What We Leave Behind (28 page)

“How are you feeling?” her mother asked.

“Good. How are you feeling?” She smiled.

“Are you cold? Do you want something to eat?” She took a pair of socks from a drawer and placed them on her feet.

“I’m fine, and I’m starving. Can we have a pizza delivered?”

“How about something healthy? Can I get you a turkey sandwich?”

“I can’t get any sicker,” she quipped.

Then Michelle Sammler turned her attention back to me. “My mother’s never mentioned you before.”

I delayed answering by pretending to cough.  Mrs. Sammler followed my cue.

“Remember when I worked for a few years when you started school?” she said.

“At the museum? Yes, you and all those terribly old people.”

“Well, we weren’t all terribly old. Jessica was there too, and we’ve kept in touch over the years.”

“You don’t really expect me to believe that, do you?” she asked as Mrs. Sammler and I stared at each other. “A bunch of fuddy-duddies worked at that museum.”

Her humor reminded me of being in the sixth grade again. I saw traces of myself in her sarcasm. I could only stare.

“Where’s my CD player?” she asked.

“I thought it was attached to your head,” Mrs. Sammler answered.

“Here it is,” I said, picking the portable player off a nearby chair and handing it to Michelle. I’d been a passive audience, watching their exchange.

“Thanks,” she said, staring deeper into my eyes than I’d expected, hurling me to the forefront of the stage.

“What are you listening to?” I asked.

“What doesn’t she listen to?” Mrs. Sammler laughed. “She’s a music junkie.”

I smiled, and Michelle answered, “It’s
Two Rooms: Celebrating the Songs of Elton John and Bernie Taupin
. It’s awesome, one of my favorites.”

“I met them, you know?”

“Really?”

And wanting nothing more than to share my dreams with her and the career she would have idolized, I remembered my role here and began a different explanation. “Yes, really, they came into the museum one afternoon together for some kind of meeting. They were scouting out venues for a party.”

It had really been at the Grammys. Marty and I had stayed away that year reveling in our pre-matrimonial bliss.  Later in the evening, we had met up with some friends and artists at the after-parties. I think I even shook Elton’s hand that night without thinking of the past. Now, here he was again, completing the circle.

“Do you still work there?”

“Yes, I’m still working there. We miss your mom, though.”

Mrs. Sammler’s gaze thanked me for abiding by her story. I could tell she found my tale as interesting as her daughter. And then, just as casually as she discussed her favorite music, Michelle asked, “Have they found a match for me, Mom?”

I looked up, about to respond.

“They’re working on it,” Mrs. Sammler answered, brushing Michelle’s hair, seeing to it that it fell softly around her face, the face that Jonas and I had created. “You’re on the donor list, and first we have to do another round of chemo. This is a process. It’s going to take some time.”

Michelle put her earphones over her ears and dismissed us. It must have been easy for her to shut the world out that way. I looked at my watch. It was just after eleven. I wanted to try him again, becoming increasingly anxious with every minute that passed. I didn’t want to postpone this any longer.

“I think I’ll leave you two alone now,” I said, grabbing my purse from off the chair. To Mrs. Sammler, I said, “Thank you for letting me see her.” This good-bye was much harder than the first. “I’d like it if you could call me and let me know how she’s doing. You have my cell phone number.”

“You don’t have to go, Jessica,” she said. “You don’t need to leave New York so quickly. Michelle needs love around her.”

I thought about how hard those words must have been for her and thanked her. She looked like she wanted to give me something else.

When I searched for Michelle’s eyes, they were closed, sealing her off from us. “She’ll be asleep in a few minutes,” she said. “The music always puts her to sleep.”

I held onto this thought so I wouldn’t cry. “Good-bye, Mrs. Sammler.”

And she didn’t offer me her hand, just said, “My name is Jill. Call me Jill.”

Standing before the complex that Jonas had probably walked through hundreds of times, my instincts signaled me to run. Thirteen years ago, I hadn’t wanted to burden him with a child; now, not only was I burdening him with the news, but with the gravity that we could lose her.

I stared at the intimidating structure that made up the cluster of hospitals and care facilities throughout Boston. Jonas was a grown-up, living in a highly sophisticated world. He had fulfilled his goal of becoming an important pathologist, a huge leap beyond our discussions on the physics of farts, and the memory of our talks made me smile. With my coat pulled tightly around me for the extra support, I stepped inside the glass doors that read BrinkerHarte, the renowned pathology lab for Boston’s leading hospital.

The building housed several labs and a bustling staff. I approached the receptionist’s desk, gave her my name, and asked for Dr. Levy. She proceeded to call the office and relayed the same message as the day before. “Dr. Levy is in a seminar. Was the doctor expecting you?” she asked.

“No, I’m in from Los Angeles. It’s urgent that I speak with him. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

The receptionist eyed me strangely. Within five minutes, I was being escorted through the tumult of lab equipment to an obscure office. There were files all over the place—on the floor, on top of each other, leaning up against the walls. Somewhere, beneath the chaos, was a chair and a desk.

“Excuse the mess,” she said. “Believe it or not, we know where everything is. Just have a seat, and someone will be right in.”

She closed the door behind her. I was left alone with my nervousness until I heard his voice, almost unrecognizable, say, “Ms. Parker, how can I help you?”

My body began to slowly turn to face Jonas when he repeated again, “Ms. Parker?”

His formality perplexed me.  I willed myself to look, and when I did, the breath I’d been holding in streamed out. To a man who wasn’t Jonas, I exhaled, “You’re not Dr. Levy.”

“Yes, my niece isn’t here right now, and the gal at the front said this was important. I’m Dr. Cohen, is there anything I can help you with?”

“I meant Jonas, Jonas Levy,” I said, about to clobber the tall, clumsy man with the shrilly voice I mistook for Jonas’s. He had a receding hairline so precise it could have been painted on with a stencil, and thick, black glasses that overtook his whole face. An image of the absentminded professor came to mind.

“Jonas doesn’t work here,” he said. “Emily’s the only Levy on staff.” He said all this while observing me closely, unclear as to why a woman would need his niece’s husband so urgently. I wondered if Mr. Magoo would be able to help me with my escapade, but thought better than to get the funny man involved.

I said, “I thought he worked here. When I called information for Dr. Levy…” but I stopped myself midsentence when I discovered my mistake. “It was all he talked about back then.”

“How do you know my Jonas?” he asked.

“We were friends in LA when his father was in the hospital. My mom worked there. I did too.” I would spare him the throw-up story.

“You knew Adam?” he asked.

“Didn’t everyone?”

He was still standing before me, sizing me up like a science experiment he wanted to fling under his microscope.

“You must have lost touch with him.”

“Nineteen eighty-eight,” I said, knowing the year indelibly by heart. “Is he alright?”

We exchanged worried glances. “Jonas is fine, Ms. Parker, but he’s no pathologist.”

“He’s not?”

For this, he took off the glasses. “He changed his specialty. Damn near broke my heart.”

“Then we have something in common,” I whispered, unable to stop myself.

“What’s that?” he asked, returning the glasses to their perch. I could swear he could see through me with them.

“Nothing,” I muttered. “You must have been very disappointed.”

“I was, for selfish reasons, but I wouldn’t argue with Jonas’s logic. He’s a smart man, and he didn’t enjoy it like the rest of us. Just look at him. A guy like that was made for human contact, the interaction with patients. Jonas has always been that way, always touching people’s lives. People like me stay behind the scene.”

I was starting to feel sorry for Magoo. “I remember that about him.”

He started to say something else when the door swung open and an attractive woman burst through. “I just got in from the USCAP meetings. You need to read this article in the journal about hepatitis C and hemochromatosis gene mutation.”  Shoving the papers at Magoo, she continued with no indication that she was interrupting.  “We have to incorporate it into the iron labs that Rick is working on. They’re onto something.  This could be huge.”

“Have a seat,” he beckoned to me, as I sat on the lone chair, sipping from a cup of water.

The woman managed a limited glance in my direction, remaining focused on her discovery. Dr. Cohen read through the article and sifted through another file while she leaned over his shoulder. Offering an opinion, he handed her back the papers and she turned to leave.

“Thank you, Em,” he said, “nice work, as usual.” She smiled and closed the door behind her. It was then I felt the glass of water slip through my fingers and onto the floor.

Without missing a beat, Dr. Cohen called for somebody to assist with the floor, but I was right there, picking up shards in my bare hands.

“Ouch,” I said, feeling the thin glass slip through my skin.

“Let me see that,” he said, taking my left hand into his, eyes stopping on the finger that housed my diamond wedding band. “That’s a beauty,” he said, and I didn’t know if he meant the ring or the glass wedged in my finger. He pulled a tweezer-like apparatus out of his pocket and tugged on it, enjoying himself in a quirky, methodical way. “I take it you hadn’t met Emily before.”

“No. I saw a picture once. She looks different than I remembered.” Or maybe I simply hadn’t wanted to remember.

“There, that should do it,” he said, and then he wrapped my finger with a bandage from a nearby cabinet, patting my fingers with his own.

“Thank you,” I said, noting the tender way in which he took care of my wound. The mess, although gone from our sight, was still hovering in the air around us. “What’s so important? Is Jonas in any trouble?” he asked.

If only our kind of trouble could be tended to with a topical and reassuring hand. “No,” I said, but he was scribbling something on a piece of paper; when he handed it over, he said, “This is where you can reach him, but please, I’ve never seen you before in my life.”

I looked up at my latest ally and thanked him. “I really appreciate this, Dr. Cohen.”

“You’re welcome, Ms. Parker,” he said, and he stood up to lead me out of the building.

“Good luck,” he said, as if he knew my mission required it.

I whispered back, “I think any patient would be lucky to have you for a doctor.”

He smiled and thanked me shyly. I walked off with the piece of paper burning a hole in my hand.

The next morning I flagged a cab to New York Memorial Hospital. Instead of climbing the stairs to Michelle’s floor, I walked through the main entry foyer and passed through to the medical building adjacent to the hospital. When I found the name I was looking for on the directory, I headed toward the elevators and pushed the number twelve, taking a second to catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror as the elevator doors closed before me.

Maybe I had read the words wrong. Maybe I was seeing things I wanted to be there but weren’t. My jittery fingers pulled the tattered paper out of my pocket.
Dr. Jonas Levy, NY Memorial Hospital Professional Building, Pediatrics
.

The doors opened, and I searched the walls for Jonas’s office number. Was it possible he had at some point passed Michelle in the hallway?

“Can I help you?”

I stuffed the paper back in my pocket and turned to the woman behind the desk in the crowded office. “I’m looking for Dr. Levy, please. Dr. Jonas Levy,” I corrected myself.

“Do you have an appointment?”

I almost said
do I look like I need a pediatrician?
“No, I’m an old friend and was visiting a patient in the hospital and saw his name on the directory.”

“He’s finishing rounds in the hospital. He’ll be back in a few minutes, if you’d like to have a seat.”

I scanned the parade of boys and girls hurling toys across the floor and asked, “Can I use your bathroom?”

“Here’s the key to the one down the hall,” she said. “It’s a lot cleaner.”

I took the key and thanked her, leaving the sounds of children behind me.

The circumstance was exhausting me. My arms and legs dragged far behind my brain’s determination. I had spent the last two days so close to him, we might easily have run into each other. He was here, saving people’s lives, unaware of the fact that his daughter was in need of the very thing he had to offer. At the same time, I couldn’t help but feel honored and prideful that he had listened to my advice all those years ago.

Stepping out of the bathroom, my cell phone rang. Like a vacuum cleaner, it slurped the clutter out of my head, forcing me to concentrate on the voice of my precious son.

“Hi, Mommy.”

“Hi, Ari! What are you doing?”

He mumbled something that resembled “cookie” and “Gammy,” the name he uses for Grandma, and I said, “Are you having fun with Grandma? Mommy loves you, sweetie. Mommy will be home real soon. Big kiss, big hug.” And then the phone clicked as my little boy hung up on me.  As I began to dial my home, a voice from behind me said, “I told you you’d make a beautiful mother.”

My body stiffened.  The voice was unmistakable.  I didn’t know if I had the energy to turn and look at him. One single step, and Jonas Levy would be in front of me.

“Grace, it’s you, isn’t it?” His voice came closer.

I stared at the door to his office, searching the dark wood for something to concentrate on other than him.