Handle With Care

  With a fork, she was attacking the edges of the cookies. 'Whoa. Who peed in your Cheerios?'

  'Well, what do you expect? You waltz in here and tell me I look like crap, and then you make me feel completely inadequate--'

  'You're a pastry chef, Charlotte. You could bake circles around - What on earth are you doing?'

  'Making them look homemade,' Charlotte said. 'Because I'm not a pastry chef, not anymore. Not for a long time.'

  When I'd first met Charlotte, she had just been named the finest pastry chef in New Hampshire. I'd actually read about her in a magazine that lauded her ability to take unlikely ingredients and come up with the most remarkable confections. She used to never come empty-handed to my house - she'd bring cupcakes with spun-sugar icing, pies with berries that burst like fireworks, puddings that acted like balms. Her souffles were as light as summer clouds; her chocolate fondant could wipe your mind clean of whatever obstacles had littered your day. She told me that, when she baked, she could feel herself coming back to center, that everything else fell away, and she remembered who she was supposed to be. I'd been jealous. I had a vocation - and I was a damn good doctor - but Charlotte had a calling. She dreamed of opening a patisserie, of writing her own bestselling cookbook. In fact, I never imagined she would find anything she loved more than baking, until you came along.

  I moved the platter away. 'Charlotte. Are you okay?'

  'Let's see. I was arrested last weekend; my daughter's in a body cast; I don't even have time to take a shower - yup, I'm just fantastic.' She turned to the doorway and the staircase upstairs. 'Amelia! Let's go!'

  'Emma's gone selectively deaf, too,' I said. 'I swear she ignores me on purpose. Yesterday, I asked her eight times to clear the kitchen counter--'

  'You know what,' Charlotte said wearily. 'I really don't care about the problems you're having with your daughter.'

  No sooner had my jaw dropped - I had always been Charlotte's confidante, not her punching bag - than she shook her head and apologized. 'I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I shouldn't be taking this out on you.'

  'It's okay,' I said.

  Just then the older girls clattered down the stairs and skidded past us in a flurry of whispers and giggles. I put my hand on Charlotte's arm. 'Just so you know,' I said firmly. 'You're the most devoted mother I've ever met. You've given up your whole life to take care of Willow.'

  She ducked her head and nodded before looking up at me. 'Do you remember her first ultrasound?'

  I thought for a second, and then I grinned. 'We saw her sucking her thumb. I didn't even have to point it out to you and Sean; it was clear as day.'

  'Right,' your mother repeated. 'Clear as day.'

  Charlotte

  March 2007

  W

  hat if it was someone's fault?

  The idea was just the germ of a seed, carried in the hollow beneath my breastbone when we left the law offices. Even when I was lying awake next to Sean, I heard it as a drumbeat in my blood: what if, what if, what if. For five years now I had loved you, hovered over you, held you when you had a break. I had gotten exactly what I so desperately wished for: a beautiful baby. So how could I admit to anyone - much less myself - that you were not only the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me . . . but also the most exhausting, the most overwhelming?

  I would listen to people complain about their kids being impolite or surly or even getting into trouble with the law, and I'd be jealous. When those kids turned eighteen, they'd be on their own, making their own mistakes and being held accountable. But you were not the kind of child I could let fly in the world. After all, what if you fell?

  And what would happen to you when I wasn't around to catch you anymore?

  After one week went by and then another, I began to realize that the law offices of Robert Ramirez were just as disgusted by a woman who would harbor these secret thoughts as I was. Instead, I threw myself into making you happy. I played Scrabble until I knew all the two-letter words by heart; I watched programs on Animal Planet until I had memorized the scripts. By now, your father had settled back into his work routine; Amelia had gone back to school.

  This morning, you and I were squeezed into the downstairs bathroom. I faced you, my arms under yours, balancing you over the toilet so that you could pee. 'The bags,' you said. 'They're getting in the way!'

  With one hand, I adjusted the trash bags that were wrapped around your legs while I grunted under the weight of you. It had taken a series of failed attempts to figure out how one went to the bathroom while wearing a spica cast - another little tidbit the doctors don't share. From parents on online forums I had learned to wedge plastic garbage bags under the lip of the cast where it had been left open, a liner of sorts so that the plaster edge would stay dry and clean. Needless to say, a trip to the bathroom for you took about thirty minutes, and after a few accidents, you'd gotten very good at predicting when you had to go, instead of waiting till the last minute.

  'Forty thousand people get hurt by toilets every year,' you said.

  I gritted my teeth. 'For God's sake, Willow, just concentrate before you make it forty thousand and one.'

  'Okay, I'm done.'

  With another balancing act, I passed you the roll of toilet tissue and let you reach between your legs. 'Good work,' I said, leaning down to flush and then gingerly backing out of the narrow bathroom door. But my sneaker caught on the edge of the rug, and I felt myself going down. I twisted so that I'd land first, so that my body would cushion your blow.

  I'm not sure which of us started to laugh first, and when the doorbell and phone rang simultaneously, we started to laugh even harder. Maybe I would change my message. Sorry, I can't come to the phone right now. I'm holding my daughter, in her fifty-pound cast, over the toilet bowl.

  I levered myself on my elbows, pulling you upright with me. The doorbell rang again, impatient. 'Coming,' I called out.

  'Mommy!' you screeched. 'My pants!'

  You were still half naked after our bathroom run, and getting you into your flannel pajama bottoms would be another ten-minute endeavor. Instead, I grabbed one of the trash bags still tucked into your cast and wrapped it around you like a black plastic skirt.

  On the front porch stood Mrs Dumbroski, one of the neighbors who lived down the road. She had twin grandsons your age, who had visited last year, stolen her glasses when she fell asleep, and set a pile of raked leaves on fire that would have spread to her garage if the mailman hadn't come by at just the right moment. 'Hello, dear,' Mrs Dumbroski said. 'I hope this isn't a bad time.'

  'Oh no,' I answered. 'We were just . . .' I looked at you, wearing the trash bag, and we both started to laugh again.

  'I was looking for my dish,' Mrs Dumbroski said.

  'Your dish?'

  'The one I baked the lasagna in. I do hope you've had a chance to enjoy it.'

  It must have been one of the meals that had been waiting for us on our return home from the hell that was Disney World. To be honest, we'd eaten only a few; the rest were getting freezer burn even as I stood there. There was only so much mac and cheese and lasagna and baked ziti that a human could stomach.

  It seemed to me that if you made a meal for someone who was sick, it was pretty cheeky to ask whether or not she'd finished it so you could have your Pyrex back.

  'How about I try to find the dish, Mrs Dumbroski, and have Sean drop it off at your house later?'

  Her lips pursed. 'Well,' she said, 'then I suppose I'll have to wait to make my tuna casserole.'

  For just a moment I entertained the thought of stuffing you into Mrs Dumbroski's chicken-wing arms and watching her totter under the weight of you while I went to the freezer, found her stupid lasagna, and threw it onto the ground at her feet - but instead I just smiled. 'Thanks for being so accommodating. I've got to get Willow down for a nap now,' I said, and I closed the door.

  'I don't take naps,' you said.

  'I know. I just said that to make her leave,
so I wouldn't kill her.' I twirled you into the living room and positioned a legion of pillows behind your back and under your knees, so that you could sit comfortably. Then I reached for your pajama bottoms and leaned over to tap the blinking button on the answering machine. 'Left leg first,' I said, sliding the wide waistband over your cast.

  You have one new message.

  I slipped your right leg into the pants and shimmied them over the plaster at your hips.

  Mr and Mrs O'Keefe . . . this is Marin Gates from the Law Offices of Robert Ramirez. We've got something we'd like to discuss with you.

  'Mom,' you whined as my hands stilled at your waist.

  I gathered the extra fabric into a knot. 'Yes,' I said, my heart racing. 'Almost done.'

  This time, Amelia was in school, but we still had to bring Willow to the lawyer's office. And this time, they were ready: beside the coffee machine were juice packs; next to the glossy architectural magazines was a small stack of picture books. When the secretary brought us back to meet the lawyers, we were not led to the conference room. Instead she opened the door to an office that was a hundred different shades of white: from the pickled wood floor to the creamy wall paneling to the pair of pale leather sofas. You craned your neck, taking this all in. Was it supposed to look like heaven? And if so, what did that make Robert Ramirez?

  'I thought the couch might be more comfortable for Willow,' he said smoothly. 'And I also thought she might like to watch a movie instead of listening to the grown-ups talk about all this boring stuff.' He held up the DVD of Ratatouille - your favorite, although he couldn't have known that. After we'd watched it for the first time, we'd cooked the real deal for dinner.

  Marin Gates brought over a portable DVD player and a very swanky pair of Bose headphones. She plugged it in, settled you on the couch, turned on the DVD, and popped the straw into a juice pack.

  'Sergeant O'Keefe, Mrs O'Keefe,' Ramirez said. 'We thought it would be better to discuss this without Willow in the room, but we also realized that might be a physical impossibility given her condition. Marin's the one who came up with the idea of the DVD. She's also been doing a great deal of work these past two weeks. We reviewed your medical records, and we gave them to someone else to review. Does the name Marcus Cavendish ring a bell?'

  Sean and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

  'Dr Cavendish is Scottish. He's one of the foremost experts on osteogenesis imperfecta in the world. And according to him, it appears that you have a good cause of action of medical malpractice against your obstetrician. You remembered your eighteen-week ultrasound being too clear, Mrs O'Keefe . . . That's significant evidence that your obstetrician missed. She should have been able to recognize your baby's condition then, long before broken bones were visible at the later ultrasound. And she should have presented that information to you at a time in your pregnancy . . . that might have allowed you to change the outcome.'

  My head was spinning, and Sean looked utterly confused. 'Wait a second,' he said. 'What kind of lawsuit is this?'

  Ramirez glanced at you. 'It's called wrongful birth,' he said.

  'And what the hell does that mean?'

  The lawyer glanced at Marin Gates, who cleared her throat. 'A wrongful birth lawsuit entitles the parents to sue for damages incurred from the birth and care of a severely disabled child,' she said. 'The implication is that if your provider had told you earlier on that your baby was going to be impaired, you would have had choices and options as to whether or not to continue with the pregnancy.'

  I remembered snapping at Piper weeks ago: Do you always have to be so damn perfect?

  What if the one time she hadn't been perfect was when it came to you?

  I was as rooted to my seat as you were; I couldn't move, couldn't breathe. Sean spoke for me: 'You're saying my daughter never should have been born?' he accused. 'That she was a mistake? I'm not listening to this bullshit.'

  I glanced at you: you had taken off your headphones and were hanging on every word.

  As your father stood up, so did Robert Ramirez. 'Sergeant O'Keefe, I know how horrible it sounds. But the term wrongful birth is just a legal one. We don't wish your child wasn't born - she's absolutely beautiful. We just think that, when a doctor doesn't meet the standard of care a patient deserves, someone ought to be held responsible.' He took a step forward. 'It's medical malpractice. Think of all the time and money that's gone into taking care of Willow - and will go into taking care of her in the future. Why should you pay for someone else's mistake?'

  Sean towered over the lawyer, and for a second, I thought he might swat Ramirez out of his way. But instead he jabbed one finger into the lawyer's chest. 'I love my daughter,' Sean said, his voice thick. 'I love her.'

  He pulled you into his arms, yanking the headphone jack out so that the DVD player overturned, knocking over the juice box onto the leather couch. 'Oh,' I cried, digging in my purse for a tissue to blot the stain. That gorgeous, creamy leather; it would be ruined.

  'It's all right, Mrs O'Keefe,' Marin murmured, kneeling beside me. 'Don't worry about it.'

  'Daddy, the movie's not done,' you said.

  'Yes it is.' Sean pulled the headphones off you and threw them down. 'Charlotte,' he said, 'let's get the hell out of here.'

  He was already striding down the hall, volcanic, as I mopped up the juice. I realized that both lawyers were staring at me, and I rocked back on my heels.

  'Charlotte!' Sean's voice rang from the waiting room.

  'Um . . . thank you. I'm really sorry that we bothered you.' I stood up, crossing my arms, as if I were cold, or had to hold myself together. 'I just . . . there's one thing . . .' I looked up at the lawyers and took a deep breath. 'What happens if we win?'

  II

  Sling me under the sea.

  Pack me down in the salt and wet.

  No farmer's plow shall touch my bones.

  No Hamlet hold my jaws and speak How jokes are gone and empty is my mouth.

  Long, green-eyed scavengers shall pick my eyes, Purple fish play hide-and-seek, And I shall be song of thunder, crash of sea, Down on the floors of salt and wet.

  Sling me . . . under the sea.

  - Carl Sandburg, 'Bones'

  Folding: a gentle process in which one mixture is added to another, using a large metal spoon or spatula.

  Most of the time when you talk about folding, it involves an edge. You fold laundry, you fold notes in half. With batter, it's different: you bring two diverse substances together, but that space between them doesn't completely disappear - a mixture that's been folded the right way is light, airy, the parts still getting to know each other.

  It's a combination on the cusp, as one mixture yields to the other. Think of a bad hand of poker, of an argument, of any situation where one party simply gives in.

  * * *

  CHOCOLATE RASPBERRY SOUFFLE

  1 pint raspberries, pureed and strained

  8 eggs, separated

  4 ounces sugar

  3 ounces all-purpose flour

  8 ounces good-quality bittersweet chocolate, chopped 2 ounces Chambord liqueur

  2 tablespoons melted butter

  Sugar for dusting ramekins

  Heat the raspberry puree to lukewarm in a heavy saucepan. Whisk the egg yolks with 3 ounces of sugar in large mixing bowl; whisk in the flour and raspberry puree, and return the mixture to the saucepan.

  Cook over medium-low heat, stirring constantly, until the custard is thick. Do not allow it to boil. Remove from heat, and stir in the chocolate until it is completely melted. Mix in the liqueur. Cover the base mixture with plastic to prevent a skin from forming.

  Meanwhile, butter six ramekins and dust with sugar. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees F.

  Whip the egg whites to stiff peaks with the remaining ounce of sugar. And here is the part where you will see it - the coming together of two very different mixtures - as you fold the egg whites into the chocolate. Neither one will be willing to give up its subs
tance: the darkness of the chocolate will become part of the foam of the egg whites, and vice versa.

  Spoon the mixture into the ramekins, just 1/4 inch shy of the rim. Bake immediately. The souffles are done when they are well risen, golden brown on top, with edges that appear dry - about 20 minutes. But do not be surprised if, when you remove them from the oven, they sink under the weight of their own promise.

  Charlotte

  April 2007

  Y

  ou can't live a life without impact. It was one of the first things doctors told us when they began explaining the catch-22 that was osteogenesis imperfecta: be active, but don't break, because if you break, you can't be active. The parents who kept their kids sedentary, or had them walk on their knees so that they would be less likely to fall and suffer a fracture, also ran the risk of never having their children's muscles and joints develop enough to protect the bones.

  Sean was the risk taker when it came to you. Then again, he wasn't the one who was home most often when you had a break. But he'd spent years convincing me that a few casts was small price to pay for a real life; maybe now I could convince him that two silly words like wrongful birth meant nothing when compared to the future they might secure for you. In spite of Sean's exit from the lawyer's office, I kept hoping they might call me again. I fell asleep thinking about what Robert Ramirez had said. I woke up with an unfamiliar taste in my mouth, part sweet and part sour; it took me days to realize this was simply hope.

  You were sitting in a hospital bed with a blanket thrown over your spica cast, reading a trivia book while we waited for your pamidronate infusion. At first, you'd come in every two months; now we only had to make biannual treks down to Boston. Pamidronate wasn't a cure for OI, just a treatment - one that made it possible for Type IIIs like you to walk at all, instead of being wheelchair-bound. Before this, even stepping down could cause microfractures in your feet.

  'You wouldn't believe it, looking at her femur breaks, but her Z score's much better,' Dr Rosenblad said. 'She's at minus three.'