What We Leave Behind (27 page)

The worry that passed between Mr. and Mrs. Sammler was hard to take in.

“I thought you said you had other children.” Mrs. Sammler glared at me.

“Yes, I have other children, another child,” correcting myself, “but not with Michelle’s father.”

With that, Mrs. Sammler began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” I said. As if it were my fault. As if I gave her a damaged good and couldn’t fix it.

I tried to say more, but she stopped me. I had given up my child. She didn’t know what kind of person that made me, not then, and not now. That was when Mr. Sammler began to wipe his eyes and openly cry. He didn’t even try to hide his whimpers or cover his face. He was a man that was visibly humbled by the threat that crept into the room. Glancing at Dr. Greene and Mr. Stevens, my business sadly finished here, I slipped out the office door.

I returned to the hotel after four that afternoon, and before taking off my coat, picked up the phone and dialed our home in Los Angeles. It was one there. Ari would be napping, and I was irritated that I didn’t get to speak with him before he went down. My mother answered on the first ring.

“I’m worried about you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I had to make an early start today, and I’m just getting back to the hotel. How’s Ari?” I had a feeling my mother didn’t believe any of this, that she knew everything that was going on, but I was too tired and too jet lagged to argue.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No. Is Marty coming home for dinner with Ari tonight?”

“He has a business dinner. I thought you spoke to him about that. Should I have him call you when he’s done, or will it be too late?”

I pondered this. Every day that went by, this secret and its power to destroy us became stronger. I hated more than anything keeping things from him, but I was frightened by his reaction. If I told my mother I didn’t want him to call me, it would open up an entire new assortment of problems.

“Sure,” I mumbled, “have him call my cell.”

“I love you, Jess.”

“I love you too, Ma.” I hung up the phone before she said anything else.

The ringing startled me from a deep sleep. It felt like three in the morning when I groggily whispered hello into the receiver, but it was just after twelve. It was Marty.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” he said.

“Hi,” I said.

“I miss you.”

“You too,” I muttered.

“How’s the mystery assignment coming along?”

“Good. Busy. How’s Ari?”

“He misses his mommy. So do I.”

“Give him extra kisses and hugs from me,” I said, aching for my son. Leaving him had never been part of the plan. One day I would tell him why, and maybe he would deem his mommy a hero.

“Are you okay?” Marty asked.

“I think so. I will be.”

“Do you want me to come out there? I can always visit a few people in the city.”

“You don’t have to. I’m making arrangements to fly out tomorrow.”

“Okay. Well, go back to sleep. You sound tired.”

“I’ll call you in the morning.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you too.” But I never ended up calling him. While I slept that night, a thought formulated in my head. At first, it was merely a whim, then it turned into something larger, a plan, a scene from a movie, and I had the starring role.

Dialing Boston information, I jotted down the number that the monotone recording gave me for BrinkerHarte, the name I heard for the first time in Catalina when Jonas and I shared words on a white table. When Beth informed me he had married Emily, I assumed the rest of his plan was in place with their picture-perfect little pathology lab.

Don’t get me wrong. I had thought about Jonas over the years. There were times when I’d recollect the way he touched me, not in the biblical way, but the lasting way, the kind that leaves an impression without actual touch. I would awaken from a dream, and he would be all around me, so near I could feel the palms of his hands. Songs, in particular, brought him close. They’d play, and I’d be back in time connected to him again, feeling how deeply he once cared and believing that that alone could ever make me complete. I often asked myself, on those occasions, how we could have felt so deeply and yet have so much separateness between us? I used to worry that time would eventually erase my memory altogether, that slowly I would lose parts and pieces until there was nothing left. But I was foolish to think that Jonas, and what he left with me, could ever disappear.

I didn’t like that he was intruding on the life I’d created with Marty and Ari. He had always been the past, the great lesson I was supposed to learn. He was the lanky boy I’d met as a kid, the gentle one on a cool summer night, and that’s where he remained, never growing older like the rest of us, a timeless picture in my mind. I forbid myself to create an image of him today, Jonas coexisting somewhere with everyday issues and problems. I was mad at him and life for the intrusion, mad that he could so easily slither back into my world and uproot it. I wondered if he ever thought of me, of that summer. Was I merely
a passing fancy
like my mother used to say to her friends when she thought I wasn’t listening, or had I been what he had been for me, the great love of my young life?

I knew what I had to do, but I was frightened. It was after nine now, and I had spent the better of the last hour ruminating, going over my options. I presumed the best place to find him at this hour would be at his office, so I set forth on my mission.

My fingers were trembling. I was a grown woman with a husband, child—two children, I corrected myself—yet he could still unglue me, take everything that was once solid and secure and turn it into mush.

Yes, Jonas had resurfaced from the past, and it was time, I’d decided, for the past to meet the present.

“BrinkerHarte,” the receptionist echoed into the phone.

“Uh, yes, I’d like to speak with Dr. Levy, please.”

“One moment, please.”

A few seconds passed before I was transferred somewhere, and another monotone voice came on the line.

“Dr. Levy’s office.”

I looked down at the pendant that hung from my neck. It was moving up and down, up and down, in rhythm with my beating heart.

“Yes, is Dr. Levy available, please?”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Jessica Tau—” I stopped myself. “Jessica Parker.”

It was so close. Jonas was so near. I could hang up and tackle this on my own like I intended; but I pushed onward, holding onto the phone as if it were a flotation device, and I was the sinking ship.

“This is in reference to?”

“I’m a friend, an old friend.”

“The doctor’s in a seminar this morning. Would you like to leave a message?”

“Yes, I mean, no, no, thank you. I’ll try back later.”

“I hope it’s okay I’m here,” I said to Mrs. Sammler. “I thought maybe I could see her before I left.”

She was in the hallway outside Dr. Greene’s office when I arrived at the hospital the next day.

“You’re leaving?” I don’t know why she acted surprised. We both knew I was of no use to them.

“Soon,” I said. “There’s something I need to take care of first. Then I’ll be going.”

She took some time answering; then like an old friend, she reached for my arm and said, “Come on,” and led me down the hall. Her courage left me speechless.

I followed her through a maze of hospital corridors before we settled on a group of elevators. She was shorter than I was, and her blonde hair a mass of tight curls. I saw through the heaviness in her eyes an appreciative hazel green.

“I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” she said to me in the sterile elevator; gone were the misgivings from the day before.

I said, “You needn’t apologize. It would have been worse had you not contacted me, and there was a chance I could help.”

She nodded her agreement. “Michelle has always been an easy, spirited child, so full of life. I think about what we could have done to prevent this.” For whatever the reason, Mrs. Sammler felt the need to talk with me, and I didn’t mind. It felt soothing to concentrate on someone else’s pain, even if it so closely hinged upon my own.

“You can’t blame yourself.”

“Then who should I blame?”

I know she didn’t mean to point fingers when the accusation came out of her mouth. The question had been raised before. Dr. Greene had assured us that leukemia was not a disease passed down to children, but I think we all could agree that some things were easier to believe than others. She was asking, I think, about her faith.

“Looking for answers distorts the truth,” I said. “It tricks you into believing you have some control over the situation. We’ll never be able to understand why bad things happen to good people, so don’t do this to yourself, Mrs. Sammler. Don’t punish yourself for things that are beyond your control.”

“How do you know all of this?” she asked me, seeing for the first time that I was a person and not some teenager who had a lapse in judgment. I couldn’t tell her that my husband once said the same thing to me, that my advice to her was easier to give away than to keep for myself.

The doors of the elevator opened, and we stepped out onto a floor that resembled a children’s playroom, not a hospital ward for terminally ill children. I was nervous for a dozen reasons, each one causing the steps in my daughter’s direction to falter. I was about to see her for the first time. It could very well be my last. The irony of it all would cause anyone to lose her footing.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“That’s a question I should be asking you.”

And then she did something wonderfully bold. She took my hand into hers.

Michelle was asleep when we reached her door. Mrs. Sammler poked her head in and found her clutching her favorite teddy bear, whose name I learned later was Benjamin Owen.

“Come take a look,” she said to me.

She led me into the room, and there I was, standing over her. This was my daughter, Michelle. My eyes took her in all at once, leaving little room for the tears that were forming. She was as beautiful as I’d remembered. The Sammlers had to have seen the resemblance. Maybe that was the reason they couldn’t look away when I first walked in the room. To see the adult version of their little girl had to be startling. Ari never resembled me as closely as this precious child did.

“She’s beautiful,” I spoke, feeling the tightness in my throat.

“She looks like you.”

“Thank you, but I was never as pretty as she is.”

“She’s a terrific kid,” she said. “You’d be very proud of her.”

“You’re the one that should be proud.”

“We are.”

You couldn’t miss the stacks of cards that filled the room, the hand-drawn artwork from her friends, the get-well wishes too serious for such a young girl. Mrs. Sammler adjusted the wires connected to some important-looking apparatus and then turned to me. “Take as much time as you need. I’m going to step outside to speak to one of the nurses.”

The door closed behind her, and I was alone with my daughter, Jonas’s child. She was a stunning eleven-year-old with long, golden hair, a tiny, perfect nose, and a heart-shaped freckle on her cheek. Resting peacefully under the covers, a narrow foot emerged from beneath the sheets, revealing toenails polished in pink. She didn’t look sick. To the contrary, everything about her looked alive and peaceful, with the exception of the tubes and wires that were connecting her to lifeless equipment. Her red lips forced what resembled a smile. I was grateful that her dreams were giving her the satisfaction that the real world could not. Did she know I was there? Did she dream I would come to her?

My fingers grazed the colorful toes as my mind shuffled through the years, resting on the only time I held her. I zoomed in on the memory and how my hands once dwarfed the tiny parts of her. They say it goes by fast, but this was a blink, the years in between nothing more than a blur. Her skin was cool, so I pulled the blanket over her and slipped the foot beneath.

I would have liked to have held her again. If I did, she would feel all the reasons I gave her up. She’d know how much I loved her, and how I would still do just about anything to save her. Instead, I watched her sleep, listened to her breathe.

Mrs. Sammler returned.

I said, “Thank you for letting me see her. I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s not easy for me, and I don’t even know her.”

“You’re a mother, and you know there’s nothing we wouldn’t do for the sake of our children.”

“True.”

Then she said, “Michelle doesn’t know she’s adopted,” and with a sigh, she took a seat next to me. “We wanted to tell her, we did, and we were waiting, always, for the right opportunity; and then she got sick and it didn’t seem right or fair to tell her just then. We thought it was best, under the circumstances, that she not be exposed to any further stress, especially emotional.”

I didn’t disagree, but I was skeptical. “If she sees me, she’ll know.”

“We’re not saying that we’ll never tell her. We just don’t want to tell her right now, until, unless, she gets better.”

“Mrs. Sammler…” I started, but I was interrupted by the sounds of the monitor, a succession of beeps that told us Michelle was awake. Had she heard the tension escalating around her?

We watched as her eyes began to open, a moment years in the making. I wasn’t sure what I would say. We moved toward her in unison, and when she saw her mother there, her face brightened and she smiled. Then she turned to me and asked pointedly, “Who are you?”

I stared back into the eyes that had haunted me for years.

“This is Jessica Tauber, Mich,” Mrs. Sammler said in a voice that signified their closeness. “She’s a friend of mine,” she added, looking at me for approval.

I heard myself say hello to her and ask how she was feeling, but I was having trouble focusing on her responses when I was so struck by her face. She was awake and real and eyeing me without a hint of the attachment we once shared. She had no idea she was the baby growing inside of me, the reminder of a desperate, loving moment. I could tell she bore no scars from that night, her face pure and kind. Neither of them saw it, but Jonas was there with us. He was floating around the room. My compulsion was to touch the freckle on her cheek.