The Valeditztorian (26 page)

“Hi, Mrs. Santos,”
I say, when Aimee’s mother picks up the phone. “This is Emma, the tutor you fired today.”

“What do yo
u want?” she says, sounding annoyed.

“Well, first off, when I got back to my apartment a few
minutes ago, I found Aimee waiting for me.”

“
What? I told her to go directly home. Is she still there?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she says. “Put her on the phone.”

I pass the
phone over to Aimee, who reluctantly takes it with her free hand.

“Hi, Mom
. Yes, I know you said to go home.”

She pauses for a few seconds
.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t let me go to Emma’s
. I’m sorry I lied, but I wanted to ask her for help….Since she’s a medical student, I thought she might know about a new medicine for Dad….Yes, Mom, I know she’s not a real doctor. But guess what? She studied a new medicine that she thinks might work. Do you want to hear about it?”

Aimee smiles, handing
the phone back to me.

Over the next 10
minutes I explain the Brazilian melanoma project to Mrs. Santos.

When I’m finished she asks, “So you’re saying this drug only works for one type of melanoma?”

“That’s correct.”

“How would we know whether
my husband has the right type, genetically speaking?”

“His oncologist might know,” I say
.

In the moment that I pause to think about it,
I recall a key conversation with Grace.

“Or maybe, if I looked at his pathology r
eport, I might be able to tell,” I say.

M
rs. Santos asks, “Where would the pathology report be located?”

“
It’s probably in his medical records. Where was your husband first diagnosed?”

“The dermatology clinic at New York
Hospital.”

“
Since I’m a medical student at New York Hospital, I might be able to access his records through the hospital’s computer system. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to go poking around in there because of HIPAA regulations; but with your permission, I’m okay with it. Do you want me to try?”

“Yes, please,” she says
. “As soon as possible.”

“Okay
. I’ll head to the hospital right now.”

“Before you hang up
,” says Mrs. Santos, “I need to ask you a couple favors.”

“
Sure thing.”

“First, keep Aimee
with you at all times, and bring her straight home when you’re finished.”

“No problem
,” I say, while watching Aimee’s face, which is brimming with nervous excitement.

“And s
econd, please forgive me for acting the way I did at the hospital. I’m not usually like that. Seeing Aimee at Memorial today just took me by surprise. With my husband getting sicker every day, I…I’m just not coping well with anything right now. I’m sorry for the way I handled things.”

“It’s okay,” I say
. “I know your family is going through a rough time. I didn’t take it personally.”

“Good
. You know, Emma, you’re the first person I’ve spoken to in a long time who’s had anything hopeful to say. I really appreciate what you’re doing…even if doesn’t make any difference in the end. So thank you.”

“
You’re welcome. I’ll call back soon and let you know what happens.”

I hang up the
phone and study Aimee, who’s still clinging to my arm. She looks so familiar. Where the heck have I seen this kid before?

“Okay,” I tell her
. “I really can’t believe we’re about to do this. Are you ready to go?”

“Ready
.”

She’s already tugging me out the door
.

“Unless you’re planning on taking my arm home with you,
without the rest of my body, I wouldn’t pull quite so hard,” I shout, as we hit the pavement outside my building.

Ignoring me as usual, the child
zooms the two of us through oncoming traffic on York Avenue, barely avoiding collisions with two buses and a taxi cab. Minutes later we’re focused on Connie’s computer in the tuberculosis lab. Aside from Aimee and myself, the place is deserted, status quo for the weekend.

“
Alright, Aimee,” I say. “Just be patient for a minute, while I boot up the computer.”

As the
screen flashes to life, I wonder whether Connie’s at home now, arguing with her son about his haftorah.

“Is it ready yet?” she asks impatiently.

“Just about,” I say.

Over the last few mon
ths, New York Hospital has been converting from paper charts to electronic medical records, and I’m not sure whether the data we need is currently in the system.

“Now is it ready?” Aimee
asks, about 20 seconds later.

“
Almost.”

“How long is this going to…?
”

“
Okay, we’re in,” I say. “Tell me your dad’s full name.”

“Roberto Santos.”

“What’s his middle name?”

“Juan.”

“Roberto Juan Santos.”

I type the information next to the flashing cursor.

“Would you happen to know his birth date?”

She doesn’t he
sitate before answering, “June third, 1957.”  

I hit the enter button.

“Cool!” I exclaim.

“What’s cool?” Aimee asks
.

“It
worked. See, here are your dad’s records.”

The two of u
s stare at the screen. Under her father’s name is a listing of all the clinics that Roberto has recently visited, including general internal medicine, dermatology, urology, and hematology-oncology. I cross my fingers, hoping I’m not about to violate any major HIPAA regulations, as I click “dermatology.”

“Oh,” I sigh.

“What’s wrong?” asks Aimee.

“The file’s empty
.”

Clearly this new system isn’t per
fect. Perhaps we’ll need to dig the paper chart out of medical records after all.

“Can we look someplace else?” she asks.

“Let’s try a different icon.”

Under “
clinics” is another section labeled “results,” with the subheadings “labs” and “radiology.” When I try clicking “labs,” a box labeled “pathology” appears. One more click, and we finally hit pay dirt.

Some wonderful pathologist
, whom I will probably never meet, has recorded the following:

“Skin biopsy specimen #4943
, received in formalin, histology consistent with melanoma. Genetic testing positive for homozygous Mts745.”

“Oh, my
,” I say, trying to remain calm.

“What is it?” she asks.

“He has it.”

“He has what?”

“The right mutation. The one I studied in Brazil.”

“So you have medicine that will
help him?” Aimee asks.

“I don’t know
. Probably not….I mean, I don’t want to get your hopes up or anything. The drug worked in mice, but it might not work in people. I also don’t know whether we’ve got enough medicine to treat someone your father’s size. He’s a lot bigger than a mouse, you know.”

“Yeah, but he’s
lost a lot of weight recently,” she says.

“Aimee, I’m just not sure whether….”

My diminutive companion cuts me off.

“We have to go
get it, right now, to try it out. Where’s the medicine?”

In the fridge in Joan Riley’s lab
, on the fourth floor of Memorial Sloan-Kettering—exactly one floor below where Aimee’s father lay dying.

“Umm, a
t Memorial. But it’s not like we can just walk over there, take the drug, and inject it into your father.”

“Why not
? Let’s go!” 

Pulling my elbow
, Aimee stares at me with a look of stalwart determination. Since she’s standing less than one foot away from me, I’ve got a great view of her eyes, which are shining with a combination of hope, defiance, and love. It’s a look I finally recognize, one that I last witnessed nearly 10 years ago, but in another pair of eyes entirely. The missing piece of data, the one I’ve simultaneously been rejecting and trying to draw into the light of conscious thought, has finally fallen into place. From the start, I recognized this child because she looks so much like the boy I dated in high school, the one I still dream about, who’s married now with children of his own. Yet that’s only half the story. Since her skin is so fair, porcelain white like a china doll, and her features so delicate, the similarities are not immediately obvious. But if you study the almond shape of her eyes, or her ridiculously long eyelashes, you start to see the resemblance. The child, of course, looks a whole lot like me…her biological mother.

Chapter Seventeen

Skeletons in the Closet

During my junior year
of high school I met the first great love of my life. A broad-shouldered, handsome Irish guy with red hair, blue eyes and a terrific sense of humor moved with his family to my little town in Central Connecticut, captivating everyone he met, including me. After my fifteenth birthday, in the fall of that school year, we started dating; by summertime, the two of us were head over heels. For better or worse, this was teenage love taken to the extreme—pining, immature, lustful, innocent, awkward, and romantic, all wrapped up into one big, messy package.

With a
family trip to California planned for midsummer, I started envisioning our plane falling out of the sky, crashing to the ground in a fiery explosion. Most likely, raging hormones fueled this irrational expectation of impending death.

Lying on the floor of my bedroom with my head
in his lap, I looked directly into Red’s baby blues and said, “I think we’d better have sex.”

“Really?” he
asked.

“Yeah,” I replied
. “I don’t want to die a virgin.”

At 15
, sex was pretty high on my bucket list.

And d
id he argue at all about the likelihood of our plane crashing? Of course not! What 16-year-old, horny, virginal teenage boy would? My redheaded hero, who probably would’ve patiently waited for a few more years at least, was thrilled to give in to my demands for sex.

Predictably, o
ur first encounter with intercourse didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.

“Did you buy
some condoms?” I asked.

“
Yup. I’ve got one in my wallet,” he said. “Just let me pull it out of my jeans.”

Red reached across the couch to grab his Levis
.

“Ooh—g
ood job. Can I see it?” I asked. “What does it say on the package?”

“Trojan, ultra
sensitive,” said Red, reading the square, silver packet. “When are your parents getting home again?”

“In
about three hours. We’ve got plenty of time,” I said, snuggling my naked body next to his under a fuzzy brown blanket that we’d thrown over my parents’ living room couch.

“Oka
y, then. I’m gonna open this sucker up now,” said Red, ripping the foil apart with his teeth.

“Can I hold it?” I asked.

“Sure,” he said, passing me the condom.

“E
ww. It’s so gross—all wet and slimy!” 

“I think it’s covered with some kind of lubricant.”

“Can I try putting it on you?” I asked.

“Go for it,” he said.

“Okay. Here goes….”

W
hen I tried to push the condom down over Red’s erect penis, it wouldn’t open.

“Hey
, I think this one’s defective,” I said.

Red started laughing
.

“It’s not defective, Emma
. You’re just holding it upside down.”

“How would you
even know?” I asked. “You’ve never done this before, right?”

“Right, I haven’t
. But I practiced a little, to get ready.”

“Okay, I’ll try flipping it over
. Oh, there we go,” I said, sliding it all the way down this time.

“Ooh,” said Red.

“What?” I asked. “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m fine
. It just felt hot, the way you slid the condom over my cock like that.”

Red stood up, looking at me, and the sight of his naked
body was so beautiful.

“Are you ready to try fo
r real this time?” I asked, gazing back into his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice husky with desire.

After kissing him deeply, I reached for his hips, guiding him forward, drawing his body into mine.

“Ouch!” I yelled
, unprepared for the knife-like pain that instantly seared through my entire pelvis.

“Oh,” said Red, withdrawing almost as quickly as he’d entered
.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, but that hurt…a lot.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“I’ll be alright. Do you think we should try again, a bit more slowly this time?”

“Maybe later,” said Red, “but we can’t
do it again right now.”

“Why not?”
I asked.

“Because I came already,” he said.

“Really?”

“Yup.”

Then we both started laughing.

Soon thereafter my family survived the trip to California, and Red and I had endless opportunities to practice our technique
. Over time, the sex got much better. In fact, it got great. A piano player with long, expressive fingers and a good sense of rhythm, Red taught my body a number of important lessons.

“What just happened?” I asked one evening in Red’s bedroom.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “You screamed so loudly, I worried that I was hurting you.”

“Are you kidding
? That felt amazing.”

“Maybe you had an orgasm,
” he said.

“Huh
? An orgasm? Now I know what all the fuss is about. That was great! Can you do it again?”

“Sure thing
.”

To the delight of my
insatiable teenage hormones, he repeated the miracle, over and over again that summer. Listening carefully to his instructions (yes, Red actually provided useful verbal guidance for inducing his sexual pleasure, unlike any of my subsequent lovers), I did my best to return the favor, which wasn’t too challenging. At 16, he was pretty easy to please.   

For the first half of that fateful
summer the two of us were deliriously happy. Yet like most teenage relationships, it wasn’t long before ours unraveled. The trouble began when Red and his friends started hanging out and drinking. One evening toward the end of August, he cancelled a movie date at the last minute, claiming his presence was required at a family dinner. An hour later, simply by chance, I ran into him at our town’s big teenage hangout, the local 7-Eleven. On a quest for blue raspberry Slurpees, my dad and I encountered Red and a bunch of under-aged high schoolers loitering in the parking lot, drinking beer.

At the time, I must’ve looked pretty pissed off.

“Emma, why don’t I go pick up those Slurpees, while you speak to Red?” my dad offered.

“That sounds great,” I answered through clenched teeth
.

Then I marched over to my boyfriend.

“Red,” I yelled in front of his friends on that warm, summer evening. “What are you doing here?”

Just like Danny in
Grease
, Red played it cool in the spotlight.

“What does it look I’m doing?”

Under different circumstances, I might’ve clammed up and walked away, but on this occasion, my intense anger fueled an outpouring of vitriol before I could censor myself.

“It looks like you lied, a
nd now you’re breaking the law,” I said.

“Ooh,” laughed one of his friends
. “You’re in trouble now, Red.”

“What’
re you gonna do,” said another one, “call the cops?”

“If you make me angry, I will,” I said, turning to
face the little punk. “You’re Joey Smalley, right?”

For on
ce I was able to match a name with a face.

“Yeah, that’s right,” I said when the ki
d got a worried look in his eyes. “I know who you are because our mothers work together. And if you don’t want yours hearing about this, you’d better shut your mouth.”

That quieted him down immediately
.

Turning back to Red, I continued, “I can’t believe you l
ied to me. Why didn’t you just tell me that you wanted to hang out with your friends?”

“Emma, I….”

“And the beer, Red? How were you planning on getting home? I bet you don’t even have a designated driver. Do you?”

Red cleared his throat
. “I, uh, well….”

“
I’m so mad, I can’t even listen to you,” I said, cutting him off.

Then I stalked off to my father, who was waiting patiently for me in the car
.

“Mind if
I make a phone call?” I asked.

“No problem
, honey,” he answered.

“Hi, Mr. O’Brien,” I
said, after dropping my quarter into a nearby payphone. “I was just calling to let you know that Red has your car at the 7-Eleven....Yeah, I know, but he’s drinking beer with his friends….No, they don’t….Okay, no problem. I’ll tell him you’re coming to pick him up.”

A few days
later, intoxicated once again, Red crashed his dad’s car into a neighbor’s mailbox at midnight. Fortunately, the neighbors were vacationing in Maine at the time. Hoping to avoid police involvement and serious consequences for Red, Mr. O’Brien claimed responsibility for the accident.

When Red told me about the inc
ident over the phone, I asked, “Did you get hurt?”

“N
ot at all,” he said.

“That’s too bad,” I remarked.

“It is?” he asked, sounding confused.

“Yeah,” I
said. “Breaking a leg—or better yet two legs—might’ve taught you a lesson.”

Unlike his father, I had no intention of letting Red get away with being such an idiot
. The next day I stormed into his basement bedroom and threw his high school ring at his face. Ducking my unusually accurate throw, Red barely managed to avoid getting injured. Launched with the power of a young woman’s scorn, the ring lodged itself in the sheet rock right behind Red’s head.

“
You’re not breaking up with me, Emma…are you?” he asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Can I call you next week?”

“No
. You can’t call me next week.”

“Then when
can I call you?”

“
Not until you grow up.”

“Next month, maybe?”

“Give it a few years, at least!” I snapped, striding out of the room.

At the time, I knew that leaving him was the right decision, for both of us.

Then something unexpected happened. Exactly one week after breaking up with Red, I discovered I was pregnant. I’m not completely sure how it happened, but the slow removal of condoms with unintentional leakage was likely the culprit. Since my mom and I had an excellent relationship, I didn’t hesitate to explain my predicament.

“I’m not ready to take care of
a baby,” I told her.

That’s when Cecile
calmly suggested an abortion. My ex-hippie, radical feminist, card-carrying member of NOW mother, Cecile Elise Silberlight had big plans for me and my future career…not that I’d picked a career yet. As far as she was concerned, no accidental baby was going to darken my bright future. In many ways she was right to think this way. If my grades were any indication, I was certainly headed toward college, and likely professional school as well.

The abortion was scheduled for the foll
owing week at a local clinic.

Yet
as the days passed, I began to feel excited about the pregnancy. Somewhere deep inside, my body held a marvelous secret, a tiny spark that would soon flame another soul into existence. Instead of an abortion, I started envisioning a different path—one that ended with a baby.

On the day of the procedu
re, my mother walked me into the spotlessly clean exam room.

“Hi, Emma,” said a friendly nurse
. “Have a seat on the table. I’m just going to take your blood pressure. There we go. Ninety over fifty. Nice and low. The doctor should be here in just a few minutes.”

While we waited for the doctor, I knew I couldn’t go through with it
.

“Mom,” I said, “I nee
d you to take me home, right now.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I can’t have an abortion.”

“Oh, no, Emma,” she said
. “Don’t do this.”

“Don’t do what?”

“Don’t have a baby. You’re only fifteen.”

“I’m turning sixteen in a few weeks.”

“Regardless, you’re much too young to take care of a child.”

“I want to have the baby
,” I said.

“So what, then
? You’re going to give up college, and a career, to become another teenage mother with no hope of ever getting a decent job?”

“I’
m not going to become a mother,” I said.

“What?” she
asked, confused. “I’m sorry, Emma, but I’ve got no idea what you’re trying to say here.”