“Only you.” Nate smiled back.
“It’s in Dumbarton’s best interests, and OpenSpace’s, too.”
Nate met her eye, arching an eyebrow. “Why shouldn’t I fire you?”
“You’re too smart to do that.”
Nate burst into laughter. “Good answer!”
“That’s why I make the big bucks.”
Nate’s eyes glittered. “Bennie, come on. Ditch the cop, whatever his name is.”
“It’s Declan, and he’s a lawyer.”
“I bought a coat company for you. Would he do that?”
“I can buy my own coat,” Bennie answered, smiling.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A hazy dusk streaked the sky a copper-tinged blue, as if the sky itself were rusting, and Mary got out of the cab on 34th Street, hoisted her purse and messenger bag to her shoulder, and scanned the ultramodern building, with its curved glass façade. White electrified letters on top read The Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, in the colonial script favored by the University of Pennsylvania, on whose campus the hospital was situated. Mary had gone to Penn for undergrad and law school, but she had never been to the Children’s Hospital before now.
She beelined for the entrance, crowded with families, visitors, and staff wearing scrubs, their blue ID lanyards flying. She went through the doors, showed ID at the front desk, and entered a cheery, bright atrium that looked ten stories high, hung with colorful mobiles. The floor tile was covered with stars, planets, and circles, like a whimsical solar system, and the lobby was more like a playground than a hospital. Children pulled levers on a funky modern playset and banged on a piano in a glass-walled music area with real instruments. More than one toddler wore a surgical mask, and Mary felt a wrench in her chest as she passed them.
She joined the crowd at the elevator bank and rode up in an elevator packed with staff, families, visitors, and both sick and well children. She couldn’t fight the sensation that she was entering a world that she had never been a part of before. She had grown up so healthily, but she knew from talking with Simon that Rachel lived an entirely different life as a child. Simon never complained, always mindful that Rachel was the patient, and he hid the toll that her illness took on him. He lived every day since her diagnosis with the strain of her up-and-down white cell count, her sudden rashes and mouth sores from chemo, and the fear of sudden or unexplained fevers. Mary sent up a silent prayer for Rachel and every other child at CHOP, fighting a daily battle for something that so many adults and children took for granted. Life itself.
She got off on Oncology, then kept going until she reached the special wing with bright green doors that read Blood & Marrow Transplant Unit, next to a Purell stanchion with a red sign, VISITORS: PLEASE DO NOT VISIT IF YOU ARE FEELING SICK. Mary knew from Simon that she was entering one of the most private areas of the hospital, since its young patients had so little resistance to disease, even less than other cancer patients. In fact, Mary had learned that in order to be able to accept a blood or marrow transplant, the child’s immune system had to be essentially destroyed so that it wouldn’t reject the marrow.
It would be a three-hundred-day countdown to transplant day, and before that would be an endless series of blood tests, a spinal tap to make sure that there were no leukemic cells, three days of total body irradiation followed by three days of chemotherapy using Thiotepa, which required that Rachel be showered every six hours and go to the bathroom every two. Transplant Day would be Day Zero, and Rachel was only on day 278, so the trick would be keeping her in remission and without infection so that she could maintain her eligibility for the transplant. Even so, Mary had been surprised to learn that CHOP’s BMT Unit didn’t require surgical masks unless the patient was in isolation. CHOP wanted to keep its atmosphere as friendly and upbeat as possible, and the nurses and doctors wore street clothes. Visitors weren’t restricted unless the patient was in isolation, which Rachel wasn’t.
Mary used the sanitizer, went through the doors, and walked to the nurses’ station, a curved wooden counter with a colorful mosaic of ducks, butterflies, and flowers. “I’m going to visit Rachel Pensiera in 3E46A,” Mary said, and they gestured to the right. She followed the curve around the desk, and along a path of pretty stripes on the floor matching the mosaic. Children’s pictures hung on the wall, and a homemade bulletin board with a baseball hat that read WE ARE THE ONCO TEAM, THANKS FOR BEING A TEAM PLAYER!! Underneath were homemade baseballs and on each one was a crayoned thank-you to a nurse, a doctor, or a fellow patient.
She passed a painted mural of Ronald McDonald holding a teapot in one hand and a tray of muffins and flowers in the other, which was mounted above a glass door next to a sign, FAMILY LOUNGE. She hadn’t realized that McDonald’s sponsored a lounge here, though her parish church cooked Christmas meals for Ronald McDonald House in West Philly, which was a large home that the company maintained for out-of-town families who needed a place to stay during their children’s hospitalization at CHOP. She turned the corner and kept going until she got to Rachel’s room, easily identifiable because of its cutout of her beloved Horton, the elephant from Dr. Seuss.
Mary peeked through the window and could see Simon sitting next to Rachel’s hospital bed, reading her a book. Rachel looked more pale than she had been, with her eyes closed like half-moons and her little bald head to the side, grasping a plush purple elephant under one arm. The light in the room was gentle, shed by a pink elephant lamp that must have been brought from home. A crayoned sign taped to the head of the bed read RACHEL, and red, white, and blue streamers were woven through its slats, decorations that a healthy child would have put on bicycle spokes.
The room had a window on the far side, overlooking the atrium, and in the middle was Rachel’s hospital bed with its vital signs monitors, computer monitor on a standing desk, and IV stalk to the left, next to a rolling night table with a pink-plastic pitcher, a yellow tub of Magic Markers, and board books. On the far side of the bed was a blue chair, a counter with a video game console, and a long purple couch with a bed pillow and an elephant print coverlet, under which Feet slept soundly in his clothes. His Mr. Potatohead glasses lay folded on top of his stomach, rising up and down as he snored.
Mary swallowed hard, touched. She admired the way Feet and Simon had stepped into the vacuum created by the sudden death of Rachel’s mother, Ellen, which broke everyone’s heart. The aneurysm had struck Ellen when she’d been shopping with the baby at Toys R Us, a story so remarkable that it made the local news. In the aftermath, they’d all been left reeling, they’d thought Ellen’s death was the worst thing that could happen. Rachel grew into a happy, precocious toddler who loved to babble away, and Mary would take her to the library to give Simon a break. They’d pick out some books and snuggle into the denim beanbag chair, and Mary had loved every minute, breathing in the sweet smells of Rachel’s dark curls and reading her whichever books she chose. The one book Rachel always wanted was Horton Hatches the Egg.
Mary forced herself to keep her emotions at bay, thinking of it now. She used to wonder how much Rachel remembered of her mother and Mary sensed that Rachel knew that her mother was gone and that she herself was their collective egg. And after Rachel’s dreadful diagnosis, Mary never stopped taking her to the library, reading Horton to her and fulfilling a silent vow to always be faithful to the little girl, one hundred percent, in Ellen’s memory.
Mary came out of her reverie when suddenly Rachel’s eyes fluttered, her dark-eyed gaze unfocused until it found Mary. A slow smile spread across Rachel’s face, and she gave a wave with her free hand. Mary waved back, and Simon turned around to see who had arrived.
“Hi, Mary!” Simon called out. “Look who came to visit you, Rach. It’s Aunt Mary. Come in, Aunt Mary!”
“Okay.” Mary opened the door, reminding herself of something Simon always said. See the child, not the cancer. Then you’ll be happy when you visit, not sad.
“Mary!” Rachel raised her arms for a hug. “H
i!”
“Hi, honey! I’m so happy to see you!” Mary put her belongings down, went to Rachel’s bedside, and kissed her on the cheek. The child smelled like Jolly Ranchers and antiseptic wipes.
“I ate my whole dinner.”
“Good for you.”
“Horton helped.” Rachel smiled sleepily.
“Good for him. What do elephants eat?”
“What Daddy says.”
“Right.” Mary smiled.
Simon smiled, too. “Everybody does whatever Daddy says. All the time. Ha!”
Rachel’s eyelids started to droop. “Horton hatched the egg.”
“I know,” Mary said, more quietly. “Because Mayzie flew away to Palm Beach.”
“Pom Beach.”
“Right.” Mary stroked Rachel’s head, remembering her hair, which used to be so rich and thick. “I think it might be your bedtime.”
“I’m not tired.” Rachel closed her eyes.
“Good night now, sweetie. I love you. I’ll see you again soon.” Mary kissed her on the cheek, backed away from the bed, and got her stuff. She went out into the hallway as Simon gave Rachel a kiss and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Thanks for coming,” Simon said tiredly. “She saw you right away, didn’t she? That made me happy. I like that she wasn’t snowed under. Sometimes these drugs, they just put her out.”
“I bet.”
“She loves you.” Simon’s gaze met hers, and they both knew what they were feeling, so neither of them had to say anything.
“I love her, too. Anyway, I have good news.”
“Tell me. Let’s go sit there, I want to be nearby if she wakes up. My dad needs the rest.” Simon motioned to a line of blue bucket chairs outside a playroom, with a sign on the door: For the safety of our BMT patients, the playroom is open only to patients and parents/caregivers. When leaving, patients must put dirty toys in the dirty toy bin. Thanks!
“Here’s what’s going on.” Mary took a seat and told him everything, including the conflict-of-interest issue, which concerned him.
“I’m sorry if I’m making life difficult for you,” Simon said, after she had finished.
“You’re not. It’s a judgment call, and I’m making a judgment. And in any event, it looks like it’s form over substance.”
“So what’s the next move?”
“We wait and see how they respond to the complaint and our settlement demand. I’m optimistic, I really am.” Mary’s gaze shifted to the room, where Rachel had fallen asleep in an identical posture with Feet, their heads off to the left. “Look at those two. You think they’re related?”
Simon turned around, then burst into a grin. “Oh, I would say so.”
“Your dad must be exhausted.”
“He is. Yours, too.”
“What do you mean?” Mary asked, surprised. “Is my father here?”
“Yes, in the family lounge.”
“The McDonald’s one? I didn’t look in when I passed.”
“He’s in there. I tried to get him to go home, but he wouldn’t listen. He never does.”
“This is typical?” Mary didn’t get it. It wasn’t as if her father had so much else to do, but he wouldn’t ordinarily stay out all day.
“Completely typical. He stays, even after Pigeon Tony and Tony From-Down-The-Block go home. Why don’t you persuade him to go? Maybe he’ll listen to you. I sleep here, but if he goes home, he can take my dad.”
“Oh boy.” Mary rose, hoisting her bags to her shoulder. “You need somebody to wrangle senior citizens.”
“Exactly.” Simon chuckled.
“Let me go see what I can do.” Mary headed down the hallway toward the lounge, then spotted her father shuffling toward her from the opposite end of the hallway. His head was downcast so that his bald head shone in the bright overhead lights. She stood at the lounge door until he had almost reached her, looking up with a startled smile.
“MARE?” he said in a stage whisper, but that was still too loud, so she hustled him into the family lounge and closed the door behind them.
“Pop, what are you still doing here? You must be beat.”
“I’M FINE, I’M GOOD. HOW YOU DOIN’?” Her father eased into a soft chair, and Mary sat down next to him. The lounge was remarkably homey, decorated with cheery print curtains, matching soft couches and chairs, and lined with popular hardbacks and other books. The far side held a cozy kitchen outfitted with new appliances, directly across from a laundry room that held a washer-dryer, thrumming away. A flat-screen TV mounted in the corner played on mute.
“I’m good, but what’s going on? Were you here all day?”
“SURE.”
Mary felt worried about him. At home, he would have napped twice. “Is it because of Feet? I mean, that’s very nice of you to support him, but all day?”
“HE LIKES THE COMPANY. SOMETIMES WE TAKE A WALK. OR WE HAVE A CUPPA COFFEE DOWNSTAIRS.”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if you went home.”
“I KNOW. IT’S NOT ON ACCOUNT OF HIM. NO, HE TELLS ME TO GO. SO DOES SIMON.”
“Then why?”
“I STAY. I DON’T MIND. I LIKE IT.”
“Are you serious?” Mary couldn’t even wrap her mind around what he was saying. It seemed impossible to like it here. She thought to herself, children died here, a notion that unsettled her so deeply she couldn’t even give it voice.
“I GOT THE TV. I GOT COFFEE. I GOT THE PAPER. I DO THE PUZZLE. I GOT ALL I NEED.” Her father gestured to the newspaper, where he’d completed the Seek & Find. He wasn’t a crossword-puzzle kind of guy.
“But you could be home, relaxing.”
“I RELAX HERE.”
“What about the things you were doing at home? The bathroom floor? You were going to regrout it.” Mary liked that her father stayed active, doing projects around the house. He had been a tile setter his whole life, a fact in which he took great pride, saying his grout was like sugar. The only unfortunate result was that tile covered almost every available surface of the house, of late.
“THAT JOB CAN WAIT. WHAT’S UP WITH SIMON’S CASE?”
“It’s fine. What about Mom? She’s home alone all day.”
“SHE DON’ MIND. SHE AIN’T HOME ANYWAY. SHE GOES TO CHURCH.”
Mary let it go. His attention turned toward the TV, where the local newscaster was reporting on a warehouse fire, and she watched her father squint at the closed captioning from behind his bifocals. “Can you read that, Pop?”
“YEAH. I LIKE DENISE NAKANO.”
“Who?”
“THE CHINESE GIRL ON THE NEWS.” Her father gestured at the TV, then his hand fell to his lap. “SHE’S GOOD. VERY PROFESSIONAL.”
Mary smiled to herself. Denise Nakano was Japanese, but she let it go. Her father wasn’t racist and he didn’t need her to nag him.
“I CAN’T GIVE PLATELETS. I TRIED AGAIN. THEY SAID I’M TOO OLD.”
“I know.” Mary thought it came out of left field, but she felt for him. She knew it bothered him that he hadn’t been able to give blood in any of the directed donations for Rachel. She had been able to give at regular intervals because she was CMV negative, which was a rarity, indicating the absence of a common virus.
“SOMETIMES WHEN I SIT HERE, I PRAY. CHURCH CAN BE ANYWHERE. LIKE, THIS IS CHURCH.”
“Right,” Mary said, softening her tone. They fell silent a moment, then her father looked away from the TV, but didn’t turn his head to her, averting his eyes.
“I MEAN, SHE’S JUST A BABY. AND HERE I AM. AND FEET. WE’RE FINE AND SHE’S SICK. THAT AIN’T RIGHT.”
“No, it isn’t.” Mary patted his arm, touched. She thought back to the time when she and her father had taken Feet to the emergency room for a sprained ankle. Her father had been upset there, too.
“FEET TOLE ME HE WOULD GIVE HIS LIFE FOR THAT KID. AND HE WOULD. ME TOO.” Her father shook his head, shrugging, his heavy shoulders going up and down in his transparent white
shirt. “I DO WHAT I CAN DO. I’M HERE. SAME WITH FEET. THAT’S ALL WE CAN DO. BE HERE.”
“It’s going to be okay, Pop.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW THAT, MARE.” Her father turned to her, and his brown eyes glistened behind his glasses, the irises rimmed with grayish cataracts like stormclouds. “NOT EVERYTHING TURNS OUT OKAY.”
Mary masked her surprise. Her father was the person who always told her that everything would turn out okay. For the first time, she sensed that he was speaking to her as an equal, adult-to-adult, not father to child. And she wasn’t sure she liked it. She wanted her rock to stay a rock. “Pop, I know but—”
“I THINK ABOUT YOU AND YOUR SISTER. IF ANYTHING HAPPENED TO YOU.”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me, Pop. Or Angie.”
“WHAT ABOUT MY GRANDBABY?”
“You don’t have a grandbaby. I’m not pregnant, Pop. And Angie’s saving the world, so believe me, she’s not pregnant either.”
“THAT’S THE PROBLEM.”
“That I’m not pregnant?” Mary swallowed hard, realizing that maybe he was wondering if he’d live long enough to see a grandchild.
“NO. WHAT IF I HAVE A GRANDDAUGHTER LIKE RACHEL? A LITTLE ANGEL LIKE THAT BABY? WHAT IF SHE GETS CANCER TOO? IT CAN HAPPEN.” Her father shook his head, suddenly agitated. “HOW CAN GOD LET THIS HAPPEN? HOW CAN OLD MEN LIVE AND BABIES DIE?”
Mary got it finally. “I love you,” she said, reaching over and putting her arms around him.
“Love you too, honey,” her father whispered, then his tears started to flow, and Mary held him tight, heartbroken by his hoarse sobs and the way his shoulders shook, heaving each time. She had never seen her father cry and never wanted to again. She got him Kleenexes from a box on the end table, and in time he collected himself, mopped up his eyes under his glasses, blew his nose loudly, and apologized to her for getting so upset. She told him that it wasn’t necessary but she couldn’t convince him, and she realized that tonight, in a hospital lounge, something had changed between them as father and daughter.
She had become his rock.
* * *