The creative types wouldn’t start appearing until close to nine-thirty, some of them even later, some not at all. “I’m crashing at home today, Seth. Cover for me.” Seth retrieved the newspapers from outside the elevators and placed them on the coffee table. The Boston Globe, the Wall Street Journal, USA Today, the New York Times. The day was ready to begin.
He removed the lid from his Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and refreshed his personal e-mail page.
And there it was! The e-mail he’d been waiting for for weeks, the e-mail from the editor who’d first read and loved his novel at Knopf. Well, she was in early after all.
Hi, Seth.
I’ll get right to what you want to know. Unfortunately, the news is not good. At yesterday’s editorial meeting the committee decided to pass on The Dream Chasers. The feeling is that in this tough economic climate a first novel with a coming-of-age theme in a science fiction framework is too challenging for the average reader, even the literary reader that Knopf cultivates and treasures.
Everyone agreed—even Sonny Mehta—that your novel is strongly realized and a uniquely written and well-constructed piece. But I am certain those observations do little to assuage your disappointment in this outcome.
I know there is a very good publisher out there who will jump at the chance to take on this fine project. And we at Knopf look forward to seeing your future work.
I will call you in a few weeks, to see if you’re starting another project. And, Seth, please know that I share your disappointment in not moving forward with Dream Chasers.
Best always,
Mariana Gortensen, Editor
Hell, no, you don’t share my disappointment, Mariana. Not even close. But hell, yes, you’re right about something else: This does little to assuage my disappointment in this outcome!
Seth couldn’t help reading the e-mail a few more times. Once he committed it to memory he did the only thing that might calm him down and bring him a little peace.
He called Gaby. He got her in the classroom, and she still spent several minutes talking him down off the ledge. She told him that he was a very good writer—and she knew what made a good writer—that she loved him enormously, and that now he had to suck it up.
For some reason that helped Seth a lot.
Suck it up. That was his mom.
Chapter 14
“IT STINKS. NO, IT’S even worse than that,” said Gaby to Seth. She had taken her cell phone outside her classroom. She knew that this was a call she needed to take, and that she mustn’t cut poor Seth short. She believed in always treating her children with sympathy when they had a problem, but never lying to them. She wasn’t about to feed Seth some fantasy like “Oh, someone else will buy your novel” or “Just think of it as a bad bump along the road to a Pulitzer.”
“Yeah, it sucks,” he said. “It’s just that Mariana was so enthusiastic. Everybody was loving it, she was saying. Everybody…everybody was. Oh, what difference does it make?”
“Well, wait. It does make a difference, Seth. The editor liked it. Other people at Knopf liked it. She recommended they buy it. Other people agreed. It just got screwed up somehow. So let’s not give up hope immediately. Of course, I’ll never buy another book from Knopf.”
“Hold on a second, Mom,” he said. And then Gaby heard Seth say, “Go right on back, sir. He’s expecting you. You know where it is, fourth office on the left.” A pause. Then, “Mom? You still there?”
“Seth, don’t get blinded by your disappointment. Be disappointed. Cry a little. Yell a little. Drink a few martinis. Then suck it up.”
“I know, but it’s hard, Mom. I had so much hope riding on this one. How dumb,” he said, and Gaby thought she could her son’s voice cracking. She remembered what her own mother used to say: “A mother is only as happy as her unhappiest child.” She felt as if poor Seth were lying on his shield in front of her.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got an important receptionist’s job to do. And I will suck it up.”
“I love you, more than I love the goats, and you know how I feel about those goats,” Gaby said. “Remember, you’re my favorite son.”
“Mom. I’m your only son.”
They both laughed a small laugh, then said good-bye.
Seth glanced at the e-mail from Knopf one more time. Then he pressed the delete button. He would never buy a Knopf book again either.
Chapter 15
GABY’S THIRD VIDEO
IT’S TIME THAT I talked about and sang the praises of some wonderful men. They’re all willing to go along with this great mystery of mine, and have agreed that it’s time that Gaby did something for herself. At least that’s what they’re saying to my face. I’ve never cared much what people say behind my back.
You all know Jacob—whom I happen to know Claire has had a crush on since she was twelve or thirteen years old. At first I thought she wanted to convert to Judaism so she could have a bat mitzvah and get cool gifts like her friend Lauren. Then one day when she said, “Rabbi Jacob was jogging past our house this morning…and he looked so adorable in his running shorts,” I knew it wasn’t just about bat mitzvah gifts.
And, Claire, don’t bother to e-mail everyone and say it’s not true. I know it is…because he did look adorable in his running shorts. Jacob still looks adorable, better than ever. He’s also smart and sensitive and sensible. He’s also funny. I was standing with him at the Silverman wedding a couple weeks back when a woman, who shall remain nameless on these very public tapes, walked up and complained, “Rabbi, they’re serving shrimp.” Jacob nodded thoughtfully and said, “Hmm. Let’s hope they don’t enjoy it very much.”
Then there’s Tom Hayden, the Massachusetts Tom Hayden.
We’ll just ignore the fact that I once heard Tom say he’d rather “hang by my toes for a month” than ever get married again. But we won’t ignore the fact that he bears more than a passing resemblance to Brett Favre, whom, honestly, I used to admire more for his Wrangler commercials than his football-playing abilities. He was football—right? (Or wait, should that be is—maybe he’s unretired again?) Anyway, Tom Hayden. He teaches all the local kids not just how to play hockey, but how to love playing hockey. Tom also loves funny movies, and so do I. He takes me hiking and even canoeing. Did I mention that Tom is funny too? He must have a sense of humor to get into a canoe with me.
Hold on a sec. I’ve got company—maybe it’s Tom? Maybe his ears were burning? Maybe he wants to propose a second time?
Chapter 16
“AHA! CAUGHT YOU! Making a porno flick, I bet! Did I hear Tom’s name? Is he here? Is Tom Hayden the one, Gaby? Tom, are you in there? Is this a Restoration comedy? One of those amusing farces?”
“You scared the hell out of me, Stacey Lee,” Gaby said as she put away the video equipment in the corner of the den. “Will you ever learn to ring the doorbell?”
“Doorbell? I figure I’m like family. Even closer than family,” Stacey Lee said. She and Gaby shared a hug. “You know, you should be sending me one of those family message DVDs.” She whispered in Gaby’s ear. “Who is it, Gaby? This is driving me crazy. I’ve been your best friend since first grade. Isn’t that worth anything?”
“Give it up, Stacey Lee. Come on, it’s time for our meeting in the barn,” Gaby said.
“I know that, sweetie. But let me ask you one more time: Do you really think it’s a good idea to have a wedding-planning meeting with so many people? Some of whom have proposed to you?”
“It’s six people, Stacey Lee. Just the volunteers from the Barn Breakfast group. You. Me. And the boys.”
“The problem remains—no one knows who you’re marrying.”
“That’s not true,” said Gaby. “I know. And the others have agreed to let this play out the way I want it to, the way I need it to. They want all the kids home for Christmas too. And they respect my wishes, my style. Always have. That’s part of the package with me.”
Stacey Lee threw her arms up in the air. It was clear to G
aby that she was actually enjoying the drama too. She just wanted to read the last page of the mystery before anyone else did.
“Everyone will find out Christmas Day. My family. My friends. The goats and the hens. Meanwhile we have to plan a wedding party.”
“Have you got an extra sweater? It’s suddenly gotten so cold. It actually feels like snow,” Stacey Lee said.
“Oh, toughen up. I’ll keep you warm,” Gaby said, putting her arm around Stacey Lee. Together they walked out to the barn. Gaby said not another word about the suitors and, out of respect and love, neither did Stacey Lee.
Chapter 17
“AH, THE BEAUTIFUL bride and the equally beautiful matron of honor,” Tom said as Gaby and Stacey Lee sauntered into the barn. For an ex–hockey player, he had a nice way with words.
“You mean the attractive but matronly matron of honor,” Stacey Lee said.
“If every woman looked like you, no one would mind growing a day older,” said Marty. He was competing with Tom, or at least messing with his head.
“You always were my favorite Summerhill,” Stacey Lee said and grinned. Everyone in the room had been friends for years. Decades, in some cases. Not only did they put up with Gaby, she was the flame they fluttered around like moths.
The men in question were seated at one of the rustic wood tables. Gaby and Stacey Lee joined them.
“I have exactly one hour before I have to teach a Hebrew class,” said Jacob. “I don’t particularly like this group of kids. If it’s possible, they’re even more self-involved than their parents. But I have to teach them as if they were my own children, of course.”
“And I’m on O.B. call,” said Kurt Henley the veterinarian, who was just about the only man in town who hadn’t asked for Gaby’s hand in marriage. “Diabetic sow about to give birth.” Kurt took his cell phone from his pocket and put it on the table. “In case she calls.”
Gaby looked at them all for a moment. Not only was this a group of very good men, it was a group of very good-looking men.
Tom was in faded jeans, a long-sleeved gray Henley (he always said “It’s just my winter undershirt”), a bright green-and-yellow flannel shirt. A few days of blond stubble topped off the look.
Then there was her brother-in-law, Marty. Gaby always saw the tiniest trace of Peter in Marty’s face. They were clearly brothers. Peter had been older and thinner and shorter, but not that much older and thinner and shorter. Then there was the voice. That New England r—a sound that always came out as ah.
And finally, Jacob. Her sweet, kind, mildly neurotic Jacob. He had his black suit on, a wrinkled white shirt with the top button open. Very hip, actually, very downtown Boston or New York. His jacket collar was casually flipped up on his neck, his beard trimmed neatly with just that little tuft under the lower lip.
“Well, I do appreciate you all taking the time to stop by. That a man would leave the side of a pregnant pig to help plan my wedding truly touches me,” Gaby said to Kurt, and she put her hand to her heart.
“You know,” said Kurt with a grin, “I’ve been thinking, Gaby, of maybe asking you—”
“Don’t you dare!” Gaby said with a laugh.
“Right, right. My wife would probably object…Maybe not.”
“So,” Gaby continued, “it’s Christmas and it’s a wedding, on the same day. I’ve already thought of all the predictable ideas, and I’ve already rejected them. That means no wedding cake in the shape of a Christmas tree. And definitely no Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus on top of the cake.”
Silence.
Tom, Marty, and Jacob looked straight ahead. Then they looked down at the old table. Then they looked at one another. They looked everywhere but at Gaby.
“Ideas?” Stacey Lee said.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Tom said. “This is nuts, Gaby.”
“My getting married is nuts?” asked Gaby with a tilt of her head.
“No. It’s great that you’re getting married,” Marty broke in. He got to his feet, pushed back his chair, and knocked it over in the process.
“Though it would be nice if you told us who you were marrying,” Jacob said.
“Yeah, that would be a good twist,” added Marty. “Surprise everybody in the middle of the story.”
“But that’s not what we’re talking about,” said Jacob. “Why would you get the three of us here to help you plan a wedding?”
Gaby stood up. “Why? I can give you the answer to that one. Because you’re my friends. All of you—and Stacey Lee—are my buddies. I know that’s a little unusual. But that’s the way it happened, and I don’t know about you, but I love it. Like that saying—I love you guys!”
“We love you, Gaby!” they all said, pretty much in unison. “And Stacey Lee too.”
“Otherwise, we wouldn’t put up with this goofy shit,” said Marty with a grin.
“Not for a minute!” said Jacob.
The laughter continued, and Gaby went to the refrigerator and removed two bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne. She filled plastic glasses with the good stuff, and then they all held their glasses high.
“To our beloved bride,” Marty shouted, “and God knows, she is beloved.”
“And to my friends,” Gaby said, “the best friends anywhere.”
“And to our groom,” Stacey Lee said. “Whoever the hell that might be.”
Chapter 18
LIZZIE, MIKE, AND TALLULAH
FIRST CAME MIKE’S headaches. Lizzie had said, “Oh, Mike, it’s probably just one of your sinus infections.” A week later, when the headaches hadn’t stopped, she told him that his store, Housatonic Hardware and Bait, could do without him for two hours while he went to see the doctor.
Mike put off making a doctor’s appointment, of course. He stopped complaining too. Then one night while he was changing a ceiling bulb in the kitchen he got dizzy and fell off a stepladder.
A week later, Mike reported, “Dr. Sassoon says my ears are fine. Says my pressure is on the low side. Maybe that’s why I’m getting the dizzy spells. He wants me to go to Pittsfield and get an RMI.”
Lizzie corrected him. “MRI,” she said. “It’s not an RMI, Mike. It’s called an MRI.”
Mike didn’t say anything more. He smiled at her. She smiled back. It was, she knew (and she didn’t know how she knew), the beginning of his memory confusion. Three days later Mike was diagnosed with a benign meningioma.
Benign. That was the word Lizzie hung on to. Benign, she thought. “Benign” means good. “Benign” means Mike will be okay. Even though the neurologist said, “It can grow. It can grow and it can choke the brain.”
Lizzie and Mike—and Gaby—began learning the language of brain cancer. Primary tumor, electron microscopy, hyperfractionated radiation therapy, anaplastic astrocytoma. They searched every website—medical, homeopathic, spiritual. They read the stories of others, focusing on the tales of survivors like the “miracle girl” from Austin, Texas, who stunned doctors as her tumor miraculously grew smaller. Gaby was there every step of the way, but she never interfered, never offered an opinion unless it was asked for.
Lizzie and Mike talked with Emily’s husband in New York, a neurological resident. Bart belonged to the generation that always insisted on the truth. “It could be a bad result,” Bart said. “It’s not a foregone conclusion, but the news is not great.”
When they hung up the phone Mike said, “What the hell does Bart know? He’s a kid—like Emily. He’s not even a real doctor yet.” Lizzie pretended to agree, but she knew that, like her sister Emily, Bart was a superstar. He knew plenty.
A few days later Lizzie noticed that the left side of Mike’s face had begun drooping—ever so slightly, but she noticed it all the same. So did Tallulah.
To Mike and Lizzie’s relief, and to nobody’s surprise, Gaby had put herself in charge of eight-year-old Tallulah. The grandmother and granddaughter had sleepovers and hikes with Tom through the Berkshires and visits to Kurt’s farm. They took a candy-making course with S
tacey Lee Saturday mornings at the culinary school in Springfield. And Uncle Marty came to visit at least every other day.
It was Gaby whom Tallulah decided to ask the question they all knew she would eventually ask: “Is my daddy going to die?” Gaby closed her eyes for a moment, and she thought about what she would want to know if she were an eight-year-old with a very sick dad. She’d want the truth. So Gaby gave her the truth, gently: “I don’t think he’s going to die. The doctors don’t think he’s going to die. But, sweetie, we can’t be sure yet. I won’t lie to you. We’ll just pray for the best, and we’ll wait and see. I’ll be right here with you.”
It was never hard for Gaby to tell the truth. But this time she hated every word that came out of her mouth. And later that night, as they ate too many of the chocolate-covered cherries they’d made that morning, Gaby and Tallulah held each other, and they both cried.
“You’re a brave, brave girl, Tula,” Gaby told her.
“I know,” said the little girl. “I got it from you.”
Chapter 19
TWO DAYS AFTER the diagnosis Mike had surgery at Mass. General in Boston. The operation was performed by Dr. Raj Soorgan, “a very big man” in neurosurgery whom Bart vouched for. Mike and Lizzie found some comfort in knowing he was a very big man, but they were smart enough to know that patients were always being operated on by very big men. And what difference did it make when there were so many very dead patients?
Mike spent nine hours that morning and afternoon on the table, under the knife.