Square in the Face (Claire Montrose Series) Read online

  “And how about you? How are you doing?”

  “Bad,” Lori whispered without looking at Claire. “Real bad.” She leaned her back against the refrigerator, then slid down until she was sitting with her mouth pressed against her knees. Tears leaked from her closed eyes.

  “I just keep thinking, I’m his mother, you know? I’m his mother. How could I not know that something was wrong? Instead I just had an excuse for everything. Zach was crabby, well, that was because he was finally getting his two-year molars. And sometimes he complained his bones hurt, but I figured that was just growing pains. He picked at his dinner, but I thought he must be eating at a lot at daycare, ‘cause he still had this little potbelly. Now the doctor tells me that Zach’s liver and spleen are enlarged, and that’s why he didn’t eat. He couldn’t eat because there wasn’t room.” Lori took a deep, shuddering breath. “I told myself all these lies, and the whole time there’s a cancer, a goddamn cancer, in there, chewing on his bones. I’m his mother, I should know when something is wrong.” Her words dwindled to a sharp whisper. “Why didn’t I take him in to the doctor six months ago?” Her lower lip turned white as she pressed her teeth against it, so hard that Claire was afraid it might begin to bleed.

  Claire knelt down next to a little heap of spilled coffee grounds and patted Lori’s knee. “But you didn’t know, Lori, you didn’t know. I’ve watched you with your kids. You’re a good mother.” Lori responded with a polite grimace. Claire saw that she wasn’t getting through. Getting to her feet, she took a blue sponge from the sink, wrung it out and began to wipe off the kitchen counter. She wanted to do something to help her friend, and it was the only thing she could think to do. “And what’s past is past. You have to concentrate now on Zach, on helping him get better. How is he doing?”

  Lori answered with a question of her own. “Do you remember when he was born?”

  Claire nodded, thinking of the photo Lori had kept her on her cubicle wall, Lori’s three guys together. In the picture, a three-year-old Max stood holding Havi’s hand while they stood in line to see Santa at Washington Square Mall. Zach nestled in a front-pack against Havi’s broad chest. He was just a week old, his tiny bowed legs like a plucked chicken’s.

  “At first, I wondered how I could ever love Zach as much as I loved Max. But your heart, you know,” Lori thumped her closed fist on her chest, “your heart always makes room.” She shook her head, her bangs hiding her eyes. “Zach’s -- changed. Do you remember when he first started to talk? It was always ‘Me do!’ even when he couldn’t. Now he just wants to be carried every place. And he throws up a couple of times a day. It’s a side effect from one of his drugs. Except for he’s also on prednisone, which makes him crazy hungry all the time. That’s why the fridge is taped shut. Havi put the duct tape on there after Zach got up in the middle of the night and spilled an entire gallon of milk.”

  Using the refrigerator door handle, Lori pulled herself to her feet and then began to pick at the duct tape with her fingernails. “He’s gained five pounds in the last month. But he has to stick to bland stuff, because his mouth is all full of sores.” She peeled the tape back, opened the refrigerator door and began to rummage around inside, her words muffled. “He’s living off noodles, plain tortillas, and family-sized cans of chicken noodle soup poured straight from the can. But he’s still so hungry he’s been waking me in the middle of the night asking me to feed him.”

  “You do look a little tired,” Claire said as Lori emerged with a liter bottle of Diet Coke in one hand and a carton of orange juice in the other. Which was an understatement. Lori would no more go without makeup than she would go without clothes, but now against her pale, nearly translucent skin her foundation and blush stood out like a mask - or war paint.

  “I don’t sleep much any more.” Lori pushed aside a stack of dirty dishes and set the pop and juice down on the little table in the breakfast nook. Claire picked up the dishes and began to load them into the dishwasher. “Zach mostly sleeps in our bed now. We do a little shuffle. First we put him in his bed, which lasts about twenty minutes, tops. Then I hear him climbing up the stairs and he comes crawling into our bed. Then Havi feels crowded and goes downstairs to sleep into Zach’s bunk. That wakes up Max and he comes up to the big bed.”

  Lori dragged a chair from the dining room into the kitchen, then stood on it to reach into a cabinet high above the refrigerator. It was half-full of dusty serving pieces, but in front of them was a selection of junk food. Claire realized she was looking at Lori’s secret stash. “And Zach likes to sleep with his arm draped over my neck, but since his arms are about six inches long, that means I have him breathing into my face all night long. Half the time I end up climbing into Max’s bunk bed - anything so I can get a couple of hours. In the morning we all wake up in the wrong beds, feeling confused.” Holding a box of Wheat Thins and one of Ritz Crackers, as well as a half-empty bag of Lay’s barbecue potato chips, Lori climbed down off the chair. “Want any of this?”

  Claire shook her head. “What does the doctor say? I’m afraid I don’t know a lot about leukemia.”

  “Leukemia screws up the bone marrow, which I guess is like a factory for blood.” She stuffed a handful of chips in her mouth and continued talking around them. “When you have leukemia, the bone marrow starts churning out bad white cells called blasts. They crowd out all the good parts of blood. The reason people with leukemia die,” she stuffed more chips into her mouth, “is from organ failure or an infection that can’t be stopped. Sometimes they just bleed to death.”

  Her hands chattered over the tabletop, her index fingers creating a little pile of potato chip crumbs. “The kind of leukemia Zach has is called ALL. That stands for acute lymphoblastic leukemia. When the doctor told us that, my mind went blank. He was going on and on about treatment modalities, and all I was thinking of was that old commercial where they used to sing out A ... L ... L. He was talking about how my baby might die and I was sitting there thinking about detergent.”

  Claire opened her mouth to interrupt, but closed it when she saw the look on Lori’s face.

  “I only snapped back when the doctor told me he was going to admit Zach into the hospital that night to start chemo.”

  “That soon?” Claire asked. Her hands were filled with balled up fast food wrappers, but the garbage can under the sink was full. She found a paper bag and began to toss all the trash into it.

  “The whole idea is that you jump on this thing fast and with both feet. They kept him in the hospital for a week, filled him up with four different chemo drugs plus transfusions. I slept with Zach every night in his hospital bed. And every time I woke up I would just - just look at him.” Lori’s voice broke. “Last month I was drying him off from his bath and teasing him, calling things the wrong names, you know, saying his feet were his knees and his hands were his cheeks. And he got mad and said, ‘You say the left words, Mama, and I say the right ones.’” She stuffed a final handful of chips into her mouth then balled up the empty bag and threw it in the direction of the bag Claire was filling with garbage. It fell short. “He made me laugh so hard that I forgot to ask him about where he had gotten this huge purple bruise on his knee. That’s the kind of thing that can make you crazy, thinking maybe he would be in remission now if I had brought him in earlier.”

  “Do they think he’ll go into remission?” Claire was beginning to feel desperate for good news. She picked up the crumpled potato chip bag and put it in the makeshift garbage bag.

  Lori shrugged. “Dr. Preston said ninety-five percent of kids will go into remission. But then when I asked the doctor what Zach’s chances were, and he said he wanted to wait until after he was in remission to talking about ‘long-term survival’.”

  Lori’s face contorted as she repeated the words long-term survival. Claire thought it sounded so awful framed that way, the germ of failure already contained within it. Weren’t those the stories you always heard about kids with leukemia, of failed remissions, of b
orrowed time bought at great cost? “Isn’t leukemia curable?” Claire took a pink plastic pig from the dishwasher’s utensil basket and added it to the paper bag half-filled with the other toys she had collected. “Or, you know, more curable than some things?”

  “Those brochures the doctor gave me are filled with all these cutesy little drawings and these scary little facts. Like only sixty percent of kids are alive after five years.” Lori poured herself a glass of orange juice, then opened up a roll of Ritz crackers and stuffed four into her mouth. “I used to play the lottery for a lot worse odds than that. But that was only for money.”

  “How can they tell if he’s in remission?” Claire turned on the dishwasher and then leaned against it as it began to fill with water.

  “Every couple of days they take some of his marrow and start counting blasts. He’s officially in remission once they can’t find any more.” Lori rubbed her hand across her mouth. “I have dreams about those numbers, about those people tucked away back in the lab, bending over a microscope. They know what’s happening even before you do.”

  She shut her eyes, but Claire could see them still darting beneath lids as fragile as tissue paper. “It’s like if you went to a fortuneteller who could really see the future. And she looks at your palm and knows that in the next month your house will burn to the ground, your dog will run away, and you’ll find out that your best friend is sleeping with your husband. She holds your palm in her hands and she sees all this in an instant. And meanwhile you sit there, you’ve paid your ten bucks, and you’re smiling, oblivious. Because you don’t know shit. And that’s what it’s like waiting to hear the counts.” Lori opened her eyes and looked up at the ceiling. A tear spilled down her cheek. “And I don’t know if it will feel any different even if he does go into remission. Because even then I’ll worry. Because one day we could go in for a routine check-up and have the rug pulled right out from under us again. How do you ever let go? Because you know now that the way things seem can be a lie.”

  Claire couldn’t imagine trying to pass the days without knowing what lay ahead. How could you sleep, how could you eat, knowing your child might be taken from you? Lori’s hollowed-out face answered her question.

  “And what if everything we’re putting him through doesn’t work - or it only works for a little while and then the remission fails? If that happens, then they stop talking about a cure. Then the only hope is a bone marrow donation. Only we don’t have any options. Dr. Preston told me a couple of days ago that Max isn’t a match, and there isn’t one on the national bone marrow registry.”

  “Couldn’t you or Havi donate?”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Kids get half their genes from each parent, remember? Havi and I would have to be cousins before that had a chance.”

  “Could you sponsor a bone marrow registration drive?” Claire had seen signs for one once on the bulletin board at the Mittleman Jewish Community Center, Jewish parents from back East seeking a match for their daughter. A few months later, she’d heard that the girl had died.

  “Dr. Preston says your ethnic heritage is reflected in your bone marrow. Where am I going to find a bunch of half Irish-German, half Mexican-Americans - with maybe a little Mayan Indian thrown in?”

  “What about having another child?” Claire asked. “Didn’t I hear about a couple who’s daughter had leukemia and then they had another baby who turned out to be a match?”

  “I asked Dr. Preston about that, but he said that girl had a different kind of leukemia than Zach does, one that was a lot slower.” Lori’s words were calm, but she was eating crackers so fast it seemed as if she wasn’t even chewing. “There probably isn’t enough time to have Havi’s vasectomy reversed, get pregnant and have a baby. That’s assuming they could reverse it. And the doctor asked me - what if I got pregnant and we did an amnio and found out the baby wasn’t a match? Would I be willing to have an abortion just so we could try again?” Lori shook her head, her lips thinned down so they nearly disappeared. “I told him yes, which I think shocked him a little. But I guess that’s not even really an option.”

  The cat came into the room, tail held high, and uttered a questioning purr. Claire leaned over and ran her hand down its back, over the arch of the spine, then began scratching behind its ears. Its eyes slitted with pleasure. “What about getting a lawyer or a private investigator?”

  “By the time this finished dragging through the courts, it wouldn’t matter any more. Besides, we don’t have the money. We were in debt even before Zach got sick. Now our eighty percent insurance coverage no longer looks like such a good deal. One day in the hospital is fifteen hundred dollars, and Zach was there for a week. We’re one step away from those people who appear in the Consumer Credit Counseling ads,” Lori said, mimicking the man with protuberant teeth and a Hee Haw accent who was a staple of late night commercials. “‘Thanks to Consumer Credit Counseling I got me a caahr again.’”

  “And there’s no chance the place where you had the baby will tell you where she is?”

  “The Bradford Clinic? I called them while Zach was in surgery getting his Port-A-Cath.” Lori’s fingers rubbed a spot on the left side of her chest, just below the collarbone. “I talked to Vi Trumbo, the head nurse. I still remember her. She’s one of those small women with a lot of personality.” Lori bounced the flat of her hand rapidly on the table top. Her wedding ring made a clicking sound. “She had this husky voice and she always wore these ridiculously high white high heels. Sometimes when I was leaving she used to slip a Reese’s peanut butter cup into my hand and give me a little wink. See, Dr. Bradford was always wanting you to eat this impossibly healthy diet.” Her lips twisted. “And I know Vi remembered me. She told me the records are completely sealed, and that she ‘could neither confirm nor deny the birth of any child at the clinic.’ I started to argue with her. Then she told me that she was sorry she couldn’t be of any help. And then she hung up. When I called back, she threatened to sue me for harassment, and then she hung up again.”

  “How’d you find out about these people, anyway?” Claire asked. The cat had jumped on her lap and was now kneading her belly with unsheathed claws. “Ouch, stop that!” Claire said, and tried to hold the cat’s paws still.

  “Sorry, One Sock got weaned too early or something. Kick her off your lap if you want.” Lori’s nails clicked as she picked at the seam in the tabletop. “The Bradford Clinic ran an ad in the campus newspaper, along with everyone else who wanted a baby. Guess they all figure it’s a better bet that a college girl’s kid might be smarter, or at least not born addicted to crack Even back then, most of the ads promise open adoptions. You know, be part of your kid’s life, celebrate his birthdays with his new family, get a monthly packet of photos.” Between fine hard bracketing lines, Lori’s mouth trembled. Her fingers touched her lips, the table, smoothed the edges of a discarded napkin, picked up the box of crackers and put it down. Claire wanted to take Lori’s hands in hers and hold them until they quieted. “I didn’t want any of that. I knew that the only way I could do it would be to do it clean. And then I saw this one ad promising to pay all your living expenses, plus a scholarship, in exchange for a completely closed adoption. There I was, working twenty-four hours a week and trying to go to school full-time when I turn up pregnant. I thought I had found the solution to everything.”

  “Wasn’t it hard to do it?” The cat was kneading harder. Claire pulled the edges of her jacket until the fabric overlapped, hoping to protect herself from the cat’s claws with a double layer of fabric over her belly. One Sock saw right through her strategy and began to knead ever higher, aiming its claws straight at her heart.

  “Not when I made the decision. The baby didn’t seem real to me. I told myself I was helping out some couple that couldn’t have a kid, and if they were rich enough to pay the clinic’s fees, they would be rich enough to give it the good life. Besides, Dr. Bradford made you work for the money. I got tested more with that baby than I ever did with Max
or Zach. You got your diet sheet about what to eat, and you came in every week to be weighed, measured, and to have drug and alcohol tests. Once a month, you got an ultrasound, only they never let you keep the picture. I have nothing to show that I even had a daughter. You should see the boys’ baby books. Ultrasounds, footprints, hospital wrist-bands, little locks of hair.”

  “What about Havi? Have you told him yes?”

  “No. And I don’t want to tell him now unless I need to. What if I tell him and then we can never find her? What would I gain then?

  Claire thought, but didn’t say, that it must be a terrible burden to carry alone.

  “What are the chances that your daughter would be a match for Zach?”

  “Twenty-five percent.” Lori saw the starkness of the number register on Claire’s face. “But if Zach needs a transplant, then his chances right now are zero. That’s why I need you to find her for me. I mean, you’ve done this kind of thing before. There must be some way of” -. Lori stopped, her head cocked. She was up and on her feet before Claire even heard a sound. “He’s calling me.”

  The cat jumped off Claire’s lap and followed Lori. Only then Claire heard the faint wordless cry from the back of the house. Uncertain, she stood in the kitchen for a moment, then walked back into the hall.

  The door at the end of the hall stood open, and inside Claire could see the boys’ room. The bunk beds were painted a glossy red. Two child-sized chairs stood around a low wooden table covered with a half-dismantled wooden train set. One Sock was at the foot of the bed. The first sight of Zach’s face pulled the breath from Claire’s chest. Most of his hair was gone, his face was pale and bloated, his eyes half-open. The neck of shiny blue and gold pajamas was pulled down. Just above the face of a cartoon Hercules, looking desperately out of place, a plastic plug was embedded in the wall of his chest.