The Life You Longed For (27 page)

“Please, Jack.” Grace begged. “Oh Goose, please, please don't cry, it's not good for your heart.” Would Kate blame her for this too? “Will you please leave?” she said frantically to Kate. “Can't you see that we're doing our best?”

“Two minutes,” Kate said and walked away.

The minute she did, Grace turned back to Jack. “Oh sweetie, you're going to have lots of fun with all your friends and maybe Becca will take you down to the playroom and let you do the computers. What do you think about that?”

“But you have to stay me,” he sobbed.

“I want to, baby, Mama loves you so much.” Tears streamed from her eyes. “Can't you do something?” she hissed to Stephen over his head. “I'm not just going to
—
”

“Hey buddy.” It was Rebecca. “Did I hear someone say something about computers?” Grace hadn't heard her come in, and smiled gratefully. Wordlessly, Rebecca handed Grace a Kleenex to dry her eyes, then sat on the opposite side of the bed, stroking Jack's arm. “I've got a present for you,” Rebecca teased gently, and pulled a video out from behind her back, then quickly hid it when Jack turned to look at her. This was horrible, Grace thought. They were all bribing him, tricking him, betraying him.

Kate had returned with the security guard. “I really need you to go now.”

“No,” Jack started crying again. “You can't.”

The security guard met her eyes, the expression in his own, compassionate. She imagined he was a father himself, and she understood then that the world really was divided into two kinds of people, and it wasn't rich and poor or educated versus uneducated or black against white, but something so much simpler, so much more important: those who were parents and those who weren't. She knew it was unfair, unjustified—she had enough friends without children who would have been devastated by such a judgment. And yet, she couldn't have rescinded the thought either. Nothing in life,
nothing
, was more important than loving a child, and nothing was more important in her life—than loving her children. Never had she suspected that her e-mail to Noah last January, her stupid adolescent e-mail, would result in this kind of damage.

“Shush, baby, it's okay,” she whispered to Jack. “We can't just leave him like this,” she sobbed to Stephen.

“Well, we have to!” he snapped, prying Jack's fingers from her sweater. Jack started screaming. “Goddamnit,” Stephen said, “would you go? You aren't helping.”

She pushed herself out of his room, coatless, her breathing harsh, her ribs feeling as if they were broken. “Stay me,” she heard Jack scream as the door shut, and she literally sank, crouched against the wall by the elevator, forehead to her knees, holding her elbows, afraid she was going to be sick. She saw Kate, a blur of brown shoes and tan coat.

“I'm sorry, Mrs. Connolly.” It was Kate. “You may not believe me, but—”

“You're right,” Grace practically spat, lifting her head. “I don't believe you. Just get away from me.”

Kate took a step back.

“You're heartless,” Grace continued, forcing herself up. “You are a horrible—” The elevator doors pinged open and she backed into Jenn, who was just stepping out.

“Grace, my God, what the hell happened?”

“What
happened
?” Grace sobbed. “He was alone, Jenn, that's what happened. And you promised! You
promised
you'd stay with him
.
”

“I did,” Jenn cried. “I was just—”

The elevator doors closed.

T
hey didn't speak on the ride home. They didn't look at each other. At the house, Stephen pulled into the drive, but kept the engine running. “You aren't coming in?” Grace asked.

“I've got to get back to work.” He was staring ahead, hands on the steering wheel, as if the car were still moving. She followed his gaze and tried to imagine what he was seeing, what he was thinking. The unseasonably warm winter had caused some of the tulips they'd planted last fall to bloom—blue, purple, and yellow. She stared at the bulbs, thinking of how all that life and energy was pushing up only ten feet from where, right now, her marriage was ending.

Still not looking at her, his voice directionless, he asked, “When are you getting the kids from your mother's?”

“In a little bit.”

He nodded. “They need to go back to school.” He sounded beat, and she didn't have the heart to argue. The silence between them lengthened, the shadow of their words was elongated and out of proportion, as if what they weren't saying had more substance than what they were. She wanted to ask, to say it out loud,
we're done, aren't we?
But she was afraid. Certain questions were like comets, asteroids with the long tail of unknowing, and sometimes they extinguished themselves without answer, and sometimes they exploded into the world so powerfully that everything before that question would become extinct.

Like the first time after hearing the words
mitochondrial disease
that she asked about his prognosis. She'd had that feeling then that if she could have just
not
asked, the answer itself wouldn't have existed. Heisenberg:
The questions we ask change the world we see.

“Will you be home for dinner?” she said as she got out of the car. It was gorgeous out. A brilliant blue sky. Her entire life felt like that color, she thought, which wasn't really a color at all but just a distortion of light through specific ions in the atmosphere.

“I'll be home,” he said, as if he couldn't promise anything beyond just that much. Overhead, a line of birds stitched a seam across the open wound of sky.

 

Max and Erin were subdued at dinner. Stephen explained as best as he could what had happened. Grace listened numbly. Erin started crying and Grace pulled her onto her lap and held her close.

All afternoon, Grace had had moments of glancing around her home, taking in the most ordinary objects: the Question Jar, a white coffee mug with the name of her hair salon on it, potholders Erin had made, Max's hockey schedule on the fridge, a scribble of Jack's, the green and purple UMDF magnet. Her home, these
things
. She thought of how a victim of Post-Tramautic Stress Disorder often needed to touch objects—concrete, ordinary objects, as a reminder: that he was
not
trapped in some rain-soaked jungle in Vietnam; she was
not
in the midst of whatever moment was the absolute worst of her life.

Outside the day faded, like a Polaroid reversing itself, clarity coming undone. The edges of the lake blurred, trees leaving smears of color across the broken bone of the horizon.

After dinner, Grace gave Erin a bath and read to her, then curled on her side in Erin's bed, stroking her hair, watching her fall asleep. Butterscotch-scented bubble bath tonight. Strawberry-scented shampoo. “You smell like an ice-cream sundae,” Grace whispered.

Just as she was rising to leave, Erin opened her eyes. “Mama?”

“I thought you were asleep,” Grace said. “What is it, lovey?”

“Do you think Jack's afraid?”

“Oh, Erin, no, honey. He
likes
the hospital, you know that. He gets to watch movies and have the remote control to himself and he can eat dinner in bed.”

“But…” Her voice wobbled. “He's used to you being with him.”

“I know, and you are a wonderful,
wonderful,
big sister to worry about Jack, but I really think he's okay. Becca's with him tonight, and Aunt Jenn was there all day.” She kissed Erin on the side of the head. “Why don't you draw some pictures for his room tomorrow? I bet that would cheer him up.”

“Okay,” Erin said, turning on her side and snuggling into the pillow. As Grace was leaving though, she asked. “Can you leave my closet light on tonight?”

“Of course,” Grace said, her throat scratchy with sadness. Erin had never before been afraid of the dark.

 

She knocked on Max's door, then pushed it open. He was lying on his bed, staring at the poster of Wayne Gretzky taped to his ceiling. “You okay?” she asked.

He didn't look at her. “What's going to happen to Jack?”

“What Dad said. Hopefully, he'll be home in thirteen days.”

Max nodded. “Do you really think they'll try to take us?”

“No, honey, I don't.” She stepped over his book bag and a pile of sports magazines to get to the bed, then sat next to him. “We just want to be careful,” she said.

He didn't answer, just continued to stare up at the ceiling.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “Do you believe me?”

He shrugged. “What if you're wrong?”

She sighed. “I don't think I am, Max.”

“Well, I'd just run away if they tried to take me.”

“Oh, God, Max, that would be the absolute worst thing you could do.” She stared at her hands, her heart pounding, panicked even at the thought of him running.

“Why?
They're the ones who—”

“Shush. Listen to me.” She laid her hand on his chest.

“I'm not going with them, Mom.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“And I don't think you'll have to, sweetie, but
if
—and it's a big if, Max, but
if
Child Protective Services took you, running away would only make things even worse.” But what could be worse than some stranger dropping you off with a family you didn't know, or worse, leaving you in a group home? How had this happened, she wondered thickly. Four months ago they had been arguing because she didn't know the names of any of the Flyers' players.

“If,” she began again, “
if
anything were to happen, I would need you to watch out for Erin.” Surely they would be kept together, she thought, but she didn't know this either. Her hands were shaking. Stephen was right, she thought. She had jeopardized her children, and it didn't matter if it was intentional or not. She looked at Max. “I am so sorry. I am so so sorry that we even have to talk about this.”

 

Stephen had left the metro section of the
Inquirer
opened to the page with the article about her on her side of the bed.

“What's this?” She picked it up.

“Your fifteen minutes of fame.” He didn't look up from his laptop.

And there it was. “Mother Charged with Rare Disorder Loses Custody of Child.”

Her mouth fell open. “Who—How did they—” She looked at him, then at the paper. Today's date in the corner.

“I don't know, Grace,” Stephen said. “I assume these things are public record. Sheila brought it to me this afternoon.” Sheila. His assistant.

Philadelphia prosecutors may soon find themselves in court trying to prove the existence of a rare psychological disorder. Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy is an illness whereby the seemingly ideal mother of a sick child actually induces the illness herself, solely to get fame and attention. It won't be the first time the city has seen such a case…

She read it through once but couldn't focus, the words jumping out at her. She saw Marie Noe's name, then her own, then Jack's. It was like reading a foreign language, trying to piece together meaning from the few translatable words. “Disorder,” “killing,” “further investigation,” “state custody.” She looked at Stephen, uncomprehending, then sat on the edge of the bed and tried again.

In 1999 the story of Marie Noe, the Philadelphia woman accused of this same disorder, received national coverage when Noe confessed to killing eight of
her ten children, all of whom had died between 1949 and 1968. At the time of their deaths, the cause was attributed to SIDs. Noe was even featured under a pseudonym in a 1963
Life
magazine article that called her “America's most famous bereaved mother.”

Although the parallels between the Noe case and this most recent one are markedly different, they have one chilling similarity: in both, the life of an innocent child hangs in the balance. Which is why, according to a spokesperson for Philadelphia Child Protective Services, the state took immediate custody of three-year-old Jack Connolly.

Grace paused without looking up, aware of Stephen's eyes on her, the heat of his anger. She let the paper drop. “Fifteen minutes of fame?” Her arms were shaking. “You really think—”

“No.” Stephen's face reddened. “That was shitty. I'm sorry.”

She nodded, lifted the paper again, and continued reading.

The child's mother, 37-year-old Grace Connolly, insists that her son is suffering from mitochondrial disease, a genetic disorder in which the body cannot convert food into energy. “But,” says one of the many people who comprise Jack's medical team (consisting of a cardiologist, nephrologists, palliative care expert, and scores of therapists, specialized nurses, and respiratory technicians), “anyone who knows this child would be hard-pressed to believe he's as sick as his mother insists.”

The words were like the jagged boulders in the middle of a rapids: everything that didn't find its way around them—her name, her family, her marriage, her
life
—would be smashed into pieces.

Everyone she knew read the
Inquirer
: her neighbors, her parents' friends, the kids' teachers probably, people at the hospital, Stephen's colleagues. Everyone.

She started reading the article again, trying to focus. Her eyes kept jumping to that one phrase:
“But, says one of the many people who comprise Jack's medical team
…”

Who? She wondered. Who?

 

The psychiatrist approved by the court worked in a nondescript office building a few blocks from Family Court. Industrial gray carpet and mismatched chairs filled the waiting area, along with an overflowing chest of battered toys and books. Only nine in the morning, and already the room was crowded with sullen-looking parents and kids.

The psychologist, after listening to Grace tell her story, asked if Grace was obsessed with Jack's illness. And okay, maybe she was, Grace thought, though she hated that word.
Obsessed
. It implied something dark and inappropriate, something with an ulterior motive. “What could I possibly have to gain by this so-called
obsessive
behavior, other than the obvious?” she asked Dr. Lee. “I want my child to be well. I want him to live.” Dr. Lee nodded, dark bangs obscuring her eyes. She seemed to be waiting. But for what? Because this was it. The whole story. Grace wanted Jack to live.

“Do you think this desire of yours is realistic?”

Grace looked at her. Did it matter? After a moment, she said, “Jack has lived far longer than any of the doctors thought he would.” She felt as if she were talking through a long cardboard tube, her words disembodied and far away. “And in part maybe it's because I
was
unrealistic, because I
was
consumed. But I had to be. The experts didn't just show up at our door.
I
found
them
.
I
contacted
them
.” She raised her eyes to the doctor's, angry tears blurring her vision. “Are you suggesting I shouldn't have?”

Dr. Lee didn't respond directly. “Would it be fair to say that you saw yourself as a hero, of sorts?”

“Hero?” Grace repeated, feeling dizzy. “Is that—” She stopped.
“Hero?”
The word slammed into her, and she felt its impact but couldn't make sense of it. She couldn't connect it to herself. She couldn't begin to understand what Dr. Lee was talking about. Unless Grace hadn't heard her correctly? But no, she had echoed that word,
hero,
back to Dr. Lee twice and Dr. Lee hadn't corrected her.

Grace leaned forward in the chair. Her child was dying, and he was alone in the hospital and so
hero
, whatever that meant—because Grace could not grasp its meaning—was a preposterous, stupid word.

“You look surprised,” Dr. Lee said.

“Hero?”
Grace practically spat the word. She didn't care if she was supposed to be calm or agreeable or whatever Bennett had advised.
Hero?