Prayers for the Dying (Pam of Babylon Book Four) (28 page)

On January 2, she got up at daybreak. Taking a cup of coffee into the den, she gazed out the window as the sun began to peek over the horizon. Once the kids got off on their respective flights in the afternoon, she could start examining what needed to be done to make her life work again. The old way obviously had to be abandoned. What she was going through was not so different from the process many other women her age faced. Husbands died, kids grew up and left home. Women without careers had a chance at a second life. That her husband was a liar didn’t change anything. It didn’t reflect on her; they weren’t her secrets or sins to be deal with. If she allowed it, she could let it ruin what was left of her life. Her pride was almost nonexistent. For a few weeks that fall, she’d stooped to an all-time low, purposely intimidating the clerks at Organic Bonanza who’d been rude and Andy’s new girlfriend, whom she’d met at the gym. But it was the rubber band effect, going from one extreme to another. Fortunately, she’d come to her senses. She ran into Linda Potts and grabbed her, apologizing and admitting it was a horrible lie; she had nothing to excuse herself but bad behavior and embarrassment. Linda hugged her and thanked her, but said it wasn’t necessary; she had dumped Andy, deciding he wasn’t to be trusted after all.

“With my history,” Linda said, “any man who would betray a confidence like that isn’t worth the time of day.”

Everything Pam had read about grief, especially the grief of a widow, advised against making any life-changing decisions until a year had passed. Pam played with the idea of spending the winter in the city but once Marie took up residence on Columbus Avenue, she nixed that idea completely. Now, the idea drifted through her mind to leave Long Island, to try something new, far, far away from New York City. It was just a tiny thought, but she hoped to dwell on it and see if it went anywhere. She had no earthly idea what she would do with her time besides primping and working out.

.

37

D
o you, Ashton Hageman, take Theodore Broderick to be thy lawfully wedded husband? In joy and in sorrow? In plenty and in want? To have and to hold? Until death do you part?

Ashton slipped the silver band onto Ted’s left ring finger, and then said, “I do!”

They grabbed hands and started laughing, and with the blessing of Father Allen, turned to the audience and the entire congregation yelled, “
Hurray!”

The next six hours went by in a blur. Ash remembered Jack and Pam’s wedding, how Jack said later that they didn’t even know what the menu was they were so busy. Ashton made sure he stayed by Ted, to support him, to show him that he was really there with him. Ted put a tremendous amount of effort into planning each detail of the ceremony and reception. His mother was in her glory, making sure every last promise the caterer had made was carried out. Later, they were informed that it was a fabulous wedding!

They went to France for their honeymoon, taking hiking trips through the most picturesque countryside Ashton could’ve imagined. When they were planning the trip, he thought they’d go to Fire Island, but Ted wanted to take him out of the country. Knowing Ashton had rarely left Manhattan, Ted was hopeful he would love it so much that he’d want to keep going. He was correct.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance, but they were so meant for each other. All of their friends exclaimed, “We should have figured out a way to get you two to meet years ago!” But Ashton knew that was ludicrous. The timing for the two of them was perfect. Almost a year ago, Jack was still alive. Ashton never would have gotten married if Jack hadn’t died.

New Yorkers commented that it was the worst winter they’d seen in many years. Over ninety inches of snow fell between January and the middle of March. But by April Fool’s Day, the snow was gone and the weather was fabulous. Pam was in the middle of a big garden cleanup on a Saturday in mid April, Dave helping her, when the phone rang. She ran into the house through the veranda and seeing it was Nelda, answered it right away.

“We called the squad the morning. They took her to Columbia. I just thought you should know,” Nelda said. Marie had been going downhill steadily since Christmas, so Pam shouldn’t have been surprised. But she was. She felt sick to her stomach. Dave came in to see if everything was okay and she covered the receiver with hand, mouthing
Marie.
He mouthed back
Oh God.

“Do you want me to come?” Pam asked.

“Not yet. Steve just called and they are admitting her to the ICU. She’s in respiratory distress, so they have to put the breathing tube in. The baby is okay so far.” And then Nelda did something rarely seen or heard of: she broke down and started to cry. “It’s the worst thing I thought I would ever see,” she said. “My baby daughter.”

Pam felt terrible for her mother. She’d gone to see her sister at least once a week, but after the last visit on Easter, she didn’t go back. Marie didn’t know who Pam was, and she looked so terrible, Pam thought they should admit her then. Steve and Nelda wanted her to stay home because the longer they could keep her out of the hospital, away from MERSA and other horrible bugs, the longer they might maintain her pregnancy, and the baby had become an icon for them. It was no longer about Marie, who for all intents and purposes was dying, but it was for the baby, who miraculously was doing well.

Marie was skin and bones. A nurse came in every eight hours to make sure her intravenous fluids were running and to mix the liquid meals she was getting. She had a feeding tube that went directly into her stomach and Nelda had become adept at hanging the bags of liquid nourishment that would keep her alive a little longer. The nurses marveled that Marie’s skin was so sound on her back; it was due to Nelda’s constant vigilance in keeping her daughter clean and dry and turning her from side to side hourly or more often. She wasn’t going to get a bedsore on Nelda’s watch.

Every night when Steve came in from work, they got Marie out of bed, but not just up to sit in a chair. He picked her up like a baby and sat with her in his lap in Bernice’s old rocking chair, rocking her until it was time for him to go back home and get some sleep. Marie had taken to sucking on her thumb again like she did when she was two years old, and although she had almost sucked her nail off, they let her do it because it seemed to offer some relief for her suffering. They had no way of knowing if she was in horrible pain or not, except for occasional screaming. She would manage to sit up in bed, as weak and frail as she had become, and just start screaming. No other sound was heard from her after the end of March.

The years of anorexia and bulimia had taken their toll on her teeth; her gums had receded so far back that it wasn’t unusual for Nelda to find a tooth on her pillow. Her hair was almost completely gone. She looked like a toothless, bald, little old man. That Friday for some reason, Steve decided he had to stay with her through the night. He came in and puttered around her room, straightening what Nelda had already straightened. He fussed with the covers on the bed and pretended like he knew what he was doing with the IV lines, and then when he’d done enough, he gave up and plunked down at the edge of the bed and bent over to hold her. He started to cry. She often opened her eyes, usually staring vacantly, but when Steve was there that night, she had a knowing look about her. They sensed she knew that he was devastated and it might bring her some peace to be embraced by him.

Throughout the night he noticed she was struggling to breathe and finally, early in the morning, they called the doctor, who agreed she needed to go to the emergency room. Nelda fussed with her while they were waiting for the ambulance; she put a lovely nightgown on her and combed the few strands of hair she had, securing them with a ribbon. Steve sat by her side, waiting. He knew it was critical, but still had that tiny bit of hope that something would happen and she would pull out of it. That all of the damage that had been done to her body would miraculously disappear. He kept his hand on her belly, really just a small melon hanging there, and he could feel their little baby rolling around inside in spite of her sad situation. It was a her; they’d determined it shortly after the holidays. Marie was thrilled. Her only verbalizations toward the end of consciousness were, “It’s a girl.”

When they got to the hospital, Dr. Garpow met them and told them what they feared: she was near death. Her obstetrician thought the baby needed a few more weeks for her lung development to be optimal, so with the family’s consent, he wanted to intubate her—put a breathing tube down her into her lungs and let a machine breathe for her. They agreed without question that it was the best thing, stifling their fears, those words
near death.

Nelda would later call Pam and tell her, “Marie is near death. They are going to try to keep her alive for a few more days for the baby’s sake.” It was surreal. Was she really saying her daughter was near death? How could it be? At night as she sat with Steve next to Marie’s bed, listening to the ventilator pumping oxygen into her daughter’s lungs, regrets flooded over her. She remembered finding out she was pregnant with Marie. She thought it was the change starting early. Her period didn’t come and it was a joy.
Thank God I’m done with that mess.
And then she started to show. Frank’s mother was furious with her. How could she even think about having another? Genoa was indispensable and she knew it; Nelda wouldn’t have survived motherhood without her mother-in-law. Now there would be a fourth baby. Frank was delighted; he loved being a father. But he wasn’t home all day, didn’t see his wife unable to cope with the stress of watching four children.

When Pam got married, they practically packed Marie’s bags so she could stay with her. Pam never batted an eyelash. She loved having her there! Why was Nelda so guilt-filled? Because she knew there was something wrong and never addressed it. Her daughter was anorexic. She had trouble in school. She was a behavior problem. And then a few months ago in the middle of one of her screaming night terrors, Nelda discovered the truth. Marie fell back on her pillow and started mumbling about Jack. She loved Jack. They’d been in love all of her life. She used words Nelda had never heard a female use before, words Marie used to describe the
way
she loved Jack.

Nelda was going to lash out at Pam the next time she visited, but then Nelda saw her oldest daughter, saw how thin and pale she was, and thought that possibly AIDS was taking its toll on her as well. She bit her tongue. And that night, when Steve saw Nelda without gloves on, wiping up blood where Marie had scratched her face, he told Nelda that Marie had AIDS, too, and that cinched it in her mind. All the pieces fell into place. Both of her daughters must have gotten AIDS from the same man. From Jack. It made Nelda ill. She went through all of the stages of grief in one day, so angry she could have killed someone, and finally that night, she resolved that it was what it was. There was nothing she could do about any of it but make restitution for being an awful parent by caring for Marie now to the best of her ability. She became her servant in those last months.

One day shortly before Marie stopped talking, Nelda was fussing with the bedside table, trying to neaten things up, and Marie grabbed her wrist with surprising strength.

“Mom, stop that for a minute, you’re making me nuts,” she mumbled. Nelda forced herself to stop fidgeting and looked at Marie.

“What?”

Marie gave a rare laugh. “I love you, Mom,” she said.

Nelda relaxed, her shoulders sagging, and she bent over to kiss her daughter on the cheek. “I love you too, Marie. I’m sorry for everything,” she said.

“Me, too, Mom. I’m sorry, too. Now we both sound like Pam,” Marie said. They laughed, and then the effort made Marie close her eyes. She could barely speak without becoming exhausted. Before she fell asleep, though, she had one more thing to say. “Mom, help Steve with the baby, okay?”

Nelda was taking the trash can out of the room to empty, and she stopped in the doorway. She walked back to Marie’s bedside. “Are you sure you want me to help? I would think you’d want Pam,” Nelda said, sincere.

“Pam has enough on her plate. I want you to help him. Tell me you will so I can take a nap. I’m tired, goddamnit!”

Nelda said she would and consoled her, staying at her side until she could tell that Marie was sleeping. Nelda felt better about life from then on, until the nights in the ICU. Then, all of the boogeymen came out full force. Sitting with Steve was difficult enough. He had two modes: sleeping with his head thrown back, snoring for all he was worth; or sitting next to Marie’s bed with his head on the sheets, sobbing his heart out.

“Steve!” she said one night. “Go get in the other bed. Your snoring is giving me a headache.” He got up and did as he was told, climbing into the empty bed next to Marie’s. The nurses were wonderful. Someone from labor and delivery would come in every hour to check the fetal monitor and Marie’s vital signs.
How long could she go on like this?

“It won’t be much longer,” a nurse finally told them one night. The doctors seemed afraid their words would be too harsh to hear, but Nelda needed the truth. “She’s deteriorating further. We need to deliver the baby before the blood supply to her placenta starts to diminish.”