Carry Me Home (120 page)

On Thursday the 27th Bobby made a similar tape for Paul, with specifics just for his second son. In this tape Bobby’s voice was weaker. And he did not mention recovering. On Friday the 28th he made a tape for Am.

... God blessed me with being able to be there when you were born. And it was scary and it was beautiful all at the same time. We counted your fingers and your toes. I counted them for Mama. And I told her you were definitely a girl. And all your fingers and toes were there. And the tears that your Mama cried, the tears of joy. She was so happy. You were so beautiful. And all your fingers and toes were there. You were perfect. You were the prettiest baby born that day. When other parents would come to see their babies they’d see you in the little bassinet in the nursery, they’d point to you and they’d say, “Isn’t that a beautiful baby.” And it’s true. I was in love with you—well, I was in love with you the moment I knew Mama was pregnant. And I fell in love with you again the day you were born. And again the first night I changed your diaper. And the first night you slept in the crib that Granpa made. As a matter of fact, I slept under the crib that night because I was afraid you’d be lonely. Now you’re getting older and I love you even more. I guess that’s why this is so hard. I want to get big and strong for you again. You’re going to be a beautiful young lady and by the looks of it, I won’t be there.

That’s not really true.

I will always be there—my spirit will be with you—never to look over your shoulder but there for you, to give you strength. That is what comes to us and is available to us always from our ancestors and especially from father to daughter. I’ll always be there with you, I’ll always enjoy your pleasures, your joy at having your first child, at winning games, at every achievement—when you have your own company, when you are chairperson of the board, when you are president. Know that when things are tough, when things look bleakest, that I am in you to help you and to give you strength. You are a precious person. You are my daughter.

When I die, my spirit will pass on to you. You will have all my strengths plus all of your own. And because there is Noah and Paul, the strength is multiplied. When I spoke to Noah, on his tape, I said I will miss most of all not watching you three grow up. But I know now that I will not miss that. No, I will always be watching. I will smile with your smiles and cry with your tears as I now know my granpa and granma have watched over me. My wonderful children, if ever you feel sad or weak or down, if ever all things seem to be set against you, dig down, dig deep into yourselves, and you will find strength. There is strength in you that you don’t even know. Some of it comes from me, through me, from the beginning of time. My love for you grows every day and in the next life it will know no bounds.

Mill Creek Falls, 31 October, 6:00
P.M
.—They looked like the descending bars of a xylophone. Michelle was dressed as a skeleton, Gina as a ghoul; then Adam, Nate (John and Molly’s boys) and Noah as Ninja warriors; then Paul as He-Man; Am as She-Ra; Johnny as a pumpkin; and finally Mark Jr., the newest Pisano, as either a mummy or a bowl of spaghetti. Mark and Cindy had agreed to take them all trick-or-treating. John and Molly went to get the pizzas. Linda and Tony were alone, setting the table for the return of the masked marauders, ooooing and ahhhing at the costumes of the children who rang their bell. Tony was in no mood for the party, felt guilty not leaving for West Haven, not being with Bobby on this Monday.

“Don’t pour the soda yet,” Linda said.

“Why not?”

“It’ll go flat before they get back.”

“Oh.” Dull. He sounded and felt numb.

“Babe, please don’t pour it.”

“Oh! Geez. I didn’t even realize ...” Tony stopped, stood still, blurted, “What do you think of macrobiotic diets?”

“You’re thinking of Bobby, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve seen some articles that suggest they can be effective. I’ve seen others which say they lack basic nutrients.”

“You know what he said to me? He said he wanted a pine coffin.”

“Oh.” A pause, then, “How’s he looking?”

“He ... he’s wasting away. He’s just wasting away. He’s getting these sores on his arms and in his mouth. There’s nothing left to him.” Tony’s voice dropped off. He began filling the plastic cups with soda again.

“It’s terrible,” Linda said. “It’s a terrible thing.”

“I don’t know....” Tony stopped again, realized again he was pouring the soda. “He said he wanted it lined with burlap. And he said it should be pegged not nailed together and the handles should be pine also. He wants me to make it.”

“His coffin?!”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why would he want—”

“So it’ll rot. He wants to be buried near his grandfather and grandmother. Without any concrete vault. So his body might return to the earth and nourish—that’s what he said—nourish future plants and animals.”

“Are you going to do it, Babe?”

“I ... I hate thinking about it. I hate playing his nurse. I hate playing his good buddy. Do you remember, he used to have blond hair. He used to be really hard. Sinewy. I don’t know what’s keeping him alive.”

“You are, Babe. All of you.”

Sara too was depressed, exhausted. Though she had spent the weekend in West Haven it had almost been as if she’d never left Pennsylvania. The exhaustion was numbing. And frightening. Sunday night, on the way home, with the children in the car, coming up the last stretch of dark road from Eagles Mere, she’d nodded at the wheel, been jarred awake by the tires bouncing in the grass and by the slapping of small branches against the windows.

She sat in the bedroom. The children were with Tony and Linda. She sat, numb, slowly gazing from one object to the next, not actually seeing them, thinking though she did not want to think it, What will it be like after he dies? Will I meet someone else? Someone who doesn’t have all these problems? Oh, what a horrible thought. What a horrible person I’ve become. How could I ... I didn’t even call ... Thank God Jo’s helping. I couldn’t ... Oh God, this cancer has taken over my life too! I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I can’t sleep. How can I teach? How can I bear this cross?

For three weeks all was status quo—the trips, the worry, the prayers, the exhaustion. Except for Bobby. He’d gained a few pounds. His voice was strong, and the sores in his mouth and on his arms were healing. On Wednesday morning, the 23d of November, the day after Am’s fourth birthday, Bobby called his mother.

“Three-one-five-four.”

“Hi. Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Who is this?”

“It’s your son, Rob.”

“Oh, Rob. Thanksgiving isn’t until tomorrow.”

“I thought I’d call early. How are you?”

“My condition’s worse. My ankles are swollen. My knees ache. And you know how my stomach is. I went to the doctor’s, three different doctors in the past three weeks. But they can’t find anything. I think they say that so they can do more tests. Did you know that most of the labs are owned by doctors?”

“Really?”

“Yes. And ...” Miriam rambled on, “this one said ... Then that one gave me ... Then I took ... I already had that test but I couldn’t tell Doctor Denham because I didn’t tell him I was seeing ...” Finally, “Why did you call?”

“Just to say Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Did you catch something from one of those girls you go with?”

“What?!”

“Those floozies. That redhead! I don’t think our family will ever live that down.”

“What red ... You mean ...”

“And that Carter girl! She’s been married five times.”

“I don’t think s ...”

“But you’re all right?”

“Huh? I’ve got ...”

“From that floozie. Is she part Negro?”

“Sara?!”

“Oh, if Mrs. Meredith ever saw her ... You know, you could move back here. You could leave that floozie and come home.”

“Back off. That’s not what I called for.”

“Well, if that’s not what you called for, why did you call?”

“Do you know that I’m very ill? From Agent Orange.”

“Oh, come, Rob! Agent Orange is a crock of poo. I saw that on TV. Now if you’d been a decent young man ...”

“I don’t believe I’m listening to this.”

“Just as long as you remember the check. Why didn’t you sign it last time? How come
she
signed it? It wasn’t even—”

Bobby hung up. His arms were shaking. His breathing was shallow.

By the time Sara and the children arrived, along with Tony, Linda, and their children, and Don Wagner and Tom Van Deusen, Bobby had calmed. But tiredness lingered.

Sara acted as gatekeeper. She would not allow the visitors to enter en masse. She parceled his time, granted them brief audiences, even Noah, Paul and Am.

“I’ve got something for you.”

“What, Pawpee?”

“It’s your birthday, isn’t it?”

Am wiggled. “Uh-huh.”

“Give me your hand.” The little girl reached up, grasped Bobby’s hand. He squeezed. “How’s that?”

“What?” She giggled.

“Pretty strong, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You told me you wanted me to get strong for your birthday. So I did.”

“Can you give me a piggyback ride?”

“I don’t have any clothes on.”

“Ye-ees youz do!”

“Just pajamas. Maybe next time. I ... I gave Uncle Tony your present. Did he give it to you?”

“Uh-huh. I got a crown.”

“A tiara, huh? That’s because you’re a princess. It’s a magic tiara.”

Paul came in. Shy, quiet. “I love you, Paulie. Hold my hand a minute.”

“I love you too, Papa.”

“Trust your own heart in all things. Do you know what that means?”

“No.”

“Trust yourself.”

“Don’t go, Papa.”

“I won’t. I’m so glad you’re my son.”

Then came Tony. “How ya doin, Man?”

“Ah, the kids ... you know, I really want em here but it’s a real struggle.”

“Hey—” Tony’s face brightened. “You know the definition of a real good buddy?”

Bobby began to chuckle. “No.”

“He’s a guy,” Tony said, “who goes to town and gets two blow jobs, then comes back and gives you one.” They both laughed. “Maybe,” Tony continued, “you heard the one ...”

Noah entered, remained, came out, came to the solarium waiting room, sat on Tony’s lap. “Pop says, on my birthday, he’s going to teach me to ride a bike. He’s going to tell me tomorrow. I’m going to come back tomorrow and he’s going to tell me. Just Pop and me.”

On Thanksgiving morning Noah had the sniffles and Sara decided neither the children nor the adults, except Tony, should enter Bobby’s room, should expose him, immunologically spent, to a potentially lethal virus. Instead they talked, gestured, waved from the hallway. By evening Sara would not let the children be exposed to the sight of their father.

He was frail. His hair was gray. A large patch had fallen out from one side making it look as if there was a hole there. From morning to evening his entire countenance changed. The sores that had been healing cracked and oozed and Linda helped the nurse re-bandage Bobby’s arms and legs with white gauze, and his back with large patches. His eyes teared. He drooled, coughed up bloody mucus.

“Where am I?”

“You’re at the West Haven VA.” Sara’s voice was firm, controlled.

“Is this our house?”

“Yes.”

“We live here?”

“Yes. We live here.”

Bobby’s words began to slur. “You and me?”

“Yes. You and I.”

“Just you and I?”

“Yes.”

“What about Josh? Where’s Josh?”

“He’s ... upstairs.”

“Good.”

In the hallway, Sara, “Tony, take the children home.”

“Okay. I’ll drive em, then come back. Or Linda could drive ...”

Word spreads quickly in a small town. By Friday it seemed everyone knew Bobby was dying. And everyone was upset.

She banged on the door.

Miriam answered. “Yes.”

“Mrs. Wapinski?”

“Cadwalder-Wapinski. Who are you?”

“Josephine Pisano. I’ve been taking care of your grandchildren for three months.”

“Oh. Which ones?”

“How could you?! Your son is dying!”

Now defensive, her voice sharp, piercing, “How could I what?!”

“If I had only one kidney, or one lung, or my heart, and one of my children needed it ...”

“Well, I’m not you!”

“You didn’t even go for the blood test. Three hundred of his friends went. They’re his true family. You wouldn’t lose anything. You—”

Miriam slammed the door.

The road, the dirt mud road with the stone wall running to the mountain, the paddy. Why am I in white? In white! Snipers! In white. Next. Cover me, Man. One more assault, Sir. We almost had em last time. We lost three bodies ... Ty? Ty! Ty, go over ... up Man, cover me, we’ll have a beer when this is over. Then we’ll talk. Next. Not that one. Put him in the ... One more sunrise. One more first light. Are you my dad? Dad! Dad, I’m just like you. Am I just like you? Death is unlife. Death is not being part of life. Death is an inducer of false exile, false estrangement, false expatriation. One more first light, Josh, ol’ Buddy. Good buddy ... two blow jobs ... mallards on the pond. You don’t have to scare em. Look at those hinges. They’ll last a hundred years. Who’ll cut the Christmas trees? Put this one in the corner ...

For a week Bobby’s hallucinations, flashbacks, periods of confusion and delirium flip-flopped with periods of total lucidity. His physical deterioration was erratic. At times, though bedridden, he seemed strong. Emotionally, when lucid, he was confident. Twice he received whole blood transfusions. Twice he received platelets. Three times his antibiotic mixture was adjusted. On Wednesday, 7 December, the hematologists began a new chemotherapy, a totally new treatment that had never before been used on leukemics. Dachik was hopeful. Wilcoxson had reservations. Before deciding, he had outlined the procedure, the theoretical response, the actual response in culture and animal studies. Bobby, totally lucid, had asked a multitude of questions, had read the new permission-to-treat form, signed it, signed too a form titled Permission to Perform Autopsy. “Don’t withdraw on me now, Doc,” Bobby had said to Lily Dachik.