“Kimberly,” Elizabeth scolded. “It’s not nice to say no to your Daddy like that. He loves you and wants to do what’s best for you.”
“No, he doesn’t. He only loves David and Bobby.”
“Bobby? Who’s Bobby?”
“He’s gonna be our brother.”
“Brother? Who told you such a silly—”
“Kelsey. She said when you die Bobby is gonna be our brother. Please don’t die, Mommy. I hate Bobby, and I don’t want—”
“That’s enough!” Jeffrey screamed. A moment later someone slammed the phone down.
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth did not see her children until January 5th of 1986. Although the Frasier fir had lost most of its needles and two strings of lights had gone dark, Christmas was wonderful for Elizabeth as she sat in her wheelchair watching the children open their presents.
And thus begins 1986
In the early part of January, Elizabeth went back to Saint Barnabas for her regular chemotherapy treatment.
“I wasn’t happy with your last report,” Doctor Sorenson remarked. She ordered multiple scans before and after Elizabeth’s treatment.
“This time I want you to stay here for three days,” she told Elizabeth. “We’ll need to run additional tests.”
That Friday Doctor Sorenson came into Elizabeth’s room carrying an armful of charts and X-ray films. Her solemn expression told everyone that something was terribly wrong.
Claire edged closer to Elizabeth. Doctor Sorenson nervously slid her eyeglasses back onto the bridge of her nose.
“Have the headaches been getting worse?” she asked.
Elizabeth nodded.
“Any vision problems? Pain in your back or legs?”
Elizabeth nodded again.
Claire was shocked. “Liz, why didn’t you say something about—”
“It wouldn’t have helped,” Doctor Sorenson interrupted. “The chemotherapy treatments are no longer working. Elizabeth’s tumor has become extremely aggressive and has almost doubled in size over the past four weeks.”
Claire gasped. “What can we do?”
“Unfortunately nothing. We’ve run out of options. There are no more miracle drugs. The only thing we’ve got left is possibly the power of prayer.”
Rebecca Sorenson took Elizabeth’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Sorry?” Claire repeated, tears pooling in her eyes.
“What about increasing the chemotherapy treatments?” Elizabeth asked.
Doctor Sorenson reluctantly shook her head. “I’m afraid not. Your tumor has developed a resistance to the drugs, so they’re no longer effective against it. If we escalate the treatments it might actually stimulate the tumor’s growth, because cancer cells become more aggressive as they struggle against chemotherapy drugs.”
“What then?” Claire asked. “Does Liz just wait to die?”
“Knowing Elizabeth,” Doctor Sorenson answered, “I believe she’ll choose to live life to the fullest for whatever amount of time she has left.”
“And how long is that?” Elizabeth asked. “How long do I actually have?”
“There’s no way of telling. It could be months, a year, maybe two. It all depends on how rapidly the size of the tumor increases.”
After that there was nothing more to be said, but Doctor Sorenson did not hurry away. She stayed for nearly a half-hour assuring them that she would be there for whatever they needed. She told them she would make certain Elizabeth was kept comfortable and pain-free. Before leaving the doctor handed Claire two prescriptions.
“When the pills aren’t enough to control the pain, let me know,” she said. “I’ll arrange for a morphine drip.”
~ ~ ~
The Sunday before Valentine’s Day Elizabeth and the children pasted red hearts on lace doilies. They dunked heart-shaped cookies in strawberry milk and listened to a story about Gertrude and the Lost Valentine. Elizabeth hugged each of the children to her chest and said nothing about the pain, but once they left Charlie had to carry her to the bed.
That was the last day she played on the floor. As Doctor Sorenson promised, the pills eased the pain but also caused such drowsiness that Elizabeth often fell into a sleep that lingered through much of the day and night. Still determined to spend time with her children, she took the pills from Sunday afternoon through Saturday morning and turned them away on Saturday evening so that she might be alert when the children came to visit.
The following Sunday and each Sunday thereafter, the children visited in the bedroom. Christian curled into his mama’s lap and Kimberly cuddled so close that a breeze couldn’t pass between them. But David began positioning himself on the far side of the room, turning a deaf ear to his mother’s words as he played with Lincoln Logs and Tonka trucks.
Kimberly made up for David’s lack of enthusiasm. She begged and pleaded for story after story.
“Tell about when I was a baby,” Kimberly would say, snuggling closer.
The request lightened Elizabeth’s heart, and even on those days when pain shot through her head she would stretch her memory to recapture the minutest details of some special day. Each story was a gift for her children tied together with her ribbon of memories.
Time and again she tried to draw David into the group. “Do you want to hear about when you were a baby?” she’d ask. But he’d turn his attention to some toy and pretend not to have heard.
Such sullenness bothered Claire, and twice she confronted the boy.
“Do you hear your mother talking to you?”
The first time she received a half-hearted shrug. The second time David added another Lincoln Log to his fortress and then purposely knocked it over.
Although David claimed no part of the story-telling, Elizabeth still included tales of his childhood. Despite a feigned disinterest in the middle of one story David said, “Daddy was the one who bought me that rocking horse!” With that he shot an accusatory look at his mother.
No one could change David’s behavior, and week after week he grew more withdrawn and sullen. Several times Claire took him aside to ask what troubled him.
“Nothing,” he’d answer, then stand there with his eyes narrowed and an expression of distrust stretched across his face. The moment she paused for a breath, he’d slip away.
In the first week of April the temperature became milder, and Elizabeth asked her father to take her out in the wheelchair. For nearly an hour they traveled up one street and down another, past newly-greening lawns, potted tulips, and freshly-painted fences. But the warm day of sunshine and promise faded into a night with pain pounding through Elizabeth’s head and into her spine.
For three nights in a row she couldn’t sleep even though she swallowed double doses of the pills. The fourth morning Claire called Doctor Sorenson and asked for something stronger. That afternoon Elizabeth began taking morphine, which brought restful sleep and oblivion. On Sunday she slept through most of the children’s visit and was still asleep when the time came for them to leave.
“Your daddy’s waiting in the car,” Claire said. “Give Mommy a kiss goodbye and put your sweater on.”
“No,” David said, refusing to kiss his sleeping mother.
“Shame on you,” Claire scolded.
“Mommy’s contagious,” David grumbled. He kicked a toy car, and pieces of plastic flew across the room. “If I touch her, I’ll die too.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Claire answered. “Where on earth did you get such a silly idea?”
David didn’t answer.
“David,” Claire said, her voice stern and unrelenting, “answer me! Who told you your mother was contagious?”
Begrudgingly he answered, “Kelsey.”
“That’s absolute foolishness,” she grumbled. “You shouldn’t be listening to some kid—”
“Kelsey’s not a kid,” he argued. “She’s a grownup.”
“No grownup would ever say such a thing—”
“Kelsey did! She said Mommy’s gonna poison me!”
“That’s not true! It’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard! Your mother loves you and would never do anything to hurt you.”
“She’s contagious!”
“Nonsense. Your mother has a tumor on her brain. A tumor is not contagious.”
“I don’t want to get a tumor in my brain.”
“Oh, David, stop being so silly and get your sweater on. I’ll straighten this nonsense out with your father.”
“No!” David shouted defiantly. “Daddy doesn’t want to talk to you!”
“I don’t care what your daddy wants,” Claire answered with an air of impatience. She turned to zip Christian’s jacket.
“I hate Mommy!” David shouted and darted from the room.
Before Claire could stop him, the boy was out the door and running toward his father’s car. Her first impulse was to confront Jeffrey and demand to know why the boy would say such a thing. But she hesitated, reasoning that with everyone on edge it might be better to wait until David settled down a bit.
As Claire handed Christian to his father, she waved goodbye to David who turned his face away.
From that day forward, Elizabeth spent most of her time sleeping. After each dose of morphine she fell into a deep sleep lasting for hours. She only woke when a bolt of pain rattled through her body, reminding her it was time for another dose of the mind-dulling drug. All the while Claire stayed by her daughter’s bedside, watching as she slept and praying for even the slightest improvement.
When David, Kimberly, and Christian came for their weekly visit, Claire forced herself to smile. She closed Elizabeth’s bedroom door and steered the children into the living room, suggesting they play there while Mommy slept.
“Mommy’s always sleeping,” David complained, his tone echoing his father’s cynicism. “Why doesn’t she play with us?”
“Mommy needs a lot of rest so she can get better,” Claire answered.
After several weeks of restlessness, Elizabeth finally drifted into a sound sleep and slept for three days without waking. Claire believed it was simply a case of exhaustion, but Charlie insisted they call the doctor.
That evening Doctor Sorenson visited and told the McDermotts that Elizabeth had slipped into a coma.
“But she’s been sleeping so peacefully,” Claire said. “How could this have happened?”
“A person in a comatose state often seems asleep. Elizabeth most likely was sleeping, but at some point she slipped into the deeper level of unconsciousness that’s considered a coma.”
“Will she wake up?” Charlie asked.
“Maybe, maybe not. Given the situation with Elizabeth’s tumor, it’s impossible to predict what will happen.”
As Doctor Sorenson evaluated Elizabeth’s vital signs, Charlie and Claire stood there saying nothing. Claire nervously picked at a spiral of thread hanging from the corner of the bedspread, and Charlie stared at the floor with the right side of his mouth twitching furiously. Neither of them dared look at one another or at their daughter.
Finally Charlie spoke. “Is Elizabeth aware of what is going on?”
Doctor Sorenson grimaced ever so slightly, then held her finger to her mouth. Once she concluded her examination she motioned for the McDermotts to follow her out of the bedroom.
After they’d moved to the living room, the doctor said, “I believe it’s best not to allow the patient to hear conversations of this nature.”
“So Elizabeth understands what we’re saying?” Charlie said.
The doctor hesitated. “A comatose state encompasses a wide range of alterations in consciousness. Some are not much more than a deep sleep; others are so severe that neither sound nor physical stimuli can be processed by the patient. In cases such as Elizabeth’s, where the patient is somewhere in the middle of those two extremes, we believe there is some level of receptivity to sound and touch stimuli. The patient might seem to be unresponsive, but there are documented instances where recovered patients recalled conversations that took place while they were comatose.”
“Then Elizabeth does hear us?” Charlie repeated. “But she’s unable to respond?”
“It’s feasible that she hears your voice, but as far as the degree of perceptive awareness, well…” Doctor Sorenson ended with a questioning shrug.
“Is Elizabeth experiencing any pain?” Claire asked, recalling all the tearful nights she’d spent beside her daughter.
“If she is it’s unlikely the pain is intense or prolonged. Without a response, it’s impossible for me to give a definite answer. But I’ll set Elizabeth up with a timed morphine drip. That way she’ll have the right amount of medication to keep her comfortable. At least pain will be one thing she won’t have to deal with.”
“Thank you,” Claire said wearily.
Charlie rubbed his fingers back and forth across his forehead several times. Then he spoke slowly and with sorrow. “How bad is Elizabeth?”
“I wish I could say she’s getting better,” Doctor Sorenson said. “But the truth is she’s failing.”
Failing? The word hit Charlie like a bucket of cold water. He’d never been good at comforting someone, so he’d left that to Claire. When he arrived home from the office Liz was generally sleeping. He’d tiptoe into her room, plant a kiss on her cheek, and whisper how much he loved her. He’d concentrated on making enough money to pay for her care, and until now he’d turned a blind eye to the inevitable.
But Claire had lived with it for months as she’d watched Elizabeth lose a bit more mobility each day, as she listened to the soft moans that came when the headaches grew worse, and as she prayed for her daughter’s pain to give way to restful sleep. Yes, Claire was aware, constantly aware, of her daughter’s failing health. It was a dark shadow hovering night and day, an evil voice hissing in her ear, a heavy weight crushing her spirit and pulverizing bits of hope.
But she was far from ready to acknowledge the terrible loss that lay ahead. How could a mother ever be ready for such a loss? Claire lowered her face into her hands and began to weep. Charlie moved closer and tried to provide the comfort of his arms, although his heart was also shattering.
A Change of Plans
On a Sunday David rolled a racecar across the living room floor and announced he didn’t want to go to Grandma’s house.
“Too bad about what you want,” Jeffrey snarled. “I don’t feel like being hauled into court again, so shut up and put your jacket on!”
“No!”
Jeffrey threw the jacket in the boy’s face. “Put it on!”
David batted the jacket away. “I’m not going.”
Jeffrey grabbed the boy by the arm and yanked him to his feet. “You’re going whether you like it or not! If you don’t want to go see your mother, tell her!”
“I can’t,” David sniffled, rubbing his arm.
“Why?”
“Because she’s dead.”
“Dead?” Jeffrey stared at the boy in disbelief. “What do you mean dead?”
“She doesn’t wake up anymore.”
“He’s lying!” Kimberly screamed. “Mommy’s not dead, she’s sleeping!”
“She doesn’t wake up anymore?” Jeffrey repeated. “Ever?”
“Never,” David answered glumly.
“So what do you do when you’re there?”
“We watch TV or play with stuff. Grandma gives us cookies, but we’re not allowed to go in Mommy’s room.”
“Because Mommy’s sleeping!” Kimberly squealed.
“Yeah, I bet,” Kelsey commented snidely.
“You keep out of this,” Jeffrey growled. He turned back to the children. “When was the last time you actually saw your mother?”
David shrugged but avoided looking into his father’s face.
“Was it last week?” Jeffrey asked.
“Yes!” Kimberly shouted.
“No, we didn’t!” David said eyeing his sister.
“Did so!”
“Enough!” Jeffrey screamed. “Kimberly, shut up and let your brother answer.” He turned back to the boy. “Have you seen your mother since Christmas?”
David nodded but didn’t look up.
“Since Valentine’s day?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s lying!” Kimberly shouted. “Mommy made Valentines.”
Jeffrey gave her a silencing glare, then turned back to her brother. “Is that true?”
David nodded again.
“Have you seen your mother since then?”
“Yeah, in bed.”
“Awake in bed? Or sleeping?”
“She used to be awake. Now she’s asleep.”
“So you haven’t seen or spoken to your mother for a while?”
“I told you, we’re not allowed in her room.”
“And she never comes out of the room?”
“No!” David answered emphatically.
“Ain’t you the chump,” Kelsey chided. “You been suckered into hauling the kids over there to visit your in-laws!”
“Shut up!” Jeffrey screamed. “It’s enough I gotta deal with them without having to listen to your stupidity!”
“Hurry up, Daddy,” Kimberly whined. “I’m hot.”
“We’re not going anywhere, so you can take that stupid jacket off!” Jeffrey screamed. He turned and stormed out of the house alone. Kimberly wailed about how she wanted to go to Grandma’s house. Kelsey began to think about what style bridal gown she would wear.
Jeffrey drove around for fifteen minutes, fuming. None of it made sense. If Liz was dead he would have been notified, unless she died and they somehow managed to keep it a secret. The McDermotts, he reasoned, could be shrewd enough to try something like that. Sure, they’d trick the poor dumb husband into thinking his wife was still alive, then get some pig-headed judge to order weekly visitations.
Clever, real clever. They’re probably looking to alienate my kids, take them the way they took my store. They think they’ll get away with it because they’re so high and mighty. They figure me for an idiot, aschnook who can be tricked into believing their dead daughter is still alive. I’ll bet they’re laughing at me this very minute—well, no more!
Cracks in the Sidewalk Page 23