Rules Get Broken (7 page)

“Hi, Daddy,” she said without looking up and without interrupting her crayoning.

Dave got up from the picnic bench, and we shook hands.

“Sorry I’m so late,” I apologized, looking first at him and then at Beth. Beth didn’t answer, but instead quickly wiped away a tear before Jennie could see it.

“That’s okay,” Dave replied, squinting hard in an attempt not to cry. “How are you doing?”

“I don’t know, Dave. I’m in shock, I guess.” I put my briefcase down on the table. “When did you guys get here?”

“A little after seven,” Dave answered. “So what’s the story?”

“The story,” I began, “is Peg has leukemia. But I guess Linda told you that.”

“Yeah, but not a lot else.”

“Well, the kind Peg’s got is called acute myelogenous leukemia. Which is one of the most aggressive types. And it’s life-threatening unless she gets treated right away.”

“What do they do?” Beth asked as she brushed away another escaping tear.

“Chemotherapy. They’ll start Saturday morning or Monday morning latest.”

“What’s the prognosis?” Dave asked. “Is this something they can cure?”

I looked across the table at Jennie, crayoning intently.

“Sixty percent,” I said as quietly as I could.

“Sixty percent chance of cure?” Dave replied, not believing he had heard correctly.

“Of survival,” I whispered. “The word the doctor used was ‘survival.’ “

“Jesus,” he exclaimed softly, and he turned away from Jennie and me while Beth resumed wiggling the stuffed animal in front of John, now ignoring the tears running down her cheeks.

When Dave turned to face me again, he was dry-eyed, but his face was contorted with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. “Tell me about Dr. Goldstein,” he said. “How did you hear about him? What do you know about him?”

“I never knew he existed until today. Dr. Edwards referred Peg to him this afternoon.”

“What’s he like?”

“What’s he like?” I said, repeating the question. “He’s brusque. Not warm and friendly. Not a great personality. And he’s young. Probably a year or two younger than me. But he gives the impression of being confident. Of knowing his stuff.”

“Where’ll Peg be treated if he’s her doctor?”

“First of all, he is her doctor as of this afternoon. Peg’s already agreed to that. And he’ll be treating her here at Huntington Hospital.”

“How do you feel about that?” Dave asked.

“About what?” I asked, confused by the question.

“About him being Peg’s doctor. About her being treated at Huntington Hospital.”

“What do you mean, ‘How do I feel about it’?” I answered, knowing a trace of annoyance was evident in my voice in spite of my effort to conceal it. “Peg’s sick. She needs treatment. He can treat her. What else is there to say?”

“I guess what I meant to ask,” Dave said, “was how do you feel about Peg being treated here in Huntington as opposed to Manhattan, let’s say?”

“Haven’t given that a thought. Haven’t had a chance to. Why?”

Dave hesitated before answering. “Look, it’s none of my business,” he finally said, slowly, cautiously, “but if Beth were sick, I’d want her treated in Manhattan—not in a small-town hospital like Huntington Hospital.”

“You may have a point,” I replied, “but if I believe what Goldstein says, we don’t have time to start looking for a cancer specialist in New York City. Peg needs treatment, and she needs it now—not next week or next month. Plus the fact that we’ve already agreed to her being his patient.”

“Just listen to me for a minute,” Dave urged. “Just for a minute. When I first came to New York,” he began, “I worked for a research lab, and one of the doctors I worked with was a Steven Werner, who was doing some pretty advanced cancer research and was really well respected. Anyway, he left after I did and went to New York Hospital in Manhattan to do clinical research. Far as I know, he’s still there, and I think he’ll remember me. And if he does, maybe he’d agree to take Peg on as a patient. What do you think?”

“Jesus, Dave, I don’t know,” I said as I watched the crayon protruding from Jennie’s balled-up little hand go back and forth. “I don’t know how much experience Goldstein has, and Huntington Hospital sure as hell isn’t New York Hospital, but still…”

“Let me at least call him,” Dave pressed. “Let me see what he says. If it’s yes, you make the decision then, not now. What d’ya say?”

The crayon continued to go back and forth, back and forth.

“Okay,” I agreed, turning away from Jennie to face him. “Let’s see what happens.”

“Where can I reach you tomorrow morning?” Dave asked.

“My folks’ house, I guess. By the time I get Jennie there tonight, I might as well spend the night there too. You got their number?”

“I’ve got it,” Dave assured me.

We stood looking at one another for a moment or two, saying more without a single word than we ever could have in hours of talk. Suddenly, Dave reached out and gave me a powerful hug, holding me for several seconds. When we separated, he was crying, and his face was filled with pain. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.

“Take Jen to the hospital to see Peg,” he said, his voice breaking. “We’ll stay here with John until your folks get here.”

I patted him on the arm and nodded in silent acknowledgement of my gratitude.

Beth shifted John from her lap to her hip and got up from the picnic bench. She gave my cheek a gentle stroke with her hand and looked at me sadly.

“Tell Peg we love her,” Beth said, her words punctuated by swallowed sobs, “and that we’ll be praying for her and for you…and tell her I’m sorry…that she’s sick…and that I hope she gets better quickly…and comes home soon.”

“I will, Beth.”

I looked over at Jennie and held out my hand for her to take. “You ready, sweetheart? It’s time to go see Mommy.”

The hospital was only a mile and a half from our house, so there wasn’t a lot of time for Jennie to ask questions. But the questions came anyway, as I knew they would, and I gave her the standard answers to the expected questions, one by one, almost as if I had taken a course on what to tell a three-year-old whose mommy is in the hospital. But some of Jennie’s questions weren’t expected and took me very much by surprise.

“Daddy, where’s Mommy?”

I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw her, perched in her car seat, looking at me.

“Mommy’s sick today, and she had to go to the hospital so she can get better.”

“Why is she sick, Daddy?”

“I don’t know, honey, but the doctor will find out why.”

“Is he a good doctor?”

“Yes, sweetheart, he’s a very good doctor.”
Funny how a three-year-old can zero in on the very same question the adults are asking
, I thought to myself.

“Is Mommy going to be all right, Daddy?”

“Yup. She’ll be fine.”

“Is she going to die?”

Jesus
, I said to myself.
Where did that come from? What made her ask that?

A deep breath. “Of course not. She’s just a little sick.”

“Will she come home tonight?”

Another deep breath.
She’s going to catch me if I’m not careful
, I thought.

“I don’t think so, honey.”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Maybe. We’ll see.”

Well done. Well deflected.

“I’m glad we’re going to see her.”

“Mommy’s going to be glad to see you too, sweetheart. I’ll bet she misses you a whole lot already.”

“Who’s going to tuck me in tonight and hear my prayers?”

“Well, either Grandma or Grandpa or I will. How about that? Will that be okay?”

When Jennie didn’t answer for several seconds, I looked into the rearview mirror again and saw her staring pensively out the side window next to her car seat.

“Well, what do you say? Will that be okay?” I asked.

“I guess so,” she answered in a small, sad voice.

Not a great endorsement for Grandma, Grandpa or Dad
, I thought,
but then that’s why they invented mommies, isn’t it?

“I miss Mommy,” Jennie said a few seconds later, still staring out the side window.

“Me too, honey. Me too.”

Visiting hours had long since started by the time we arrived at Huntington Hospital, so I had to park in the lot farthest from the main entrance. As we walked from the car to the sidewalk leading to the front doors of the hospital, Jennie’s chatter stopped, and she became quiet. Perhaps she was frightened by the size of the building looming in front of us, or perhaps she was thinking about my answers to her questions. But whatever the reason, she walked next to me in silence, taking four steps to every one of mine, her hand buried in my hand.

When we reached the hospital lobby, we went to the visitor registration desk and checked in with one of the receptionists, an elderly lady in the red and white striped uniform that earned her and volunteers like her the nickname “candy stripers.” She informed us Peg was on the fifth floor, East Wing, Room 512, and directed us to the elevators.

I pressed the up button, and the doors of the middle elevator quietly slid open. We stepped inside, and Jennie, never having been in an elevator before, immediately started to look around her, trying to understand what we were going to do in this tiny room without furniture. I pressed the fifth floor button, and as the elevator began to rise, Jennie first looked down at her feet and the floor in response to the pressure she felt from the elevator’s rapid rise, and then up at me with the wide, happy grin of discovery. At another time, in another place, the look would have struck me as priceless. Tonight, it only served to underscore the sadness of what was happening.

When the doors opened on the fifth floor, we were met with all the sights, sounds and smells that characterize any hospital. It was still early in the evening, so all of the hall lights were ablaze, the paging system asked doctor after doctor to pick up line so-and-so or report to room such-and-such, and the air was heavy with the smell of cleaning solvents and disinfectant and, to my nose, sickness.

We followed the signs pointing the way to the East Wing, Jennie’s hand still buried in mine, her sandals going slap, slap, slap on the polished vinyl tile floor. Within moments we were outside of Peg’s room. The door was ajar, but before we had a chance to knock, Peg called out to Jennie.

“Is that you, sweetheart?”

In an instant, Jennie withdrew her hand from mine and ran into the room and over to Peg’s bed at full speed. “How did you know it was me, Mommy?”

“I could hear little feet coming down the hall,” Peg answered, wrapping her arms around Jennie’s torso, “and I knew they belonged to you.”

Peg was sitting up in bed in one of her own nightgowns. She still wore her makeup from earlier in the day, but her mascara was badly smudged, probably from crying, and her hair was in disarray. She looked tired, but she was calm. For some reason, she had been assigned a private room, so the three of us were alone.

Peg and I said nothing about my meeting with Dr. Goldstein, and I didn’t bring up my conversation with Dave. Instead Jennie and Peg talked as only a three-year-old and her mommy can, with Jennie rambling on about this and that as Peg hung onto every word.

The minutes passed, and too soon it was time for us to go. It was almost nine, way past Jennie’s bedtime, and I still had to go back to the house and pack an overnight bag before taking her over to my parents’ house for the night.

“Hon, we should go,” I said.

“I know. I know,” Peg replied, nodding rapidly to emphasize that she understood.

“I don’t want to go home, Mommy,” Jennie piped in. “I want to stay here with you.”

“I know, honey,” Peg said, holding her close with one hand and stroking her head with the other, “but it’s past your bedtime, and I think Daddy should take you home now.”

“But I’m not tired, Mommy,” came the automatic response as Jennie pulled away from Peg and looked squarely at her.

“I know, honey, but Mommy is, and I think Daddy is too.”

Jennie looked at Peg as if she were ready to cry. “Will you come home tomorrow, Mommy?”

“I don’t think so. But soon, I promise.”

“You promise?”

“Yes, I promise.”

“I miss you, Mommy.”

“I miss you too, sweetheart,” Peg replied, starting to lose her composure.

She gave Jennie a kiss on her forehead, then on the top of her head and then gave her a long, silent hug. As if on cue, I picked Jennie up off the bed and put her back on the floor next to me.

I had no idea what thoughts were going through Peg’s mind at that moment as she felt her little girl slide out of her arms. She must have been in agony, terror-stricken, but she gave no indication of any of that. She just bit her lower lip, quickly wiped away a tear and tried to smile, first at Jennie, then at me.

I bent down to kiss her good night. “I’ll call you in the morning,” I said as I straightened up.

I took Jennie’s hand, and we started to leave.

“Good night, Mommy,” Jennie called out when we reached the door.

“Good night, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Peg,” I said as I always did just before we turned out the light and went to sleep.

“I love you too,” Peg answered quietly from her bed, her hand up to her mouth, her fingers pinching her lips.

A second later and we were in the hall, Jennie’s hand again in mine, on our way back to the elevator. And as we walked down the hall hand in hand, I listened to the slap, slap, slap of Jennie’s sandals, and I wondered if Peg were listening too.

I stayed with the children at my parents’ house that Wednesday night and decided not to go into the office the next morning. Instead, I called Peg shortly after breakfast and told her of my conversation the night before with Dave about Dr. Werner.

“So,” I said in conclusion, “Dave’s going to call me here as soon as he gets in touch with Dr. Werner, and we need to be ready with a decision. Assuming Dr. Werner’s willing to treat you, that is. So…what do you want me to say to Dave when he calls?”

“I don’t know,” Peg replied after several seconds of thought.