A Mother's Goodbye

When I made a will, after I officially adopted Isaac, I made Dorothy his guardian. It seemed sensible, since she was the adult he knew best besides me, and she lived in the city. I have plenty of life insurance, enough savings in trust for Isaac, so while not ideal, it was acceptable. Of course, it’s not now.

Dorothy is in Chicago, taking care of her daughter’s fractured family. Who can be Isaac’s guardian now? It’s something I should decide sooner rather than later, and yet my mind flits away from the question, the problem. It’s not something I have to think about quite yet, surely, and I have enough to deal with already.

On Tuesday I take Isaac to school, go to my chemo appointment, and then struggle to work by ten. I’ve already taken two weeks off, and I want to save the other possible ten for when I’m really sick, because that is always at the back of my mind. What if this gets worse? A lot worse?

At work people eye me askance and a few ask me how I am. I tell them I’m fine; what else can I say? While sitting at my desk, catching up on work emails, I run my hand through my hair and stare down at the fistful of strands caught on my fingers.

I thought, with the cold cap, I wouldn’t actually lose my hair, but when I inspect myself in the bathroom mirror at the office, I realize how thin it has become. I’ve just been feeling too crap to notice. I bend my head, and see the pale glint of my scalp through the chestnut-brown strands. There’s also a good inch of gray roots, since I’ve missed my usual six-week cut and color. I look even worse than I realized, which is quite a feat. No wonder people were giving me weird looks as I walked to my office – I looked like something the cat had played with, mangled, and then dragged in through the door.

I once prided myself on how sleek and chic I looked, without ever venturing into sexy or kittenish territory. I was always professional and polished, attractive in a business-like way. That, like so much else, has been stripped away from me. Now I look like a bag lady who bought a rich woman’s clothes from a charity shop.

It’s no surprise when Bruce stops by my office, acting overly jocular, jangling the change in his pocket.

‘Everything all right, Grace?’ He doesn’t look me in the eye. I don’t think he has since Jill Martin stole my partnership from under my nose. Needless to say, we haven’t worked out together since then.

‘Everything’s fine, Bruce.’ I rest my hands on my desk and give him my calmest, most professional smile. In the seven years since I was sidelined I’ve made Harrow and Heath a few good investments. Nothing stellar, but nothing too shabby, either. I’ve also outed a few investments they thought were solid that I realized weren’t. All in all, I don’t think I’m quite the embarrassment Bruce acts like I am, out of his own guilt. But now, with this illness, I’m becoming a liability.

‘So you took some leave?’ He raises his eyebrows, waiting for me to fill in the blanks, but I know how much I have to tell him, or really, how little.

‘Yes, I have a health issue that is being resolved.’ I smile pleasantly. ‘Thanks for asking.’

He makes a bit more useless chitchat and then finally ambles out. When he’s gone I wonder if I’m crazy, trying to keep cancer a secret. How can I, when my hair falls out, when I need more time off, when I am so obviously very, very sick?

But I can’t escape the bone-deep instinct I have to play my desperate cards close to my chest. I remember the guy on the floor below with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, how he was cut loose in such a way that he couldn’t sue for wrongful dismissal. The company has a very good, very ruthless lawyer on retainer. I don’t want to cross him. But of course I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep myself under his radar.

I limp through the next week, managing to get to work every day. I also get fitted for a very expensive, very realistic-looking wig. When the stylist puts it on me, I breathe a sigh of both relief and longing. I look more like myself, the self I once knew and took for granted. Isaac notices, catching up the hair, letting it fall through his fingers.

‘Is it real hair?’ he asks, and I nod.

‘Yes, do you think that’s gross?’ I’m curious, as well as trying to lighten the moment.

‘No.’ He looks at me assessingly, his gaze sweeping over my new locks. ‘You look good, Mom.’ I smile, feeling lighter and happier than I have in weeks. I pull him into a quick hug, and he doesn’t resist.

‘Thanks, bud.’

The next week is my last of chemo, maybe the last ever if the tumor has shrunk enough. It’s also Isaac’s last week of school, with three whole months stretching ahead of us that I have to fill in. Stella won’t be here either; she’s decamping to Provence the day after school gets out. It feels too late to tell her the truth now, and maybe by the time she returns, it will all be over. Maybe by September I’ll be getting back to normal.

For Isaac I’ve patched together some day camps at Asphalt Green and the 92nd Street Y, but when I explain to Yelena about the change in arrangements, she practically throws a tantrum.

‘My hours are two to seven.’

‘I know, and Isaac gets out of camp at one forty-five,’ I say as calmly as I can. ‘So it’s only fifteen minutes earlier, and you’d start your shift by picking him up.’ It doesn’t seem all that unreasonable to me, but Yelena shakes her head dramatically, her shiny, dark hair flying around.

‘That was not our agreement.’

‘It’s summer, Yelena. When I interviewed you, you stated that you had some flexibility, which I now need.’

‘Some,’ she agrees with dark emphasis, and clearly that is a negligible amount. I stare at her, frustration filling me up like water in a well. She glares back at me, her mouth twisted in a knowing smirk. I haven’t hidden how desperate I am; I haven’t been able to. But am I really that desperate? Is Yelena really going to make me find some other arrangement for Isaac’s pick-up so she doesn’t have to start one second earlier?

‘So. You’re saying you can’t pick up Isaac at one forty-five from his day camp?’ There is a warning note in my voice that Yelena picks up on.

‘No, I am not saying that,’ she says huffily, as if she hadn’t been bitching about that very thing for the last ten minutes. ‘Only, it is just, you know, an inconvenience.’

‘But one you’re willing to put up with.’ She gives me a stiff nod. It’s a victory, but I have no doubt Yelena will try to make my life hell in some other way. She seems to have a talent for it.

The last day of school, Stella invites Isaac and me over for a barbecue on their roof terrace. I haven’t seen her in several weeks, and then only briefly, so she hasn’t noticed the way my looks have taken a dive off a cliff, hasn’t realized how sick I’ve been. And of course I haven’t told her. Now, somewhat to my sorrow, it feels too late.

At least with my wig, some discreet make-up, and a bit more appetite than usual, I am almost feeling like my old self, or what I imagine my old self might have felt like. I’ve forgotten, really. I am amazed at how quickly that happens.