by Emily Giffin
“What are we doing, Aunt Claudia?” Zoe asks.
I highlight our itinerary, which includes a matinee, a trip to FAO Schwarz, and a horse-and-carriage ride in Central Park.
Zoe looks gleeful. “Well, I better go put on my dress then.”
I smile and say, “Yes. You’d better. And I think today calls for a touch of makeup, don’t you?”
Zoe smiles even wider. She is a true girly-girl and is always clamoring for things like pierced ears, shaved legs, and makeup. Maura would kill me if I put holes in Zoe’s ears or gave her one of my razors, but a little rouge and lip gloss is another story. She walks primly toward the bathroom and says in a voice more mature than her years, “Why, Aunt Claudia. That is an excellent idea.”
A few hours later, after an inspired performance of The Lion King, Zoe and I exit the New Amsterdam Theater on Forty-second Street. The sun is out, and there is no trace of snow, but the day still feels wintry and festive. The city is already decorated with white lights and wreaths, and the streets bustle with holiday-season tourists. Zoe puts on her fluffy pink beret and matching gloves as I quickly hail a cab and ask him to take us to the Plaza, just across the street from FAO Schwarz. The whole way uptown, we sing “Hakuna Matata” in rounds. It is one catchy tune. In all of our merriment, I nearly forget the underlying reason for Zoe’s visit. I wonder if she will someday know the full truth about our weekend. If she will look back on our time together, and her memories will be more bitter than sweet.
We are dropped off in the driveway in front of the Plaza. I pay the cabbie and hold the door open for Zoe. She spills out of the cab, forgetting to be ladylike in her corduroy jumper and fancy coat. Then she points to a blue-faced mime holding freakishly still near the fountain in front of the hotel.
“Can I go see him?” she asks.
“Sure,” I tell her, remembering how Ben used to say, “How is that considered a talent? Who actually would bother to practice something like that?” Clearly many others disagree with Ben’s assessment of mimes because there is a fairly sizable crowd gawking and videotaping.
Zoe scampers off toward the mime, while I stay near the hotel stairs and retrieve my cell phone from my purse. I want to see if Maura has called with any sort of update. There is one new message, but it is only Daphne. I keep my eye on Zoe as I listen to Daphne tell me that she just made a lemon Bundt cake, and the boys are licking the beaters. Daphne goes on to say that she hasn’t heard a word from Maura. “Cross your fingers for some good news,” she concludes.
I consider that Daphne’s version of good news is likely not the same as mine. Short of abuse, Daphne believes couples with children should stay together. I think it’s more about being happy. Not Christmas-photo-card happy, but truly, deep-down-in-your-bones happy.
I skip Daphne’s message and listen to a very old one from Ben that I haven’t had the heart to delete since our divorce. It is the only recording I have of him. There is nothing special about it—he is only relaying the phone number for our optometrist—but the mere sound of his voice washes over me, and I feel my heart flutter. I wish I could talk to him sooner than next Monday. My promise is ready on my tongue: I will have a baby for you, Ben. I will do anything to get you back.
I hit save, flip my phone shut, and look up to see Zoe, still mesmerized by the mime. She is now holding her beret in her hand and the sun is shining on her hair, making it look redder than usual. For one glorious moment, I am filled with a sense of well-being and peace.
And then everything changes in an instant.
I see the boy first, a scrawny skateboarder wearing baggy shorts, Converse high-tops, and an orange helmet. I wonder how he managed to get out of the house without a coat on a day like this. He is no older than twelve and has an adolescent awkwardness about him despite his fluid, confident stunts. He is clearly showing off, but pretending to be oblivious to his few admirers who have tired of the mime. He must be a loner, I think; boys his age usually travel in packs. I watch him surf several stairs and land effortlessly before picking up speed. That’s when I see Zoe running back over to me, directly in his path. I freeze, knowing what’s about to happen, but feeling powerless to stop it. Sort of like watching a scary scene in a movie with a menacing soundtrack. Sure enough, the boy careens toward Zoe, grunting, “Yo! Yo! Watch out!” I can see his body strain to change direction, and I pray for his skills to prevail. But as he pivots, he slips off the board and crashes into her. Zoe is thrown backward like a small doll, making a sickening thud on the sidewalk. The boy is sprawled on the sidewalk next to her, looking more embarrassed than injured.
I hear myself scream, can feel my heart pounding in my ears. Everything seems to move in slow motion as I weave past the crowd and kneel over Zoe. Her skin looks gray, her eyelids are closed, and blood is streaming down the left side of her face onto her white rabbit-fur collar. Fear and terror fill me as I check to see if she’s breathing. She is. Still, I think, What if she dies? I fiercely tell myself not to be crazy; children do not die from skateboard collisions. It was only a minor accident. But then I think: Concussion; head-and-neck injury; brain damage; paraplegia. I think of other freak accidents, like the young boy I once saw on 60 Minutes who was paralyzed playing a casual game of ice hockey. I have a fleeting image of Zoe going to her senior prom in a wheelchair.
Get a grip, I tell myself. Spring into action and stop being so dramatic! Yet all I can do is call Zoe’s name and gently shake her shoulders. She does not respond. My mind swirls with first-aid principles I learned long ago, in Girl Scouts and my high-school health class: Never move a person suspected of head or neck injury; check her pupils; exert pressure to stop the blood; call 911; yell for help.
I can feel the stares and concerned hush around me as I find a Kleenex in my purse. As I press it against Zoe’s head, her eyes flutter and open. I say her name in a rush of gratitude. She whimpers and touches her face. When she sees the blood covering her pink-gloved hand, she shrieks. Then she turns to the side and throws up. Somewhere, in a remote place in my brain, I remember that vomiting is a sign of a concussion, but I can’t recall how serious a concussion is. And I have no idea how to treat one.
Zoe sits up and begins to wail for Maura and Scott. “Mommy! Daddy! I want my mom-meee!”
The skateboarder limps over to us and mumbles an apology. “Sorry,” he says. “She got in my way.” He looks afraid that he might get in trouble. I want to blame him, yell at him for skateboarding in a crowd, but I just say, “It’s okay.” He slinks off with his board tucked under his arm, moving on with his afternoon.
As I turn my attention back to Zoe, an older man emerges from nowhere, crouching over us. He is well dressed and has a low, soothing voice. He gently asks me if I am her mother.
“I’m her aunt,” I say guiltily.
This happened on my watch.
“I hailed you a cab,” he says, pointing a few yards away to a cab in the driveway in front of the hotel. “He’s going to take you to the NYU Medical Center. She probably just needs a few stitches.”
Zoe wails at the mention of stitches and then frantically protests as the man tries to lift her from the pavement.
“Let him carry you, honey,” I say.
She does. A few seconds later, I slide into the cab. The man hands me Zoe, along with a soft, white handkerchief with his monogrammed initials: WRG. “You’ll be fine, honey,” he says. I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or Zoe, but I want to kiss this kind, silver-haired stranger whose first name starts with a W. The man gives the driver the hospital address and closes the door. As we zip down Fifth, Zoe curls up on the seat next to me and sobs. I hold the handkerchief against the cut on her hairline, which is matted and sticky with blood. At some point, I realize that I left her beret on the sidewalk and feel another stab of guilt. First I let this happen; then I lose her favorite hat. I can only imagine what Maura will think when I tell her what happened: I know you love Ben, but are you sure you’re up to being a mother? I call her now—
both at home and on her cell—and am relieved when I get voice mail. I’m not ready to make this confession—nor do I want to upset my sister who is already dealing with so much. I try to comfort Zoe by repeating the man’s words. I tell her that she’s going to be fine, just fine. “I want my Mommy” is all she can say back.
By the time we arrive at the hospital, Zoe’s bleeding has slowed, and I am no longer worried about paralysis or permanent brain damage. Still, her name is called almost immediately after we register at the front desk. Which is in striking contrast to my trip to the ER with Ben when he broke his ankle playing flag football and we sat in the waiting room for seven hours. Or the time I ate bad sushi and literally thought I might die from stomach pains but still had to wait for what seemed like every gang member in New York and a fleet of Hells Angels to be seen before me.
So I feel an enormous sense of relief when Zoe is given priority, and we are led to an examining room. A nurse helps her change into a gown and then takes her vitals. One beat later a sunny resident whips through our curtain partition and introduces himself as Dr. Steve. Dr. Steve is a mix between Doogie Howser and George Clooney’s character on ER. He is painfully youthful but still confident and charismatic. I can tell right away that Zoe likes him, and he is able to calm her down as he gathers information about her accident and symptoms while masterfully mixing in other questions about her school and hobbies. After a brief physical examination, he looks at Zoe and says, “Okay, Zoe, you had a pretty bad spill, so here’s what we’re going to do…We’re going to order up a little X-ray of your head and give you a few little stitches right behind your ear.”
Zoe freaks at the mention of stitches (they need to come up with a new name—what kid would be okay with the thought of her skin being sewn together with a needle?), but Dr. Steve flashes his dimples and convinces her that not only do his stitches not hurt, but also he will use pink thread that dissolves like magic in a few days. Zoe is sold.
“What are the X-rays for?” I ask, still a bit fearful that there could be some sort of serious head injury.
“Just a precautionary measure,” Dr. Steve says, turning his dimples loose on me. “I’d be very surprised if she had anything other than a superficial injury.”
I nod and thank him. Dr. Steve leaves to order Zoe’s X-rays and collect his pink thread while I find a piece of paper in my purse and initiate a rousing game of hangman.
Two hours and minimal drama later, Zoe’s X-rays confirm Dr. Steve’s prognosis, and she is as good as new with five pink stitches and a major crush on her doctor. He hands her a lollipop—the good kind with a Tootsie Roll inside—and says, “So, Zoe, I like you and all, but I really hope I never see you again in here.”
She smiles, becoming uncharacteristically shy.
“So what do you say, Zoe? Do you promise to stay out of the path of speeding skateboarders?”
Zoe says she’ll try, and he high-fives her.
I wonder if Dr. Steve took a class in bedside manner with young children or if all of this just comes naturally to him. Maybe it’s something that requires practice. Maybe I could find a how-to book on the subject: How to Deal With Medical Emergencies and Children in Crisis.
Then I think of Ben. If I am lucky enough to get him back, I won’t have to be perfect. We can figure things out together. I envision our little girl, running to us with a menacing splinter. He will man the tweezers, and I will be at his side, ready with a Garfield Band-Aid. We will be a good team. We were once. We will be again.
And then, just as Zoe and I are headed toward the exit with our discharge papers and backup lollipops in hand, I hear a vaguely familiar voice behind me, saying, “Claudia? Is that you?”
My stomach drops as I place the voice. Then I turn slowly and look straight into Tucker Janssen’s big, green eyes.
Twenty-Nine
“Hi, Tucker,” I say, taking in her perfectly pressed white doctor’s coat, blue scrubs, and shiny stethoscope. And of course, her long, blond mane pulled into her trademark ponytail. She is prettier than I remembered. But maybe it’s the difference between seeing someone after a run and seeing someone with a bit of makeup. I shudder to think what she might look like fully dressed for dinner. My heart sinks, and I eye the exit door, hoping that our conversation will be short. Despite the very significant thing we have in common, I have nothing to say to her.
“Hi, Claudia,” she says, looking completely at ease.
I remind myself that I’m not supposed to know that she’s a doctor. So I go through the song and dance of feigning surprise. “Are you a doctor?” I say.
“Yeah,” she says with false modesty. “I’m a pediatric surgeon.”
“Oh,” I say. “That’s nice.”
“What are you doing here?” she asks, glancing down at Zoe. “Is everything okay?”
Her concern seems genuine, but is still highly irritating. I know it’s irrational, but I feel as if she is judging me. Assessing the magnitude of my negligence. Concluding that I would, indeed, make an unfit, inept mother.
I say, “My niece had a little spill, that’s all. But she’s fine now.”
“Poor thing,” Tucker croons.
Zoe, who has returned to her outgoing self, chimes in, “I got five stitches!”
I panic, wondering what else Zoe will say. I pray that Tucker won’t mention Ben because then the floodgates will open. I can just hear Zoe: How do you know Uncle Ben? Aunt Claudia dee-vorced him because she didn’t want kids. But Aunt Claudia says she’ll always love him. And if they get married again I get to be a flower girl!
Sure enough, Zoe’s comment gives Tucker license to interact with my niece. As if sharing a grave secret, she stoops, winks, and says, “The pink kind?”
Zoe beams. “Uh-huh. The pink kind.”
Tucker tousles Zoe’s hair and gives her a doting smile. Then she stands and says to me, “She’s adorable.”
“Thanks,” I say, although I’m not sure it’s appropriate to accept compliments on behalf of someone else’s child, even if she is my niece. I shift my weight from one foot to the other. Then my mind goes blank as I look toward the exit again. I desperately don’t want to segue into other topics, like, say, marathons or Ben. I wonder if Tucker knows about my plans to see her boyfriend. I surmise that she does, as I recall how Ben told me when his ex, Nicole, sent him a birthday present about a year after we began dating. Struggling to sound nonchalant, I remember saying, “Oh. That’s nice…What did she give you?”
“A book of poetry,” he said matter-of-factly, as if it meant nothing to him at all.
Meanwhile, I couldn’t think of a more menacingly meaningful gift than a book, let alone a book of poetry, and it took all my willpower not to ask which book, what poems. Instead I just mumbled a cool and oh-so-secure, “Well, that was thoughtful of her.”
Ben said, “Yeah. Whatever. No biggie. Just wanted to tell you in the interest of full disclosure.”
That’s how Ben is—direct and honest. So I’m sure he was very forthright about our lunch date.
Sure enough, Tucker says, “So. How are you doing these days, Claudia?”
Her words are innocent enough, but there is a shade of condescension and pity in her voice. She is also, ever so subtly, laying claim to her man. She is behaving exactly as I would have behaved had I run across Nicole in my early days with Ben. She is pleasant and dignified, but still demonstrating who is in charge.
“Fine. And you?” I say tersely and formally. I am not about to be intimidated. I was married to Ben. Marathon or no marathon, she hasn’t earned the right to be so territorial.
“I’m great,” she throws out comfortably. She might as well add, And so not threatened by you.
My discomfort shifts to resentment as I process her great. There is no doubt about it: great surpasses fine. The bitch just has to outdo me. Any benefit of the doubt I’ve ever given her flies out the hospital door. I want to slap her or throw cold water in her face. Do one of those things that people only d
o in sitcoms.
And that’s all before her hand darts up to shift that godforsaken ponytail from her left to right shoulder, and I see her ring.
Her diamond ring.
Her diamond ring on her left ring finger.
I can’t say for sure if she flashed it on purpose, but I do know with certainty that she saw me looking at it. So I have no choice but to acknowledge it now. I take a deep breath and recruit every bit of will I have in me to point in the general direction of her hand and say, “Congratulations.”
She smiles triumphantly and glances down at her hand before dipping it into her jacket pocket. Then she blushes and says, “Thank you, Claudia. It…happened quickly.”
“Yes…Well…congratulations,” I say again, feeling so dizzy with devastation that I can barely see straight, let alone move.
Tucker starts to inquire about my Thanksgiving plans, but I interrupt and say we really must go home now. Then I take Zoe’s hand and lead her outside where we climb into a taxi. I give the cabbie our address. As I watch the city blocks blur by my window, I am gripped with the knowledge that this day will forever remain the worst of my entire life. There will be no such thing as perspective. Time will not heal this. I will be marked by that moment in the hospital forever. It will become a part of who I am. In fact, it already has. I try to concentrate on breathing in and out, telling myself not to cry, but I am losing the fight. I can feel the grief rising uncontrollably in my throat. Then, somewhere between that East Side hospital and my best friend’s apartment, I fall apart, right in front of my six-year-old niece.
“What’s wrong, Aunt Claudia?” Zoe asks, her own voice shaky with fear. She has never seen me cry before. “Why are you sad?”
“Because my heart hurts,” I say, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand.