by Neil Plakcy
“Thanks for taking care of Andy, Mom,” he said. “We’ll call you as soon as we know something.”
The emergency room was brightly lit and nearly empty. Two teenaged black girls slumped in a corner looked at Tom and Jenny in their party clothes when they walked in, but then turned back to the TV. There was an elderly man with his middle-aged daughter ahead of them; the man kept moaning and mumbling words in a foreign language.
Tom and Jenny waited half an hour before a doctor could see Betsy, and then endless more hours for tests, and then for the results. Tom kept pacing back and forth in his navy suit, his jacket thrown down on the edge of the bed, his tie loosened. Jenny sat on the bed holding Betsy, who dozed off and on. Jenny’s pink party dress was spotted with red from Betsy’s bloody nose and in the bright hospital light both mother and daughter looked pale and tired.
Finally, around three in the morning, the doctor came back in with the results of the tests. “I can’t find a bacterial infection,” he said, “so that lets out any kind of recurrent bug. There are a number of things this could be, and I suggest you get further tests, from a pediatric specialist.”
“What other things could this be?” Tom asked.
The doctor shook his head. “I can’t even speculate. Here’s the name of a good pediatric man at the university hospital in Philadelphia.” He handed Tom a piece of paper. “Give her children’s aspirin to bring the fever down. That’s all I can do for you now.”
He turned to walk out, then stopped and turned back. “I’d call that pediatric man soon, if I were you.”
* * *
Tom called the doctor on Monday morning, and after describing Betsy and her symptoms, and the reaction of the doctor at the emergency room, he was given an immediate appointment. After further rounds of tests, the Laroquettes went back into Philadelphia the following week for a consultation with the doctor.
He called them into his office, a crowded room filled with papers, green plants, and light that spilled in from a big window that looked out on the university’s dorms.
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you,” he said. “Betsy has acute lymphocytic leukemia.”
Tom and Jenny looked at each other, both of them not quite believing what they had heard. The doctor outlined the symptoms, the progress of the disease, and the prognosis for Betsy’s future. “Almost ninety percent of our patients experience some remission,” he said. “Once we get Betsy on maintenance doses of the drugs, she’ll be less debilitated and be able to live more normally.”
Jenny’s voice quavered as she spoke. “But is it…fatal?”
The doctor gave her a professional, avuncular smile. “Let’s not talk about that now. We need to see how Betsy responds to the treatment.”
“I’d like to know,” Tom said. “What kind of chance does she have?”
The doctor shook his head. “We can’t be precise. Yes, leukemia is often fatal. But it’s important for you not to give up hope. We may have caught this soon enough—Betsy may have a full recovery.”
Tom and Jenny stopped at the coffee shop in the hospital lobby before making the drive back to Stewart’s Crossing. While Tom sat in the vinyl booth holding Betsy, Jenny went to the pay phone to call her mother.
Tom looked down at the baby in his lap. From the outside, she was so sweet and happy. Who could tell from looking at her that a disease was ravaging her blood, a disease that would make her life miserable and eventually take her from her parents’ loving arms?
Tom ordered two coffees from the waitress, who leaned down to chuck Betsy under the chin and murmur some sweet words to her. “We get the prettiest children in this hospital.” She shook her head and went off to get the coffee.
By the time Jenny came back to the table, the coffee was cool and her eyes were red and puffy. “They’re going to come over,” she said. Her parents lived in Stewart’s Crossing, not far from the little tract house where the Laroquettes lived.
“We should get started, then.” Tom reached across the table and took Jenny’s hand, and squeezed. She gave him a sad, pale smile.
* * *
It was almost four o’clock when the Laroquettes pulled up in their own driveway. Betsy called her mother, and within a few minutes her parents were there. Her father worked the early shift at the Ford plant across the river, and his big hands were rough and calloused. But when he picked up his granddaughter, his touch was gentle. It reminded Jenny of how careful the doctor had been, as if Betsy were made of a material so fragile that she could shatter if you didn’t treat her right.
Other relatives came over as the March sky darkened. It was a cold, gray day that passed into a dark, starless night. Jenny’s sister and her husband came over with a macaroni casserole, and her cousin Connie Woodruff brought her husband Charley, their three sons, and a fresh-baked loaf of wheat bread. Other cousins brought more food, piling the dining room table with it. The children were shunted off to the playroom, including the Laroquettes’ six-year-old, Andrew, who hadn’t yet been told the truth about his baby sister.
Everyone talked in whispers. The atmosphere reminded Tom more and more of a funeral and finally he had to get out. He walked out to the front porch without a coat, just standing there in the cold wind with his shoulders hunched and his hands jammed into his pockets.
After a few minutes Charley came out with a coat and a scarf for him, which Tom put on without complaint. “You want to take a walk?” Charley asked.
“Yeah,” Tom said. “That’s a good idea.”
They walked together down the street to the entrance to the municipal golf course, a few blocks away. The clubhouse was dark and the course deserted. Tom and Charley crossed the first tee and climbed a slight rise.
From the top of the rise, they could see lights spread out all around them, families coming home to dinner together. “I just don’t understand,” Tom said. “Why Betsy? What’s she ever done to anyone?”
Charley was quiet for a minute. “You know, when my Dad died, I was pretty angry. I didn’t think it was time for him to die yet. I was only twenty-four, I had a wife and a new baby, and I still had so much left to ask him about. All of a sudden, I was the head of the family, and I had to look out for my Mom, too. I didn’t think it was fair.”
Their breath came out in frosty clouds. In the distance, the wind whistled around the roof of the clubhouse. “I didn’t know what else to do, so I prayed,” Charley said. “Every night. Some days were easier, some were harder. But I got through them. And so will you.”
“It isn’t the same.” Tom looked up at the stars. “It’s amazing the stuff you learn in a situation like this,” he said. “Did you know that 50 percent of all cancer deaths in children are caused by leukemia?”
Charley shook his head.
“And here’s another fact. They aren’t sure exactly what causes leukemia, but they know it’s in the genes, it’s something Betsy was born with. They call it a recessive disease. You know what that is, Charley?”
Again, Charley shook his head. “It’s OK, Tom.” He put his hand on Tom’s shoulder.
“It means that for Betsy to get this, both Jenny and I had to be carrying the messed-up gene. We got together and made Betsy, and Jenny’s messed-up gene met mine, they shook hands and said, hey, let’s make a killer.” There were tears in his eyes and he wiped them away savagely with the edge of his leather glove. He looked straight at Charley. “I gave this to her. My baby girl. I gave this awful disease to her.”
Charley put his arm around Tom’s shoulder and felt his friend shaking. “Come on,” he said. “We’d better get back.”
* * *
Tom was an assistant manager in the marketing department of a big chemical company out along the highway. His boss was sympathetic, and gave him time off to go to Philadelphia with Jenny whenever Betsy had doctor’s visits or chemotherapy treatments. Through the winter, the spring and into the summer, they ferried Betsy back and forth for doctor’s appointments, blood tests, and experimen
tal procedures.
Tom was tired all the time and the summer heat didn’t help. It seemed like every night there were medical papers to fill out or contracts or media plans to review. He spent the little free time he had reading up on leukemia, or, occasionally, playing with Andrew, who sometimes got lost in all the attention that was paid to his baby sister. Sometimes, when he had a few free hours on the weekend, Tom drove over to Charley’s furniture shop, and he took Andrew along.
Charley had been successful so far in his own carpentry business, working out of the barn of an old farmhouse a few miles outside the town limits. Because it was his own business, he worked whenever there was something to do, not caring if it was Saturday or Sunday, even though Connie tried to convince him to take some time off.
Business was good. All around Stewart’s Crossing the farmlands were being converted into housing developments, lots of young people with kids who needed more cabinets, bunk beds and other special features. He’d hired an assistant, and his own three sons helped out by sweeping up, putting away tools and other odd jobs. Even Eddie, the four-year-old, knew what he could and couldn’t touch, and could run things back and forth between the house and the shop.
When Tom and Andrew pulled up on a warm morning in June, the door to the barn was wide open. There wasn’t even a hint of a breeze and Charley had a big standing fan going inside to move the air around. “Hey, come on in,” he said when he saw Tom and Andrew standing by the door. “I could use a hand.”
Eight-year-old Raymond was directing his brothers in the corner under the old hayloft. They were sorting a big pile of screws, nails and bolts Charley had bought at the flea market, and Andrew ran over to help them. Charley was planing a rough spot on the top of a rocking chair, and Tom held it steady for him. “Can’t put something this big in the vise,” Charley said. “Good thing you came by.”
Tom’s attention kept straying over to the boys. “They’ll be all right,” Charley said, following his friend’s gaze.
“I worry about him,” Tom said. “What if he’s got this, too?”
Charley put the plane down. “You can’t do this, Tom. God knows I worry about my kids all the time. Especially with all this equipment around. I keep expecting one of them’s gonna get his head caught in a vise, or cut his arm off or something. I have these nightmares. I wake up in a cold sweat and Connie says I’m calling out.”
“I don’t dream,” Tom said. “I guess I’m too scared to.”
“Come on, let’s go outside. I want to have a cigarette.”
They walked out the back door, where the land sloped away gently toward what had been rolling fields of wheat, corn, and green vegetables. But Charley only owned fifty feet back; beyond that bulldozers were tearing up the land to build a development of single family homes called Farm Hollow. He lit his cigarette and they looked out at the broken landscape.
The developer had kept most of the hedgerow, a clump of trees and underbrush that had once been home to birds, mice, the occasional fox or visiting deer. It stood like a lonely sentinel amid foundations, wooden framing and piles of raw dirt.
“You’ll get over this, you know,” Charley said. “Some day you’ll look up and think of Betsy and all you’ll be able to remember will be what a sweet baby she was. You’ll forget the hospitals and the doctors and the smell of the medicine. I know it’s hard to imagine, but you’ll forget.”
“I know I will.” Tom turned to go back into the barn. “That’s what hurts the most.”
* * *
A few weeks later Tom took a day off to do some errands. His first stop was at Nick Miller’s insurance agency. The receptionist was a slow, homely girl who had a lot of trouble finding Tom’s file. While he waited he looked at her desk, at the neat pile of paper clips, at the name plate which read, “Hi! I’m Brenda!” and was peppered with small yellow smiling face stickers. Finally Brenda found his file and showed him into Nick’s office.
“New receptionist?” Tom asked.
Nick nodded morosely. “Susie moved to Colorado,” he said. “Brenda’s her cousin.”
Tom remembered Nick had gotten in trouble fooling around with his receptionist, trouble that had led to the breakup of his marriage. “Too bad. Guess you miss her.”
Nick shrugged. “I’m surviving. Carol’s gone back to school, you know, and she never has any time, so she’s constantly calling me to do things for her. And Fred, he’s a walking disaster zone. He keeps getting in trouble in school, and he talks back to Carol, who calls me and complains.” He shook his head. “I swear, you can walk out of a marriage, but you can’t turn your back on it for a minute.”
Tom tried to give what he thought was a sympathetic smile. The truth was, he thought his problems were a hell of a lot worse than Nick’s. He wanted to say, wait until your child is sick, and then talk to me. Wait until your child is dying. But part of surviving this time seemed to be trying to ignore the future, putting on a good face. So he smiled at Nick, who nodded, and then opened up Tom’s folder. “So let’s see what we’ve got here.”
“I want to make sure we’ve got enough medical coverage for Betsy,” Tom said. “Whatever it costs, I want to make sure we can provide for her.”
Nick studied the folder. After a while he looked up. “About the best thing you could do for her right now would be to kick the bucket yourself,” he said.
Tom stared at him. “You’ve got great death benefits, but your health benefits aren’t so good,” Nick said. “Your catastrophic care, for example, only pays for hospitalization. What if you want to bring Betsy home, but she needs a nurse? That’ll have to come out of your pocket.”
Tom had always considered himself a good businessman, able to read all the numbers and see the bottom line. But as Nick talked, all the numbers ran together, and all he could see was his little baby daughter in a hospital bed.
“Tom?” Nick asked. “You listening, Tom?”
“Sure. So what do you recommend?”
Nick outlined some suggestions. “You can give me a check today, if you want, and I’ll get the paperwork started.”
The amount was more than Tom had expected, and more than he and Jenny had in the bank. Jenny had stopped working when Andrew was born, and the costs of both her pregnancies had drained their meager savings. Since Betsy had gotten sick they’d been living from paycheck to paycheck, with occasional help from both sets of parents. “I’ll have to transfer some money around,” Tom said. “I’ll bring you a check in a couple of days.”
“The sooner the better.” Nick rose with Tom and shook his friend’s hand. “I don’t like to be Mr. Gloomy here, but you never know what can happen.”
* * *
It seemed like every other week they were running back and forth to Philadelphia to doctors and specialists. Jenny seized on any small hope, and spent most of her free time reading medical journals and taking notes. Tom was impressed at the way she had accepted Betsy’s illness as another term paper, a problem to be researched and solved. He couldn’t be so objective about it; every time Jenny passed him an article and he started to read, his eyes blurred over and he couldn’t read.
One Thursday afternoon in June, Tom took the afternoon off to take Jenny to a seminar in New York being given by a specialist on pediatric leukemia. They dropped Andrew and Betsy off at Jenny’s parents’ house and took the back roads to US 1 north.
On the way they had to pass the high school. Three blocks away, however, the traffic slowed to a creep. “What in the world?” Jenny asked. “It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.”
Then, as they got within sight of the high school, two teenagers jumped out of the car ahead of them in long black gowns, holding mortarboards, and ran across the athletic field. “Graduation,” Tom said.
Jenny began to cry. Tom looked over at her, rested his hand on her knee. Orange banners with the letters PHS in black hung from the lamp posts along the street and flapped in the light breeze. Jenny had gone to Pennsbury High herself, back before t
hey’d built this massive new concrete building on the other side of the highway. “I’ll bet you were the prettiest graduate in your class,” he said.
She pulled a tissue from the pocket of her cotton jumper and dabbed at her eyes. “It took me days to decide what to wear to graduation,” she said, smiling. “It had to be just right—look good under the gown, then be fine for the parties afterwards. I dragged my mother to every store in Philadelphia looking for the right thing. One day I remember my father said, ‘Evelyn, aren’t you fed up with this business by now?’ and she said, ‘It’s not every day your baby graduates from high school.’”
She started to cry again. They passed the entrance to the high school parking lot and traffic started to move. Tom said, “We’ll see what this doctor has to say.”
* * *
By late July they had been through the worst of the chemotherapy treatments, and Betsy was very weak. The doctor said it was good for her to get out in the fresh air and sunshine, so Tom and Jenny decided to landscape a garden for her to play in. One Saturday morning in early August, Tom drove into the center of Stewart’s Crossing, to the hardware store, where Chuck Ritter had put in a big home and garden section.
Chuck’s eighteen-year-old son Bruce was working behind the counter. The store was otherwise empty, and “I Don’t Know How to Love Him,” from Jesus Christ Superstar was blasting out of the radio. As soon as Tom walked in, Bruce jumped to the radio and turned down the volume. “Morning, Mr. Laroquette.”
“Morning, Bruce. You working for your dad now?”
“For the summer. I’m going to the community college in the fall, and then I may just come in part time.”
“Good experience for you,” Tom said. “Someday all this may be yours.”
“Not for me.” Bruce shook his head. “This place is like a leash on you. My dad hardly ever gets a vacation. And he’s on his feet all day long. You should hear him complain. I’m not sure what I’m going to do yet, but I’m making plans.”