He can’t give up on Emily. He may have given up on me, but I won’t let him do to the same to our daughter. Grabbing my latte, I head back to where James is waiting, hands folded on the tabletop, looking unnervingly composed.
“Thanks for meeting with me.” I’m determined to stay purposeful, firm, like this is a board meeting I’ve called. I put my bag on the floor as I slide into the chair opposite him. “I know you’re busy.”
“I’m always happy to meet you, Rachel.” There’s a thread of quiet compassion in his voice that I don’t like. I know James has moved on, of course. He kindly kept me apprised every step of the way. Meeting Eva at some bar downtown. Dating her, for all of four months. Getting engaged, seemingly on a whim, as soon as our divorce was final, and then the surprise destination wedding in St Lucia. At every point, he informed me, quietly, bracing himself, as if he expected me to rail and storm, and I never did.
I stayed calm, no-nonsense, supportive, even. I acted as if I accepted the end of our marriage, and part of me had. Another part of me, the part that’s knotted in my gut, definitely hasn’t. But at least I recognize that, and I do my best to deal with it—quietly, on my own.
But now is not the
time to think of our marriage, or its allegedly irretrievable breakdown. I need to focus on Emily.
“I know you believe the doctors have considered Emily’s case carefully,” I launch in before I’ve so much as sipped my coffee. “And I think they have, to a point. But the reality is they don’t know what Emily has, and so they can’t make any definitive statements about her prognosis. Whatsoever.” I pause to take a breath, ready to talk about the latest research, the case studies, but James gets in there before me.
“Rachel, Dr. Brown told us at the last appointment we attended together, that from the latest scan, Emily’s brain function is at forty percent.”
“Yes, but—”
“And patients with that kind of limited brain function don’t recover.” He speaks quietly, sadly, and that is so much worse than if he was strident. I swallow hard.
“Sometimes they do. Not completely, perhaps, but they can still gain some awareness and even some speech and mobility back. It’s happened, James.”
I’ve read so many studies, so many would-be miracles, and so many sad stories. I know them all. I know about Karen Quinlan, who surprised everyone by being able to breathe after they removed her ventilator, expecting her to die; I know about Martin Pistorious, the ‘Ghost Boy’ who spent eight years locked in what appeared to be a coma, while in fact he was conscious. He’s married with a child now. How can I not hold onto a story like that? Hope like that?
“I know it’s happened, Rachel, and it could still happen with Emily. Removing her from the ward isn’t consigning her to nothingness. She’ll be in a fully staffed facility, with all the life sustaining measures she needs. This isn’t the end.” But the tone of his voice suggests that it will be one day soon, and I can’t stand that.
I look away as I take a sip of my coffee, trying to marshal my thoughts. “Is this what you want?”
“For Emily? Considering her circumstances? Yes. She’ll be comfortable, Rachel. They have massage therapy and music rooms. Won’t those be better for her than endless MRIs and blood tests, poking and prodding her to no avail?” He sounds beseeching, almost tender. He makes it seem simple, the obvious choice, but I know it can’t be.
“They’re giving up, James.” I can barely get the words out. I take a paper napkin between my fingers and start to shred it, tearing off careful, even strips and rubbing them between my fingers. “They’ll forget about her. They won’t try any new treatments, or enter her into any clinical trials, or prescribe any new medication that’s just been FDA approved. She’ll just be a name on a list. A statistic. An expense.”
James is silent. He’s heard it all before, of course. I said it yesterday on the phone. I meant to try a different tack today, because I need him on board. I need him to agree with me to fight Dr. Brown and his team. To keep Emily on their ward, so they can continue to look for a diagnosis.
I was going to be upbeat today. I was going to pelt him with all the amazing statistics, the incredible new research into brain function, the studies that show there can be recovery, if doctors will just give people time and space and the right therapy. So little is known, the field is wide open, even if Dr. Brown is reluctant to say so. Basically, no one can say anything definitive about the human brain. How it functions. How it heals.
But my positivity has been derailed by James’ pitying tone. I know he means well, but I can see how his mind is made up, just like it was when he told me he was leaving. He’s sorry, he’s sad, oh yes, but this is happening. I take a deep breath and feel it shudder through me. Why am I the only one who wants to fight? To try?
For a second I let myself remember how it used to be—the day Emily was born, when it went on and on and I was crying and swearing and grunting like an animal, and James stood next to me the whole time, telling me I was amazing, and then shutting up when I told him to, because I was so tired and overwhelmed I couldn’t take anything, not even encouragement.
And then, suddenly, a surprise even after everything, nine months of pregnancy and thirteen hours of incredibly hard labor, Emily slid into the world and James let out a cry of wonder and joy.
I remember that sound; it was as pure as a bell, ringing through the room. It made me laugh, despite the pain still banding my middle, even before I’d seen my precious daughter, because it was so happy. I was so happy.
“It will be better for her, Rachel,” James says gently. “She’ll be more comfortable. More at peace.” He makes her sound like a dying granny. He touches my hand and I have a sudden, itching urge to smack his face, or maybe just cry.
“Better for you, maybe,” I choke out before I can think better of it. “Then you can forget about her. Move on with your new wife, your new life.”
James blinks in surprise, looking hurt. I’ve never said anything like that before. I’ve never even intimated it. But right now I’m too hurt, too raw with this fresh grief, this betrayal, to monitor my words or take care with my tone.
“You know it’s not like that, Rachel,” he says quietly, a hint of censure creeping into his tone, and I know I can’t talk to him like this. When I’m the one who seems unreasonable. I lurch up from the table, spilling my barely-touched drink. James rights the cup and then reaches out to me with one hand, his fingers brushing my coat.
“Rachel—”
“Forget it,” I spit. My fury feels limitless now, coursing through me in a red, red river. I’ve been so good, I’ve been so understanding, and now this? “I should have known,” I practically hiss. “I should have known I couldn’t count on you.” I whirl away from him, heading blindly out of the café. Near the entrance I bump into one of those high-end, primary-colored strollers, a big behemoth used for jogging, with a cupholder and basket underneath big enough to stow a TV. The baby inside starts to cry, and the mother draws herself up like a cobra, reading to hiss and strike.
“Fuck off,” I snap before she says a word, shocking myself and everyone in the vicinity, and then I storm out of the café.
*