The Summer of Good Intentions (29 page)

Dear Ms. Herington,

I painted this design for you because it's the Chinese symbol for Friendship. You're a best friend, a mentor, and like a mom to me. Thank you so much for everything you've done—without you, I wouldn't be on my way to college!

Love, Tamara

P.S. Come visit me at RISD! You can sleep on my floor!

Jess felt herself well up with emotion, then laughed when she read the postscript at the bottom. She propped the card up on the shelf behind her desk. Perhaps she would frame it. It was a good reminder of why she was in this job, even on the toughest, most frustrating days. She turned back to open a few of the colorful gift bags dotting her desk. There were an assortment of new mugs (always mugs!), framed pictures with students, summer scarves in cheery prints, and a beautiful Pandora bracelet with a small cupcake that made her smile. She'd shared a love of cupcakes with the president of the student council; this was the girl's token of appreciation. Jess wrapped the bracelet around her wrist and fastened the clasp.

It felt odd to be sitting at her desk now with the distance of a few weeks. Last she was here, she was rushing to finish everything she needed to before vacation: filing last-minute teacher evaluations; trying to confirm hires for next year; listening to teachers' concerns about everything from a lack of supplies to lack of parental involvement. At the time, she'd half listened, wondering if, when she returned to this place, her marriage would still be intact. A few weeks ago, she honestly couldn't say. But now, she felt as if she could look across her desk with fresh eyes. She was here because she believed in herself; and now she knew with certainty that her husband did, too.

On the morning that Arthur had set out for his walk, she'd been curled up against Tim in bed while he slept. She was looking out the window, thinking about how strange the past month had been. She'd gone from not wanting to share a room with her husband to wanting him by her side all the time. It was a little like noticing the boy you thought was a nerd sophomore year returning in September, tanned, no longer wearing glasses, and suddenly a catch for junior year. The summer sun, the long conversations they'd had since that day on the beach, had all worked to melt the icy ball that had formed between them during the past year.

It wasn't perfect, but it wasn't awful either. They were drifting on calmer seas. Even Grace and Teddy seemed to have noticed.

Tim forgave her, and so how could she not forgive him? They'd both strayed from their marriage, but they also both realized that they wanted it to work. Over the last days at the summer house, Tim conceded that he'd thrown himself into work, not wanting to face the troubles at home. He wanted to try harder, he said now, be more present in their marriage. And Jess acknowledged that the more Tim had insisted everything was fine between them, the more she'd retreated.

When they got back from the summer house, the first thing Jess had done was to toss every single Post-It pad into the trash. From now on, only talking was allowed.
D
o
n't think it, say it!
they joked, even though it was the complete opposite of what they counseled Grace and Teddy to do (
think before you say something you'll regret
).

Now she wanted to hold her husband, run her fingers through his hair. And that's what she'd been doing the morning Arthur set out for his daily walk on the beach. A knock on the bedroom door was the first inkling that something might be amiss. The night before, the sisters had discussed an intervention. They were worried. Worried Arthur wasn't safe living by himself up in the house in Maine. Even Gloria offered to chime in, wield her influence and convince him it was time to move closer to the girls. They wanted him to see a doctor to make sure everything was all right. They'd gone to bed that night with a game plan in hand: they'd approach Arthur after lunch. The trick would be not to alienate him. He could be so stubborn and might dig in his heels further, insisting he was perfectly fine living by himself.

But, of course, all those plans were derailed.

Jess's office line lit, and she picked up her desk phone. “Are you ready?”

She looked at the wall clock: 12:30 already. Lunchtime. “Yep, let's go,” she said to her husband, tossing another sheet of paper into the trash. They had a lunch date downtown. The significance of those three words twined together did not escape her. Jess rarely found time for lunch in her days, for dates in her life, or for downtown in general. The fact that she had all three scheduled on her calendar today made her feel unusually lucky.

She felt a stab of pride. She knew it was silly, but she and Tim had endured a lot. They'd earned every hard-won moment that they got together. If someone had asked her six months ago if she believed in reincarnation, she would have laughed. But now, she wasn't so sure. Her own marriage had undergone a metamorphosis. Second chances weren't necessarily second-rate. Sometimes, in fact, they could be quite wonderful. She grabbed her purse off the desk and went to meet her husband.

Virgie watched as one patient, then another was called into the warren of corridors unfolding behind a large beige door. She checked her watch. She'd been at the hospital for four hours already, wheeled in and out of an MRI. Her blood had been drawn from both arms and multiple veins. She'd postponed her appointment to the first week of August after they'd discovered Arthur's body on the beach. There was simply too much else to deal with. Now here she was, remembering her dad's advice that she should get checked out.

Maggie pumped her foot next to her, pretending to read a magazine, but Virgie knew her sister was as nervous as she was, if that was possible. She'd insisted on coming to the hospital and leaving the kids with a babysitter. When Virgie first met with the doctor this morning, explaining her symptoms, he'd asked her to do the Romberg test, which required her to walk along a straight line. “Isn't that what they do to catch drunk drivers?” she joked. “Yes,” he said. “But it's also a good test for general balance.” Virgie was surprised that when she tried to put one foot in front of the other, she wobbled off course several times. That got her heart racing.

“Virginia Herington?” a nurse dressed in light blue scrubs asked now, emerging from behind the door with a clipboard.

“Yes, here,” Virgie said and stood.

“I'm right behind you,” Maggie whispered.

“Hi, there. How you doing, honey?” The heavyset nurse, who had startling green eyes, smiled warmly at her.

“I guess I've had better days,” Virgie offered.

“You and me both, honey,” said the nurse. “Isn't that the truth?” They followed her down a long hallway lined with paintings of the sea to an office on the right, where Virgie had begun her day.

The nurse gestured them inside, saying, “Have a seat, ladies. Dr. Reynolds will be right with you.”

“Thank you.” Two leather chairs faced the desk, and she and Maggie settled into them, their skin making squeaky noises against the leather.

“Nice-looking family.” Maggie nodded to the pictures on the desk that showed Dr. Reynolds with his dark wavy hair and mustache, his wife with a blond pixie cut, and two beautiful girls. “That's a good sign.”

“Really?” Virgie asked. “How so?”

Maggie shrugged, then giggled nervously. “I have no idea. I just find it comforting that your doctor has such a beautiful family.”

At that moment, Dr. Reynolds walked in. “Hi, Virginia.”

“Hello.” She waited. She'd always been an intuitive person, and Virgie was confident she'd be able to tell if the news were good or bad by the intonation of his voice. But he sounded noncommittal. He nodded at Maggie and extended his hand. “You must be Virginia's sister.”

“Yes.” Maggie took his hand. “Nice to meet you. I'm Maggie.”

As he positioned himself in his chair, a manila folder in his hands, Virgie waited for the doctor to look at her. When he lifted his eyes and met her gaze, she knew.

“So, as you're aware, we've done some tests, and I think we have a pretty good idea of what's been going on with you lately.” He paused and pressed his fingers together.

“Yes? What is it?”

“Well, your guess about multiple sclerosis turns out to be a good one.”

Virgie let the words sink in. Multiple sclerosis. MS. Her great-grandmother had it. Now she did. Maggie reached across the space and squeezed her hand.

“I'm sorry. I know it's not the news you were hoping for,” he said quietly. Virgie shook her head.

“No,” she struggled to say. “Are you sure? Is there any chance it could be something else?”

He set down the folder on the desk and flipped it open. “I'm afraid we're pretty sure. As sure as you can get in the world of medicine, that is. Many of the symptoms you mentioned are indicative of MS. The tingling sensation, the fatigue, blurred vision, slurred words. That's why we did the MRI.” He paused, waiting for her to take it in.

Virgie thought back to all of the incidents that had begun to add up, like mile markers pointing the way to a final destination. Shortly before she left for vacation, her vision had gone blurry on the air one night, and she'd had to wing it, making up the introduction to her piece on a local Seattle bakery that baked only gluten-free goods. It unnerved her, not being able to read the teleprompter, but she chalked it up to fatigue and congratulated herself on making it through her segment. Then there had been the creepy-crawly feeling along her legs, the balance problem, and, of course, the night she'd blacked out on the bedroom floor.

“So, we performed the MRI,” Dr. Reynolds continued. She worked to focus on his words. “And the results . . .” His voice trailed off. “Well, see for yourself.” He scooted his chair over, close enough that Virgie could detect the scent of stale coffee on his breath. With a pen, he pointed to little white beads resembling a string of pearls that traveled along her brain. “If you look here and here along your corpus callosum,” he said, highlighting an area in white, “you'll see some lesions. These are typical for patients with multiple sclerosis.” He paused, waited. Virgie studied the picture before her. “
Sclerosis
means ‘scarring,' he explained. “In MS, the body's immune system attacks the coating that surrounds the nerves and then scar tissue forms. When that happens, the nerves can miss signals or miscommunicate. Which explains the tingling or numbness you've been experiencing in your arms and legs.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, but she could feel herself fading.
Lesions. Scarring. Missed signals.
The world was slipping away from her.
Oh, no, not again,
she thought. And it just kept slipping and slipping until it was no longer there.

When Virgie came to, she was
lying on a table, a sheet of scratchy paper underneath her. A vaguely familiar face appeared by her side.

“There you are,” she said, as Virgie's eyes blinked open. “We were wondering when you'd come back to us.”

Virgie struggled to remember where she was. A doctor's room. What had happened right before she passed out? Oh, right.
MS
. The doctor had given her a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. She shut her eyes again. She didn't want to wake up. She wanted to go back to sleep, to dream until she could wake up in a world where she was healthy and Arthur still alive.

“Your sister's here,” said the woman, who Virgie now recognized as the kind nurse who'd shown them to the doctor's room earlier.

“Hi, honey.” Maggie's concerned face hovered above her. “Do you think you can try to sit up?” The nurse helped Virgie up and handed her a paper cup filled with water.

“Whoa,” she said, feeling suddenly queasy. She waited a minute, then took the cup and sipped. “That's better,” she said. “Thank you.” Virgie struggled to recall what the doctor had said about MS. Would she be okay?