago. Maggie had intended to head up to Maine today, but then Virgie’s little doctor’s appointment had turned into yet another crisis. As soon as they came home, her sister closed herself off in the guest bedroom. Maggie brought up a cheeseburger for dinner, Virgie’s favorite, but it sat untouched outside her door. She hadn’t even opened the door for Lexie or Soph when they knocked.
What would her sister do? Maggie hated the thought of Virgie going back to Seattle by herself. Even if the progression of MS could be halted, Maggie didn’t think anyone should have to bear the weight of an illness by themselves. We’re family, she told Virgie on the ride home from the hospital. Families take care of each other. Why not think about sticking around longer? Maybe get an extended leave of absence until you figure out what you want to do? Even if Jackson were as terrific as she said he was, she’d known him for a total of what? Maybe eight weeks? Could Virgie really count on him if she needed help?
You know, Virgie, Maggie counseled, sometimes even the most fabulous people need help. And, it’s okay. People want to help—you only have to ask. Vir
gie nodded, but Maggie could tell her mind was a thousand miles away. When they got home, Maggie went online: An estimated 2.5 million people suffered from multiple sclerosis worldwide. It often went undetected for many years. Approximately 400,000 people in the U.S. had it. About 10,000 new cases were diagnosed each year. There might be a genetic factor. She read that line twice, three times. Were they all carriers of an MS gene?
All their lives had taken a free fall the last few weeks with Arthur’s passing. And now this. She liked to imagine that Arthur was hovering up above, watching out for them. But if he was, he was doing a pretty lousy job of it so far.
She got up to leave and found Mac, standing outside the bathroom door.
“Oh, hi, honey. I didn’t know you were there.”
“Sorry.” He took a step back, sank onto the bed. He was quiet.
“What’s going on? Everything okay?” She walked over to him and rested her hands on his shoulders. “Tracy will be here at seven tomorrow morning, if that’s what you’re worried about. She’s great. The kids love her. You guys will be fine while I’m away.”
He nodded. “Thanks. I know we will.” He reached up and took a strand of her hair. He twirled it around his finger. “So, you know that thing we talked about earlier?”
Her mind wound through the litany of things they’d discussed lately. Virgie’s diagnosis. The summer house. The possibility that Virgie might stay with them longer. The matter of Arthur’s house and what to do about it. She arched her eyebrows.
“You know, about being foster parents,” he said quietly.
“Oh, that,” she said, dialing back her surprise. She’d had little time to give it more thought lately.
“I know it’s important to you.” He hesitated and wrapped his arms around her waist, not looking at her.
“But?” she asked, her chest tightening.
“But.” Mac lifted his eyes and met her stare. “I’m still not sure.”
“Oh.” His uncertainty lay between them, a stretch of unfamiliar territory. She studied his face to see if he were talking in euphemism, another way of saying he was sure but didn’t want to hurt her. Just not now, when she was already fragile. “Okay,” she said, her heart winging in her chest. “ ‘Not sure’ doesn’t mean no, though, does it?”
The Summer of Good Intentions Page 21