by Ka Hancock
As I lay there in the dark with Mickey’s soft breath playing over my cheek, I wondered again how I had gotten here: hopelessly in love with a damaged man, pregnant with his child, dying, and now facing the possibility of giving her up to someone else to rock to sleep at night.
It wasn’t the answer. It couldn’t be.
I did not choose Mickey Chandler to be my husband for things to turn out this way. I chose him because he was a warrior. Every day he fought to be his best self, despite his illness. He didn’t always get there—and when he slipped, the consequences could be devastating—but he fought for that man every day. And because he did, the good days had far outweighed the bad. Yes, at times he was buried in his pathology. But the man at Mickey’s core was a good man, an admirable man who would be a wonderful father.
He had so much to teach his daughter. And my family had so much to teach her. How could fate be so cruel as to not allow Lily to be her doting aunt, Ron to teach her quiet kindness, Priscilla to teach her diligence? No. They all had a role to play. I just had to rearrange them.
It took me some time to think it through, and it wasn’t my first choice, but as I imagined it, I knew it could work. This could work. It was the only possible solution, and if I couldn’t have what I wanted, this wasn’t a bad plan B.
twenty-seven
NOVEMBER 9, 2011
I called my dad today. I hadn’t talked to him in a while and we hadn’t seen him since Christmas two years ago. I’m not really sure why I called, I was so much more comfortable with short notes, but he knew something was wrong from the sound of my voice. “What’s happened, Son?”
“She’s dying, Dad,” I coughed out.
“Let me turn off the TV, Mic. Start from the beginning.”
So I did. He knew most of it, because Lucy had been good about e-mails, but I didn’t know she’d sent him a picture of the ultrasound. I’d have to tell him another time that I wouldn’t be keeping the baby, but I just couldn’t do it then, not when he seemed so excited about the prospect of a grandchild. What I really called for was to ask him how he did it—how he lived through the loss of my mother.
He didn’t skip a beat. “You live maimed. Altered. But you live.”
This response surprised me; he’d seemed so detached throughout my childhood.
“You’ll think of her every day for the rest of your life. And it won’t always hurt, but it will most of the time. I’m not sure what you’re looking for, Mic. But when you love a woman like she’s the air you breathe—like you love Lucy—like I loved your mother—it can take a lifetime to rearrange yourself.” He paused, but the stone in my throat made a response impossible.
He swallowed. “You might not have known that I loved your mom that much and I’m not surprised. I wasn’t very good at it. But it was always right there, Mic. Right under the Jim Beam and broken heart. I’m not a strong man and it took me a long time to reconcile loving a woman who’d rather be dead than married to me. But you didn’t call to drudge up all that heartbreak. You’ll do it better than I did, Son, because you’ll have better memories to pull you up. It’ll hurt like hell; I’m not going to lie. But Lucy’s one in a million, and she’s given you lots to hold on to. And of course you’ll have your little girl to help you through it.”
I woke with a jolt as a dry, airy cough burst from my throat. Mickey stirred and rolled over, but didn’t wake up. I was instantly alert and frightened. I knew what this was. I hadn’t had a spasm since the day I passed out, but I hadn’t forgotten the feeling of one coming on. Not wanting to wake Mickey, I got out of bed and padded down the stairs to the bathroom by the laundry room. But as I leaned over the small sink and stared into the mirror at my pale face, nothing came. I didn’t taste blood in my mouth, did I? And my breathing—was it any more labored than usual? No, I was okay. I was okay.
I nearly convinced myself that I’d experienced a tickle in my throat and nothing more, but then it was upon me in earnest. Without warning, I was hacking, deep and gravelly. I tried to stay calm, to breathe without gulping, without panicking. I sat down on the toilet and held a tissue to my mouth, trying to muffle the sound, and was relieved when it came away mostly clean, with just a couple of specks of blood. Hardly worth the worry.
In a moment it was over. As quickly as it had come, the attack subsided. I wet a washcloth and held it against my neck, breathed slowly and deliberately through my mouth. After a few minutes, I turned the light off and made my way to the moonlit kitchen. I filled a glass with water from the tap and sat down to look out the window. It was so still, so quiet. The only sound was the whooshing of my heartbeat in my ears. It had been six days since I came home from the hospital. Surely my reprieve wasn’t up yet.
On Thursday morning, Mickey drove me to Dr. Gladstone’s office for my second visit of the week. The nurse smiled and showed us into an exam room. It was a short routine. I breathed while Peter Gladstone listened to my lungs through his stethoscope. He made a humph sound and wrote something in my chart. Then he clipped a small device on my finger that would translate my oxygen saturation level onto his little handheld monitor. So far, he’d been pleased. Today, he frowned.
“You’re dropping. You’re down to eighty-seven, so I want you on the oxygen all the time. How are you sleeping?”
“Pretty well. A little restless.”
“Not surprising. Any attacks?”
“Just a little one a couple of nights ago,” I admitted, watching as Mickey’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Any blood?”
“No.”
“You’re doing better than I expected, but I’m hearing some crackles today, so it’s starting to happen. The fluid is building up again.”
I nodded, avoiding Mickey’s glare.
Dr. Gladstone shook his head and sighed. “I’d feel better if you were closer to delivering, Lucy. As it is, we have to keep you as oxygenated as we possibly can. Once the baby comes, we’ll get aggressive.”
I nodded. I always felt hopeful when Peter Gladstone spoke in terms of after. He looked stern as he attached a thin, clear tube to an outlet in the wall and fingered a small dial. At the end of the tubing was an adjustable noose, and in the center of the noose were two small prongs. He tucked the noose behind both my ears and gently arranged the prongs in my nostrils. “Let’s see what you come up to in five minutes.”
“Okay,” I said as my nose filled with wind.
With that, he walked out of the room and Mickey followed him.
I sat there for a moment and looked around. Crackles? Whatever they were, apparently they did not bode well for me. I looked around and spotted a telephone on the wall, debating only for a moment before I picked it up and punched numbers until I had an outside line. I knew Harry was supposed to get back in town last night, and I knew Jan had probably told him I’d been trying to reach him. I dialed their number and Jan answered on the second ring. “Hi,” I said.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hey, is Harry in his Brinley office today?”
“No, sweetie. He’s in New Haven today and tomorrow, then he has a hearing in Hartford on Friday. His plane didn’t get in until after eleven last night or he would have called. Can it wait?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then call him in New Haven. He’ll find the time.”
“Thanks. Listen, Jan, I’m at the doctor’s so I can’t talk.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, it’s just my regular checkup. I’ll call you later.” I hung up, tempted to call New Haven, but I heard Dr. Gladstone just outside the door and decided not to risk it. In a moment, he and Mickey walked back into the room. Mickey looked upset, but his expression said he didn’t want me to know it. The doctor placed the clip back on my finger and was pleased to show me a throbbing ninety-three on his little screen. “Okay, that’s helping. I want you on oxygen as much as possible, Lucy. You can have it off for brief periods but not for long.”
I nodded.
“Come back on Monday and we’ll check your saturation again.”
“Okay.”
He scribbled something in my chart, then turned to Mickey and clapped his shoulder before walking out. Mickey obviously didn’t want to talk about it, so we drove home in silence until he asked me why I hadn’t told him about my attack.
“I’m sorry. It only happened once, and it went away after I had some water.”
Mickey turned to me. “I want to know when it happens again.”
“Okay.”
After a minute of staring out of our respective windows, Mickey pulled my hand to his lips and I felt our tension dissipate.
When we got home, Mickey turned off the engine but didn’t move to open the door. He turned to me and asked if I was tired.
“A little.”
“Why don’t you rest while I run some errands.”
“Where are you going?”
“I need to run over to East Lyme to interview a manager, then I’m having my blood drawn. I’m supposed to see Gleason at one.”
“Okay. I’ll take a nap, and then I think I’ll run downtown for some pajamas.”
“Good. I’ll call when I’m finished. I can pick up some dinner. Maybe rent a movie.”
“Okay.” I leaned over to give him a quick kiss and ended up giving him a long one. “I love you,” I murmured. “I’ll see you in a little while.” I got out of the car and walked slowly to the porch, but when I turned around, Mickey was still looking at me. He lifted his hand as if to wave, but he didn’t start the car. We stared at each other for a long moment before I opened the door and went in the house. After another long moment I finally heard the engine turn over.
I hated it. I hated the plodding, torturous pace our lives had taken on. I hated the pain in every look, the fear in every breath, the pretense. This was probably what my dad had meant when he said death was the easy part. The dying? Well, that was another story.
I was tired, that was true enough, but it was not the kind of tired that sleeping would ever cure. And while I still had the desire to milk meaning out of my remaining breaths, I was reluctant to waste them trying to sleep. I looked at the kitchen clock. New Haven was only a thirty-five-minute drive, and if Harry had time to see me, I could be home before Mickey finished his errands.
I wasn’t feeling well when I left Harry’s office, and on my way out of the building I broke out in a cold sweat. I worried I’d faint if I didn’t sit down. I knew there was a coffee shop on the ground level so I turned around and went back inside to find it. When I was seated, I asked the waitress for a glass of water and told her I was expecting someone so she would leave me alone. But when she turned from me, I felt so vulnerable and frightened that I almost shouted for her to stay. I knew what was happening and braced myself for the sudden pain behind my ribs, but soon realized that this was different. This wasn’t my breath getting caught. This was muscles ripping apart. It burned and spread heat through the very center of me until I doubled over the table. I held my breath and hung suspended in its grip.
I was a prisoner of this horrible ache until it finally went slack, like a fist slowly releasing its hold. As it subsided, I sipped my water and used the napkin to blot the cold sweat from my face. If I’d been driving, I would have crashed. This was such a stark contrast to how good I’d felt all morning. I felt duped and angry. And I knew what it meant. I dug through my purse for the Life Savers that usually soothed my burning throat. I breathed in slowly and blew out slower, and soon I was back to baseline. But I was anxious about driving, so I sat back and waited for some faith in my abilities to return.
Almost an hour later I was so grateful to pull into my driveway that I almost wept. At least there was no sign of Mickey, so I didn’t have to put on a face for him. I went right upstairs to lie down, and the first thing to greet me was the green oxygen tank, propped up in the corner of the bedroom. It looked like a missile, old and chipped, something you’d load into a tank and fire at an enemy. I guess that fit.
I attached the tubing to the appropriate valve and pulled the little noose over my face and behind my ears. After fitting the tiny prongs into my nose, I turned the dial to the prescribed setting and eased myself down on the bed. I was so glad to be home. Propped up on two pillows and connected to this invisible life force, I willed myself toward sleep, but my heart was still racing. After a half hour of stupidly waiting for another attack, I dragged myself downstairs to find something to do, something else to think about.
In the kitchen, I carefully rehearsed the words I’d say to Mickey, then I made him a cake. By the time he walked in with fried chicken, I had the table set and the candles lit, and I was feeling much better. He gave me a weird little smile.
I kissed him and asked where he’d been all day. He just grinned.
“Are you going to tell me or is it a surprise?”
“Later,” he said, still smiling.
“A surprise, huh?”
“You’ll see.”
I grinned as I busied myself arranging the chicken and potatoes on a platter. Then I poured the gravy into a bowl and filled our glasses with ice. I took my time because I was getting winded and didn’t want to put the oxygen back on for this. When everything was on the table, I turned the kitchen light off and sat down. It felt good to sit.
Mickey stared at me for a long time through the candlelight. “You’re beautiful, baby.”
“I’ve seen myself and you are a bad liar.” But I leaned over and kissed him anyway.
“I love you, Lu.”
“Backatcha, Michael.”
Mickey bit into his chicken. “So, did you rest this afternoon?”
“Actually, I went to see Harry.”
“How is he?”
“He’s good. I talked to him about an adoption.”
Mickey looked at me.
“A three-way adoption.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
I put down my fork. “I’ve been thinking about it since our talk the other night. And Harry said it wouldn’t be impossible.”
Mickey leaned over. “I’m listening.”
“You and Ron and Lily will share custody of our daughter.” I held my breath and watched Mickey in the candlelight. When he didn’t say anything, I reached over and took his hand. “What do you think?”
“I don’t want to talk about this, Lu.”
“I know, babe, but we have to. It’s all just in case, anyway,” I soothed. When he still didn’t say anything, I plowed ahead. “This way she’ll be raised here in Brinley, which, of course, is what I want more than anything. She’ll get to know her wonderful father, and you’ll be as involved as you’re strong enough to be. Lily and Ron will pick up the slack, and they’ll be fabulous parents. You all will. Think about it, Mic. It’s the best of all worlds. It’s a win-win-win.”
I watched a series of emotions filter through Mickey’s eyes. At first I could tell he didn’t like the idea. At one point he even said it made more sense to sever all ties with the baby, which was unimaginable to me. “I just think it would be easier that way, Lu.”
I ran my finger over his hand, and the more I talked about Lily and Ron as primary guardians with him having as much involvement as he wanted, the more he seemed to settle into the idea. When I finished my spiel, I took a deep breath. “Soooo?”
Mickey shook his head and didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then he stood up and kissed the top of my head. “I can’t imagine watching them raise my daughter,” he said. Then he walked out of the kitchen.
“What can you imagine?” I called out after him, but he was gone.
I blew out the candles and sat in the dark for a long time. I was cleaning up a little while later when Mickey came back downstairs. He had showered and his hair was wet and he smelled like shampoo. He walked over and took the plate out of my hand and wrapped me in his arms. “I can only imagine how hard it was to go see Harry. It was hard just hearing about it.”
“I know.”
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“I don’t want to think about it anymore, Lu. Tonight, let’s just pretend it’s a nonissue. You’re going to have our baby, and then you will do whatever the doctors tell you. . . .” He shrugged. “And your visit with Harry will turn out to have been all for nothing.”
“Well, of course. Harry was just in case.”
Mickey nodded. “I want to show you something.” He walked me into the living room and I looked up at him grinning. He sat me down on the sofa, then pulled the ottoman over and lifted my feet onto it. Then he retrieved the oxygen tank I had abandoned before dinner and hooked me back up to my air supply. When he’d covered me with a quilt, he sat down next to me and handed me a present.
“What’s this?”
“Happy birthday.”
“You missed my birthday.”
“Minor detail. Open it.”
It was a book. A big red book with the words Mickey Loves Lucy printed in gold letters that blurred under my sudden tears. I looked at him. “What have you done?”
“Just a little compiling.”
It was a thick book full of our history. I couldn’t believe how young we looked when we first started out. There was a picture of us kissing on my twenty-first birthday at Colby’s, which Lily had taken. She’d also snapped one on the day I graduated, when Mickey proposed and tied a string from my tassel around my finger. There was one of us in a mess as we gutted the main floor of this house, me wearing Mickey’s tool belt and a hard hat. Another was of us all wet and spinning around on our wedding day, and another of Priscilla trying to save the canapés as it poured. There were several of us and Lily and Ron and Jan and Harry on the cruise we took just before I got cancer the first time. One of just the girls getting facials. One of just our fabulous men. And a beautiful shot of Mickey kissing me in the moonlight.
“Oh, that was a great trip.” I looked over at Mickey, who was nodding, trying to hold back the tears. I remembered he hadn’t had even a hiccup for over a year. Then I got cancer.
Mickey had taken just one picture of me during my first bout with the disease. I was laughing. I had lost most of my hair and Priscilla had bought me the most hideous wig. It was bad Farrah Fawcett hair, and I’d lost so much weight that I looked more like a twelve-year-old hooker than one of Charlie’s original Angels. I looked ridiculous. Even Priss thought so.