Remembering Me (20 page)

“You’d be surprised,” he said. “There are plenty of women who don’t want a serious attachment any more than I do.”

He perplexed her. She supposed his own experience with his parents’ marriage had discouraged him from ever attempting marriage himself. And then there was that “long and miserable story” he’d alluded to a couple of weeks ago.

“She’s getting tired.” Dylan pointed to Emma.

“I know.”

“Think we should pack it in?”

“It’s time,” she said, hoping she had not annoyed him by probing into his love life. She watched as he skated toward Emma. Reaching the little girl, he crouched down on his skates and spoke to her for a moment, then stood up straight and skated back to Laura.

“She’s ready to go,” he said. “At least I think she is. She didn’t nod yes, but she didn’t shake her head no, either.” He laughed.

Emma turned to wave to them as she skated toward the side of the rink.

“You’re good with children,” Laura said, wondering if that comment sounded as alien to him as when he’d told her she was sweet.

Indeed, he laughed. “No one’s ever said that to me before,” he said.

“Well, maybe you never really cared before.” It seemed a bold thing to say, but he gave a small smile and a nod as he glided over the ice.

“Maybe that’s it,” he said, and he followed Emma toward the side of the rink.

“C
OME IN, DEAR
,” S
ARAH SAID, HOLDING THE DOOR OPEN FOR
Laura. She looked a bit flustered and surprised. “I’ll just put my walking shoes on and then I’ll be ready.” She disappeared into the bedroom. It was apparent that, even with the fancy new calendar, Sarah had no concept of what day it was.

Laura waited for her in the living room. From where she stood, she could see that the clock-calendar on the kitchenette wall was once again ahead of the date, this time by two days. She reset it, then returned to the living room.

Sarah walked into the room in her stocking feet. “I can’t find them,” she said.

“Shall I come help you?” Laura asked. She followed Sarah back into the small, tidy bedroom. The bed was covered with a pink floral bedspread, which matched the curtains hanging at the window. Someone had attached labels to the dresser drawers to help Sarah know where to store each article of clothing. The room was immaculate.

In the closet, Sarah’s walking shoes were clearly visible among several other pairs of shoes lined up on the floor.

“Here they are,” Laura said, picking them up. She handed them to Sarah, who looked at them as if she’d never seen them before.

“Are these the ones for walking?” she asked uncertainly.

Laura nodded.

“All right,” Sarah said with a shrug. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she began to put on the shoes. Her confusion was worrisome. What happened on those days Laura wasn’t around? How many times a day did Sarah forget where she was, or put her skirt on inside out? From all Laura had read, she knew it would only get worse.

A soft, cool breeze enveloped them when they walked out the front door of the retirement home.

“Is it spring?” Sarah asked.

“No, although it does
feel
like spring.” She didn’t want Sarah to think she could get nothing right. “But it’s actually August 26, nearly the end of summer. Doesn’t the cooler air feel good?”

“Oh, yes.” Sarah picked up her pace, and Laura took a double step to catch up to her.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Laura said when they’d walked half a block. “Last time I was here I had my little girl, Emma, with me. Do you remember that?”

Sarah frowned. “No,” she admitted, her expression pained. She was still coherent enough to be bothered by her loss of memory.

“That’s all right,” Laura said. “But Emma was with me, and she was mute. Or at least, she was mute most of the time. And I remembered you telling me about a mute patient you had long ago named Karen. Do you remember Karen?”

“Dr. P. was a bastard to her.”

“That’s right. And he finally got her to talk by badgering her. And that’s what you did with Emma. You badgered her, right? You did it on purpose to make her talk?”

“I wouldn’t badger someone.”

“Well, maybe that’s the wrong word. But you called her ‘Janie,’ over and over again until she finally spoke up and told you her name was Emma.”

Sarah raised her hand to her mouth, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Was Janie here?” she asked. “I thought I dreamt that.”

“No, Janie wasn’t here. At least not when I was here.” She studied Sarah’s profile. “Is there really a Janie?” she asked. “I thought maybe—”

“Janie’s real,” Sarah said. “But I’m not supposed to talk about her.” She glanced over her shoulder as if she expected to see someone following them.

“Who says you can’t talk about her?” Might Alzheimer’s patients, in their childlike condition, create imaginary friends? Did Janie fit that category? Maybe someone had told Sarah she’d be thought crazy if she talked about her.

“Dr. P.,” Sarah answered. “And Gilbert.”

Who was Gilbert? Laura was saddened by how out of touch with reality Sarah seemed to be today. She put her arm around her shoulders. “I’m your friend, sweetheart,” she said. “You can tell me about Janie, if you like.”

Sarah looked at her as if assessing the truth in her words. And then she began to talk.

Sarah, 1958

Finally, after nearly three years of marriage, Sarah became pregnant. Joe was every bit as excited as she was, buying more things than they could afford for the baby, wallpapering the little room they planned to use as the nursery and running out in the middle of the night to assuage Sarah’s cravings for olives or chocolate bars.

Sarah worked at Saint Margaret’s until her sixth month, when she was showing too much for it to be considered proper for her to continue in her job. She and Joe had frequent talks about whether or not she would go back to work after the baby was born. She knew Joe was ashamed of the fact that he didn’t make enough money to support all three of them without her income as well. It would be possible, but they would have to
stretch every dollar. It saddened her, though, to think of leaving her child with a sitter while she went to work.

Yet, she knew she wanted to go back. She was good with the patients, and as Colleen had said, Dr. P.’s treatment methods needed to be balanced by her own empathetic approach. She sometimes lay awake at night, worrying about what the patients might be enduring without her to advocate for them.

Colleen was a good role model. She had a young son, yet still worked full-time. Of course, Colleen
had
to, having no husband on whom she could rely for support. And she had a mother-in-law to leave Sammy with during the day. Joe’s mother had cut all ties with them, but Sarah and Joe’s neighbor, an older woman who lived next door, was begging to take care of the baby when it came. Sarah finally suggested to Joe that she take six months off after the baby was born. They would budget very carefully during that time and see how they fared. Then she would decide.

One April night, while she and Joe were watching
Gunsmoke
on television, Sarah’s contractions started. She was barely eight months pregnant. It was too soon, and she was frightened.

Joe rushed her to the hospital, where they told her she was having “false labor.” They kept her overnight, more to calm Joe’s anxiety than her own, then sent her home.

The following night, she went to bed with a backache that wouldn’t let her sleep. Joe rubbed her back as she lay on her side, but the pain was so intense that she barely felt his attempts to soothe her.

Just before dawn, the contractions started again.

“We should go to the hospital,” Joe said.

“They’ll only send me home again,” Sarah said. But then she realized that the bed was wet, and she remembered from nursing school that some women had back labor. A new contraction followed close on the heels of the last one. “I think
you’re right,” she said, gasping, trying to rise from the bed. “We’d better go.”

Joe was up in an instant, grabbing some of Sarah’s clothes from the closet and racing over to her side of the bed.

She was already standing, and she knew there was no way she was going to make it to the hospital.

“Joe.” She kept her voice as calm as she could. “The baby’s coming too quickly for you to drive me to the hospital,” she said. “I’m going to lie down again while you call the rescue squad.”

“What?”
Joe, usually so calm, looked frantic. “You’re going to have the baby
here?
” He tried to help her back into bed, but she shooed him away.

“I’m all right,” she said. “Go make the call.”

She was not all right, though. By the time she lay down again, she knew the baby was going to beat the rescue squad. And it was too soon. The baby would be too small. Pain and fear forced tears from her eyes.

Joe ran back into the room. “They’re on their way,” he said, hurrying to her side.

“The baby’s coming now, Joe,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“Just what I said.” She felt suddenly irritated with him, then immediately contrite. She shouldn’t take it out on Joe; he was all she had right now. “I mean, you’ll need to help,” she said.

There was a flash of panic in her husband’s eyes, but it was instantly replaced by the calm strength she’d seen in him many times before.

“All right,” he said. “I’m here. Can you tell me what to do?”

She was moaning now, barely able to answer, and Joe took her hand helplessly in his own. She had seen only a few births during her training, and none, of course, under these circumstances.

“Get clean towels from the linen closet,” she said, breathless
from the sensations low in her belly. Throwing off the covers, she hiked her nightgown up to her hips as Joe left the room.

“It’s coming too fast,” she said when he returned, his arms full of yellow terry cloth.

“What should I do?” Joe asked.

“Towel…under me,” she said, suddenly lost in a swirl of pain and the need to push. Was it too soon to push? She had no idea, and she no longer cared. She was only vaguely aware of her husband sitting on the edge of the bed, his entire being focused on the world between her legs.

“Use another towel to catch the baby,” she panted. “He’ll be slippery, and—”

“I can see the baby!” Joe cried. “What should I do? Should I try to get it out?”

“No,” she managed to say. “Is it his head, or…?” Her teeth were chattering so hard she felt the vibration in her temples.

“Yes, his head. Lots of hair.”

“Don’t let me tear,” she said. “Hold your hand against his head. Don’t push. Just put your hand there so he doesn’t come…” She let out a scream, and knew it was too late to prevent herself from tearing, but within an instant, she didn’t care. The baby was in Joe’s towel-covered hands.

“Is he all right?” she gasped, raising her head, trying to see.

“She,”
Joe said. He was smiling.

“Is she all right?” Sarah raised herself to her elbows, but could see nothing more than a blur of red in the yellow towel.

“I…I don’t think she’s breathing.” Joe’s voice was calm, but there was terror in his eyes.

“Use the towel, the corner of the towel, to clean out her mouth,” she said, panicked. She remembered one of her co-workers who had lost a baby at birth the year before.
Dear God, let my baby be all right
.

Joe did as he was told, and in a moment, the baby let out a squeal, then a hearty cry. Sarah lay back in relief, shutting her
eyes, and the world outside their little house filled with the wail of a siren.

Sarah and the baby spent nearly a week in the hospital, although both of them were truly well. Joe visited constantly, leaving his office during the day, staying until they kicked him out at night. Sarah thought the nurses let him stay a little longer than they did most fathers because he was so involved with his daughter. He had delivered her, after all, while the other fathers hadn’t been allowed within shouting distance of the hallowed delivery room.

They named the baby Jane, after Sarah’s beloved aunt, and Sarah was relieved to see that her daughter seemed to resemble Joe and not herself. The bond between Joe and Janie went far beyond the bond shared by most fathers and daughters, and Sarah could only attribute it to the fact that Joe had been first to hold her, to admire her, to weep over her. He was as capable and enthusiastic in caring for Janie as Sarah was. Janie was going to grow up to be his little princess.

It was obvious, though, that in order to continue living in their house by the park, Sarah would have to go back to work. She felt torn. The thought of leaving Janie with their neighbor, Mrs. Gale, and being apart from her five days a week, made her body ache. Yet, she knew deep down that she was not a woman meant to stay at home. She wouldn’t admit that to anyone except Joe, because that feeling seemed so wrong to her. So selfish and unmotherly. But she needed the stimulation of her job, and the patients at Saint Margaret’s needed her, too.

Her feelings had nothing to do with being a woman, Joe told her. He felt the same way and doubted he would feel any differently if he were a woman. He would shift his work schedule so he could be home with Janie for a few hours each morning. Then she would only have to be with Mrs. Gale for the afternoon.

One evening, shortly before her return to work, Sarah was feeding Janie in the living room when Dr. Palmiento appeared
on the TV news. Quickly turning up the volume, Sarah stared in shock as she watched Palmiento shake hands with President Eisenhower. The newscaster reported that Palmiento was receiving an award for his research at Saint Margaret’s. Sarah sank back in her chair, torn between pride that she worked with the man and dismay that his questionable methods should be rewarded.

“I am so glad you decided to come back to work,” Colleen told Sarah in the cafeteria line on her first day back. They’d moved Colleen to ward three during Sarah’s absence, and she seemed disturbed by the experience. “Things have gotten worse here,” she said as they sat down with their sandwiches. “I need one other sane person working on ward three to let me know I’m not going completely out of my mind.”

“What do you mean by ‘worse’?” Sarah asked.

Colleen rolled her eyes. She’d let her hair grow out from its pixie cut, and now it framed her face with short blond waves. “This man…this
kid
, actually, was hired while you were gone,” she said, “and he’s suddenly Dr. P.’s right-hand man. His name’s Gilbert.”