The Life You Longed For (17 page)

Jenn nodded as Grace talked, eyes wide, her hand over her mouth again as if to stop herself from crying. She looked so bereft that Grace almost wanted to comfort
her
. She thought of how Jenn had probably researched mitochondrial disease as much as Grace had; of how Jenn had done Internet searches, ordered articles from the hospital library that Grace couldn't get, had twice stayed in the hospital with Jack so that Grace could go home and take a bath. And Grace had been there for Jenn too—for the late-night calls when Tyler was a toddler and Blake just an infant and Jenn would be sobbing, saying, “How do I do this, Grace? I don't know anything about boys.”

“I need you to write me a letter,” Grace said now, “about how you've seen me give Jack morphine and—” She stared down at her Coke, the ice melted, then looked up again. “I can't believe I have to ask this, that we're even
having
this conversation.”

“I know,” Jenn said softly. “It's surreal almost. I mean, of all people.” Idly, she stirred her own drink. “Does Anju know?” Jenn worked in the ER at Children's and so knew most of Jack's doctors.

“She's known,” Grace said. “But she never said anything, and when I confronted her, she looked at me like I was nuts to even care because it was so ridiculous.”

Jenn shook her head. “And aside from Noah, you have no idea why?”

“There's this profile that supposedly describes a typical Munchausen mom…”

“Yeah, I've seen it.”

“You have?”

“After the Marie Noe case, we had a mandatory in-service on Munchausen's.”

“Well, apparently, I fit the profile.”

“How?”

“‘Mother is overly friendly to nurses; mother always stays with the child in the hospital; mother has a background in medicine.'” Her voice felt thick.

Jenn simply leaned forward, elbows on the bar, listening as Grace ticked off the reasons. She didn't say anything. Her face was neutral.

“What?” Grace finally said. “You're being quiet.”

“I'm just thinking.” Jenn turned her martini glass in small circles on the bar. “I mean, let's say someone saw you with Noah. How does that translate into Munchausen's?”

“It's a pattern of deception.” Grace's voice broke. “Oh God, Jenn, I could lose my kids.” She started to cry. “I'm so fucking scared and Stephen just keeps insisting that there's nothing there, that we're an open book, and we're not or I'm not.”

“But Jack has a legitimate diagnosis, Grace. It's not like no one knows what's wrong with him.”

Grace blotted a cocktail napkin against her eyes. “You know that doesn't matter.”
Presence of actual disease does not rule out the possibility of Munchausen's.

Jenn shook her head. “There's got to be something else. The profile isn't enough, though I have to admit that it did help us identify a Munchausen mom who kept bringing her kid to the ER last year.”

Grace felt her heart drop. She sat back. Let the words sink in. “Wait,” she said. “You're
not
telling me that you actually believe this thing?”

“I've seen it, Grace,” Jenn said gently.

“You've
seen
a Munchausen's victim?”

“You'd be amazed at what parents are—”

“I know what parents are capable of,” Grace interrupted. “But you've seen it? Proven, bonified cases?”

Jenn sighed. “Look, Grace, you know as well as I do that you can't prove it half the time because the minute these mothers realize you're on to them, they drag their kid somewhere else. The percentage of Munchausen mothers who take their kids out of the hospital AMA is huge. Way above normal.”

AMA: Against Medical Advice.

Her entire body was tense, almost brittle. “
That's
your proof?” She lowered her voice, trying to hold it steady, trying not to cry. “Has it never occurred to you that maybe the reason for the large number of AMAs is that these mothers have been falsely accused of something absolutely heinous, and they're scared out of their goddamned minds? I'd do the same damn thing. In fact, I don't want Jack anywhere near that hospital.”

“But that's crazy. You haven't done anything.”

“And what if someone doesn't believe that?” Her eyes filled. “I don't understand how you could buy into this.”

“And I don't understand how you
can't
.”

Neither of them said anything, the clatter of voices and silverware and dishes from the lounge area behind them suddenly growing louder. Grace stared at her left hand lying inert on the bar next to her drink. Her fingers no longer seemed connected to her, but to some other woman who had come in here tonight to talk with her best friend. She stared at the bar, at the shine of the wood, at the way the light hit Jenn's martini glass. “I wish I hadn't told you,” she said quietly.

“Don't say that,” Jenn pleaded. “I hate that this has happened to you, Grace. You are the last person who deserves this.”

Grace looked at her bleakly. “Sometimes I think I'm getting exactly what I deserve.” She looked at Jenn. “We should get the check.”

“No, don't,” Jenn said. “This is ridiculous. We hardly ever see each other, and I want to help. I'll go to the doctor with you or babysit or—or—I'm going to write you that letter and the kids are safe right now, aren't they?”

Grace nodded without looking up. She imagined those birds that take off from water—grebes, maybe, and loons—of how sometimes at night after a storm they would mistake the reflection of water on asphalt for a lake and become stranded when they landed and found that there was nothing soft or buoyant from which to lift themselves off again. It was how her own life felt lately: a shallow reflection of everything she had believed it to be.

“Besides,” Jenn continued, “who knows, maybe in some weird way, the accusation could be sort of good, you know?”

Grace felt the room tilt, bottles sliding into one another, the buildings in the mural over the bar toppling on their sides.
“Good?”
she echoed. Her sweater felt too tight against her throat. She couldn't breathe.
“Good?”

“No, I mean, not the accusation,” Jenn rushed. “Just, maybe it's good if you're kind of forced to not focus so much on the medical stuff, you know?” She squeezed Grace's wrist. “You've done so much and the truth is there's probably not a lot left—” Her face crumpled. “This doesn't sound right.”

“I need to go,” Grace said. “I'm not mad, I'm just—” Tears spilled from her eyes, and she kept dabbing them with a napkin, but it didn't help. “I just—I know I'm defensive, but I can't do this right now.” She didn't know what else to say.
Good?
The night felt broken, a pane of dark glass suddenly cracked across the center. She thought of how in the seventeenth century, one of the common symptoms of depression was something called the “glass delusion,” whereby depressed people literally came to believe that they were made of glass, that to sit on a hard surface might shatter them, that to embrace another person would be dangerous.

“Look,” Jenn said. “I'm not saying things right, but you know I would do anything for you—”

“Remember Dr. Stemple's class?” Grace interrupted. It was where she'd learned of the “glass delusion.” Mythology and Medicine. Mondays and Wednesdays, 5:30 to 6:45.

“Stemple's Temple of the Mind.” Jenn nodded. “I loved that class.”

“What about all those diseases we studied that were supposedly so prevalent once—that nerve disorder found in slaves, remember?”

“Drapetomania.” Jenn smiled. “The single symptom was the desire to escape slavery.” She squinted at Grace. “Is that what you think Munchausen's is?”

“I don't know.” And sometimes she truly didn't. “I know there are some awful people out there and I know that kids get abused all the time. But I think of all those mythological illnesses—hysteria and neurasthenia and masturbation—remember that? And God, homo-sexuality, Jenn.” She glanced at her friend. “Every one of those diseases is about making certain types of people submissive or trying to shut them up or making them go away, and I know,
I know
it's farfetched, but isn't it possible that Munchausen's is similar, a way to get rid of demanding mothers who really are intelligent and maybe
do
know something about medicine and, therefore, aren't afraid to ask questions or complain or find another doctor if they aren't happy?”

“Of course, it's possible,” Jenn conceded. “But can I ask you something?”

Grace smiled sadly. “You will anyway.”

“Why does it matter so much whether I believe Munchausen by Proxy exists if I know without a doubt—and I do—that you aren't guilty?”

“But how do you know without a doubt
?
I fit the profile.”

“But I know
you
. I know what kind of a mother you are. I know that if you could trade your life for Jack's you would.”

Grace shook her head. “Women like me are master manipulators, remember?”
Her theatrical skills are worthy of an Oscar. Her tall-tales rival those told by the Baron Munchausen himself
. “How do you know I haven't deceived you too? Look at how long I lied to you about Noah.” His name a sharpness in her chest.

“I know you,” Jenn's insisted. “Why can't that be enough?”

“Because if someone like you who is smart and knows medicine and knows all the bullshit things people have believed in the name of medicine can believe this whole Munchausen's thing, then anyone can. It terrifies me. Stephen gets mad when I compare this to the Salem witch trials, because it sounds hysterical, and he's right, it does, but it's not that different. Maybe those trials started with a bunch of hysterical girls, but they never would have continued if intelligent, respected people like you, people that everyone else trusted, hadn't believed those girls. And what were they saying? Exactly what they are now, that normal good women were purposely making children sick.”

 

She drove home without the radio on and with the windows down despite the freezing temperatures. She needed the cold, needed it to somehow brace her against the fluidlike sensation that she was dissolving. It was a beautiful dark night, the city gold and black beneath the bright moon. Christmas lights were still strung along the span of the Ben Franklin, the bridge struts pulsed rhythmically beneath the wheels of her car.

“What's wrong?” Stephen asked when she walked into the bedroom, her coat still on. She was shivering with cold, her mouth and fingers numb. “What happened?” He immediately set his laptop on the night table and got out of bed, but she waved him away.

“No—don't. I—don't touch me.” Her words were like individual cubes of ice.

His face blanched. “Jesus, Grace, what the hell happened?”

Her voice was flat. “I told her,” she said. “She thinks maybe it's
good
that I was accused.”
Good.
This was not a word that would ever freeze, she knew; this was not a word that would eventually melt away into nothing. This word was like barbed wire, impossible to climb over, go around, escape. “My best friend,” she said, dropping her coat on the bed. She sat stiffly, then, and began tugging at her boots. Her hair fell in front of her face, and her nose was running. Stephen sat next to her, and gently put a hand on her arm, but she jumped up, one boot off, the other still on, nearly tripping over the end of her coat. “Don't touch me,” she said icily. “I mean it.”

“Honey, please. I don't know what happened, but Jenn would do anything for you.” But it was like an avalanche breaking away from the face of whatever was solid in her life. She whirled to face him. “Don't you get it, Stephen? It
doesn't
matter! It doesn't help. Nothing does because our kids can still be taken, and there's nothing I can do to fix it or make it better and nothing our lawyer can do, which means that we just have to live like this, afraid of everything, and my best friend thinks maybe this is
good
?”