I saw too that this narrative garnered their sympathy. It explained why the boy would be mine but not mine, why I would consider him my son even though I lacked a birth certificate to prove it, why I lied, and why Jill was so angry, and it clearly put me in the wronged-and-harmless-victim box. I was loath to give up this advantage. But though it wasn’t too far from the truth, it wasn’t quite there either.
“Jill and I are best friends,” I confessed. “She got pregnant. The father left. We’re in grad school so we don’t have much money. Our other friend Katie and I moved in with her, and we all raise the baby together. Our friend Jason, who brought Atlas in to the hospital, also helps. We take shifts on the childcare thing and also bathing, feeding, whatever else needs to be done. I was there when he was born and nearly every day since. I have taken care of him like he’s my own. Jill and Katie have both been pretty distracted lately, so I’ve taken up the slack. It’s a joint arrangement. I didn’t birth him, but essentially, he’s my son.”
A little paragraph that, a short, simple, entirely true explanation. To my ears, it sounded perfectly reasonable. To my ears, it put me totally in the right. How could anyone who loved him have the heart to leave him alone in an emergency room? And how could anyone doubt I loved him? And then how could anyone blame me for this?
They looked convinced. But not moved. Not one way or the other. “Wait here,” said one or the other. I’m not sure which. I was looking at the table by then, the floor. I had become very small, sad, and darkly. Worried scared angry and waiting.
Thirty-two
“What the fuck did you tell them?”
The door banged open sometime later, and there was Jill, red-faced, furious, yelling already, with Daniel Davison in tow and corner cop who closed the door with a pointed look—at whom I wasn’t sure—behind us all.
“What the fuck did you tell them?” I said wearily, exhausted already.
“I told them the truth. I told them you were lying and trying to keep us from our baby.” At first I took this “our” to mean our, hers and mine, but then I realized she meant “our,” hers and Daniel’s. She was ranting in paragraphs. It was hard to keep up.
“They said would Janey want to kidnap the baby, and I said you might. They said would she have given him something to make him sick, and I said you might. They said were you acting strange lately, and I said you were. They said could I think of any reason you would want to keep us from our baby, and I said yes, I could think of lots of reasons. I told them you were experiencing unnatural attachment and maternal delusions and you were angry at the father and you wanted to hurt me. They said were you alone with the baby in the last twenty-four hours, and I said you were. They said did I think you would poison Atlas or give him something to make him sick on purpose like to get attention or control or something, and I said yes I thought you might.”
“Is that because you’re insane or just evil?” I asked, mock-mild, but unable to pull it off so hard was I shaking. I couldn’t even meet her gaze let alone stand.
“I don’t know, Janey. Which are you? What was I supposed to say? Jason called me and said he’d been trying for hours. Atlas is in the ER; he won’t wake up; no one knows why. We rush over there, but they won’t let us back there to see him because it’s immediate family only, and his mother’s already with him. I said I’m his mother, and they wouldn’t believe me. Even Jason vouched for me, but they wouldn’t let me back there. When I went home and got the birth certificate, that’s when they started asking questions. And I’m thinking when I left he was fine, and now he’s in the ER with you. What was I supposed to think?”
“We didn’t bring up poison or purposely making him sick,” Daniel put in more gently, half embarrassed, half scolding me, “but once they did, it scared us. We don’t understand how he could have gotten so sick so quickly. You promise to take good care of him, but then all of a sudden he’s in the hospital, and we can’t even see him.” There was a pause during which I imagined backwards cop and corner cop behind the two-way glass calling for backup from the irony cops under whose jurisdiction this clearly fell. “If you gave him something, Janey, please, please tell us now so we’ll have more time. The tox screens will save him anyway, but it would be better—for everyone—if you told us right away.”
It was hard to know where to start. I lacked enough energy for screaming anger and bred-in-the-bone fury and caustic silence and quiet freezing truth all, so I had to choose among them. I do not like yelling. I do not like confrontation. I tried to choke back everything. And what came out instead was tears. It was either going to be tears or laughter I guess. The latter secures dignity and the aura of high ground. But there was already too much lost there.
“You actually think I would try to make him sick?” I spat. I just wanted to be clear.
“We don’t know.”
“I didn’t poison Atlas, you assholes.”
“Why is he sick then?”
“I don’t know. And neither do you. And neither do the doctors at the hospital. They did an initial tox screen that turned up nothing. They’re running more tests. No one there seemed to think he was poisoned.”
“Then why did we get a panicked call from Jason that Atlas is in the hospital and had a seizure?”
“Well, he tried me, but there’s no cell reception in the stacks. Katie’s in Portland. So I guess that left you, a poor choice at best, but you are his parents as you keep pointing out. I imagine he was desperate because he’d been trying you for hours, but no one was picking up. Where were you guys? You both have cell phones. Truly concerned parents keep their cell phones on when they leave their kid with a babysitter.”
“You were supposed to be with him. Not Jason. We thought we could trust you,” said Daniel.
“Well, Dan, that’s not actually true.” I tried to keep my voice steady. “You didn’t think anything. You left before this child was even born. You didn’t make arrangements for his care or for anything else. You have no idea who was supposed to be with Atlas this morning. You just assumed someone was doing it. You’ve never laid eyes on this child. You only decided to give a crap at all about twenty minutes ago. So in your case, this isn’t a matter of thinking or a matter of trust.
“And as for you, Jill, no, I wasn’t supposed to be with him. You were. I teach in the morning, every morning, since the end of May. Katie’s in Portland, not that she’s scheduled for weekday mornings either, so we had to call Jason to stay with Atlas this morning when you didn’t show up. I said sure I would take Atlas yesterday, even though it wasn’t my day, and Jason said sure he would cancel his appointment this morning, even though he needed to meet with his advisor. Even though I’m completely wasted because I’ve spent the last week in Vancouver with my sick grandmother. Even though I am totally exhausted and totally behind. Even though Jason and Lucas have a million things to do to get ready for their baby. But you wouldn’t know about any of that. Because you don’t know anything about taking care of a baby—other people do it for you. And because you don’t know anything about anyone else’s life because it doesn’t matter because it isn’t yours.”
“We have a babysitting schedule. That doesn’t mean Atlas is yours.”
“Right, I can see where you need a babysitter. I was teaching; Katie’s getting married; Jason is having his own child. Where were you?”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Where were you?”
“She stayed overnight at my place. And I took the day off,” said Daniel. “We have a lot to work out, a lot to talk about, a lot of catching up to do.” His tone was serious—very serious actually, like their needing time to talk was the most important thing in the world—but I caught the twitch of a flicker of a suppressed smile that told me why they weren’t answering the phone for so long this afternoon.
“Why did you say you were his mother?” asked Jill.
“I didn’t want him to be alone,” I said. “And otherwise they wouldn’t let me back.”
&
nbsp; “There’s a reason for that,” she said.
“Really? What is it?”
“We know you love him, Janey. We let you take care of him. We let you be with him. We’re grateful for your help, but he’s not yours.” Jill had toned it down a little, moved from furious-yelling to furious-condescending. She was just as angry but far, far more frustrating this way. In my mind, I picked up one of the chairs and threw it across the room at her, perhaps through the two-way window. I saw shatterproof glass rain down all over the irony cops who would surely conclude, having witnessed this scene, that I was free to take Atlas home and leave, just the two of us, for whatever faraway place I preferred.
“Jill,” I said, sighing, “I am not your babysitter. I am not your nanny. I am not your maid or your cook or your housekeeper. I am your family and I am your friend, but you aren’t being mine. I have taken care of Atlas like a son, and you know it. I have been there more than you have. I have rearranged my life to make this work just as much as you have. I have not complained that I put in more time and more care and more money than his parents. I stood by when Daniel left, and I stand here while he tries to decide whether or not he wants to come back. I have been the responsible one here. So I don’t care who this boy came out of—he’s mine.” At this point, I would have walked out of the room—it was a good exit line, and besides, I was done having this conversation—except I was still under arrest, so I couldn’t do anything but sit there.
Backwards and corner cop came in then.
“The hospital called. You should get over there.” You? Who?
“They determined there’s no foul play. You’re all free to go.”
“What is it?” I said.
“I’m not a doctor, ma’am. They can answer all your questions when you get there. We appreciate your cooperation, and we’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
Thirty-three
As I’d gotten a ride over to the police station, I had to ride back to the hospital with Jill and Daniel. Out in the parking lot, they piled into her car, and I stood around looking stupid and lost. “Oh just get in,” said Jill, annoyed but apparently willing to share a car ride with me. I wondered at how I’d been released so quickly with no lawyer, no paperwork, no phone call even, and Daniel guessed I wasn’t really under arrest but just in for questioning. He allowed as how if I became more unemployed and more depressed, I too could watch three episodes of Law & Order, sometimes four, a day, and then I would be clear on such distinctions. He was being cute. As if our, all our, lives didn’t hang by spider thread. As if our, all our, son didn’t suffer from no-one-knew-what in the ER without us. As if they hadn’t just had me arrested—or brought in for questioning—for poisoning and/or kidnapping their, my, our baby boy.
At the hospital, Jason was waiting, head in his hands, more or less where I’d left him except he’d called in reinforcements. Lucas was there. And Ethan. They all three stood up as soon as we walked in.
“They know something, but they won’t tell us,” Jason blurted.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked. Me. Ethan asked me.
I avoided eye contact and gave him a half nod and said a firm and unequivocal no to the screaming that threatened to come and come and never stop.
Lucas went over to the nurses’ station calmly. Then he came back to us. Then we waited. Jason wanted to ask what happened, what happened after I was arrested by the police, after Jill produced a father and a birth certificate, after she screamed stolen baby in the ER waiting room. But even Jason couldn’t think of a way to bring this up in polite conversation. Finally, a doctor came over. He clearly had been briefed because he looked from one to the other to the other of us and said, “Why don’t we find a room where we can all talk.”
We all followed him down the hall to the same empty room where I’d waited before. He closed the door behind him and took a deep breath.
“Atlas has bacterial meningitis.” I registered at first only that he hadn’t said cancer, willed my ears open, my attention focused . . .
“. . . very smart, very lucky you brought him in when you did. It’s treatable but it’s a very, very serious disease, and children die from it . . .”
Very smart and very lucky. Very lucky. Very lucky . . .
“. . . intravenous antibiotics for a few days and IV fluids because of the vomiting and diarrhea. It’s very contagious, so we’ll prescribe anyone who’s been in close contact with him in the last few days a course of rifampin to be on the safe side. There’s a good chance he’ll recover completely though he’ll be quite weak for a while yet—”
“A good chance?” I interrupted.
“Sometimes children suffer long-term side effects—heart problems, brain damage, deafness. You can’t worry about that right now because we won’t know any time soon. We’re doing the best we can for him right now.”
“Can we see him?” I asked.
“Not tonight. Come back tomorrow and—”
“But if he needs his mother—” Jill began.
“Not tonight,” the doctor said firmly. “Tomorrow you can sort all this out.”
Sort all this out. He didn’t mean the meningitis, about which everything there was to be done was already being done. He meant us, this family, who was his mother and who wasn’t, who got to see him and who didn’t, who was blameless and who was at fault. For a while, no one said anything. Then Jill said, “I’m staying with Dan tonight,” and, nodding in my direction, “Someone else drive her home.” She turned and walked out, Daniel on her heels.
“I’ll take you home,” said Jason and Ethan together.
“My car is here actually. I just needed a ride back to the hospital after she had me arrested.”
“Drink?” Lucas concluded.
“Thanks, I just want to go home.”
“Maybe leave your car here anyway,” said Ethan. “I’ll drive you home and pick you up and bring you back here first thing in the morning before class. We could stop on the way home and get something to eat.”
“I should go home.”
“Gonna be awfully quiet at home. No one there but you.”
This had not occurred to me. I accepted the ride, tabled the rest, grateful to put at least something in someone else’s hands. Said goodbye to Jason and Lucas. Jason hugged me and said it wasn’t my fault. I hugged him and thanked him for being so smart and lucky.
“If you had waited . . .” I said.
“Don’t even think it,” he said.
In Ethan’s car, he didn’t even get the ignition switched on before I was sobbing in the passenger seat, panicked heaving soaking the front of my shirt hands in fists over my eyes gasping for air rocking back and forth shaking like to break apart sobbing. Ethan got out of the car, came around to my side, opened the door, crouched down on the ground in front of me, and pulled me into his arms. We stayed like that till I was done, me leaning out of the passenger seat, folded in half, trembling and soaked, Ethan reaching up, crouching down, air and ground, sky and earth, all directions at once, his hands in my hair, on my neck, his whispers, indiscernible, in my ear. Finally, I was all out.
“I don’t think I can go out to dinner,” I said.
“Let’s eat at your place.”
“I don’t think I’m up to cooking.”
“I’ll cook.”
“You’ll cook?”
“Other people besides you can cook. I manage to feed myself nearly every day actually. Sometimes you have to let someone else make dinner,” he said. And then, “Janey, it’s going to be okay.” I didn’t believe him, but it was sweet of him to say so.
When we got in, the light on the machine was blinking.
Katie.
“Hey, it’s me. Couldn’t get you on your cell, but I wanted to check in, let you know we got here okay. Tried about fifty billion hors d’oeuvres. More tomorrow. It’s pretty crazy. We’re having a great time though. I also wanted to mention that Atlas had some diarrhea late last night and this morning. He seemed fine otherwise
. I’m sure it’s nothing. Just wanted to make sure everything’s cool there. Oh well. See you tomorrow. Call me. Bye.”
Thirty-four
The next morning, Ethan and I went back to the hospital early—we both had to teach at ten. No one else was there yet. The doctor from the day before had left a note with a list of names. We were to be allowed back, any of us, whenever we came. Atlas still seemed too small, warm, and lethargic, with half closed lids and a slack little mouth but, the nurse told us, “not worse,” which evidently counts as “responding.”
I was skeptical. Regardless, I went to class anyway. The thing about teaching is you just go and do it somehow, and while you do, there’s nothing else. You find yourself in front of the classroom performing the role of a sane, held-together adult, and so you become one, at least for the duration of the period. No matter what else is going on in your life, if you have to get up in front of a group of people and say something, you are likely to think of something to say.
Since I had genre on the brain, we started there. As my grandmother pointed out, just because a story is sad doesn’t make it a tragedy. All stories are sad, at least a little bit. I told my students to think about all the tears shed during the happiest moments of people’s lives—graduating from school, falling in love, getting married, having babies—not all of those tears are tears of joy. All stories have sad; tragedy is something else altogether. Stories exist on their own, outside of everything. The business of their telling is searching for a genre to call home.
So how do we find home?
“It depends on what happens in them,” Sarah Iverson guessed.
The Atlas of Love Page 22