Sins of Innocence (44 page)

Flora knitted her hands together. She looked older—old. Even though P.J. hadn’t seen her in nearly two years, she could read the answer on her mother’s face.

“There’s no need to talk right now,” her mother said. “Let’s wait until the doctor comes.”

P.J. stared at her. God, she thought, oh, God, they did it. They cut it off.

The door to her room opened. Bob’s tall, sturdy frame
was silhouetted against the harsh corridor light; beside him stood another figure, taller even than Bob, and thinner. Dr. St. Germain.

“How are you feeling?” the doctor asked as he stepped into the room.

“Fine. A little groggy. A little sore.”

The doctor nodded and walked to the side of her bed. Flora quickly moved back to her chair. He pulled back the sheet and checked the dressing. He nodded.

“So, Doctor, what’s the verdict?” P.J. tried to sound light and unconcerned. Inside, her stomach lurched.

It was his turn to sit on the edge of the bed. Bob stood over him.

“As we suspected, the tumor in your breast was about five centimeters in diameter.”

“And?”

“And I’m sorry to have to tell you, it was malignant.”

The room seemed to grow darker. P.J. closed her eyes again. “You cut it off.”

“I’m sorry. Yes.”

The only sound in the room was the beating of P.J.’s heart.

Bob spoke quickly. “Where do we go from here?”

P.J. forced herself to open her eyes. The doctor folded his hands on his lap.

“Well, I still don’t know the status of the axillary lymph nodes.”

She thought of her white bathing suit. She’d never wear it again.

“Once the complete pathology report is back, we’ll consider chemotherapy.”

My hair. God. My hair is going to fall out
.

“Then you feel certain it’s spread?” Bob asked.

“Fairly certain. It appears to be a comedo type of cancer. Radiation therapy won’t be required, but chemo should help. And with aggressive action, P.J. will be able to resume a full life. After her recovery.”

They were speaking as if she weren’t there, as if she
were an elderly patient who was deaf, or a child who would not understand. She didn’t mind.

“When can you start?” Bob continued.

P.J. turned her head on the pillow, away from them all. It didn’t matter if Bob took charge. She simply didn’t care.

“In a couple of weeks. Luckily there don’t seem to be any nodules on her chest X ray.”

“How long will she be hospitalized?”

“A few days. We’ll arrange a schedule for the treatments; she’ll have them done on an outpatient basis.”

“Will she be sick? Will she need to have someone stay with her?” P.J. looked back at Bob. His head was turned toward her mother. She couldn’t see her mother’s reaction.

“A little nausea maybe, a little diarrhea a day or two after the treatment. Other than that, she’ll feel pretty well, once the surgery has healed.”

Feel pretty well. God. Why hasn’t anyone asked if I’m going to die?

“Will she be able to work?”

“That’s up to her. We’ll start with a six-month program. When she feels up to it, of course, there’s no reason why she can’t continue working.”

“Good. Because she’s a partner in an ad agency now.”

P.J. heard Bob’s words, but somehow they seemed meaningless. So she had the partnership. Did it matter now?

“Doctor?” P.J. asked. The room was quiet, blanketed with anxious anticipation of her next words. “Am I going to die?”

The doctor stole a quick glance at Bob, then looked at his patient. “Many patients respond positively to the chemo, even with tumors larger than yours. There’s no need to overreact.”

I’m going to die. My breast has been cut off, and now I’m going to die. Maybe it’s for the best
. She closed her eyes again, wishing everyone would go away.

“Let’s take it a step at a time,” the doctor continued.

The room grew quiet again. P.J. felt the mattress rise
slightly, and she knew without opening her eyes that the doctor had stood.

“Thank you, Doctor.” Bob’s words. “I’ll go out with you and talk to the nurse about a schedule. Peej?” He laid a hand on the bed. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

She managed to nod. The men walked out the door. The room was quiet again.

“Mother?” she asked. “Are you still here?”

Flora walked to the bed.

P.J. studied her mother’s face. The tightness was gone; the corners of her mouth were slightly turned down. There were tears in her eyes. Flora took P.J.’s hand. It was the first time in many years that they had touched … since P.J. had gone off to Larchwood Hall … since before her father had died. Over time their visits had been merely obligatory, decreasing in frequency as the years increased.

“Mom,” P.J. said, “I’m scared.”

Flora sat on the bed, leaned over, slipped her arms around P.J.’s back, and, slowly, breath by breath, the barrier between them began to crumble. She raised her daughter and held her gently. “I know, Pamela,” she whispered. “I know.”

Bob went home later that night, but Flora had wanted to stay. She had pulled a chair by the head of P.J.’s bed and sat quietly now, her hands neatly folded, her gaze fixated on the metal side rail.

“He’s a very nice man,” she said. “I’m glad to see the two of you are still together.”

P.J. remembered the day trip she and Bob had made to the Berkshires. The visit had been predictably formal, superficially pleasant. It had been the last time she’d seen her mother.

“Yes,” P.J. answered. “I’m very lucky.”
Lucky? I’m lying in a hospital bed with cancer. That’s lucky?

“I’ll stay with you. At your apartment. Until you’re better.”

Until you’re better
. “You don’t have to, Mom.”

“Nonsense.”

Another few moments passed.

“Is it nice?” Flora asked.

“What?”

“Your apartment. I’ve never seen it.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, it’s a condo actually. I bought it a few years ago.”

Flora nodded. She brought her eyes to her daughter’s face. “We’ll get you through this, you know.”

We?
When was the last time she’d even thought of her mother? P.J. wanted to shout, “You don’t have to help me just because you’re my mother!” Surely there was no need to adhere to the unwritten law of perennial mother’s love—they were different, P.J. and Flora. Too much time had passed. But then, what did P.J. know about motherly feelings? She thought of her baby; she thought of her son, then felt the tears come. “I guess I’ve done everything wrong,” she said.

Flora shook her head and pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose.

“We should have been closer,” P.J. went on. “I’m sorry for that.”

“It’s not your fault.” She gave a half-laugh. “Your father was the one who kept us on an even keel.”

So Flora had known that too. P.J. felt an ache of regret. “Yes,” she agreed.

“Maybe it’s not too late.”

The sounds of the hospital were muted behind the closed door. They sat together in the dimness of the bed lamp.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes,” P.J. said. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”

Flora nodded.

“Can we talk about it, Mom?”

Flora looked at her.

“About my baby?”

Flora looked back to the side rail. “There’s no need,” she said. “What’s done is done.”

“But it isn’t done, Mom. It’s still hurting you, and it’s still hurting me.” Now, she wanted to add, more than ever.

Flora waved off her words. “I forgot about that a long time ago.”

“No, Mom.” P.J. pressed on with a courage she hadn’t known before. “It changed all our lives. Yours. Mine.” She lowered her voice and spoke through her tears. “Daddy’s.”

Flora didn’t answer.

“I know you blame me for Daddy’s death.”

Flora stood up and walked to the end of the bed. “Nonsense.”

“I’ve blamed myself too. When I got pregnant, it destroyed him. I know that.”

Flora ran a finger across the top of the chart that was clipped to the foot of the bed. “You seem to have come through it.” There was no mistaking the edge to her voice. “You’re very successful, and you’ve finally found a nice man.”

P.J. smoothed out the folds of the sheet by her hand. “It doesn’t change what I did.”

The door opened, and a nurse came in wheeling a blood-pressure machine.

“Pressure check!” she clucked, and maneuvered the squeaky unit to the bedside.

Flora walked to the window. P.J. held out her arm. The nurse attached the cuff and began to pump the rubber bulb. P.J. watched the process, reminded, once again, of why she was there. I’m not going to let my mother get away with this, she thought. She may never admit to me that she, too, gave up a baby for adoption, but once and for all, we’re going to talk about mine. Her next thought was buried beneath the surface:
We’re going to talk about this before I die
.

The nurse released the pressure and undid the cuff. She marched to the chart at the end of the bed, quickly made a notation, then whisked out of the room, steering the squeaking unit through the door.

P.J. looked at her mother, staring out the blinds into the darkness. “I had a son.”

Flora raised a hand and touched the slats.

“He was a healthy boy. Seven pounds eight ounces.”

“Why are you telling me this now?” Her mother’s voice sounded as though she were speaking through a filter.

“Because it’s time,” P.J. said. “For a lot of reasons.”

Flora turned and faced the bed. “I would think you’d have more important things on your mind right now. Like getting well.”

“Mom, I may not get well.” The words jerked from her throat. “Besides,” P.J. continued, “I may have a chance to meet him.”

Flora twisted back to the window. P.J. could see her mother’s spine stiffen. But she wasn’t going to stop. Not now.

“He is a human being, Mother. Someone I brought into this world.” She paused, suddenly realizing this for the first time herself. “And he is your grandson,” she added.

Flora snapped around. “He is not my grandson. He is the person who killed your father.”

P.J. flinched. For a moment her mind stopped working; her heart stopped beating. She blinked her eyes quickly. “That’s not fair,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t his fault. It was mine. He was an innocent victim.”

Flora walked to the chair. “I don’t think this is a good time to talk about it,” she said, stiffening her back once again. “You’re overwrought.” She picked up her purse and all-weather jacket. “I think I’d better go now and let you get some rest. I’ll be back in the morning.” She headed for the door.

“Mother, wait.” P.J. sat up; the bandage gave a tug of pain.

Flora stopped, her back to her daughter.

“I’m not overwrought. I’m trying to make a decision about whether or not to meet him. I was hoping you would help.”

“I want no part of it.” With that, Flora opened the door. “Good night,” she said, without looking back.

P.J. rested her head back on the pillow, resigned to the
fact she shouldn’t have bothered to tell her mother. She would not mention it again. She would make the decision herself, without Bob’s input, without her mother’s comments. She reached up and snapped off the light, then slid her hand under the covers. She did not want to touch the area where her breast had been; she knew it would hurt. And P.J. never wanted to hurt again.

Ginny

She spent the rest of the weekend in her bedroom with a couple of fifths of vodka and a carton of cigarettes. Some time after dark on Monday Ginny awoke. The bottles were on the floor, half-empty; the ashtray was overstuffed with putrid butts, and her head throbbed. Ginny hauled herself to a sitting position on the bed and willed the room to stop spinning. She brought the red digital numbers on the bedside clock into focus: 10:20. Another night had barely begun.

Ginny remembered that Jake was away, and for an instant, she felt relief. Then she remembered Jess. Larchwood
Hall. All the rest. All the stuff that for so many years she’d denied to herself.

Jake never knew about the baby, nor had her three husbands before him. It wasn’t because Ginny gave a shit what anyone thought of her … it was because if she’d told them about the baby, they’d ask about the baby’s father. Jess was the only one who’d ever for sure known, and that, Ginny realized now, had probably been a mistake.