Authors: Kerry Reichs
What You Wish For (35 page)
M
aryn was watching way too much television. Between waiting around the hospital or lying around her house, one always seemed to be on. She used to prefer riding or playing tennis during her free time, but these days, she was too tired to do anything else. Even reading a book wore her out.
She’d avoided the local news at all costs since the Prop 11 circus had begun, but it was on when she woke from her doze. It no longer surprised her to see Andy’s face, but she braced herself every time.
“ . . .
with regret that I withdraw from the race for City Council. After long conversations with my wife and my colleagues in the Democratic Party, I feel that my candidacy is counterproductive to the needs of the people of Santa Monica. Conservative extremists have used my personal life to distract from real issues of concern. I refuse to be used as a tool of distraction. My wife, Summer, has stood with me every step of the way, and is herself committed to the best interests of the community. Her character is unassailable and her commitment unchallenged. That is why I cede my candidacy to her, and return to life in the private sector, assured that the city will be in the most competent hands available.”
Andy smiled and stepped back from the podium, sweeping his arm wide to indicate his wife. Summer gave a beauty pageant wave and addressed the microphone.
“
This was a difficult decision for Andrew, but one I support. This family is committed to public service. While at this time, I’m better positioned to dedicate myself to public service, election of either of us will harness the energy of both. We look forward to serving you. As a City Council representative, the first thing I will do . . .”
Summer launched into a campaign speech, talking about homelessness, affordable housing, and public transportation. Maryn thought there was something different about her. She’d been Palin-ized. Her suit didn’t have the cosmetic-salesgirl quality of her weather-girl outfits, but it was more than spiffier threads. Summer seemed . . . happy. She was a natural at the podium, fired up with her speech. Maryn had never seen her so alight. Andy stood behind her, clapping. He looked relieved.
“I think those kids are going to make it,” Maryn murmured to herself.
She heard the lock turn. She’d given Wyatt a key.
“Is it four o’clock already?” He was taking her to her appointment.
“Your chariot awaits.” He came into the living room.
Maryn pointed to the screen. “Did you do that?”
“I swear, I didn’t.”
“Just checking.” It made her happy. Andy was finally doing something for himself.
“The nugget moved today,” she told him. “At first I thought I was having some kind of nervous attack, fluttering in my stomach. Then I realized it was my girl.” It had been transporting. Every milestone was a victory snatched from the greedy reaper. Maryn would get herself across the finish line, no matter what, but these little victories were protein boosts in a strenuous race.
“And how are you otherwise?”
“Bored. This morning I renamed my iPod the
Titanic
, so when I plug it into my computer it says, ‘The
Titanic
is Syncing.’ ”
“That’s bored,” Wyatt agreed. “We could go for a walk on the beach after your appointment.”
“We’ll see.” Maryn hadn’t told him about the dizzy spells, sudden and extreme, enveloping her in a swarm of ten thousand bees. She had a hard enough time when they happened in the kitchen. She didn’t want to risk one away from home.
“I’ll be in the lobby,” Wyatt said as he dropped her off. This meeting was at the hospital. There’d been a shift, the oncologist Dr. Gavin taking the helm from Dr. Singh. Their news was not good.
“The cancer is widespread and aggressive, Maryn. We’ve tried to wait as long as possible, but I believe it’s urgent you start treatment.”
“What kind of treatment?”
“A similar protocol to your first illness—chemotherapy and radiation.”
“And the baby?”
Dr. Singh answered, “There are interventions we can take, like sheltering the fetus during radiation and avoiding certain chemotherapy agents such as methotrexate.”
“Radiation therapy is known to increase the risk of birth defects. It’s only an option after I deliver,” Maryn said.
“Maryn, I’m afraid it can’t wait. It’s imperative that we commence treatment immediately. Frequent monitoring of the baby’s development will help us. Given the aggressive nature of your cancer, and the treatment needed, you should consider termination.” Her eyes were sad for Maryn.
“I’m not going to,” Maryn said. “I understand the consequences of my decision. However, I’m declining any treatment until the child is delivered.”
Dr. Gavin hesitated. “Several recent studies have found that using certain chemotherapy drugs during the second and third trimesters does not increase the risk of birth defects. Those are not the ideal prescription for your cancer, but we can substitute until the baby is born.”
“No treatment,” Maryn said.
“Maryn, the fetus is only twenty-two weeks. Waiting four months for treatment could be fatal. You can’t keep a child alive if you aren’t alive.”
That stopped Maryn. She didn’t expect to survive her cancer, but she’d be damned if the baby didn’t. “How early can I deliver safely?”
“It depends on the baby. Preemie survival rates have advanced miles in recent years, but they often require lengthy stays in the NICU, and depending on how early, may lead to long-term developmental issues.”
“What’s a reasonable minimum goal?”
“Healthy preemies have a 90 percent survival rate after twenty-six weeks,” Dr. Singh answered reluctantly. “And there’s some evidence that girls are slightly more likely to survive very early premature birth. Though they’ll have problems and need extensive treatment in the NICU.”
“Chicks are tough,” Maryn said. “Can we do anything to accelerate maturity?”
“We can treat the baby with steroids to speed up lung development.”
Maryn thought. “I’ll consider treatment at twenty-eight weeks. At that point, the baby could be ready.”
“You’d have to be admitted.”
Maryn blanched at the thought of an extended hospital stay. “Whatever it takes,” she said.
It was all about the nugget.
W
yatt must have dozed off in the wing chair because he woke to find Maryn looking at him fondly. She was so terribly thin, her rounded belly contrasting with her pale arms, like twigs protruding from a snowman. She was twenty-six weeks today. They had celebrated with cupcakes.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“How funny it is that I finally found the father of my children, but he’s neither the father nor mine. Who knew he’d be a friend?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m the father of your children, but I make an excellent godfather,” Wyatt said. “It’s the bow ties.”
“I want you to adopt the baby, Wyatt.”
Wyatt thought a gong had been struck by his ear. “What are you talking about?”
“I want you to raise this child.” She rested a hand on her belly. “She’s going to need a father.”
Wyatt exhaled. Of course. “Naturally, I’ll be there for you both.”
“Not for me, Wyatt. For her. I need you to be there because I won’t.”
The clanging reverberated again. “
You’re
going to raise that baby.”
“Maybe. But I have cancer, and I have it pretty bad. I need to know the nugget is in good hands. You’re the person I want to raise my little girl when I’m gone.”
“You’re twenty-six weeks now. You can get treatment.”
“I’m not going to do that,” she said. “I want to give her more time.”
“Maryn . . .” He scooted his chair to the bed.
“Wyatt, you are the most gentle, moral, and kind person I know. My daughter’s entering a world where she’s already been dealt a bad hand. Her father’s a petri dish, and her mother’s dead. I want her to know the power of redemption, of good, immediately. That’s you.”
Wyatt started crying. “Please stop.”
She took his hand. “Don’t be sad, Wyatt. I knew the risks and I chose this child. Now I choose you. With you as her dad, I know she’ll get a good education, have an excellent vocabulary, most certainly be served waffles, and very probably own an impressive collection of patent-leather Mary Janes.” She managed a smile. “We’re both getting what we wanted.”
“I don’t want this.”
“You don’t want it this way. But I know you’re going to be a great dad. If anything, I worry about you. She’ll have you twisted around her wee little finger.”
Wyatt couldn’t answer.
Her voice was steady, if soft. “If it’s okay with you, we should get married. That protects you from the School Board and speeds up the adoption. I’m going to carry her as long as possible, but it’s certain she’ll be premature, and we have no idea how well I’ll feel, so I’d like to name you my durable and medical power of attorney and the baby’s legal guardian.”
Wyatt could only nod. He’d been bringing her ice cream and magazines, and she’d been researching the nuances of in utero guardianship.
“Nugget is well provided for. I’ve left significant assets in a trust in her name. She may be the only girl in kindergarten who really gets a pony for her birthday. I’ll name you as the executor, with your consent.”
She kept asking his permission, and Wyatt was falling down the Maryn rabbit hole again and he didn’t know how to stop.
“I’m sure Andy will sign consent papers, and in exchange the rest of the eggs will be destroyed. There should be no challenges. If everything with the adoption isn’t finished . . .
before
. . . as my widower you should have no problem after.” She skated over her death as if it were red tape.
Wyatt had to pull it together. “I’m humbled.”
“I’m not giving you a gift, Wyatt. You’re giving me one. God cheated me with a bait and switch—I thought I had everything with this baby, but he had the sneaky cancer card up his sleeve. I’m diffusing my rage with thoughts of my little girl on her first day of school, or her first kiss, or falling in love. It’s a comfort to know she’ll be raised the way I want her to be, that she’ll be
wanted
.”
“What should I tell her, about us?”
“I’ll leave that to you. Once you figure out what kind of child she is, you’ll know the best answer for her.”
“Tell me everything you want.”
“What, like give her blocks instead of Barbies? I’m not going to saddle you with a bunch of rules. Let her be herself. We’ve both fantasized about things we’d do with our eventual children. You want to spend a summer RVing to all the national parks, while I saw myself taking her for her first manicure on her fifth birthday. Don’t burden yourself with my parent bucket list along with yours. It wouldn’t make sense.”
“She’s going to have so much of you in her. I want her to know you.”
“Teach her to ride horses. Read her my journals. I’m writing down everything I can think of, every memory, every thought, every embarrassing detail. First kiss, first prom, high school’s most horrifying moments, my worst haircut . . . same thing really. My political views, my thoughts on religion, our family tree, the choices that I made, advice I’d give her. I’m going to write her some letters, for milestones in her life, if that’s okay with you.”
“Okay with me?” Wyatt voiced disbelief. “This is your daughter. You could instruct me to enroll her in The School for People Who Hate the Name Wyatt and I’d do it.”
Maryn laughed. “I’d rather she attend an institution with a broader curriculum, but thanks. I want her to have a normal life. I don’t want her haunted by a spectral dead mom who keeps interrupting her life from the grave. But I think letters might be okay . . .” A crack of anguish cut Maryn’s face. Wyatt couldn’t imagine the pain of visualizing the life she’d never see.
“She’ll value those letters above any other gift. Even the pony.”
“Make sure she knows I didn’t die because of her.” Maryn became intense. “Pregnancy doesn’t cause cancer to recur. I got sick because it was coming back anyway. Delaying treatment didn’t cause my death either. We fight so hard to avoid death, or to make ourselves inexpendable through such heroics and accomplishments that death will hesitate to take us. Like dying is the worst thing. It isn’t. Not treating the cancer may have shortened my time line, but more isn’t better. I was going to have a long, painful illness before succumbing with nothing to show for it, or a shorter one that resulted in her. I hoped I’d beat the odds but, I didn’t die because of her. I get to live on through her.”
“She’ll know,” Wyatt promised.
“It makes it easier knowing she’ll have a loving home.”
Wyatt wiped his face. “Christ. We’re talking like you’re dead already. We shouldn’t do that.”
Maryn held his eyes. “Yes, we should.”
D
imple stared at the ringing phone for so long she almost missed the call. It wouldn’t be the first she’d skipped. She sighed as she hit Answer. She had to talk to Julian sometime, it might as well be when she was tired and bitchy.
“Hello, Julian.”
“Don’t you think it’s juvenile not to return my calls for a month?” His voice was taut.
I’ve been busy,” I said. “And before accusing me of playing the juvenile busy card, I really have been busy.”
He was silent for a moment. “I read in
Variety
that you’re replacing Jennifer Connelly in
Margot’s Chair
.”
“She had a scheduling conflict.”
“Don’t you have a scheduling conflict?”
Dimple wondered why they were having this conversation. “No. We’ll shoot over winter break from
Pulse
.”
“Won’t
the baby
create a scheduling conflict?” His voice rose.
Shock reverberated in my skull. Five people in the world knew my plans. Julian was not one of them.
“Were you going to tell me?” His anger burned through the phone.
My fingers were nerveless. I wanted to bury my head in downy pillows, relax every muscle, and let the phone and the voice fall away as I drifted off to sleep.
“Were you going to tell me?” Louder.
“Tell you what?” I managed. For god’s sake, I’d just walked in the door.
“WERE YOU GOING TO TELL ME THAT YOU’RE PREGNANT WITH MY BABY?”
he roared.
This time I felt delirious. I swayed.
“Oh my god,” I whispered.
The bellowing was replaced by startling quiet. “Oh my god,” he echoed. “You weren’t going to tell me.”
“Where did you get that idea?” I’d never noticed that crack in the ceiling. It looked like Hitchcock’s profile.
“You’ve avoided fifty calls. Why wouldn’t you tell me?” He sounded anguished.
“Who told you I was pregnant?”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ll be there for you. Whatever you need. You must know that.” He was urgent.
My throat closed. “Julian . . .”
“Anything,” he repeated, voice intense.
This disaster was spinning out of control. I had to pull it together. “We are not pregnant!” I yelled.
Silence. “We aren’t?” Hesitant.
“No.” Definitive.
Hurt. “Are you pregnant with someone else?”
“No!” I protested. “I mean. It’s not like that. I don’t know.” It was too confusing.
“What do you mean?” His voice was hard again. “It’s not horseshoes or hand grenades. You’re pregnant or you’re not.”
“I might be pregnant, I might not be pregnant. I was inseminated with donor sperm, which is none of your goddamned business.” Anger flared. “It’s insulting to insinuate that if I was pregnant with your child, I wouldn’t tell you. Apparently we misread each other’s characters woefully.”
That part hurt the most.
“That’s not true.” He sounded sad. “Maybe I wanted you to be pregnant more than I believed it. Maybe I needed so badly for you to talk to me my brain went crazy.”
Something jumped in me. I suppressed it. “That contradicts every aspect of our last conversation.”
“I didn’t say it made sense.” He paused. “I’ve had some time to untangle my head, Dimple.” I loved hearing my name in his voice.
“So have I.” I cut him off. I couldn’t do this. I still wanted him, but I had to keep my head straight.
“Julian.” I indulged in his name, like a toffee. “It’s difficult to separate fantasy from reality, especially in our business, but our fantasy is stupendous, and our reality sucks. When we’re good together, we’re fantastic. I loved you.” He drew in a sharp breath. “But when we’re bad, it’s wretched. You push hard. I give way. I want things you don’t, and compromise seems to be me suppressing those things to stay with you. It’s not good for me.”
“You said I was good for you.”
“You are, sometimes. You make me feel like the best version of myself. It’s like crack cocaine. It’s why I could stay together with you for a really long time.”
“But.”
I tried to think. “If you look up at night, you see stars, bright and shiny and memorable. If you bundle them all, the mass is iridescent, but puny compared to the rest. The stripped sky is large and dark. When you care about someone, the shiny moments steal your attention from the fact that the majority is dark.”
“That’s very dramatic.”
“You’re a good person, Julian, but it’s my belief that you won’t meet my needs and I’d be unhappy.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“I’m not willing to find out.” I thought of his clear eyes, the shape of his head. His capable hands. This was killing me. “Please don’t try to dissuade me.”
“I miss you.”
“It will pass.”
“You didn’t wait long to be sure, did you?” His tone was tired.
“You said you didn’t want kids. I had no reason to think you didn’t mean it. I want children, badly, and didn’t want a
Sophie’s Choice
between that and love. It made sense to end it early, before either choice caused wrenching loss.” I hadn’t escaped soon enough.
“And now you’re pregnant.”
“Maybe.”
“And a movie star.”
“Hardly. They needed a quick substitute, and shooting will wrap before I begin to show.
If
I’m pregnant. Who’d have thought?”
“Me,” he said.
I was quiet. “I owe you. It was probably the attention from
Cora
that brought me the part.”
“You don’t owe me. You deserve it. You deserve it all, Dimple.”
“You can’t have it all, Julian.”
“Apparently you can.”
“Be serious. A performance so wrenching you want to print it out in sepia, put it in a locket around your neck, and run through wheat fields with a parasol won’t transform my career at this point. I’ll get more invigorating projects, enjoy myself more, be invited to more parties, but offers will inexorably dwindle each year.”
“Because you have a kid.”
“Because I’m getting older. Pretending that’s not true is naive, and it isn’t just Hollywood. The sacrifices needed to work full steam ahead aren’t worth it to me. I love my job, but I’m reconciled to being worse at it so I can be a mom.” Knowing it at last was so relaxing I wanted to sob.
“Seems like you’re giving up a lot.”
Listening to the timbre of his voice, I thought,
Yes, I am
.
“You can’t have it all,” I repeated. “But you can have enough.”
I didn’t think it was possible to be more exhausted, but I didn’t have an ounce of energy left when I disconnected. I walked into the living room.
“Ach. No good, you upset.”
My hovering mother led me to her worn gold couch.
“I’m sorry,
Mamu
,” I said. “I had to take that call.”
“No worry,
mīlotā
.” She fussed a blanket up over me, hand pausing briefly on my midsection. “What they say?”
For a minute I thought she meant Julian, but she meant the doctor.
“To rest. Not to do anything the rest of today. Tomorrow I can pretty much get back to normal.”
“Aye, me, a
vecamama.
” She smiled.
“Maybe.” I smiled back.
“Dickens need something to eat. You too. I make
kāposti roll
.”
I caught her hand. “You’re okay with this?”
“I no know.” She gave an exaggerated shrug. “My daughter, she fancy. Big movie star. Big baby. What you do?” She was teasing me.
“Big belly,” I said. “
Mamu
, what changed?”
She plucked the blanket. “I scared. I see you by self with baby, and I feel scared. When I am girl, this was not done. This was no good. So, I scared for you.”
I waited.
“Then, on news, there is plane crash. I feel afraid, decide no fly. Then I think of all places you no see if you no take plane. Is no way to live. God, he want you do things. To be scared, it say you no have faith in God.”
“Mother Teresa said, ‘I know God will not give me anything I can’t handle. I just wish that he didn’t trust me so much.’ ” I repeated my favorite quote.
“Faith means you be scared, you do anyway.” She shrugged again. “I want you happy. I see you no happy. Baby make you happy, okay. Things be hard, sure, but hard no stop happy.” She patted my hand. “Daughters, they make you happy.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“So,” she stood. “You make work. That’s life.”
She stopped at the doorway. “This man, it no work?”
I shook my head. “It was never about the man. I needed to find faith in myself, to
do
something.”
She laughed and shook her head. “You
do
something all right.”
“It doesn’t feel as dramatic as I thought,” I said.
“Is enough,”
Mamu
said. “Is enough.”
