Most Wanted (17 page)

“Hey, guys!” Christine entered the kitchen, dumped her purse, tote bag, keys, and phone next to the toaster oven, then went to her mother, who rose from her seat next to Christine's father, lifting her arms for a hug.

“Here's my girl, how are you feeling, honey?” Her mother gave her a big hug, then let her go, smiling at her. The former Georgina Maldonado, she was cute enough to be Homecoming Queen at Windsor High in her native Providence, R.I. They'd called her Gidget because she could have passed for the actress Sally Field, with her big, friendly smile, wide-set, warm brown eyes, and bouncy, dark brown hair, typically gathered into a girlish ponytail, even now.

“I feel good, okay, Mom. How are you?”

“We're good, good.” Her mother had turned sixty-five last week but had the energy of a much younger woman, and her smile was dazzling. She stayed trim by walking on her treadmill in the basement, but silvery-gray strands sprouted at her forehead, a sign of recent stress. It broke Christine's heart that just when her parents retired, her father had fallen ill and her mother had become his caregiver.

“Will you please lock the front door, from now on?”

“Nah, pssh.” Her mother waved her into the chair. “Sit down, get off your feet. You're always running around.”

“Mom, guess what, I'm finished with school.”

“Oh my, already?” Her mother pushed bangs from her eyes, surprised. “You okay to be leaving teaching? Or are you sad?”

“I'm okay.”

“I bet, I can't wait for the baby.”

“Me, neither.” Christine went around the side of the table to greet her father, though she wasn't sure he knew her. Sometimes he remembered her name, but she wasn't sure he knew she was his only child. He sat in his place next to her mother, behind a folded newspaper that he didn't read and a flowery paper plate that held a grilled cheese sandwich, cut into small squares. There was a plastic fork in his hand, though her mother had started feeding him to save time. She still had him hold the fork, giving him the dignity that his awful disease was determined to strip him of.

“Paul, Christine is here.” Her mother leaned over, smiling in his face to get his attention. “Christine's here to say hi to you. Look, it's Christine.”

“Hi, Dad, it's Christine.” Christine leaned close to her father, so close she could smell his breath. She used to think it was infantilizing to get right in his face, but they had learned it was finally necessary. She and her mother had attended a seminar at the hospital, as part of her support group for caregivers, where they had been taught the basics by an instructor who had not only a degree in social work but was taking care of her husband at home.

Now, don't ask factual questions like, “Did you eat yet?” Or, “Did you go to the doctor?” They don't remember the answer, and it could agitate them. Go with questions there's no right or wrong answer to. Something that doesn't elicit a fact. Try, “How are you feeling?” “Are you having a fun day?” “Would you like a glass of water?”

“Hi, Dad,” Christine said, smiling. “It's Christine, your daughter. How are you feeling? Are you having a fun day?”

“What?” her father said, his hooded brown eyes shifting upward, to her. His gaze was unfocused, and Christine wasn't sure he recognized her. He was only sixty-five, but the illness had aged him mercilessly, so that his forehead was more deeply lined and the folds from his aquiline nose to his fine lips more pronounced. The shape of his face was long, but his cheeks looked hollow. His bristled hair was cut close in a salt-and-pepper buzz cut, which her mother said would keep him cooler in summer but was really easier to help her shampoo him, in the shower.

“Dad, it's Christine, your daughter. Great to see you, Dad. I love you.”

“Christine?” His lips curved into a smile. His lips were dry. “Christine.”

“Right, Dad!” Christine leaned over, heartened, and kissed him on the cheek, which was slightly grizzly. He'd had a five o'clock shadow in his younger days and still did, though his beard came in gray, and her mother didn't bother shaving him again until the next morning.

“Honey,” her mother said, touching her arm. “Talk to him about the baby.”

“The baby is doing good, Dad,” Christine said, following her mother's cues.

“Honey, let him feel your belly again. He liked that the other day, he told me. He talked about it.”

“Really?” Christine felt her hope lift, another of the illness's cruel tricks. It was impossible to predict what would get through to her father and what wouldn't, and so she would try anything, only to reach him on Monday and have it fail on Wednesday. It was the connection to him that she missed to the depths of her soul, because she had been a Daddy's Girl from day one.

“Dad?” Christine picked up her father's free hand and placed it on her belly. “Dad, can you feel the baby? Do you want to feel the baby? There's a baby in there. Your grandbaby's on the way.”

“Christine, Christine,” her father repeated, leaving his hand against her belly and looking up at her with his warm smile. He'd taught Language Arts in the local high school, and she'd gotten her love of reading from him; and he used to take her to the library and got her hooked on the old English mysteries that were his favorite. His students called him Sherlock Holmes, and it killed Christine to think that his brilliant mind, as well as his gentle heart, were being eroded day by day. She felt as if she mourned him even while he was alive, hating that he didn't have their shared memories anymore, of trips to Lyman Orchards for the apple pie they both loved, or their annual pilgrimage to Gillette Castle, the East Haddam estate of William Gillette, the actor who had played Holmes on the stage. Christine tried to enjoy every day she had left with him, which was why she had come over tonight to visit them though she was exhausted. Because she didn't know how many days they had with him.

“Dad, hold on, I brought you something.” Christine went around the side of the table and got her purse. “Mom, wait'll you see this. Look.”

“What?” Her mother reached for her bright red reading glasses, which she called her Sally Jessy Raphael glasses though nobody knew who that was anymore. She even had her Hartford Whalers T-shirt on, though the Whalers had left in the nineties, which didn't matter to true fans like her parents.

“It's the baby's ultrasound, they gave me a picture.” Christine slid the photo from her purse, and her mother took it, her dark eyes lighting up.

“You had your ultrasound today? Great!”

“I saw the heart. It was great.” Christine pointed to the whitish figure eight in the photo, which was reasonably visible. “See, this is the baby, the head and body are about the same size.”

“Honey, I'm so happy for you!” Her mother beamed. “It's official now!”

“I know, I cried.”

“Of course you did!” Her mother laughed, her eyes shining, and handed her back the picture. “Show it to your dad.”

“Dad, this is the ultrasound, I had an ultrasound.” Christine brought it over to her father, holding it in front of his face. “The white parts are the baby. You can see—” She stopped short when she saw her father looking away. He'd turned his head, staring at the counter, which was cluttered with crossword puzzle books, newspapers, mail, bills, and brown plastic bottles that were his medications, neatly categorized in separate Ziploc bags by her mother.

“Dad?” Christine said, but she straightened up, letting it go and setting the photo aside. Another thing they had learned from the seminar was to take cues from the patient, and she had learned it the hard way.

Agitation, hostility, and even physically striking out are not unusual in the memory-impaired. Don't take it personally or let it hurt your feelings. Remind yourself that it's the illness talking, as if the person were inebriated, and you would say “it's the whiskey talking.” Learn to see the signs before hostility breaks out. Then, stop.

“Honey, you want a grilled cheese?” Her mother was already bustling to the stove, where the fry pan still sat on the grate.

“Okay, sure, thanks.”

“What did Marcus say when he saw the baby?”

“He couldn't go, he's out of town. Lauren went with me.”

“Oh, he'll be so sorry he missed that.” Her mother's voice still bore the distinctive Rhody accent, in the flattish O of “sorry.”

“Hold on, I brought another present, one for you.” Christine dug inside her tote bag and pulled out a new book, Dr. Seuss's
Which Pet Should I Get?
“Did you see this? There's a new Dr. Seuss book.”

“Oh my goodness! I didn't know that!” Her mother turned from the refrigerator and accepted the book, running her fingerpads over the smooth blue cover. “How did they do this? I mean, he's been dead for how long?”

“His wife found it and they published it. Isn't it great?”

“This is wonderful, honey.” Her mother opened the front cover, marveling. “What a treat! Dr. Seuss, it isn't just for kids.”

Christine smiled, remembering that was her father's mantra when she was growing up, that children's books weren't just for kids. Nutmeg Hill Elementary had plenty of Dr. Seuss in its library because Christine had bought the copies herself.

“Dad will
love
this.”

“I figured.” Christine nodded. These days, her mother read to her father at night, but mysteries had become too complex for him to follow. He'd grow agitated, unhappy, or simply fall asleep, so her mother had moved on to children's books, which he seemed to enjoy, perking up at the rhymes and pictures.

“Here, sit, let me make your sandwich,” her mother said, pressing her into a chair, and Christine sat down because it made her mother happy. While her mother cooked, they both talked about the last day of school, trading stories and comparing notes, occasionally trying to include her father, who nodded and smiled but eventually returned to staring at the medications on the counter. The kitchen had a southern exposure, so it was bright during the day, but it began to darken as the day wore on.

“Here, honey,” her mother said, putting the grilled cheese in front of her on a paper plate, with potato chips on the side, like she used to for playdates.

“Wow, yum, thanks.”

“You okay? You seem kinda sad.” Her mother sat down to her right, leaning on her forearm and looking at Christine dubiously. “Is it because you're leaving teaching? It has to be bothering you, just a little, I know.”

“A little, yes.” Christine felt grateful for the cover story. She picked up the half sandwich, cut in a neat triangle with the mustard on the top.

“God closes a door, and he opens a window.”

“Right.” Christine took a bite of her sandwich, which tasted delicious.

“And when the baby comes, there'll be so much to do.” Her mother's face lit up again. “That's really something to look forward to, isn't it?”

“Yes, it really is.”

Her mother leaned forward on her elbows. “Did the doctor say if it was going to be a boy or a girl? You can't tell yet, can you?”

“No, she didn't say.” Christine chewed her sandwich, eyeing her mother. “Mom, you really don't care if it's a boy or girl, do you?”

“No, I don't. Do you?”

“No, not really. I'm just excited about having a baby.”

“Me, too!” Her mother clasped her hands together, giving her little body a wiggle. “Can you imagine how much fun that will be? A little baby running around here? I think it will help your Dad, too, I really do.”

“It just might,” Christine said, noncommittal. She didn't want her mother to get her hopes up, and at some level, they both knew that Dad was never going to come back, even for a new baby. Neither of them needed a seminar to tell them that.

“Does Marcus still want a boy?”

Christine felt a twinge. Marcus still hadn't called or texted, and she hadn't either. She hated feeling so disconnected from him. Still, she couldn't tell him she was thinking about driving to Philadelphia to see Zachary Jeffcoat. “He never said he wanted a boy. He just says he wants a golf partner.”

“That means a boy.” Her mother rolled her eyes. “I wasn't born yesterday.”

“Girls play golf, Mom.”

“I can't imagine your husband playing golf with a woman. Does he play with any women now? No!” Her mother chuckled, and Christine joined her, because it was true.

“Mom, let me ask you a harder question. Does it really not matter to you that we used a donor?”

“It really doesn't matter to me at all,” her mother answered, easily.

“Is that because you know that the child is genetically mine? Or half-mine? Is that why?”

“No.” Her mother shrugged. “I didn't care if you adopted, I didn't care if you got a baby from China. I don't care if it's yours and not his, or his and not yours. You know why, honey?” Her mother paused, musing. “Because as I've gotten older, I've come to understand that there are very few things that are as big a deal as we think.
This
is what matters.” Her mother gestured to her father, then to her. “All I care about is around my kitchen table, and that's all I ever cared about. As long as we have each other, nothing else matters. And your baby, whether it's a boy or girl, or whatever it is, it's going to sit right here and we're gonna love it to
pieces
!”

Christine felt relief flooding back to her at her mother's words, and they talked some more, sitting at the kitchen table where they always had. It struck her that she couldn't have foreseen what would happen to her parents, or to her and Marcus, her father getting Alzheimer's and Marcus infertile, both men betrayed by their bodies. She never would have realized, until she'd lived it, how the ripple effects of those illnesses would change her and her family, for all time.