Dancing on Broken Glass

by Ka Hancock

  There was a picture of Mickey’s dad and me standing on the rubble that used to be his house before Katrina hit. We’d heard about the hurricane and took the first flight out. Mic’s dad cried when we showed up on his broken stoop, but he’d refused to come back with us. He had a little restaurant near Bourbon Street, and he wasn’t about to abandon it. I got another picture of him hugging Mickey the day we left, and if gratitude had a face, it was that old man’s. Every picture was a memory. Our first Christmas when the tree tipped over. The next year when it was too big to get in the house. Lots of photos of us on the boat. One with Mickey up to his ears in leaves just before a bonfire. One of us in Cancún, our hair braided by a little kid for $5. This book was the best gift Mickey had ever given me.

  “What a fabulous time we’ve had,” I said, stroking the cover. And since we were being so optimistic, I added, “I want another one in eleven more years.”

  Mickey tousled my hair. “It’s a deal.”

  I opened the book and started at the beginning. Again.

  After that, the weekend only got better. On Saturday morning, I had just gotten out of the shower when Mickey brought the phone to me. “Jan wants to talk to you,” he said, kissing the top of my head.

  “Hey, Jan.”

  “How’s my little mama-to-be?”

  “Not too bad,” I said, a little out of breath.

  “Well, do you think you could come over here? I need to look at your nose.”

  I laughed.

  “I know it’s silly, but I’m just finishing the cover portrait for your fairy tale and I want to make sure I’ve got your nose right.”

  After I pulled my jeans on and dried my hair, I could have used a nap. Suddenly, it seemed, the most minor tasks were wearing me out. But I’d rest later. “Mic,” I shouted. “I’ll be right back; I’m just going over to Jan’s for a minute.”

  “What about your oxygen, missy?”

  “I’ll be two minutes.” And that’s all I’d planned on until I walked in Jan’s back door and found her home full of my neighbors. It was chaotic with female energy, and when I walked in, Jan hugged me and said, “Welcome to your baby shower, you sweet thing!”

  My mouth fell open.

  “It’s about time you got here,” Lily said, wrapping me up in her arms.

  “What have you done?” I said, taking it all in. The tower of pastries was from Matilda Hines. A baby quilt was being tied in Jan’s living room, and a pile of presents were on the coffee table. And pink everywhere. Balloons, streamers, even pink letters that said IT’S A GIRL. I wanted to cry. Diana Dunleavy did her best to smile through her sadness as she took my hand and led me to a chair. Muriel Piper pushed a pillow behind my back, then pecked my cheek. Charlotte chucked my chin. “How’re you feeling, darlin’?”

  “Stunned. Absolutely stunned.”

  In a moment Mickey walked in with my oxygen, and the ladies started hooting and teasing him. He just grinned and said it took some courage to walk into a house so full of hormones and perfume. He then pulled a wolfish face at Wanda Murphy. “But that’s my favorite kind of house.” He hooked me up, then kissed me. “Have fun.”

  Lainy Withers fixed him up with a plate of goodies and sent him on his way. Lily brought me some juice and a muffin, and Priss, who was taking pictures, handed her camera to Jan. “Will you get one of us?”

  “Absolutely!”

  Priss sat down on the arm of my chair, Lily got on her knees and leaned in, and we all smiled. I was the luckiest girl on the planet to have friends and sisters such as these. Lily kissed my cheek. “What can I get for you?”

  “I’ve got it all, Lil. Did you do this?”

  “We all did.”

  “Well, it’s fabulous.” I looked around and drank it all in, all the sweet chatter and clucking over me, all the wet-eyed concern and soft embraces. And the gifts! Never in my life had I seen such adorable things. I had no choice but to cry happy tears for my daughter. She got everything a baby girl could need and then some. Muriel had knitted her the smallest pink sweater with tiny seed pearls as an embellishment, and I nearly knocked Muriel over hugging her for it. Jan gave us a stack of storybooks, and when I hugged her, I didn’t want to let go.

  When there was just one gift left, Lily said, “This one is from me and Priss.”

  I tore away the wrapping and opened the box to find it filled with tissue paper. I peeled back the layers and started to cry again as I gently lifted out the most beautiful christening dress I’d ever seen. It was four feet long at least and lacy and delicate and completely exquisite. There was even a matching headband with a big silk daisy. I held the dress to me and imagined how it would feel to hold my baby daughter as she wore it. My sisters were crying, I was crying, Muriel was blowing her nose, Jan and Charlotte were both sniffing. I looked at this tender gathering of women, and at their generosity piled up at my feet. Would they ever know what they meant to me? “I love you all.” I wept. “Thank you so, so much!” I didn’t mean for it to sound like such a good-bye, but it did.

  Priss walked over and kissed my head, then thankfully she burst the sad bubble I’d created. “We’d love to be worthy of all this emotion, Lu. But the truth is we were just in the mood for a party and you were a great excuse.”

  Finally laughter, tender laughter, but laughter all the same, and I laughed with the relief of it. Priscilla saved me; she saved everyone from looking too closely at what was really happening.

  twenty-eight

  NOVEMBER 14, 2011

  Gleason tells me that before a mountain falls, pebbles first drop in warning. If that’s true, then I received my initial warning years ago when Lucy first told me of the cancer that plagued her genes. Five short years after we were married, she was diagnosed with the horrid precursor for what’s happening now. At least in theory. All I know for sure is that every worried thought and fear is another stone, until now I am completely in the shadow of the mountain that will soon crush me. Dr. Gladstone offers optimism so slim it’s a lie. It will happen, he says unequivocally—he just doesn’t know when. So I balance myself against this agony and try to concentrate on the moment. I am under doctor’s orders not to look past the immediate, to stay firmly within the small landscape of the here and now. My job is to love my wife enough that she will feel it for eternity. And above all else, I must stay strong. There will be plenty of time to fall apart . . . after. For now, I hoard each weary smile, each weakening touch, each sober kiss, and I brand them on my heart.

  I turned off the engine and gazed up at the walkway that led to my parents’ graves. From the curb, the distance was daunting, and for a moment I considered not going up at all. I didn’t feel well. The difference between today and yesterday and the day before was light-years. I’d been coughing all night, and when I woke up this morning, I woke up a different person, undeniably sick. I spent the morning at Charlotte’s with Mickey pacing in her waiting room while she checked me over and shook her head. But the baby was okay, and I held on to that.

  I leaned my forehead against the steering wheel and summoned the strength to get out of the car. At least I was alone, with no audience I had to convince that I was fine. Mickey believed me when I said I felt better than I did because he needed to. Lily was the same way. But this charade I’d committed myself to had a price. I was exhausted, and I knew I couldn’t keep it up much longer. I didn’t even want to.

  I hadn’t been here in a while, so I’d brought a bucket and some clippers. I’d even thrown in some rags and Windex for good measure. When I got out of the car, I could feel the warmth of the November sun directly above me. It felt delicious despite the chilly breeze. I pulled my paraphernalia from the trunk and made my way up the gravel path, dragging my oxygen tank behind me. I was reminded, for the thousandth time, how I’d taken the simple act of breathing for granted. Never had I offered a moment’s gratitude for the marvelous freedom of filling my chest with air and blowing it out at my leisure. I sure did now. Now I was ever conscious of
the mechanics of taking oxygen into my lungs. Oh, how I craved a sigh, deep and mindless and rejuvenating. But I knew I’d pay dearly if I indulged.

  The reprieve was officially over, and it didn’t take much of anything to overwhelm my tattered respiratory system. When it happened, my breath would catch somewhere between inhaling and exhaling and refuse to move. Then I’d cough, which further robbed me of the ability to breathe. Last night I coughed so hard I prayed to die and didn’t even feel bad about it. The episode was by far the worst yet, and it left me utterly depleted and fearful beyond words for my baby. I found that my life was reduced to avoiding these episodes. Every thought and movement revolved around maintaining smooth and continuous breathing. So, I was profoundly careful as I climbed the short distance to my parents’ graves. I moved slowly and breathed my little rations and tried not to think about it.

  By the time I got to the marble bench under the elm tree, my heart was thudding like I’d run a marathon. I had to sit and breathe slowly through my teeth to calm myself, but I regained control soon enough. I looked around. I was alone except for the dead that surrounded me, and I found it incredibly comforting to be in such company. I always had. Even when I was little, I’d had no apprehension about this place.

  Once when I was small, and my father hadn’t been dead too long, I came here after school to read to him—to practice my letters and sounds. The loss of our morning ritual was nearly as disruptive to my young life as losing him. So one day, I simply decided to get off the school bus two stops over and walk my little self to the cemetery. I spread my sweater on the grass in front of his headstone, sat down cross-legged, and started reading. I must have gotten lost in it because I wasn’t even aware of the patrol car that had pulled up to the curb, or my mother and Deloy Rosenberg making their way up the path. I remember being quite perplexed by their reaction at finding me. Sitting there reading to my father didn’t seem worthy of such tears and attention. After my mother died, I found myself visiting even more often.

  Priscilla, of course, thought it was morbid that I spent so much time at the cemetery. She asked Charlotte to talk to me about it, and Charlotte met me here one afternoon to chat about my sister’s concerns. It was early autumn, a day much like today, when the air was cool but the sun was warm.

  It was the first time I learned Charlotte and I felt the same about the nearness of my parents. That afternoon she recited—by heart—John Donne’s famous sonnet “Death Be Not Proud.” I’d heard it before, but I’d never really understood it until that day. One short sleep past, we wake eternally, and death shall be no more . . . I hadn’t thought of the poem for years, but this afternoon Donne’s radical notions felt like a nod of reassurance.

  I pulled myself from my reverie, knelt down, and began clearing away the brown grass that cluttered my parents’ gravesite. I tried to use my clippers to tidy up the base of the headstones, but I was too weak to work them. On my knees, my pregnant belly hanging away from me, it was possible to take in a bit more air without triggering a reaction. So I simply leaned my head against the cool stone of my parents’ marker and closed my eyes.

  Since I was on my knees anyway, I found myself praying for the strength I’d need to get through the next few minutes. And though I don’t usually engage in such casual conversation with God, I felt what had to be God responding to my little petition. The answer descended on me like a cloud of something soft, something I trusted to hold me for a moment. It was lovely, strange, and I thought surely this peace was an offering from my parents.

  I think I would have stayed there on my knees, nuzzling the cool marble all day, except I heard a car door slam. I opened my eyes to see Ron walking quickly up the path. He was hurrying, and I realized it must have looked as if I’d fallen and couldn’t get up.

  “Lucy! What happened?”

  “Nothing,” I said, taking his outstretched hand. “I was just doing a little supplicating.”

  When we were face-to-face, he said, “You’re not okay, are you, Lucille?”

  “I’ve been better.” I brushed the grass off my pants and took Ron’s arm. “Sit with me, Ronald, and hold my hand. I have something important to talk to you about.”

  “Ronald, huh? Must be serious,” he said as we walked over to the bench and sat down. I looked over at my handsome brother-in-law in his jeans and a blue turtleneck. Sitting this close to him, I could see the handful of gray threads in his light brown hair. “What can I do for you, Lucy?”

  I gazed over at my parents’ marker, freshly Windexed and gleaming in the sun. “I’m dying, Ron.”

  He didn’t say anything, but I felt a little squeeze on my shoulder.

  I took as deep a breath as I could muster. “I’m tired of pretending that I’m not.”

  “You don’t have to pretend anything with me, Lucy.”

  “That’s why I love you, Ron.” I took his hand in both of mine. “Thank you for meeting me here. I need to ask you something.”

  “Anything,” he said without hesitation.

  “You know how much I love Lily,” I finally managed.

  Ron nodded.

  “I don’t think you do. You couldn’t possibly. She’s been everything to me, Ron. Everything.”

  Ron nodded, his agreement shining in his eyes.

  “She’s a perfect mom—the mom I’d want to be if all this wasn’t happening.”

  “I know.”

  We were quiet for a minute as I tried to arrange my words. Then finally I gave up and just said what was on my mind. “Ron, you’ve watched my life unravel and put itself back together again. You’ve watched Mickey.” He nodded. “You know this was never going to be easy for him.”

  “I can’t imagine what he’s going through.”

  “You and Lily must have thought about my baby.”

  “We think about all of you, all the time.” Ron’s voice was a whisper.

  I squeezed his hand. “You have to know how important you were always going to be in her life. How important Lily was going to be.”

  “Where’re you going with this, Lu?”

  I looked at my sweet brother-in-law. “Ron, I’m out of time and Mickey doesn’t think he can do it without me.”

  “Do what?”

  “Raise our daughter.”

  “Oh.”

  “I have something huge to ask.”

  “Lucy—”

  “No, listen. We—Mickey and I—want for you and Lil to adopt our baby. But it’s a little complicated.”

  “Lucy, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about something very unique, Ron. A three-way adoption—between you and Lily, and Mickey.”

  “Wow.”

  “I know.”

  “Lucy, are you sure we need to talk about this now?”

  “I’m out of time, Ron. And I wanted to talk to you first because I’m going to need your help talking to Lily.” I sniffed. “I’ve had this conversation with her in my head a hundred times, and I never get past the part when I tell her I’m really dying.” I ran my hands over my face. “I have no illusions, Ron, but I think Lily still might. She’s not ready to hear that my time is just about up, and this has to be decided.”

  Ron squeezed my shoulder. “Shhh. We’ll figure something out.”

  “We need to figure it out now, and you are the one person I can always count on to be real, so please, don’t blow me off.” I wiped my nose and reined in my jagged emotion.

  “Okay. How’s this for ‘real’? Why would Mickey give up his child? Even to us?”

  “Where do I even start?” I looked at my brother-in-law for a long time, the explanation for Mickey’s antics on the tip of my tongue, but eventually I just shook my head. “He thinks he’s too damaged to be her father.” I wanted to explain further, but started to cough instead, and soon I was coughing so hard I prayed for that same comforter from a moment ago to step in and save me. Trying not to panic, I rifled through my bag for my water and let a small stream trickle down my scorched
throat. Ron didn’t say anything. He just kept his gentle hand on my back—steady, constant, and soothing.

  I leaned over, willing myself to calm down as he rubbed my shoulder. He offered no platitudes, which I greatly appreciated, and in a moment I could breathe again.

  “So?”

  “I don’t think I can do it, Lucy. I’ve had a baby taken from me, remember? It was hell.”

  “Of course I remember. But it’s not the same. Mickey wants this. He loves his daughter and this is the best way he knows to show her.”

  “I just can’t believe that, Lucy.”

  “Yes, you can. You know Mickey.”

  “I do, but still . . .”

  “I wish it was different, Ron, but there’s no magic here. Mickey is Mickey, and it doesn’t matter that I have complete faith in his ability to love her; he has none in himself.” I shook my head and fought new tears. “He tries so hard, Ron. You know he does. But in Mickey’s mind, success is absolute control over his diagnosis, and he just can’t always swing that. He can keep it in check for long stretches. But, even when he does everything right, he still sprouts wings. The sanest part of Mickey has convinced himself that he can’t have an innocent little person dependent on him.”

  Ron didn’t say anything, but I saw the pity in his eyes.

  “Don’t look like that. Please, not you. He’s doing the best he can.”

  “I know he is,” Ron said.

  We were quiet for a moment, then I whispered, “I love him so much. I think I’ve loved him from the moment I saw him. That might sound funny because there’s been so much lunacy over the years, but that’s not what I remember. People look at me like I’m something special because Mickey’s Mickey and I’ve put up with him all this time. The only thing special about me is that Mickey loves me.” I shook my head and gazed out at the river. “But the fact is, Mickey’s not like you and me, Ron. And I don’t know what’s going to happen to him after I’m gone.”