by Lisa Tucker
And the questions that really scared the shit out of him: What if none of it had ever been important? What if Walter had even been wrong to give the last good part of his life to AD rather than to his wife? Christ, what if the nameless woman really was a punishment for Matthew having put his career above his relationship with Amel—?
Wait a minute. Was that the pilot announcing that they were about to land? Excellent! He would soon be free of the kiddies. Perhaps he could fly home first class. He would go to his apartment and watch the rockumentaries. His life would be back on track. Reflection was hell, but he was getting out of hell now, thank god.
“Ma-ew?” Isabelle said, patting his face with her small, soft hand.
“You have to sit down,” he said. “Danny, strap her in.”
The boy came out of his own daydream and did as he was told. An hour later they were in a cab, headed to the address in the letter.
Matthew had never been the type to pray, but he sent a message to the gods of fate to cut him a much-needed break and have the mother be at this address. Stupidly, that was all he thought to ask for. Oh well. He was getting used to regret.
Christmas Eve, 5:21, carrying a sleeping three-year-old up the stairs of a rundown apartment complex while yelling to her brother to “Wait for us.” Apartment 6D was, as expected, on the sixth floor. The dirty elevator was out of order, of course.
After he panted up the last flight of stairs, he saw that Danny had, in fact, not waited, and was already inside 6D. The woman talking to him in the living room was fortysomething, educated, lucid, surprisingly normal-looking for a former drug addict—and not his mother. She introduced herself as Susannah. He introduced himself as Matthew, fearing that Dr. Connelly might connote a maturity to raise children, not to mention an unlimited supply of cash.
Assessing the situation, Matthew realized that Susannah had elected herself protector of Kim. What else could explain her refusal to let the child see his own mother because, supposedly, Kim was sleeping? Danny was upset, but Matthew was furious. As he told this Susannah, they’d come all the way from Philadelphia, and Danny would not only see his mother, he would live with her. As would Isabelle. “Sorry, but I only came to deliver them. I have to get back home to be with my own family for Christmas.”
Not true, but close enough. He’d watched those rockumentaries so many times that John Lennon, The Clash, and the rest of the musicians might as well be his family. He knew them better than most people knew their visit-only-on-the-holiday relatives.
“Can I have a word with you first?” Susannah said. “It’s important.”
No good could come of a private chat, he was sure; still, he couldn’t just leave the kids without knowing what she was going to say. What if Kim wasn’t even there? It was a small apartment, only one bedroom judging by the number of doors. If Danny’s mother was in that bedroom, he hoped she really was asleep. Otherwise, she was a heartless bitch, knowing her kids were in the apartment and refusing to see them.
He was right; there was only one bedroom. After he handed Isabelle off to Danny, Susannah took him into the tiny bathroom. She sat down on the toilet seat. He sat on the edge of the tub and tried not to cough as she blew smoke in his face.
“Kim is sick,” she whispered.
Oh Christ. Using again already. He shook his head, but before he could respond Susannah said, “You’re a doctor, so you’ll understand why the med staff at Changes said it was a miracle she was still walking around.” Susannah took a deep drag. “She’s been HIV positive for years, but now she has full-blown AIDS. T-cell count in the eighties, virus in the millions.”
He shouldn’t have been surprised, given how terrible Danny’s mother looked when she left for Changes, but he was surprised—or, more precisely, stunned. Of course Danny hadn’t been told about his mother’s condition, but why hadn’t Jerome Drossman called Matthew about this? Patient confidentiality? Drossman had never been a stickler for following rules; why start now?
Kim’s case was undoubtedly serious, with a double-digit CD4—cluster of differentiation 4, or what Susannah called T-cell, count—and skyrocketing viral load; yet the right combination of drugs could conceivably turn it around. He told Susannah this. “I don’t know what she’s tried, but there are several new drugs for AIDS. My own company has—”
“She started treatment in rehab.” Susannah stood up very slowly, as though her legs were unsteady or injured, Matthew couldn’t tell, and pulled on the mirror above the sink to reveal a small medicine cabinet filled with prescriptions for Danny’s mother. Matthew recognized AD’s latest and best antiretroviral. The staff at Changes clearly knew what they were doing.
When Susannah sat back down she said, “The AIDS is only part of the problem. After Kim got clean, she was having bad headaches. They did tests and finally, last week, they told her she has AIDS-related CNS lymphoma.” Susannah’s eyes filled with tears. “She knows she’s going to die, but she still finished the program. She told me it was important to her son. She’s such a strong woman.”
CNS lymphoma: cancer of the brain. Matthew knew that as a complication of severe AIDS, it was very aggressive and usually fatal in months. But still, it was impossible to predict how long Danny’s mother had left. He told Susannah that the right drugs and radiation could even bring on a remission. It was unlikely, but worth a shot.
Susannah already knew all this. She said the staff at Changes had explained it to Kim. “They gave her the forms to follow up at the clinic here. She’s going to do it. She wants to fight this.”
“Then why doesn’t she want her kids with her?”
“Because she can’t support them.” Susannah paused and put out her cigarette in a planter of dirt on the windowsill. She looked at him. “You obviously can.”
“She could get public assistance. Hell, I could give her some money if that’s—”
“And what happens to them when she dies? I have multiple sclerosis. There are days when I can’t even walk.” Susannah glanced at the door. “Should I send them out to stand on the street and hope another rich guy with a good heart comes along to save them?”
“But I don’t want to save them.” He knew how bad that sounded, but shit, wasn’t this an insane request? “Look, I work constantly. I don’t have a good heart. This is all a bizarre mistake.”
“Kim says you’re a gift from God, to make up for everything that went wrong in her life. She calls you her kids’ guardian angel.”
No one had ever thought of him in this way, for the obvious reason that it was utterly ridiculous. He told Susannah as much, and when she didn’t believe him, he brought up the one thing he thought would convince her. He said that he worked for a multinational pharmaceutical company. “I’m sure you have a problem with that.” He exhaled. “Everyone in America seems to.”
“I don’t trust drug companies, if that’s what you mean.” She lowered her eyes. “Mainly because I was in rehab to get off a prescription medicine my doctor gave me for pain. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s one of those new drugs, constantly advertised on TV. In the ads, the people are always outside, hiking and jogging and riding bikes. They call it the ‘miracle drug.’”
Uh-oh. Just when he thought this day couldn’t get any worse.
“The doctor promised me it wasn’t addictive, but I guess my body didn’t listen. I kept trying to quit. I ended up losing my marriage.” She hugged herself and rocked back and forth, still looking down, staring at her knees. “The rehab guy said he’s only seen a few dozen cases like mine, but he’s sure there will be more once…”
He couldn’t bring himself to listen to another word. It was obvious she was talking about Galvenar, but he didn’t want to accept that his beloved baby had hurt this woman. Despite a slight chemical similarity between Galvenar and other narcotics (like codeine and morphine and, yes, okay, heroin), the FDA had concluded that Galvenar had such a low addiction potential that it didn’t even need to be a controlled substance. Of course the FDA was
n’t perfect, but they weren’t always wrong, either. The clinical trials had shown that Galvenar was a good drug, and AD had the (ghostwritten) science articles to prove it. There was no hidden data, no spooky cover-up.
And yet Matthew could hardly pretend that this was news to him, though god, did he want to. He’d been in dozens of meetings about the Galvenar postmarket problem , but it was always discussed in terms of numbers and cases, not real people like Susannah. And yes, it might have been his idea to pump donations into rehab clinics like Changes to ensure that Galvenar was kept off the list of treated addictions in those clinics’ press materials, but he’d convinced himself he was just doing his job and protecting the company. After all, wasn’t it the prescribing doctor’s responsibility to read the Galvenar label that specifically warned to use with caution in people with a history of addiction? Obviously Susannah qualified; she was smoking another cigarette right now. And each and every day, AD received real letters from chronic-pain patients saying Galvenar had given them back their lives. The risk/benefit analysis was conclusive: the drug helped a lot more people than it harmed. It was just bad luck that the woman in front of him had been in the latter category. No one to blame. Certainly not his fault, right? Right?
Shit.
At least Susannah no longer insisted that he had a good heart after he told her he’d been in charge of marketing Galvenar.
“I hope the money you made was worth it.” Her voice was bitter. She blew smoke in his face. “Go on back to your job.”
If only he could blink and find himself back at work. Even the disaster with Humpty was better than this mess.
Susannah reached over and opened the door so quickly that Matthew saw Danny moving away. He’d been listening to everything, as always. Damn.
Isabelle was still asleep on the couch, but Danny was already out the door and running down the stairs. Matthew followed the sound of the boy’s crying. He finally caught up with him behind the building, standing in the patchy grass, pathetically hugging a ratty palm tree.
“Go away!” Danny yelled. “Don’t touch me!”
Matthew was bent over, trying to catch his breath. “I don’t plan to.”
The boy cried for a while, mumbling largely indecipherable things, though Matthew did hear something to the effect that it was all Matthew’s fault for sending his mom to Changes. No surprise there. The sun was lying on the horizon, a pink and orange ball, when Danny’s cries turned to agonized sobs as he shifted the blame onto himself.
“That is not true,” Matthew said. No response. He repeated it. Still no response, and finally he grabbed the kid by the shoulders and pried him loose from the tree. “It’s not your fault your mother has AIDS. That’s absurd.”
Naturally, Danny took out his frustration on Matthew, hitting him in the chest and arms multiple times. All the while he was stammering out his blame theory, starting with the first night in Matthew’s apartment, when he’d told his mom he wouldn’t go with her after she stole the money, moving to when he’d convinced her to go to Changes by claiming that Isabelle would be better off with “stupid Doctor Connelly” (hello?), and ending with the saddest shit in the world: that he’d thought of her as a “dragon” and he’d been mad at her since Isabelle was born.
“You think being angry with someone can make them sick? I can prove you’re wrong.”
The boy wiped snot on his shirt. “How?”
“You’re mad at me right now. I’m fine.”
“I hate you.”
He shrugged. “More proof.”
“You’re mean!” Another thump on the chest from the kid’s skinny arm, more tears. “I thought you liked Isabelle, but you don’t even care.”
Actually, this was untrue—surprisingly so. Even while Susannah was talking, he’d been obsessing about the little girl’s health. Surely she’d been tested for HIV, but what about HCV (hepatitis)? Given her mother’s history, Isabelle needed to see a specialist, and Matthew knew a great one at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Except Isabelle wouldn’t be in Philadelphia anymore. He kept forgetting that part.
“I do like your sister. My decision has nothing—”
“Why don’t you like me?” He was spitting out the words. “Why didn’t you ever like me at all?” Here the boy broke down again and gasped out something about the iPod playlist. What? He’d wanted one, too, but Matthew hadn’t noticed? More crying, then another airless stammer about how hard he’d tried to make everything okay. But nothing ever worked out. He was so scared. His mommy was dying.
Matthew was having chest pains. From the humidity and the heat? From running around after a ten-year-old? It occurred to him that if he was having a heart attack, he could drop dead behind this ugly beige apartment building in Miami and never have to think about how this kid felt right now, confronting this unimaginable loss. Or what would be an unimaginable loss unless, like Matthew himself, you had experience with it. Failing to save an addict parent—check. Losing your mother—check. Finding yourself alone with the worst shit life has to offer—check and check and check again.
He felt his chest muscles constricting. Heart attack or sympathy: either way, damn, this really hurt.
He stood there for another minute, cursing the pain, until finally, against all his better judgment, against reason, against his own nature, he reached out and collected Danny in his arms. The boy struggled for a minute, but then he collapsed and let Matthew hold him up. Danny’s tears and snot were staining Matthew’s suede jacket, but what the hell. At least his chest wasn’t getting worse; he wasn’t going to die of this. And neither would Danny. He would be changed in ways he might never understand, but he would keep going. Such was life. No other choice but to go on.
After several minutes, when Danny had finally calmed down, Matthew said, “Are you ready to go back upstairs? Your mom may be awake now. Maybe she’ll feel well enough that you can spend Christmas with her.”
It was too dark to see Danny’s face, but Matthew heard the jumpiness in the little boy’s voice. “Where will you be?”
Ah, Christmas Eve, standing outside a slum, sweating in a jacket that he should have taken off before he left the Miami airport, confronting the million-dollar question. What would he do with these kids?
He looked in the direction of the ratty-ass palm tree. He didn’t want to be involved—this wasn’t his responsibility, it had nothing to do with him—and yet the unfortunate truth was that he did care about Danny and Isabelle. There was no way to deny it, and he was too tired to even try. The happiness of two homeless kids was now more important to him than watching John Lennon and U2. He was screwed.
“Waiting for you,” he said to Danny, and sighed. “Where else?”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A Spot on the Heart
From the outside, Amelia and Ben’s Christmas looked absolutely fine. They woke up early at their great new house near the Art Museum that had everything they needed, even a lovely yellow nursery with a wallpaper border of dancing teddy bears. They took a morning train to Connecticut, where they spent the day celebrating with her family in Greenwich. Amelia got along well enough with her stockbroker brother, and enjoyed seeing his wife and their two preteen daughters. Her nausea had finally become “only” morning sickness, not morning, noon, and night, and she was able to enjoy the delicious dinner her mother made: she-crab soup, glazed ham, potatoes lyonnaise, string beans with slivered roasted almonds, pecan pie, and apple tartin. Ben was friendly enough, and he avoided any mention of his work, as Amelia had asked him to, knowing that it confused her family (and that her mother thought it was not only dull, but a little bit egocentric). By nine o’clock that night they were back home, settled in their cozy living room, reading together. All in all, a good day with very little stress—except inside Amelia’s mind, where she was being tortured by fear and uncertainty.
A few days earlier she’d taken a prenatal blood test. It was quick and painless and utterly routine, and she hadn’t really worried abo
ut it until Friday, when her OB had called with the results. The numbers were confusing, but the one thing Amelia did understand was the conclusion. Her baby was now considered “high risk” for Down syndrome.
Of course she sobbed and called Ben and sobbed some more, but when she calmed down enough to think, she did what any good researcher would do: she spent the whole day in front of her computer, downloading articles, reading pregnancy blogs, searching for what this really meant. When Ben came home, she told him there was nothing to be afraid of. “False positives happen all the time with this test.” She handed him an article that she’d highlighted. “See, it says ninety-nine percent of the time the babies are absolutely fine.”
He sat down on the couch and quickly scanned the article. “It doesn’t say anything about maternal age.” He looked up and took her hand. “That’s the issue here, babe.”
She pulled her hand away. “I don’t understand why you always talk like I’m so old. It’s not true, and it’s insulting.”
Almost from the day she’d told Ben she was pregnant he had been pointing out something or other that was “a serious concern at her age.” Every time he said it, she felt awful. He’d even given her the statistics for miscarriage and she’d been shocked to discover that she had a 33 percent chance of losing the baby in the first trimester. There was nothing she could do about that, but she did decide to wait until the twelfth week before telling anyone she was pregnant. Only Matthew knew, and she still didn’t understand why Ben had told him.