The Laws of Gravity (6 page)

Your Sister Rose

The friends sat on the balcony of their hotel suite in the balmy summer night of the Catskills. The balcony railing was old black wrought iron, rickety, attached to the white stucco of the hotel. Inside, the air conditioner worked fitfully and noisily. The baby slept in Mimi’s room. Julian slept on the twin bed that matched Nicole’s and sat beside it, like a bed in a sitcom from the 1950s, divided by a single night table and a single table lamp. All of the furniture, and the hotel itself, looked like some outcast from another era.

Daisy, small enough to sleep in a junior bed at home, lay curled up on the rollaway cot, her red hair fanned out around her and her rump in the air, covered by a flowered summer nightgown. The lamp still burned over Julian’s head—he had fallen asleep reading, and the book now lay open on his chest.
To Kill a Mockingbird.
One hand lay over the book, spread out over his chest, as if he were pledging allegiance to it in his sleep.

Cicadas whirred noisily in the green trees, drowning out even the noisy air conditioner.

“I’ll never eat again.” Mimi groaned. They had finished an enormous dinner an hour before, in the yawning expanse of the hotel dining room,
with its glittering old chandeliers, ornate as old ladies’ dangling diamond earrings.

“You said that last night,” Nicole reminded her. “And the night before.” She was reading a novel, or trying to, under the dim balcony light. She wore reading glasses with lime-green rims; Daisy had picked them out. Nicole’s eyes had gotten worse since the chemo.

“I mean it. No matter how much they beg me tomorrow—no matter how many knishes they offer, how much
derma
, how many plates of chopped liver…Never mind. I’m getting hungry again, just thinking about it.” Mimi’s face was plump, making her look heavier than she was; she was pear-shaped. She was always on one kind of diet or another. She consulted a pad of paper in her lap.

“So there’s a Jewish talking doll,” Mimi said. “You pull the string at the back, and it says, Again with the string?” She sat with a pile of notebooks, papers, and books next to her chair. “That’s the quintessential Jewish joke.”

“No,” said Nicole. “The singing telegram one.”

“Oh.—Right,” Mimi said. “That’s a good one, too.”

“Tell it,” Nicole said.

“You’ve heard me tell it fifty times.”

“Tell it fifty-one.”

Mimi sighed, but it was a patient, contented sigh, the sigh of an expert. “Okay, there’s a knock on the apartment door, and Gertie sees a man with a telegram standing there. ‘A singing telegram!’ she cries. ‘I’ve all my life wanted a singing telegram!’

“ ‘Lady,’ the man says. ‘This ain’t no singing telegram. That costs extra.’

“ ‘Can’t you sing it?’ Gertie begs. ‘I’ve always wanted a singing telegram. Please, mister, please.’

“The man shrugs inside his uniform. He hums a little intro, vaudeville style, strikes a pose—‘
Ba
da, da dum dum
dum
…Your sister Rose is dead!’”

“That’s it,” Nicole said. “That’s the perfect Jewish joke.”

“Well, of course,” Mimi said. “It’s about family and death.”

“And money,” Nicole said. “The holy trinity.”

“I’m an antique in the comedy world,” said Mimi. “Nobody tells jokes anymore, that’s why old people like me. The new comics all tell heartbreaking stories. Or long political rants. Nobody actually tells jokes, they’re considered corny.”

“I like corny,” Nicole said. “The cornier, the better.”

“I can’t tell them that keeping-bees joke,” Mimi says. “Such a shame.”

“Why not? Is someone allergic to bees?”

“I can’t say
fock
. ‘Fock em, it’s just a chobby.’”

“Can’t you substitute something else?”

Mimi shakes her head. “I’ve tried. Screw ’em. The hell with ’em.—It has to be
fock
. It’s like trying to substitute a Yiddish word with English. Some words are irreplaceable.”

“
Fock
is one of them,” Nicole said.

“Definitely,” Mimi said. “Speaking of which—”

Nicole tilted her head. “Are you about to tell me something about your sex life that I really don’t want to know?”

“We hardly do it anymore,” Mimi said. “Not since the baby arrived. Is that normal?”

Nicole closed her eyes. She tilted back her head, revealing her long, beautiful throat. “I don’t know anymore. I can’t remember. This is the new normal.”

Mimi touched the back of her friend’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Mimi,” said Nicole.

Mimi’s heart lurched. She experienced what people feel during a car accident. Time slowed down. Each leaf hanging black on the trees in the Catskill darkness became suddenly visible and distinct to her. She heard the cicadas and the noisy hotel air conditioner, she felt the breeze stir on her face. Down in the parking lot, a car door slammed. Later, much later, she believed she could trace everything else that would happen in her life to this one instant.

Nikki leaned forward on her chair, laying her book facedown on her lap. “I need to ask you something, and I know it’s going to be hard. Try not to make a joke for a few minutes. Okay?”

“Okay,” said Mimi.

“My doctor said that I might be helped by cord blood,” said Nicole.

“Cord blood?” Mimi echoed.

“You know—Julian’s cord blood.”

“Oh,” Mimi said.

“I know,” Nicole said. “I know it’s a tricky subject.”

“Ari is—Ari is nuts about it,” Mimi said. “Because of what happened with the baby.” They had banked Julian’s cord blood—an expensive procedure in those early days when it was still so new and experimental—and kept it stored at great cost, because Ari was fussy about the conditions. He had found just one private hospital in California that he trusted, but it cost five times what everyone else charged. When the baby came along, Ari insisted they preserve and store her umbilical cord as well. But Rianna was an emergency C-section, things happened fast, and by the time the surgery was over, someone had accidentally disposed of the cord. Ari had raged about it for weeks. He had threatened to sue the hospital. Even now, it was not a safe subject. That was our safety net! he had fumed.
That was our children’s life insurance policy. And some
moron
just threw it away. He had hounded the hospital administrators till the woman in charge of labor and delivery was moved down to another ward.

“Let me talk to Ari,” Mimi said. “You know if it’s up to me the answer is yes. Whatever you need. Whatever might help. Ari controls all that stuff.”

“I’m not responding to the chemo well enough to get a bone marrow transplant,” Nicole said. The words started tumbling out. “Cord blood is much more straightforward than bone marrow. They’ve had some amazing results. With family members, it’s more likely to work. And it’s effective for both leukemia and lymphoma. But we might not even be a match.” Then she added. “We should probably have a little blood drawn first…It’s funny—I hate the idea of Julian having to give blood because of me. And yet here I am, asking for this enormous thing.”

“It’s not so enormous,” Mimi said. “You know how we feel. We would do anything to help.”

“Well, Julian might not even be a good match,” Nicole said again, this time appearing to talk directly to the darkness. “He’s a second cousin.”

“No, he might not be.” Mimi felt a sudden tug of hope, like the tug of a kite string going up. Then she hated herself for hoping against hope.

“Fock it,” Nicole said. “Let’s just see what happens.”

“Fock it,” Mimi agreed.

In fact, it was much easier than Mimi had imagined. Ari rubbed his forehead—a characteristic gesture for him, he was prone to migraines—but then he nodded.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay, really?” Mimi asked.

“She’s my cousin,” Ari said. “Blood is blood.”

“This might save her life,” Mimi said.

Ari didn’t smile. “It might not,” he said. “And we’d be using up the one thing that could protect our children. Both of our children.”

“By the time they need it, they’ll have found something else,” she said. “Our kids will have kids of their own. I promise, we can bank the cord blood of every single grandchild.”

Then he did grin. “I’d like a dozen grandchildren,” he said. “I want a tribe!”

“Run that by Julian and Arianna,” she said. “It’s a tad early.”

“You know what Julian told me the other day?” he said. “He told me he plans to marry Daisy. He wanted to make sure it would be legal.”

“Is it?”

Ari wrapped one hand over his other fist and studied both hands on the table. “Second cousins,” he said. “It’s not illegal but hardly the best gene pool. He’ll forget about it the first time some little teenybopper sashays past in a short skirt. Trust me, I felt the same way about Nicole when I was a kid.”

“You did?” Mimi was amazed. Ari had never mentioned anything about it.

“Oh sure,” he said. “She was gorgeous. Brave. Gentle.” Then in a more casual voice he added, “She was also the only girl I was ever around.”

They all went out to dinner to celebrate, Jay’s treat. They ate at a Greek place in downtown Huntington. Three old men stood in front, singing Greek songs,
and one of them played a stringed instrument that looked like a short round guitar. Their songs all sounded sad. An upturned hat sat nearby. A few people dropped in coins, or dollars. Jay dropped in a twenty-dollar bill; he was grateful for everything. He could not let go of Nicole, he had to be touching her every minute, as if he’d just gotten her back from an infinitely far and foreign country.

Daisy and Julian were fascinated by the toothless Greek singers. It was a warm Friday night in midsummer, and knots of people strolled up and down New York Avenue, creating a party atmosphere, even when it meant just standing in front of closed clothing stores and staring into the lit storefront windows. A small crowd gathered around the musicians. Daisy and Julian planted themselves on a nearby bench. They refused to come inside and eat. Julian kept dashing inside for more spare change from Ari’s pocket, then rushing back out front again. Ari finally got up himself and went outside to see what all the fuss was about.

He came back in, shaking his head. “Three toothless old men singing off-tune,” he said. “In Greek. I don’t get it.”

“Tell them their spinach pie is getting cold,” Mimi said. She was busy feeding Arianna, who was gnawing wetly on a piece of pita bread.

“Daisy won’t care,” Nicole said. “All she eats is cereal, anyway.”

“I’ll go,” Jay said. He squeezed Nicole’s arm once before he went.

They all watched through the window while Jay gathered up the children. The singers were taking a short break. Jay was a former athlete. He was tall and skinny now, but his shoulders were still broad. He had been a state champion basketball player in college, and then played for a year in a European league. Then he came home and became a high school athletic director. He put one long leg up on the park bench, between Julian and Daisy. He and the musicians began holding a lively conversation, talking with their hands. Ari laughed. “Now we’ll have to send someone out to drag Jay inside.”

“He’s happy,” Nicole said. “He’s so grateful. We all are.” She put one hand on Ari’s sleeve, and felt the soft touch of his cashmere jacket under her fingers. He always dressed elegantly, even for a casual night out. Ari turned his head and smiled at her.

“Hey. Thank you,” Nicole said. “For this chance.”

“You’re family,” he said. “We grew up together.” But he wasn’t looking at her; for some reason he was watching the crowd outside the restaurant.

“I know,” Nicole said. She ducked her head to hide the tears that had sprung into her eyes. She, too, looked out the window, at the kids and at Jay.

“You got the letter of intent I sent, right? My lawyer put it together. It should give you access to as much of the cord blood as you’ll need.”

“I hope I won’t need it all,” she said.

“There’s not that much in the first place,” Ari said. “Come on, come
on
.” He rapped impatiently on the window glass and gestured at Julian, whom Jay was now pulling to his feet. Daisy kept trying to tug him back down on the bench beside her. “The year Julian was born was the second year they used gravity extraction at this collection center. They just kept sixty milligrams. Now they usually keep between seventy-five and a hundred. But it doesn’t matter. It’s yours.”