What We Leave Behind (26 page)

We were standing there up against that car when he helped me into the back. Facing each other, he didn’t kiss me this time. He just took his two hands and lifted my top off over my head. My first reaction was to hide myself from him, but I couldn’t because he was already starting to unbutton my jeans. And it wasn’t like the movies. They didn’t just peel off me and drop to the floor. We were sitting, so I had to lie back while he attempted, gracefully, to pull them down. All the while, I was holding up my underpants to afford myself some small token of decency. It was intimate and personal and awkward, but I loved his hands running down my legs. I loved how they were warm and somewhat sweaty.

There I was in the back of his car, no bra, with an inch of fabric separating us. He touched my shoulders, tracing their shape, and then he touched my breasts, cupping them in his hand. I watched him, knowing exactly what he was doing, memorizing every detail.

“No one’s ever looked at me the way you do,” he said, his finger tracing my nipple. “Your eyes…they’re hard to turn away from.”

“Is that bad?” I asked.

“No, it’s not bad,” he said, pulling me near to him, straddling my legs around him.

He lifted his shirt and then took off his jeans. He’d done this before. He did it a lot better than I ever could. He leaned into me, my legs holding tightly around him, and he kissed me, this time his hands touching me, tugging at my panties until they slipped off in one single motion. That’s when his fingers found me, slipping inside smooth and gentle. I was as embarrassed as I was turned on.

He lay me down beside him, kneeling before me, watching me there in the darkness.

“Is this the way you thought it would be?” I asked.

“Better,” he said, tenderly touching my body, stroking my arm, my belly. “You were wrong about us not being good together.”

I nodded, reaching for him to come closer, sure that if my mouth opened, an overflow of words would tumble out.

He resisted me, saying, “I just want to look at you a little longer, Jess. You look so pretty in this light, your body…”

And when he leaned toward me, his grip was more powerful, his kisses more hurried. Finding my breast, he kissed my nipple, touching, tasting, teasing it with his tongue. My back arched at his touch, and my fingers reached for his head, tugging at his hair. He found the wetness again, lightly teasing, until I couldn’t stand it any more, so I reached for his hand, guiding him, urging him to probe deeper inside, begging him not to stop. But he enjoyed teasing me, he always had. I could barely compose the noises that were escaping my mouth, wanting to feel more of him inside of me, but he’d only continued to tease, lightly touching and then stealing himself away. I remember thinking I needed something, but it’s not like I even knew what it was. I only knew that there was an ache where his fingers were, a throbbing that wanted more.
This
was what Katherine and Michael had wanted too. I reached for him, Ralph or whatever his name happened to be, and I felt the soft, smooth skin under my palm, knowing the effect I had on him by the way he writhed beneath my touch. I was just a girl, but I knew the tremendous power I held in my hand. I could make it so he would never forget this night, that he would be left with a want for me so insatiable, one night would never be enough.

I guess we both were left with something we would never forget.

It wasn’t long before he was on top of me, and we were staring into each other’s eyes. The wetness between my legs was now against his leg. I could feel him coming closer.

“What do you want, Jess?”

I could have rattled off a list of things, but only one thing came out of my mouth and it was, “You.”

He didn’t blink. He just entered me as Phil Collins sang “This Must Be Love” on the radio, and I knew I’d never forget what it felt like to have Jonas Levy inside me or what Phil meant when he said
words can only say so much
. I tried to turn my face so he wouldn’t see me wincing from the pain, but his hand reached for me, forcing me to stare him in the eyes.

“Look at me, Jess,” he breathed. “I want to remember your face right now. I want to close my eyes at night and see you there on my pillow wanting me like this, what you look like with me inside of you.”

“You’ve always been inside of me,” I said, taking his fingers in my own, pulling him closer.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he whispered, but it was too late, so I ignored him and the pain between my legs, because there was something else stirring inside of me that didn’t hurt at all. A tear found its way down my cheek. My legs held him tighter.

His mouth bit at mine just as his body seemed to shudder. I think I felt the waves that passed through him emanate from his body into mine. And just as he finished, my body seemed to ignite with something I’d felt before, a quivering that was building with each second. I heard myself cry out his name in the darkness, only now, for the first time, he was right there with me.

The pilot came on the loudspeaker. “Flight attendants, please prepare for arrival.” I gazed out the window, New York coming into view, the triumphant buildings in the skyline. I fastened my seatbelt tighter around my tummy and remembered the pregnancy.

Unlike the recent two, it was an easy one. The first couple of months, I was queasy and highly emotional, but I never threw up, not once. If I looked tired or sad, it was attributed to my broken heart, and the bump was conveniently concealed beneath my clothes. No one knew about my secret.

I was a walking contradiction. Inside of me, life was blooming, a new start, the beginning of endless possibility, and on the outside, the shell that cocooned the life was hardened, lifeless. I went to school each day, an under-functioning teenager, with an over-functioning belly. My height, fortunately, hid the secret well, and I dared not disclose my news with anyone until my mother found me sobbing in my room one afternoon. She knew, had suspected, like most devoted mothers would, and held me close in her arms while I cried. She was understandably broken up about this, but she resisted discipline and became my fiercest ally. Wasn’t the pregnancy punishment enough? She was the one who found me the trusted doctor. She was the one who explained my options. She was the one that eventually located the right adoption agency.

She never once asked me to say his name. She never asked how long we’d been having sex or any other detail. She wouldn’t have humiliated me like that, and after that first day of initial disappointment, she never let me see the dissatisfaction in her eyes. I was no longer alone. She assured me that we would be handling this matter
together
, as a family.

“Mom,” I said to her one afternoon, wanting to tell her I was sorry for the distress I’d caused her, but we were so attuned to one another, she cut me off before I could begin. “Don’t you dare apologize to me, young lady. With what you’re dealing with right now, I’d say you’ve learned a great lesson. I won’t shame either one of us with this conversation.”

I’d never known my mother to love me this way before. Even her flitting didn’t get on my nerves anymore. “You’re my child,” she said, “and I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you.”

“Thank you,” I mumbled.

“Don’t thank me, either,” she said, “just use protection next time.”

I almost laughed, but I didn’t dare. My mother had overcome great adversity in her life. Her strength overshadowed any sign of weakness. Not even her child having a child could make her come undone.

A day did not go by without my thinking of that little girl and how beautiful she looked when they took her away from me, all wrapped up in that pink blanket. I had grieved for her long after I had grieved for her father, and yet they were so undeniably connected to one another, I’d be forever connected to him. That is why I had such a difficult time for so long and why I couldn’t trust again, open my heart, for fear of losing all the people that I cared about. That was why a memory could take me back to him at any given moment—on her birthday, when I’d hear a song on the radio, when I’d breathe.

I stared out the window of the plane, relieved to see the ground below us. I asked myself why this was happening. Was this more punishment for my thoughts, or did it mean something else? The extent of the atmosphere made me believe that perhaps there really was a higher being who orchestrated our every move.

Before my car accident, I might have shared this with Marty, and we would have gotten through it together. Now we were separated by lies and the miles that buried them from view. I was alone, and the touch of the plane’s tires hitting the ground severed the ties between us even further.

I arrived at New York’s Memorial Hospital the following day for the meeting with David Stevens, the Sammlers, and Dr. Phillip Greene, head of pediatric oncology, and the one presiding over my daughter’s case. I had slept fitfully the night before, and by five I was wide awake; I headed out, not sure what to do with myself. I ended up at the hospital around seven. The parties involved were scheduled to meet at nine o’clock. Did I really think if I got to the hospital early, I would be able to see my daughter sleep?

I sat in the coffee shop while the hospital slowly came to life around me, remembering a time when the milieu transformed me too. When I headed to Dr. Greene’s office on the third floor, I was ushered into the stark white room by a plump, middle-aged woman. My daughter’s parents were going to be joining us. I was a mess inside, but I wore my distress beneath the layers of clothing I’d chosen for the occasion. They arrived shortly, apologizing for the delay, and were accompanied by a little man with a horrible toupee. His briefcase was larger than his body.

“There was terrible traffic on the Tappan Zee,” the pleasant-looking blonde woman said, as if she owed me some type of explanation. “Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she whispered, “for coming at all.”

The man, my daughter’s father, was less apologetic, eyeing me with cautious disregard before extending a casual smile.

“David Stevens,” the tiny man beside them said as he offered his hand. “I’m glad to see that you’re taking this as seriously as we are. Thank you for being here.” We all took our seats in the now-crowded office.

I watched them closely. The husband took his wife’s hand casually into his own. I admired the open display of affection.

Dr. Greene was a pleasant-looking man, probably in his early fifties. He seemed anxious to get right down to business, while I was busy appraising my daughter’s parents. Mrs. Sammler had these sad eyes I empathized with and understood. Just because I didn’t raise the sick girl didn’t mean that I was incapable of feeling strongly about her. I once believed I cared for her enough to give her the life I couldn’t. I loved her in deep, subtle ways, the ways that mothers experience when they nurture a child in their womb and watch it enter the world.

I had selfish reasons to be here, to save my child, but I also didn’t want another parent to lose what Marty and I had lost.

“You’re familiar with leukemia?” Dr. Greene began, directing his question my way.

“Probably not to the degree I need to understand it now.”

“Leukemia begins in the marrow of a cell and is characterized by the uncontrolled growth of developing marrow cells. There are two major classifications: myelogenous or lymphocytic, which refers to the type of cell involved. Of these two forms of leukemia, either can be acute or chronic, giving us four types of classified leukemia. Michelle has what we call acute lymphocytic leukemia, ALL for short.”

I nodded.

“ALL is the most common form of leukemia in children, accounting for eighty percent of the cases. In acute cases, we have a rapidly progressing disease. It begins with an accumulation of immature, functionless cells in the marrow and blood; the marrow eventually cannot produce enough normal red and white blood cells and platelets, causing anemia, and eventually, the inability of the body to fight off infection.”

My brain was processing the ugliness of this disease.

“Michelle was brought to us when she was eight. We treated her with chemotherapy, and she went into a normal remission. In the majority of cases, children whose cancer is in remission live long, healthy lives, but Michelle’s recent relapse indicates a more progressive and perhaps life-threatening form of the disease. Even with another course of treatment, the odds of a relapse are greater and her long-term survival rate is poor. In cases like this, we’ll do another round of chemotherapy and hope for an extended remission, but a bone marrow transplant is her best option.

“When Mr. and Mrs. Sammler initially told me Michelle was adopted, it was reasonable to say that our chances of either of them being a match were remote.”

I was buried in details that stretched from bad to worse. This is where David Stevens chimed in. “Ms. Parker, while California law prohibits a birth parent from looking for or contacting their child until they are eighteen, there are also such laws that protect the birth parent from being contacted by the child, and in this case, by the adoptive parents.

“Adoptive parents of a person younger than twenty-one can receive information on the birth parents if there is a medical necessity or extraordinary circumstances that justify the disclosure. We would all agree that this situation falls within the range of medical necessity and extraordinary circumstance.” He didn’t wait for my opinion. “The Sammlers were particularly concerned as to how you might interpret their phone call.”

I felt Mrs. Sammler’s eyes on me, studying me. She had to see the good in me, that I would never have fought for my privacy on this matter.

“What’s the likelihood that I’m a match?” I asked.

“It’s not that simple,” said Dr. Greene. “See, how it works, and I told the Sammlers this before they phoned you, a full-blood sibling, meaning a child created by you and the person that fathered Michelle, could be the match we’re looking for.”

I vaguely remembered Mr. Sammler asking if I had other children. If I had said yes, I meant Ari.

“She doesn’t have a blood sibling, a
full-blood
sibling.”