The Clone's Mother (10 page)

Chapter 18

A cab took me home with a voucher the hospital gave me. I sobbed for about three hours straight, then finally dropped off into unconsciousness. My sleep was fitful and distorted by harrowing images. I awoke several times, jerked into awareness by nightmares. Ollie went to the couch to sleep. Too much commotion for his sensitive balance.

When a deep sleep finally came to me, I was so worn out I crashed until after noon. Bright sun in my eyes woke me up. I blinked awake in the light trying to figure out what day it was.

I sat up and all the horrors of the evening came flooding back into my mind. For one second it seemed too extreme to be real, then the truth of it sank in. The pain and loss welled up so strong, I had trouble breathing. The tears started again, and they turned to gut wrenching sobs. I slid down off the side of my bed, not sure where I was going. The grief was too blinding to see through. Visions of Uncle Howard’s broken head kept flashing behind my eyes inside of my brain. The feeling of his rubbery purple lips under mine, the sensation of his ribs bending under the weight of my palms as I tried to keep him alive—the impressions were choking me.

The whole experience knotted together in the center of my gut and made me miserably queasy. My sobs turned to retching, and before it could be stopped, I vomited into my wastebasket.

I hurled until nothing remained but my intestines themselves. Ollie was repulsed and took a wide berth to get around my hunched form tangled in the bedspread on the floor. He miaowed at me like I’d ruined his day, and he headed for his box.

While his scratches in the kitty litter echoed through the place and I sat there hiccupping and sniveling into a wadded, soggy tissue, the buzzer to get into my complex rang. I struggled to my feet, deposited the disgusting wastebasket in the bathroom, then just to make the obnoxious sound stop, I pressed the buzzer to unlock the front entrance.

I grabbed a sweatshirt from my living room floor and pulled it over my mess of hair, unconcerned that the shirt was inside out and backwards. My pajamas stuck out of the sleeves and neck of the sweatshirt. My shorts were huge and unflattering, but I didn’t care.

A knuckle tapped on my door. I flung it open, grabbing the doorframe as I did because vertigo left me reeling. Mack stood outside my apartment.

The dizziness grew, my blood pressure dropped, and the nausea hit me anew. I staggered back, held up a finger to signal Mack to wait, but then dashed to the bathroom and slammed the door without inviting him in.

Ten minutes later, I opened the door, teetered out, and collapsed on the couch. Mack stood by the window, drinking a can of soda with Ollie curled in his arm—telling Mack all about my horrible night, no doubt.

I think I said, “Sorry.”

“Wow.”

Wow? How do you answer that?

Mack tried to cover the awkwardness with small talk about stuff outside the window. “Your cat tried to break through the window to get to the pigeons sitting on the power lines out there. And he said I could have a Coke.”

“Nice of you to drop by. And at such a convenient time.”

“You look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“I heard what happened last night from a friend who works in the ER. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Oh, I’m fine. Can’t you tell?”

“I’m really sorry, Kate. If I can do anything—”

I threw my hands in the air and shrugged. I didn’t want to talk about it.

He reached toward the table and picked up a Styrofoam container. He opened it, revealing a pile of gooey lasagna, pungent garlic bread, and green salad. He stretched it out toward me. “At times like this you’re supposed to bring food. So I brought you some lunch.”

My hand clasped over my mouth and I hightailed it right back into the bathroom. When I came back a few minutes later, I scowled at him.

“That wasn’t nice.” I flopped back down in my spot.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know it would do that to you.”

Frankly, I was surprised myself at the reaction, but I wasn’t going to give him that.

Now that I was apparently finished puking, I didn’t know what to say. Dr. Schroeder’s words echoed back in my head, “…isn’t going like he planned…he wants out…pushing you away…hates clinging…disappointed.” I just stared at Mack and waited to hear what he would say, if his words would support or refute Carl’s speculation.

“Can we try again?” he asked.

“I talked to Carl.”

“He told me.”

“Did he tell you what he told me? About why you said what you did?”

“He said there was a misunderstanding.”

“Was he telling the truth?”

“He told me I must have mixed up the blood samples. That explained the perfect DNA match in my testing. And he denied again that he transferred to the wrong patient. He denied the whole thing.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me Mack?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know how you men are.” A bite had crept into my voice. “What about the cloning business?”

“Carl said
I
had misunderstood
him
when I thought he hinted that I keep up the cloning. See?” he said in a sarcastic growl. “
He’s
in the clear and I apparently just misunderstood an awful lot of things.”

I’d say. So what kind of boyfriend did that leave me? A mad scientist? A criminal? A romantic who is too trusting and easily manipulated?

“I know this must be awful for you, losing your uncle. I don’t want to rush you. When you are ready, let’s talk. We can try dinner again.”

“Maybe. I need time.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow, okay? Let me know if you need anything.”

I agreed and Mack let himself out the door—taking his lasagna lunch with him.

Chapter 19

As the afternoon wore on, I put Mack out of my mind and vegged in front of the tube. I still felt queasy, but at least I didn’t ralph any more. TV was the perfect way to keep my mind from dealing with reality. I watched half an episode of a
Star Trek
rerun, then switched over to see my
Wheel of Fortune
friends, Whadya Say-Jac? and his beautiful assistant Letter-Turner Barbie. (Ollie and I like to rename all of our TV-land buddies. He’s a fun fellow to room with.) After $12,420 was given away to the jumping happy person, we swelled our minds with
Jeopardy
. (Of course, we didn’t mess with this show. I mean, we’re talking
Alex Trebek
.) When our brains were about to burst with new knowledge, I turned it off and read
Ask Amy
, followed by the comics. My neighbor always left his newspapers overflowing his box at the entryway, so I sometimes helped myself for reading edification.

In the Metro section of the paper, I stumbled on a small blurb about Howard’s assault and murder. That made my stomach roil again. I had to get my mind on something else. It was too painful to process.

So I turned to the next page, looking for something to distract me. First, I found a story about an unidentified body found in the lake, then I jumped to another about the arrest and atrocities of a pedophile, and in a last panicked effort I turned the page to a story about an infant kidnapping from the family home during the early hours of the morning. The authorities figured the parents had something to do with it. They always seemed to—according to
Dateline
, anyway.

With a deep moan, fueled by a mixture of repulsion and upset stomach, I threw the paper behind the couch in disgust and flipped the television back on for the rest of the evening.

The phone rescued me from my failed attempt to keep my mind off awful things. I was a little afraid it was Mack, not sure yet what we’d say. But it was Uncle Howard’s step son again. He’d called three times and was making arrangements for the memorial service. I’d told him before to do whatever he wanted. There wasn’t anything I could think of that could make the event lovely. It was going to be horrific any way we did it. This time he was wondering if I’d like to say a few words. I said I’d think about it to get him not to pressure me.

I had no intention of putting me or anyone else through that. I was going to be bawling the whole service. I couldn’t imagine it would help anyone with their grieving process to watch me go up front, cry, and blow my nose for about three minutes and then sit down—because that’s all I’d be good for.

After I hung up, I checked for missed calls and Mack had left a message. He said he hoped I was doing okay and he’d try back later. I waited, not sure if I wanted to talk to him just then, but he must have gotten distracted or something. He didn’t call again so I didn’t have to decide.

The day finally finished and the next one came before I was ready. It went by pretty much the same. Lots of time spent staring at walls. Ollie and I went through the
Reader’s Digest
together. I’d borrowed it from a waiting room at the hospital. I read him all the jokes and we tested each other on our vocabulary with Word Power. He got a lot more correct than I did. I told him he was very
trenchant
. That was one of the vocabulary words I learned. He answered he thought I was
benign
. One of his.

Plus we did some inane TV watching, a little napping, and I experienced plenty of upset stomach. I was beginning to think I had caught a flu bug or something, the way this thing was so persistent. Then again, I had been through a lot—which I was trying not to think about—and chances were it was eating away at my psyche, manifesting itself in physical symptoms such as GI distress and hallucinations, like my Himalayan was actually speaking to me.

I called in to work again to make sure they weren’t expecting me. They weren’t. Sarge knew Uncle Howard’s service was tomorrow and I needed the time off. I reassured her I’d be there tomorrow night after the funeral. I didn’t want her to think I was
malingering
. That was another of our Word Power words. She said I didn’t need to push it. I thought it’d be good to keep my mind occupied.

While waiting for the late movie to come on the tube, I checked in with my local news anchors, where I could depend on them to always have the news, “Your news: when it happened, where it happened, and even before it happened,” or something like that. The male half of the team—William Golembesky III, the sixty-year-old who always over-emphasized his
the third
and should’ve lost the toupee—laughed at some dumb joke his painted blond sidekick had just flubbed. He dropped his voice to a Tom Brokaw baritone and presented a follow-up to the kidnapping story—which they were proud to announce was their exclusive scoop. These anchors were a trip. A few months back, Ollie had renamed Willie Golembesky III to
Will He Go-away-sky, the Nerd
. (See what I mean? He’s a riot to room with.)

The stolen baby had turned up at a local hospital—my hospital as it happened—abandoned and okay except for dehydration. She’d been discovered by a maintenance man in the hospital stairwell, sleeping in a felt-lined copy paper box. Willie the Nerd went on to explain that the parents, who had been under police surveillance, were vindicated by the events following the initial kidnapping and no charges would be pressed. The couple, who’d had custody of the baby for only two months, were waiting for the hearing which would proclaim the baby—which they were adopting—legally their own child. They were asked a few questions by the station’s very own Investigative Reporter Neil Parker—Live on the Scene. He stuck the foam bubble mike in front of their petrified faces and asked how it felt to have their baby kidnapped.

“It felt bad, you moron,” I yelled. “How do you think it felt?”

Ollie agreed with me and miaowed at the TV, deriding the creep for his lack of sensitivity.

Once the anchors wrapped up the news and wished us a pleasant good night, an old black and white movie called
The Brain from Planet Arous
came on. A giant brain from outer space takes over a guy’s body to try to conquer the world, then another brain—the first brain’s nemesis—takes over the guy’s dog’s body, hoping to thwart the takeover. The paper’s description of it made me want to change the channel, but Ollie insisted we watch it.

Somewhere around the time the dog brain turned on his master brain, I must have fallen asleep so I missed the ending. I awoke in time to see the credits scrolling up the screen. Ollie sat regally by the TV set watching me, thinking he wasn’t about to tell me how it ended and spoil it for me in case the station reran it.

I went to the bathroom, Ollie went to his box. We both did our business and met back at the bed. I was dizzy when I walked and I realized I hadn’t eaten for two days. I hoped the funeral tomorrow would help calm things down inside and do something to give me some closure. Everyone was always talking about needing closure these days. If I didn’t get some closure soon, I might have to get me some kind of transfusion.

When I awoke the next morning, I got up and made some toast. Whether it was influenza or lack of closure, I figured I needed to start easy. I had some peppermint tea along with it, and was relieved to announce to Ollie that I thought I was on my way to returned equilibrium. Ollie was pleased to hear it. He was missing his precious consistency.

The memorial service took place at Uncle Howard’s church. The place was nearly full when I got there thirty minutes early. Even the balcony. Five minutes before it was to start, an usher took me up to the front row to sit in the family pew. At least at that point I hadn’t started blubbering yet. I’d brought a washcloth in my purse. I didn’t have a handkerchief and I didn’t think a paper tissue could even begin to absorb the liquid that was going to seep out of me.

It was me and the step son in the pew, a guy about twenty years older than me who I’d met exactly twice before in my life. They should have let others sit there with us. By then, there was standing room only. Anna and Joe were squeezed into the row behind me. That helped me to feel a little less alone.

A pastor in a suit and a whole choir in golden robes came out onto the podium. The pastor asked us to pray with him. When we bowed our heads, I realized how long it had actually been since I’d been in a church. At least Uncle Howard would have been glad to know he’d gotten me back there.

The pastor told several stories about the good deeds Uncle Howard was famous for. And his graciousness. And patience. And character. And integrity. Then an old widow got up and told about Howard fixing her broken fence one night when he thought she was in bed asleep. She watched through the window but never told him. She didn’t want to ruin the fun for him. Another person got up and told about a time Howard had been to their house for dinner and how he’d taken their shy son on his knee the whole evening and treated him like he was his own grandson. A buddy of Uncle Howard’s told about a fishing trip they’d gone on together. Uncle Howard loved to fish, almost as much as fixing old lady’s fences. The buddy told how Howard just happened to forget to put bait on his own hook after he’d caught three Walleyes and his friend still hadn’t had a nibble. They each told about how unselfish and loving Howard had always been toward everyone he met.

Wow. I had a pretty special uncle.

After the choir sang “I Am a Pilgrim” and “I’ll Fly Away” and one other song about how great it will be in heaven, the pastor gave a sermonette. He talked about how much Uncle Howard looked forward to going to heaven and that Howard talked a lot about what he thought it would be like. I remembered our own conversations about heaven. I’d forgotten how much he looked forward to it.

Listening to the preacher started me thinking. I had worked so hard to block out the whole experience of my uncle’s death, I’d not even thought about his last moments. As the pastor talked about life after death, I finally let my mind go back to that night.

The expression on Uncle Howard’s face. He was smiling. He’d just been thumped on the head by a murderer and he was
smiling
. He wasn’t scared. Wasn’t angry. He looked peaceful. And what did he say?
Look.
Then
So bright.
I couldn’t believe I’d blocked that out. Howard had seen something.
The Light.
He said
Oh, my God
too, something I’d never heard him say before.
And then he reached out. I thought he’d wanted to turn off the gooseneck lamp shining in his eyes. But could it be that he was actually putting his hands into the hands of an angel? Of
God
?

Now I was crying. But not the tears of gloom and loss I’d anticipated. I was picturing my uncle in heaven, hanging with cool people, like Moses and Mother Teresa. He could go fishing with Moses and fix Teresa’s fence in the middle of the night if he still wanted to. No more tears for him. No more murderers, no more thumps on the head. No more bad stuff, period. He’d lived a good life. Now he got what he wanted more than anything.

After the service, millions of people came up and hugged me and told me how much they loved Howard. A few of the people I remembered meeting so long ago when Uncle Howard took me places with him and his friends. It was like their eyes, the selves that I had known, were still there but in the wrinkled, faded masks of old people. Once they told me their names, I could recognize their eyes. They asked if they could do anything, if they could bring me anything. I’d forgotten how caring many of them were. It was good to get a million hugs. I didn’t realize how much I needed them.

In the crowd, I spotted Charge Sarge. It looked like she knew a couple of the singers. When she came by me in line, she didn’t say anything at first. She had a tear in her eye and just gave me a huge bear hug. Who’d have thought?

“He was a fine man, Kate,” she said. She wiped her tear and joined her friends in the cookie line.

As I hugged the next woman in line—the widow with the broken fence—I spotted Mack on the other side of the room. He smiled and motioned to me that he’d call me. I swiped the hair behind my ear and nodded, recognizing it would be too much to ask that he spend the next forty-five minutes in line to get up to me.

I didn’t get home until almost seven. My phone rang as I came in the door. It was Mack. He told me it was a very nice memorial. I thanked him for going and told him the service was so helpful and comforting for me. He said he was glad and then asked if he could do anything and if I wanted company. He suggested I let him take me to get some food. My answer was yes. It would be nice not to be alone.

Of course, I had to apologize to Ollie when I got off the phone. He’d overheard me say the part about being alone and gave a look that said, “What am I, chopped liver?” I assured him he wasn’t, but coincidentally, that’s what he was having for dinner. Happy Cat comes in a variety of flavors for your cat’s culinary delight.

Mack took me to a Greek restaurant in Greektown on the Near West Side. Mack said it was his favorite place. He asked the maître d’ to seat us at a secluded table. The host was more than pleased to give Mack whatever he wanted. He’d obviously been there more than once.

After we ordered, we sat without speaking for a while. I either watched the glimmering diners around the place doing their refined banter or I stared out the window at the shimmering lights of the city against the darkening backdrop of the sunset. I was comfortable in the silence, enjoying my newfound serenity, but I guess Mack wanted to fill the empty space.