A Slender Thread (3 page)

Margot sat very still, almost forgetting to breathe. “Maybe he's right.”

“He's not,” Lacey said sharply. Her voice pitched higher. “The top neurologists aren't going to lie to me.” Her hands gripped the wheel of the car, the beautiful white fingers that loved the feel of yarn, that savored the softness of the fibers she wove into elegant designs. In the near-winter light the skin of her fingers seemed almost translucent, as if the very bones might show through.

“If it's such a rare disease,” Margot said, trying to think calmly, “another doctor might have another opinion. Maybe some sort of treatment.”

“As usual, I'm the only one in this . . . family to face things.”

“I just think Alex may have a point.”

“You're as softheaded as he is.” Lacey, almost always even-tempered, was nearly shouting.

“Lacey, I only mean . . .” Margot tried to push away the growing fear inside her. Her mind clattered with questions. She felt like she was sinking underwater, being pulled down into darkness where she could no longer see or hear.

“I've seen many doctors. Not just one.”

“Still . . .”

“They have . . .” Again she appeared to search for a word. “The pictures. They have pictures of my brain.”

“I don't know what to think. This is unimaginable.”

“Believe me, it's nothing I ever imagined.”

Margot watched her, the strong sister, as she seemed to calm herself, taking slow, even, deep breaths. Lacey's eyes remained fixed on the road ahead and her lips, though pressed together, trembled.

Margot cracked her window. The sharp saltiness of the sea air assaulted her nostrils. The sky was heavy, a pewter tightness, but there was no wind and the temperature was disarmingly mild. This couldn't be happening to her sister, her lovely older sister, who had turned fifty only last summer.

Margot had come for Lacey's birthday in August. Alex had had a small dinner party for Lacey, their twin daughters, and their best friends, Kate and Hugh Martin. That night they'd served steamed lobsters, corn on the cob, and champagne. Kate had brought fresh tomatoes from her garden. It had been a perfect evening and the love of family and friends had been palpable.

Oliver had accompanied her on that trip. He was always charming to her nieces and asked them their opinions on art and music as if they were grown-ups. He enjoyed Lacey's company too, although when he and Margot were alone he complained a bit about the busy schedule she imposed on them—set times for meals, ritual walks, trips to Portsmouth. Though Oliver, an artist, and Alex, a businessman, didn't share many interests, they joked about their very different lives, making money using opposite sides of their brains.

But on that visit Oliver had been a bit impatient. He was caught up in a new painting. Margot recognized the signs. He would appear to be listening to those around him, looking in the direction of a conversation, nodding periodically in agreement, cocking his head with interest, but she knew from the way his eyes grew darker, the pupils almost shrinking in size, that he was seeing something in the far reaches of his mind, an image or an idea that he couldn't let go of. He rarely spoke about a painting in the early stages, like a protective parent not wanting to expose an infant child to germs. She knew that when he seemed to be staring into space he was actually looking at colors, shapes, and shadows. He remained polite and cooperative, but she could tell he was eager to return to New York.

The road from Portsmouth to New Castle curved along the water, with clapboard houses clustered intermittently on either side. Those on the left looked out directly at the river and the ocean beyond, vast and gray. Lacey's mouth was pulled into an angry line. Still, she was beautiful. She had that New England outdoorsy healthiness that makeup or a complicated hairdo would spoil. Today she wore corduroy trousers, a heavy sweater, and a scarf, more like a shawl, pulled around her shoulders. It was a textured fabric, thick and nubby, in colors of turquoise and teal, with flecks of gold, most likely something Lacey had woven herself.

“How's Alex coping?” Margot asked.

“He acts like everything is normal. Like I said, he's convinced he can fix it. Except now. You know how he loves riding his . . .” The tendons in Lacey's neck seemed to tighten, her jaw tensed.

“His bike,” Margot said.

“Yes, his bike.” She seemed to blink back tears, but went on. “He goes out and disappears for hours. Sometimes I think he's running away. I don't know what he'll do when . . .” She swallowed. “When the roads get icy and he can't ride.”

“But there has to be something you can do,” Margot said. What was happening? Where was modern science, for God's sake? Hell, they were curing cancer. Her sister was a good person, a wonderful mother, a loving wife. She was an amazing weaver, an artist really. “There's got to be a cure,” she said. “I don't know—medicine, surgery.”

“There is nothing, absolutely nothing.” Lacey slowed the car. They were entering the village of New Castle. “It's extremely rare.”

“What causes it?” Margot asked.

“Something wrong with the cells . . . the brain cells. They don't know what until they . . . After you die they do an . . .”

“An autopsy?”

“Stop telling me words. Give me time.”

“I'm sorry,” Margot said quickly.

“I don't want help.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

Margot sat still, now afraid to say anything.

Lacey spoke almost inaudibly. “This is so hard for me.”

“Of course,” Margot said, feeling an ache in her chest.

“Without an autopsy,” Lacey said, emphasizing each syllable of that brutal word, “there's no way to . . .” Again she paused, but quickly added, “To know for sure.”

Margot wondered briefly if their mother's alcoholism could have somehow caused Lacey's illness. She shuddered.

Lacey pulled the car off the side of the road just beyond the New Castle post office. She put the car in park and took her hands off the wheel. They were almost to the house. Lacey drew in a breath and let it out. Still, she didn't cry. Margot imagined her at the moment she'd received the news. She could picture Lacey and Alex in the car outside Mass General, the huge hospital in Boston. He would have held his wife. Kind, dear Alex, the best of husbands, would have held Lacey tightly as she cried, maybe as they cried together. What thoughts had gone through his mind? Margot reached across and placed her hand on her sister's arm and waited, knowing that she was about to say something more. She fought back her own urge to weep at the unfairness of it all.

Silence settled between them. The old Colonial houses in the village, painted in dull ocher, faded green, white, and gray, were another world to Margot. It was amazing that only this morning she had taken an elevator down nine floors to the noise and clamor of the Upper West Side. A taxi ride, a shuttle flight, a bus, and now this car, where Lacey had told her the devastating news.

“The girls don't know yet,” Lacey said.

“You haven't told them?”

“I can't tell them. Not yet. They're waiting to hear about college. They've got another round of college boards. Exams coming up.” Lacey uttered this series of facts in short bursts. As she spoke, she slowly lowered her head, burying her chin in the richly textured shawl. “And Toni's got this boyfriend. He's older. I'm worried about that.” She turned to face Margot. “Don't you see? I can't be sick.”

“Lacey, this is so awful.” Margot felt stupid uttering these words. Words, ridiculous words. For her, they flowed easily from her brain to her mouth.

“I will tell them. Just not now.”

“You look so healthy,” Margot said. She squeezed Lacey's arm.

“You can't see my brain,” she said.

A sudden flash of something gray, amorphous, slowly eroding like the coastline in a storm, swept into Margot's mind. She brought her hands to her eyes, no longer able to hold back tears. How could they celebrate the family holiday with this tragedy looming over them? Shock, sadness, and disbelief overwhelmed her, tangling up inside her chest.

“Don't cry. Please. You mustn't,” Lacey pleaded. “They'll know something is wrong if they see you upset.”

“I can't help it.”

“You can. You must do it for me,” Lacey said.

Margot rummaged in her bag for a tissue. Lacey handed her one, conveniently stowed in the pocket of her door; then she put the car in gear and looked over her shoulder before easing back onto the road. “Please,” Lacey said. “This time I need you.”

Margot nodded. She wiped at her eyes again, drew her hands into fists, and put them in her lap. She looked outside the car window. Beyond the comforting houses where families would gather for the holiday lay the ocean. Fear, a sickening sensation as heavy and menacing as the water, knotted inside Margot's chest. Lacey turned the car onto Wiley Road. They were almost home.

 

Early in the week it had been unseasonably mild, but the temperature had dropped overnight. Late November, the day before Thanksgiving—it was supposed to be cold. Alex bent forward on his bike, his face in the wind. He wanted to do the eighteen miles out to Sandpiper Point. He should have worn a hat. His eyes teared up in the stinging air.

He pedaled harder, curling his body into a deeper crouch. Thanksgiving, thankfulness, thanks. All that he had to be thankful for—his wife, his family, his home—was going to change. A vast uncertainty lay ahead, as if he were trying to follow a route that was off the map.

He would never forget that afternoon in Boston—Dr. Braith-waite in his starched white coat sitting safely behind the mahogany desk as he explained Lacey's condition. “I'm sure you have questions.” His voice was inviting, though probably underneath, the doctor was eager to have them leave so he could get on to his next tragedy, his next neurological disaster. Fury built in Alex's chest.

“What's the prognosis?” His first question. The only question that really mattered. Would Lacey get worse? If so, how soon? What could they do about it?

“Hard to say.” The doctor had an annoying habit of rolling a pen on his desktop.

“I mean, when will Lacey no longer be able to talk?” Alex felt Lacey's hand on his arm, as if to quell his anger. She looked pale. Still in shock.

“Mrs. George,” the doctor said, as if his patient was not in the room with them, “may have a few more years when she will be able to articulate her thoughts. Long, complex sentences are already challenging. Gradually shorter utterances, fewer words. Maybe even two or three years without dramatic change. Speech goes first, along with small motor skills, eventually the ability to write. Down the road she'll need therapy. You'll both want to develop other strategies for communication. And, of course, eventually she will need total care.”

Strategies were for saving businesses, getting companies back on track. It was what Alex did for a living. So now he would need a strategy to talk to his wife? Counselors, support groups, psychobabble crap. He'd find some other doctor.

Now he pedaled hard in one final burst, then let himself coast along a flat stretch of road. His breath was ragged. Thankfully, last week he had found a research doctor at Harvard who had agreed to see them this afternoon. He was also glad that Margot had come and that Lacey had promised she would tell her sister what was going on.

Alex reached a turnout along the road overlooking the ocean. The sun had come out. The burning in his lungs subsided. He got off his bike and leaned it against a stone wall. The hideous events of the last few weeks pounded in his head. He leaned over, clutching his stomach as if he had been hit, then struggled upright once again. He stared out at the cold ocean, a deep navy blue in the November light. He remembered how it was at Bow Lake in the beginning of the summer: the hot sun on your back, taking that first dive of the season, and the momentary smack of oblivion as you plunged into the icy water.

 

Oliver Levin's long legs jammed up against the seat in front of him. The plane had begun its descent into Atlanta. Shifting his weight, he thought about his day at the studio. It had not gone well again today. He had started a new painting, another large one, a scene in Riverside Park of an old man with his dog staring out at the Hudson River. He wanted to paint that elusive moment just before dark when it was still light but on the verge of night. He wanted to capture the feeling of closing in and the smallness of the man and the dog in the vast, empty park. He hoped that their figures would appear as abstract shapes blending into shadows.

The huge rush of enthusiasm that came when he began something new wasn't there this time. Most mornings when he opened the door to his studio in SoHo he couldn't pull his coat off fast enough. His mind already had paint on the brushes, his hand itching to get the color on the canvas. Today, he had had to force himself to stay in front of the new painting, push himself to keep dipping the brush into the paint. A dealer in San Francisco had expressed interest in his work. What if he had nothing new to show? Maybe it was just the feel of winter coming on? The idea of a possible show in California should have spurred him on. Change might be a good thing. New York was feeling stale to him.

The plane lurched. The woman on the aisle opposite him whimpered. The captain announced that they were less than one hundred miles from Atlanta and that there would be additional turbulence during their descent. A child kicked the back of Oliver's seat. He looked down at his hands. There was still paint under his nails, and a smear of magenta looking like a stain rimmed the back of his knuckles. He hadn't allowed enough time to clean up properly.