A Circle of Wives (29 page)

So began the first worst period of my life, the second being of course when I was married with two kids stuck in a small garage apartment. But that was later. I was told that the boys said I agreed to it, that they were good boys, they wouldn’t lie. A couple of them were from prominent families in town with money and lawyers and in the end, after the hours of questioning and fuss, somehow the tables got turned and we were on the spot, we were going to be in trouble if we didn’t drop the charges. So we did. One policeman had placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “You don’t want to end up in the Odditorium yourself, young lady.”

I’d see those boys around town, sometimes with older girls, and I’d think,
I’ve had knowledge of you.
Some phrase I’d gotten from church. One of the reasons I married my first husband was that he was one of the few boys who was kind to me in high school after word got around.
MJ pulled a train.
That’s when I started to wear the long skirts, the shapeless blouses, to hide my figure, even pants were too revealing.

John helped me with all of this more than the therapists I’ve paid over the decades. He took on my pain. When I told him, I saw him weep, and with each of his tears I felt lighter. It was miraculous, really. “You had a heinous crime committed against you, and they should have been punished,” he had said. “But they won’t be. So the least you can do is not punish yourself.”

But yesterday, today, tomorrow, I feel as though the world is punishing me. Threatening to take it all away. Time hangs heavy. I feel the tick of every second of the clock, and the empty hours stretch in front of me. I honestly don’t see a way out.

56
Deborah

AFTER I HANG UP THE
phone, I move around the house, breaking things.

So that . . . person . . . that Helen, is pregnant. She broke the pledge.

Smash goes the blue living-room lamp, the one John and I picked out in Florence together for our first house, amazed that money was starting to come in after the years of penury. He said the blue matched my eyes. A pang at that memory. Then, smash goes silverware from the drawer. I hurl forks and knives onto the floor. A hailstorm of sharp edges, and I am sorry there is no one here to get pierced with them. I am utterly alone in this house. Not even a goldfish, hamster, lizard, the pets of the children’s innocent years.

This wasn’t part of the plan
. The plan has gone awry. I was to live the rest of my days with dignity. Mrs. John Taylor. Not to have a trail of litter behind me, false wives, bastard children, child brides. It is disgraceful. It is undignified. I even did what certain people suggested that I do when this stink became public: I resigned my posts. My chair at the head of the South Peninsula Garden Club. Member of the board of the Palo Alto Junior League. Member of the steering committee for the Peninsula Open Space Preservation Society. I shed them all.

I can’t help but blame this all on the messenger, that girl detective. She called me again after she visited LA to interview Helen, and casually dropped the bomb in passing. No doubt she enjoyed breaking the news. But I won’t go down easily. An agreement is an agreement.

I book my flight to LA.

57
Helen

A BOY
.
I AM CARRYING
a boy. This is shocking news. This is unwelcome news. Unacceptable. What can I do with a boy? There is no
boy
in my future.

I found out this morning, got the call from the laboratory. The woman on the other end of the line, the technician, was inclined to be playful. “You have a healthy child,” she said, “Nothing to be alarmed about from the amnio.” “That’s a relief,” I said. My whole body relaxed. What would I have done with a Down syndrome child or child with some other severe birth defect? It would have been aborted. That would have been my only option.

“Don’t you want to know the sex?” asked the woman. I had forgotten about that, so sure was I that my child was female. “Of course,” I replied, and waited. But the technician turned coy. “Want to guess?” she asked. This irritated me. I said, “Boy” just to be ornery, and heard a congratulatory, “That’s right!” “A boy?” I asked, incredulously. “Yes, and it sounds as though that’s what you wanted!” I hung up without saying goodbye.

What do I know of footballs and lizards and wet dreams? I was prepared to deal with the PMS and first love of a girl, but not the onslaught of testosterone. This will take some adjusting. This will take some thinking about.

It has been a rough day so far. Even the overwrought parents got to me in a way they usually don’t. Often I retreat to a zone in the center of my brain that controls all the outgoing signals. The eyes, opening wide while listening and narrowing in thought at the right moments. The voice, firm yet full of compassion. The hand, reaching out to almost touch an arm, but holding back in case that’s too much of an imposition. It doesn’t mean I’m not capable of being kind. I just get so fatigued and cranky and unable to do my job well. For their sake, it’s better that I fake it, look at the children without seeing them, pat their little heads, smile at them. Good oncologists are good actors. This doesn’t make them bad people.

I would have thought so when I was younger, even post medical school. I thought sincerity was the requirement. Now I strive for
authenticity
. Quite a different thing altogether.

But today things aren’t going well. My control center isn’t operating properly. Earlier, I reached out and actually touched a father who jerked back angrily. To him I was the big bad cancer monster delivering the news of the impending death of his beloved son. Beloved
son
. I think of blue blankets, and tiny infant footsie suits printed with bats and balls or outer space or railroad motifs. I shudder. I am ashamed in the midst of my irritation. I slip off my shoes, prepare to change into the sneakers I wear home for comfort.

Sally, my favorite nurse, knocks, then opens the door to my office. “There’s someone here who won’t leave,” she says, and grimaces.

“A parent?” I ask wearily.

“More of a grandparent, if anything. But I suspect it has something to do with . . . that matter.” Sally has always been circumspect about my relationship with John—before we were married, when we were trying to keep it from the gossips throughout the medical center, and certainly after his death, when the media piranhas swarmed.

“She says her name is Deborah.” Sally’s look turns resolute when she sees my face wince. “Okay, I’ll get rid of her.”

“No,” I say. “Show her in.” I am resigned. From what I know of Deborah Taylor, she will not take no for an answer anyway, not if she knows I’m in here, which somehow I’m sure she does. I slip my shoes back on.

When Deborah enters my office, I feel the dynamics of power shift, just like that. I could be the patient on the examining table in the paper gown rather than the doctor. I stand to assert myself, but my move backfires as she graciously says, “Sit down, please.” I obey her, feeling like a visitor in my own office.

She remains standing until my assistant closes the door behind her. Then the graciousness vanishes. “How dare you,” she says, almost hisses. I don’t even try to pretend not to know what she is talking about.

“I don’t
dare
do anything,” I say, with more spirit than I feel in my tired bones. “But what’s done is done.”

“Is it a boy?” she asks. I wonder briefly why she thinks this is important.

“I won’t tell you,” I say. “You have no rights here.”

Deborah’s mouth twists and her eyes turn ugly. “So it is,” she says, then she takes a step forward so that she is pushing against my desk. “Be certain of one thing. You will not use the Taylor name.”

This honestly throws me for a loop. “What?” I ask.

“Nor does this child have any claim on John’s estate,” she says.

I put up my hands. “There’s no question of that,” I say. “Of either thing.”

Deborah stares at me for a full minute. Then I see the tension visibly begin to leave her body.

I gather strength as she subsides. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with you,” I say. I struggle a little getting to my feet; she is still standing, so close that I have to maneuver around her. “And I don’t know why you intrude like this when a simple phone call or even email would have been enough.”

“Because I wouldn’t have trusted the answers,” she says. “I had to see you myself.”

I am suddenly more tired than I can ever remember being. Not just tired, sleepy. I could curl up and sleep for days. It’s only Monday and I have a full week’s worth of patients.

Deborah’s eyes stay on me, and, as if against her will, she looks concerned.

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, but as I say it my knees buckle and Deborah reaches out and catches me, gently sitting me down in an armchair.

“You’re not,” she says. “You’re pale. When did you last eat?”

“Not today,” I admit. I was too nauseated to eat breakfast, and too busy to grab lunch.

“That’s ridiculous,” she says. “When I was pregnant I was eating every minute of the day, and I was still hungry. Here,” she’s rummaging in her purse, and comes up with a power bar. “I always carry these when I fly.”

I accept the bar, unwrap it, and take a bite. “Eat the whole thing,” she says. “Don’t try to do anything until you’ve had a chance to increase your blood sugar.”

I manage a smile. “Who’s the doctor here?” I ask.

She’s serious. “You should be asking, ‘Who’s the foolish pregnant lady?’”

That makes me laugh. I take another bite, “Somehow I never pegged you as having a sense of humor.”

“On occasion,” Deborah says solemnly, “I’ve been known for my wit.” Then she does smile.

Deborah turns to go. Funny how vulnerable she seems to me now, from behind, how fragile her shoulder blades stick out of her thin shoulders. I try to think if she was this thin at the funeral. I decide she’s lost a considerable amount of weight.

“Hang on,” I say. Against my better judgment and my intense tiredness I find I want to make a genuine gesture toward this woman.

She stops and looks at me questioningly.

“Are you flying back tonight?”

“No,” she says. “I’m going to find a hotel, and then leave in the morning. I can’t face the airport and those security lines more than once a day.”

I hear my voice inviting her to stay with me. “I have a pullout couch in my home office,” I say. “It wouldn’t be any trouble.” This is a lie, which gives me pause. I rarely tell an untruth, and when I do, it is for a good reason. But I have no reason to invite John’s wife into my home. The words
common human decency
come to mind.

She appears to consider the offer. “I wouldn’t impose,” she says.

I’m about to argue with her. “We’re nearly family,” I say, and find my hand reaching out in a gesture, but somehow I miscalculate the space between us and touch her arm. This is too much. We both recoil, and I think,
Well, that’s that.

Then she accepts my invitation.

58
Helen

SEEING DEBORAH SITTING IN JOHN
’
S
favorite chair, sipping wine out of a glass he almost certainly used at some point, is unsettling. More than unsettling—crazy-making.

She’s been in my condo for about an hour. We ordered in some sushi—vegetarian for me—and while we wait for it to arrive I take a shower and put on my pajamas. She’s still fully dressed—I can’t imagine her any other way—and hasn’t even taken off her shoes.

“Do you miss him?” she asks. She is openly looking around my living room and dining room, which is minuscule compared to her Palo Alto home, but more comfortable, in my opinion. Not as funky and full of character as John’s fantasy San Francisco Victorian, of course. There’s a plush taupe sofa, love seat, and matching large armchair, the one Deborah is sitting in. An antique pine coffee table, and a similar square table with four upright chairs for the dining alcove. Walls mostly bare. My wall art is in my office, which is covered with photos of children. Patients. Many of them dead, although many have survived, too. I like to be reminded of that fact. Though all this will be quite different in a few months. The office turned into a nursery, toys and blankets and diapers strewn around.

I wonder how I’ll handle it. I like everything in its place. I hang up my clothes the minute I take them off. I wipe down the sink and bathtub immediately after using them, wash my dishes as soon as my meal is finished.

When John entered my life, I found myself trailing after him, picking shirts and socks off the floor, putting dirty glasses in the dishwasher, constantly tidying. I remember Deborah’s pristine house. Perhaps we have more in common than I’d thought.

“Did you follow John around, cleaning up after him?” I ask Deborah. She seems surprised for a moment, then smiles. It is not a particularly nice smile. I must remind myself if I start to soften towards her—she is not a
nice
woman.