Sparrow Migrations (9 page)

Jackie answered on the fourth ring, her throaty voice triggering a cascade of longing in Brett.

“Hell-low?”

“It’s me. Brett. Can you talk?”

“Brett?” Jackie’s voice hushed. “For a minute. I just got Jimmy down for a nap. Patsy’s watching a
Dora
DVD.”

“How was your trip home?”

“Fine. Except Jim gave me hell about that fur coat. You were right.”

“Are you going to donate it?” Brett asked hopefully. The furrier in their hotel lobby had talked Jackie, who said her Southern blood was freezing in her veins, into what he swore was the deal of the century. Unlike Richard, Jackie’s husband, Jim, presided over a well-to-do congregation. Still, to Brett, spending four figures on a coat felt far more sinful than what they did twenty floors above the shop.

“I guess. I don’t have a place to wear it down here, anyway. But I sure did like how that fur felt.” She sighed. “So, what is it? I don’t have long.”

“Richard wants us to come to Charlotte. Our whole family.”

“What?” Jackie’s voice lost its ladylike Southern-ness when she was upset. “That’s impossible, Brett. Out of the question.”

“I know. But he’s insisting. He asked me about what I learned at the conference, what my next step was. I said I wanted to visit, come see your operation myself.”

“Well, why in the world did you say that?”

“I wasn’t thinking.” Stung, she hesitated. “Well, maybe I was. I do want to see you again.”

Jackie snorted. “On a family vacation?”

“Eventually I’ll convince him that it should only be me.”

“Brett, I don’t know. Even just you, it’s such a risk. I never imagined you comin’ to Charlotte.”

“I know. And I hate lying to my family about it. Especially Amanda.” Brett paused, then plunged ahead. “I don’t think I want to lie anymore.”

“Now, what in the world are you talking about? Patsy, honey, just a minute. Hang on. I’ve got to get to her.”

The phone clattered down. On what? A granite kitchen countertop? A desk, on top of Jackie’s calendar with reminders to pick up the dry cleaning and Pasty’s next checkup? An antique table in the foyer where Pastor and Mrs. Longwood met their guests? There was so much she didn’t know about Jackie. Except how she felt around her. She recalled standing on the deck of the ferry together. Except for a kid absorbed with whatever was on his headphones, they were alone outside and dared to hold hands momentarily. Feeling both bold and blessed, she vowed to herself she would hide no more. Then she’d gone home and done exactly that.

“I’m back. God bless DVDs.” Jackie laughed harshly. “Now tell me what you mean, you don’t want to lie anymore?”

“Just that. I’m tired of pretending. Tired of the pastor’s wife stuff—the sanctimony, the self-righteousness, the appearances. It’s not what I signed up for.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Richard and I met, back in college, we were both about social justice. About loving one another and forgiveness and telling the truth. But that’s all gone now. He doesn’t care about what I do with the food pantry, just that I look like I’m a supportive wife and don’t go over my budget. And if anyone else in our church knew about New York, they’d freeze me out so fast—”

“Exactly! Exactly! Me too, Brett. Jim, if he found out—” Jackie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “How can you even think about it?”

“I don’t care about those things anymore. Keeping up appearances. I don’t want my daughter to think I’m a hypocrite. I don’t want her to be one, either, blindly going along with all that self-righteousness.”

“Well, if that’s what you want to call it. I just call it making the best of things.”

“
‘The best of things?’ Really?” Brett felt like she had in the fur shop, trying to make Jackie see what a foolish extravagance the coat was. “Jackie, look at us. You’re trying to keep a secret from a four-year-old. I’m feeling guilty for talking to you in my own house. Doesn’t seem like the best of things to me.”

“That’s big talk, Brett. Easy on the phone. Hard in the real world.”

“Maybe.” She sighed, remembering again lying to Amanda’s face. Maybe she was more bravado than brave, and as exasperated with herself as with Jackie.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about the plane that crashed. Some of the people on my flight were rebooked from that one,” Jackie said. “I sat next to one man. He said the last thing he remembers was the pilot’s warning, just before they hit the water. ‘Brace for impact,’ the pilot said. He was convinced it was a sign from God.”

“The pilot giving instructions was really God?”

“I think that’s what he meant.”

“What was God telling him?”

“That choices matter. And life is short. When your time comes, all the choices you’ve made, your whole life long, will impact what happens next. So straighten out. Live a life you’ll be proud of.”

Divine retribution for earthly misdeeds. Christianity 101.

“So are you saying that it’s over?” Brett asked incredulously. She had thought the crash was a sign, too—a sign that they were meant to be together, their stolen extra day thwarting Jackie from boarding the ill-fated flight.
Sign, sign, everywhere a sign.
The line from the old song flashed in her head.
Do this, don’t do that, can’t you read the sign?
Then again, everyone on the flight wound up fine. What sign could she extract from that?

Sounding exasperated, Jackie sighed. “It doesn’t have to be. But we’re not college kids. We live in the real world. And you know as well as I do, that world doesn’t want us.” Her voice wobbled. “I can give you what I did. A few days here, a few days there. Maybe even here in Charlotte. If you came when Jim’s away.

“But no husband or daughter, Brett. I can’t take the risk. I won’t.”

“Good morning. Today is February 8, 2009, and this is T-Day. Transfer Day. You’re listening to NPR.”

Deborah blinked groggily. NPR? Why was Steve Inskeep announcing her transfer? She must be dreaming. But she was awake. Wasn’t she? She rolled over to look at the digital date, glowing green on the bedside clock. Indeed, it was T-day, February 8.

“Good morning.”

She started. Christopher stood in their bedroom door, bearing two cups of coffee.

“That was so weird. I don’t know if I was just dreaming or awake. Is that—”

“Decaf. Don’t worry.”

“Thanks.” Forgoing caffeine and alcohol and mayonnaise and sushi, as she had since the last appointment with Dr. Singh, often felt as arbitrary as a rain dance, rituals that only deluded her into thinking she had control. Still, she followed them faithfully. What if they were right?

Christopher sat on the bed next to her, his weight solid and comforting compared to the wispy, ephemeral hope she allowed herself: that this third time would, indeed, be the charm. “Don’t you have an early class?”

“I got Foster to cover it.” He smiled at her, then kissed her forehead.

“What’s that for?”

“Just because.” He shrugged. “Because this does feel like the right thing to do. Either way, we can move forward now. And I think we’re stronger for all we’ve gone through, too.”

“Really?” She should have been ecstatic. But instead, she felt only more guilt. She hadn’t told him about Helen.

It was a white lie—a lie of omission, she told herself. Since they had unwittingly accepted the risk—to both her and a baby—the first two cycles, nothing had really changed.

Deep in her soul, though, she knew she was rationalizing, knew Huntington’s would be the tipping point for Christopher, pushing the risk level to unacceptable, and banishing embryos E, F, and G to the rubber gloves of the researchers in their white lab coats. And as their mother, that was the one thing she could not allow.

“Really.” He stood. “Drink up and get dressed. You need a full bladder, remember?”

She gulped dutifully. It allowed for a clearer picture on the monitor. It sounded minor, but feeling like she might lose control was the worst part of the whole transfer process.

Gratitude and guilt blended and blurred the rest of the morning, as Christopher acted more devoted husband and prospective father than at either of the two previous transfers. He dropped her off at the clinic door, then went to park. As she filled out the boilerplate intake paperwork, Deborah’s conscience poked her again:
Changes in health history since your last visit
. She checked none.

Dr. Singh met them with the news that E, F, and G all survived the thaw in good condition.

“You’re quite sure you want to go with all three?” she asked again. Two, the standard protocol, were transferred in both previous cycles, in order to manage the risk of multiples.

Deborah nodded.

“All right. I’ll see you in there.”

On the ultrasound monitor, she watched as Dr. Singh moved the three tiny white blobs, one by one by one, into the bluish, warped triangular field that was her uterus. She tried to conjure up the maternal connection she felt when she had argued for this last try in the hotel room and in the car, but controlling the urge to run to the bathroom required all of her concentration.

Instead, her mind leapt randomly. Helen. Could her prognosis really be that bad? Work. Phillip was already ratcheting up the pressure, even though the law school campaign wouldn’t go public for six months. The scattered red and pink hearts on the assisting nurse’s scrubs. Was it special pre-Valentine’s Day attire, or did she wear it regularly?

As they wheeled her out of the procedure room she felt ambivalent, frustrated, and uncomfortably full—the cocktail of gratitude and guilt churning in her gut.

NINE

W
e’ve got an update this Valentine’s morning on the cause of the ‘Miracle on the Hudson,’ that plane that was ditched in the Hudson River last month, resulting in the safe evacuation of all one hundred fifty-five passengers and crew. Kimberly Jones is standing by in Washington. Kimberly?”

Brett caught the news update as she re-entered the kitchen with the sack of bird feed, now almost emptied into the feeder. She’d been so preoccupied lately she’d forgotten to fill it. They’d feast now, in her absence.

“Thanks, Bob. I’m here at an NTSB warehouse where the evidence from Flight 1549 is being collected. Investigators are telling us . . .”

She snapped off the TV. The story was more than a little foreboding two hours before the airport shuttle was due to pick her up for her trip to Charlotte, even without Jackie’s preachy seatmate echoing in her head.

She was going solo on the two-night, on-site, up-close, “bugs-on-a-windshield,” as Richard liked to say, tour of Jackie’s food pantry and mobile meal delivery operation.

Amanda’s being cast in the musical was a stroke of luck. Rehearsals meant the family trip just wouldn’t work, she explained to Richard, allowing just the right amount of disappointment into her tone. But on the bright side, she said, the trip would be more productive if her attention and time weren’t divided between family and food pantry.

Logical. Reasonable. Believable. But a complete lie, scheduled as the trip was to coincide with Jackie’s husband being out of town. Family and food pantry operations would be secondary, as they had been for the past month. The fallout included the empty bird feeder, a wrinkled pile of Richard’s Sunday shirts, and a cool distance from Amanda. Usually attuned to her daughter’s moods, Brett couldn’t read the reason, but it seemed to run deeper than disappointment over not going on a spring break trip.

She heard Amanda’s door close down the hall. Her daughter walked into the kitchen and opened the pantry without setting down her backpack.

“Take that off and stay a while,” Brett said, lamely. “I was going to make us omelettes.” She waved at the counter, where diced green pepper, onions, and ham stood in neat piles on the cutting board.

Amanda finished examining the shelves and emerged with a granola bar. She wrinkled her nose. “We always have those for dinner.” From the fruit bowl, she selected a banana. “Besides, Abby’s picking me up. We’re meeting to go over lines. I’ll just take these.”

“At least let me toast you a bagel. Lunch isn’t for almost five hours,” Brett said, glancing at the clock. “A banana won’t tide you over till then.”

“Mom, I’m sixteen, you know. If I wanted a bagel, I’d get it myself.” She set the bulging backpack on a kitchen stool.

Brett watched her tug the zipper, trying to close the backpack around her snacks. “Here, let me help you.” Abandoning the breakfast argument, she laid her hands over her daughter’s. Amanda jerked hers away.

“Amanda, sweetie, what is it?”

Amanda shook her head mutely and yanked the bag, zipper still gaping, off the stool.

“Look, I know you wanted to go on this trip during spring break. But that just didn’t work. With the play and all.”

“I don’t want you to go, either,” Amanda said abruptly. “You just got back from a trip, practically.”

“It’s just for two nights. I’ll be back Friday.”

“The last trip was supposed to be just two nights. Then it was three.”

“Just two this time. I promise.”

“Then a plane crashed.”

“Oh, Amanda. That was a flukey, crazy, thing. A one-in-a-million chance. I’ll be fine.”

“But I’m not!” Amanda’s words burst out of her mouth, hanging in the space in between them,
like in a comic strip bubble
, Brett thought. She stared at her daughter, silenced.

Abby’s horn honked. Startled, Brett started chattering, as madly as the sparrows gathering at the replenished feeder. “There’s Abby. Now please don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ll call you tonight, and I’ll see you on Friday. Love you.”

Ushered out the door, Amanda tried to quell her uncertainty and fear. To shut it away in a mental vault and barricade the door. To listen to Abby, who picked up the chatter where her mom left off. To believe that everything was fine. That it was no big deal to offer an omelette for breakfast—when most people ate them, after all—when it felt like her mother was trying to make up for something.

But she couldn’t quash the feeling that everything wasn’t fine, that something was in fact very wrong, something she couldn’t name or describe or explain except that it started the day her mom didn’t come home from New York.

Christopher consulted the Moosewood cookbook one more time, then closed it, satisfied. He’d followed the recipe to the letter. He’d prep the salad for his Valentine’s Day dinner now. It would all be ready when Deborah got home from work.

He piled the salad ingredients on the counter and began slicing, soothed by the rhythmic motion of the knife. He was jumpier than he remembered being during either of the other two-week waits. Deborah seemed nervous, too.

It was only reasonable, he supposed. The course of their lives would alter one way or the other, in seven days. And permanently. There were no embryos H or beyond.

But having a ready explanation didn’t make it any easier to weather this last limbo period. So Christopher turned to something he could control—cooking. His classes had ended early that day, and restaurants would be jammed on Valentine’s Day. Plus it felt like he owed Deborah. They’d had date nights every week since New York, and actually talked about the things they used to: current events, politics, campus gossip. Over one of the dinners, Michael Adams had texted that they got the grant. They’d toasted—she with sparkling water, he with a celebratory second beer—and he felt almost like the last two years had never happened. His wife was back to her old self. His professional life was peaking. And there was the possibility of fatherhood, too. That still felt surreal. Yet in an idle moment here and there, he’d caught himself imagining hiking with a child through Sapsucker Woods, the sanctuary that surrounded the Lab, teaching him how to observe and identify the flora and fauna, how to leave no trace.

For now, though, he needed fresh Parmesan for the salad. Where was the grater? The phone rang.

“Christopher? Hi. It’s Matt.”

“Matt.” Christopher hesitated a half second before he placed the voice as his brother-in-law’s. He could count on one hand the number of times they’d talked unattended by Deborah and Helen. “Good to hear from you. How’s life in Seattle?”

“We’re doing all right. As good as you can expect, I guess. The girls have been really pitching in. We’ve got another appointment at the university next week. I just hope Helen’s not too tired to keep it.”

“Mmm-hhhm.” Christopher mulled Matt’s statement idly.
The university.
Could Deborah’s nieces be old enough now to be making college visits? He hadn’t thought so, but he didn’t keep close track. Matt was talking again.

“So did you guys find anything out yet?”

“Not yet. We’re in the middle of the two-week wait. Should know by next Friday.”

There was a pause, then Matt started speaking just as he did.

“Shall I have Deborah call back when she gets home?” Christopher asked.

“Two weeks? We got our results in two days,” Matt said, sounding puzzled.

Another pause. Christopher spoke first. “I didn’t know you and Helen did in vitro.”

“Huh?” Matt sounded impatient. “I’m talking about Helen’s genetic tests.”

“Helen’s had genetic testing done? Why? Whatever for?” Deborah’s sister
was the epitome o
f health. The whole family was. Last year’s
holiday cards featured their smiling quartet bearing sequential running bibs from some local charity 10K.

Christopher heard Matt draw in a deep breath. “Because she was feeling like shit, that’s why. Didn’t Deborah tell you?”

Christopher frowned, feeling like his students sometimes looked: half a step behind his lecture, brows furrowed, shoulders hunched as they strained to see the projection screen, wishing they could catch up, but mostly trying not to fall further behind. “I don’t know anything. Is something wrong with Helen?”

“Wow.” Matt exhaled deeply. “She really didn’t. I just can’t—and you’ve gone another round with the IVF?”

“A week ago. Transferred our last three embryos.” Christopher felt panicky, like the freshman who realizes she’s now just one of a hundred and fifty high school valedictorians in the lecture hall. “What’s going on with Helen?”

“All right.” Matt’s voice took on a doctor-to-patient tone. “Helen’s been feeling like crap since last fall. She had a bunch of nonspecific symptoms. Fatigue was a big one. Achy muscles. She took a couple falls that banged her up. She went to her GP, who sent her to a specialist. He sent her to another, at the University of Washington. That doc recommended genetic testing.”

“And?” Tension laced Christopher’s voice.

“Helen tested positive for the gene that causes Huntington’s disease.” Matt paused. “It’s an inherited neurological disease that usually doesn’t show up until middle age. Muscle coordination goes first, then your mind. Most people eventually wind up needing round-the-clock care.” His voice shook. “There’s no cure, not even many treatment options.”

“I’m so sorry, Matt.” The words came automatically, but he meant them. There would be no more running bibs on the holiday cards. Life-altering news for a couple still in their forties. Like him and Deborah. His mind wound back to one word.

“You said inherited. Helen got—ahhh, acquired—this from their parents?”

“That’s what they tell us. We don’t know which one, though Helen thinks she remembers her dad getting a little shaky at the end, before the car accident.” Matt’s voice grew thoughtful. “Who knows. There never was a good explanation for that accident. Daylight, good weather. Maybe Mr. DeWitt had deteriorated more than anyone ever knew.”

“Is there . . . is there a chance Deborah would have inherited it, too?” Christopher asked.

“A Huntington’s-positive parent has a fifty-fifty chance of passing the gene on to a child,” Matt sounded like he was reciting. “So Hannah and Mariah are both at risk now, too.”

Fifty-fifty?
His wife had returned to her old self just in time to be threatened with losing it again? And if she were pregnant—He stopped himself.

“I’m so sorry, Matt.” Christopher repeated. “You said you have another appointment soon?”

“Yeah. Next week. I almost forgot, that’s why I called. Helen told her doc about Deborah. He knew a specialist on the East Coast. At Columbia. I’ve got his number if you want it.”

“Absolutely.” Christopher hung up and grabbed his keys, leaving the vegetables still on the counter, the door banging only slightly behind him but the realization hammering in his head: Deborah had deliberately deceived him.

In the sanctuary of his office, he Googled the name. William Hirsh, MD, head of the Huntington’s Disease Center of Excellence at Columbia since 1998. He oversaw five observational studies and three clinical trials. The site confirmed Matt’s statistics on the chance of inheriting the disease. He read further.

“An estimated ten percent of all HD patients do not know about HD in their family.”

Christopher tasted bitterness. What percentage knew and not only withheld the information from a spouse, he wondered, but went ahead with in vitro fertilization, putting another generation at risk?

His call to Hirsh’s office rang through to voice mail. It was after five. Damn. He needed information, craved data.

Christopher clicked back over to the symptoms list.
Difficulties with speech, swallowing, balance, walking.
Difficulties with speech? Deborah, who could talk a donor into doubling their intended donation? Deborah, who balanced everything on her plate and made it look easy?
Cognitive impairment. Psychiatric symptoms.
Deborah, whose sharp mind was what made her the most attractive woman he’d ever met?

A vision of Deborah in a wheelchair flashed into his mind. Her head lolled as she sipped from a straw he held to her lips. On the periphery of the vision, a faceless child screamed from a high chair for attention and food, too.

Dimly, he heard the rumble of the custodian’s rolling bucket down the hall, headed his way. The vision dissolved, but Christopher felt his own lunch rise in his throat.