What I Thought I Knew: A Memoir (20 page)

“Thank you very much, Mahmood. May I ask you a few questions?”

Now Pedro and Juan-Carlos made urgent eyebrow gestures at me, which meant, “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth!” and, “Let’s go while the going’s good.” I tried to suppress my Jewish-mother-preparing-for-her-daughter’s-bat-mitzvah instincts but couldn’t suppress it entirely. I am, after all, a Jewish mother.

“Could we take a quick look at the restaurant?”

Mahmood’s jaw muscles twitched, his left eyebrow raised slightly, but he led us into a beautiful octagonal dining room, which seated at least eighty.

“Barbara Walters is having her Christmas party here,” he boasted.

Barbara Walters could afford a party here, but I was quite certain I could not.

“Oh, it’s beautiful. Two more things. Could we talk about costs?”

Mahmood’s jaw muscles twitched again. “Did you not hear me? I will honor your contract.”

“Thank you!” I could hardly believe a party at this elegant restaurant wouldn’t cost more than a party at humble Café Maya. “And could you show us the menu?”

Mahmood’s jaw twitched again. Juan-Carlos and Pedro looked exasperated.

“Don’t worry. I will take care of everything.”

Urgent whisper from Julia into my ear: “Ask him if they have hamburgers.” I stepped on Julia’s foot and slowly applied pressure while I shook Mahmood’s hand.

“Thank you so much. I, thank you, I really appreciate . . .”

Pedro and Juan-Carlos were kissing Mahmood’s cheeks and ushering me and Julia out the door as quickly as possible, before we blew it.

“Don’t worry. Mahmood will take care of everything.” My new mantra.

Julia and I walked back home in the rain. She quickly fell asleep. Michael was still playing guitar. I sat down to reread the deposition but couldn’t keep my eyes open and decided it was futile anyway. I was never good at memorizing lines, but I remembered everything that happened, and would tell the story truthfully. I would leave it to my lawyer to artfully frame the truth in her dramatic retelling of my real-life tall tale. Like my restaurant allies tonight, I could count on her highly impassioned appeal to make the desired impression. My lawyer will take care of everything that Mahmood doesn’t take care of.

I had erotic dreams that night about the three handsome restaurant owners, telling elaborate stories while they made love to me at once, mingling the flavors and scents of Mexican, Spanish, and Turkish food. I dreamed that Juan-Carlos was my lawyer and Mahmood was the judge and that Eliana was already a thirteen-year-old, healthy and robust and full-grown and confident and about to become a woman.

 

 

The next morning at City Hall I waited with my lawyer’s associate outside the courtroom. Joan came out and whispered to me that the jury was ready to begin, but she was trying to negotiate a last-minute deal with the defending lawyer in the judge’s chambers. I sat on the wooden bench outside the courtroom for two hours, with instructions not to say anything to anybody but to smile politely at everyone.

Joan had lined up two expert witnesses to speak on Eliana’s behalf. Endocrinologist Dr. Abigail Arbogast, expert on Russell-Silver syndrome, has closely monitored Eliana since she was an infant and has protected her from Russell-Silver’s most dangerous symptoms. Now she was chomping at the bit to share her expertise about Eliana’s growth disorder to a captive audience of judge and jury. Eliana’s more sedate orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Melody, has prepared a PowerPoint presentation, with compelling charts and graphs; X-rays of Eliana’s legs; a slide show illustrating the multiple, complex surgeries Eliana was likely to need to correct her asymmetry; and a summary of her anticipated, astronomical medical expenses, every bit as scary as the graphics. Drs. Arbogast and Melody were scheduled to appear in court tomorrow. Today I would be the one on the witness stand.

Joan came out of the judge’s chambers from time to time to give me whispered updates: “It’s looking good.” “It’s not looking good.” “I think we’re about to settle.” “They’re not playing.” “We’re going to trial.”

Midmorning, the jury was given a ten-minute break, and they glanced curiously at me as they exited the courtroom and walked down the echoing marble-floored hall. I smiled politely, per Joan’s instructions, wondering what they thought of my “wrongful life” case. Joan hadn’t told me a thing about the jury selection process. They reentered the courtroom and the hall was quiet again.

Once more, Joan came out and whispered to me, “They’ve made us an offer.” She showed me the details of the offer. “Remember, in ‘wrongful life’ cases, damages are limited to the additional and extraordinary expenses of raising a child with special needs. If we go to trial—well, you never can tell with juries; they may be sympathetic, or they may hate the whole concept of ‘wrongful life’ and Eliana could end up with nothing. I think we should settle.”

I agreed.

She whispered to me as she led me through the hall. “My only regret is that my expert witnesses never got to take the stand. They were going to be brilliant!”

Joan ushered me through the court, past the twelve bored-looking jury members and two alternates, and into the judge’s chambers. Judge Snow, a stout woman in her sixties, moved about in her black robes with evident arthritic pain. But she smiled mischievously at me and shook my hand heartily when I thanked her on behalf of Eliana.

“This is not for vacations in Disneyland,” she said, wagging her finger at me and knitting her thick eyebrows into one very persuasive eyebrow. “The purpose of this settlement is to make Eliana as healthy and strong as she possibly can be, do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Good! Now let’s thank those jury members. They’ve been sitting out there for two days. They must be bored to death. We’ll give them this. I certainly don’t need it,” she said, lifting a large plastic bowl of Halloween candy from the table.

She limped out of her chambers to the courtroom with the bowl of Halloween candy.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” she said, voice booming, face beaming. “We have arrived at a happy and fair settlement between both parties. The successful outcome of this litigation is due, in no small part, to your participation. Because you were out here, ready to serve, the two sides in there were motivated to come to an agreement. You have served well, the lawyers have served well, a sick child has been served well. Oh, and take some Halloween candy. As judge, I order you not to leave till the bowl is empty!”

To my surprise, the jury members lined up to meet me. I was a celebrity. Joan was a more potent storyteller than I’d given her credit for. The jury members liked me, sight unseen. They cared about Eliana. They knew that I wrote and performed for children. They were happy the case settled. They shook my hand and told me their own stories.

“My son got AIDS when he was thirty-five,” said a frail, white-haired old woman, blue veins showing through translucent skin. “This was before AZT. He came back to live with me for his final months. At the end, I could barely recognize him, he was so thin, and covered with lesions. It’s heartbreaking to see your child sick, at any age.”

A young woman whispered, “When I was pregnant last summer, we found out the baby would have Down syndrome, so my husband and I decided to have an abortion. It was a painful decision, but I can’t imagine not having that option. I think I would have gone crazy if I didn’t have that choice.”

“Hi, Alice, I’m Latisha. Would you sign your autograph for my kids?” asked a round-faced African American woman, holding out paper and pen. “Your lawyer told us that you wrote for Nickelodeon television shows, and my children love Nickelodeon. Thank you. Make two of them, please, or they’ll fight over it. Tanisha and Tyrell, T-Y-R-E-L-L. The way your lawyer talked about you, you were right to fight this case for your daughter and not just let them stupid-ass doctors do what they want and take no responsibility. This trial was an act of love, from you to your daughter, that’s for sure. Now you go home and you love that little girl of yours. I’m goin’ home and tellin’ my kids that I am proud of the service I performed today. Like Judge Snow said, it was because of us being out here that your daughter got what she needs. Thank you for the autographs, and God bless you.”

Twelve jurors and two alternates, in a celebratory mood, their jury duty fulfilled, filled pockets and pocketbooks with Halloween candy till the bowl was empty, by order of the judge.

 

 

Nine days later, Julia aced her Hebrew Torah reading and enthralled her audience with her provocative speech on The Binding of Isaac. Eliana’s babysitter chased her through the aisles and under the seats, and finally carried her outside to the lobby when she got too distracting. When the bat mitzvah service was over, everyone walked two blocks from the synagogue to the restaurant, for a joyful celebration and spicy Turkish buffet, with optional burgers and fries for Julia and her friends. Mahmood took care of everything.

I have two daughters.

One is tall and sturdy, earthbound. Our Rock of Gibraltar, steady as she goes.

The other is short and slight, of the air, lightning quick. Unpredictable and moody.

Julia wears size eleven extra wide shoes. Firmly planted on the ground, she knows where she stands.

Eliana, at age seven, still wears toddler-sized shoes, the right foot two sizes smaller than the left. She is featherweight. Her right foot doesn’t quite reach the ground, so she flies above it, running faster than imagination, jumping intrepidly from her bed to Julia’s, scampering up the rocks in Central Park.

Julia at sixteen is calm and centered, even-keeled. Her friends come to her for advice, even about things she knows nothing about. She is confident and reliable.

Eliana is quicksilver in temperament. Falls in and out of love with toys and friends, has crushes, has asked three different boys on three Valentine’s Days, “Are you my secret admirer?” When the baffled boys ask back, “What’s that?” she explains, “It means you love someone but you don’t want them to know it.” Each boy has thoughtfully stared at his feet for a moment, then nodded and agreed, “Yeah,” whereupon Eliana understands that he is no longer what he just admitted he was. A secret admirer lasts only as long as the secret, and once the secret is revealed, it is time to cultivate another secret admirer or secretly admired.

 

 

Days of Awe

It is Erev Rosh Hashanah, 2006.

It is the first year since 1999 that it falls on a Friday. Again, it is early, four days after Labor Day. Again, it’s a brilliant, sunny day. I walk to Central Park and Turtle Pond—redwing blackbirds perch on cattails, a white heron fishes on the far shore, seven turtles line up on a log, reaching for the afternoon’s last rays of sun, the pond framed by weeping willows, the willows framed by the Manhattan skyline, the skyline framed by the cloudless blue sky.

I walk home and start to write.

On Yom Kippur, I decide to take Eliana to the afternoon children’s service. She has chosen her fanciest dress, with a red velvet bodice and an ankle-length gold chiffon skirt, and her gold party shoes. The dress is too fancy for synagogue, but what the heck, she loves wearing it.

“Can I bring my scooter?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Where are we going again?”

I hesitate. Last year’s children’s service was a mob scene, and Eliana is overwhelmed by crowds. “Your choice. We can either go to synagogue like we did last year. Or we can climb the rocks in Central Park and we’ll have our own Yom Kippur service, just the two of us.”

“Central Park! Central Park! Can I get a hot dog?”

Eliana rides her scooter toward Central Park. In her long velvet dress and gold party shoes, people stop to stare and smile at the incongruous sight of a little girl in a ball gown riding a scooter, and then glance down curiously at the two-inch lift on her right shoe.

She zigs and zags expertly through the crowded sidewalks, oblivious to the attention she attracts. My beautiful, asymmetrical little girl, negotiating her imaginary slalom course. We stop at the hot dog stand in front of the Museum of Natural History.

Hot dog in one hand, she glides down the hill into Central Park. We stash the scooter and climb the rocks. Overlooking the lake, ringed by trees just beginning to change color, she eats her hot dog, while I give her the Cliffs Notes version of Yom Kippur.

We reflect on the past year, the things we might learn from and do differently next time. We talk about our wishes for next year. We think of anyone who has made us angry in the past year and we talk about forgiving them, about forgiving ourselves. I tell her about the Book of Life.

She takes a bite of her hot dog, drips ketchup on her velvet dress.

“Mom, do you believe in God?”