This One Is Mine: A Novel (37 page)

F
OR THE PAST SIX MONTHS,
S
ALLY HADN’T MUSTERED THE COURAGE TO RAISE
her hand. But last week, out of nowhere, Flicka, the eighties runway model who ran the group, approached Sally and asked if she would “tell her story.”

The eight double-spaced pages quivered so in Sally’s hands that the words darted about in a game of catch-me-if-you-can. In an attempt to steady them, Sally dug her elbows into her sides. Don’t look up, she reminded herself.

“I was born in Denver. And I had a happy childhood. I loved ballet and I had diabetes and I collected horses.” Sally stopped, realizing how that sounded. “Not
real
horses. Those plastic Breyer ones. You know what ones I’m talking about.” She looked up. The dozen or so people in the room, most of them familiar, appeared baffled and bored. Flicka winced. Sally quickly dropped her eyes, but had lost her spot on the page. She vamped as she tried to find it. “Horses . . . diabetes . . . ballet . . . Everything was great. . . . I was happy.” She turned the paper over. “I’m sorry. I’m new at this.”

None of the others had ever written out their speeches, but most of them were seasoned AA people and seemed perfectly at ease with offering up the most humiliating version of themselves to complete strangers.

Sally still couldn’t find her place, and now all the pages were out of sequence — she’d have to do without. She quickly fixed her gaze on a smoke alarm above the sea of eyes.

“Like I was saying, I had a happy childhood and everything was great. Even the diabetes wasn’t so bad. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t have it. And if you think like a pancreas, you’ll be fine. And I was. I had friends, a job teaching ballet, a husband.”

Sally’s eyes drifted down. Flicka picked at a thread on her jeans. A man stood at the coffeemaker, and several people waved to him to get them some coffee, too. Most other eyes were on a baby a lady bounced on her lap.

In one breath, she looked at the audience and said the dreaded words, “I’m Sally and I have hep C.”

Everyone swung their attention to her. Instantly, their faces were filled with that combination of curiosity and sympathy that had kept Sally coming back to this little church basement in the valley.

“I found out I had the virus six months ago,” she said, “during a routine blood test when I was pregnant. I don’t even know why they tested for EIA, but I guess they test for everything these days. And I tested positive. And then I retested positive. And then I reretested positive. Because, you see, if it wasn’t for my denial, my life would have been crap.”

Sally heard a guffaw that was unmistakably Simon’s. She stole a peek at the Irish motorcycle mechanic who was covered in tattoos and got infected, like almost everyone here, from sharing needles. He was the only one to make small talk with Sally at that first meeting, the one Violet had dragged her to, the day of her diagnosis. Simon had asked Sally if she was new and given her his phone number, right in front of his hot girlfriend, Petra, who, like Simon, was also HIV positive. Sally hesitated before touching the piece of paper, which only seemed to endear her more to the couple.

“So, I went to a hepatologist and I tested positive for EIA, CIA, and RIBA. Luckily, my viral load was low. My ALT levels were normal.” Sally scrunched her shoulders to her ears and spoke in a small voice. “And please don’t hate me, you guys, but I’m genotype two.”

The vast majority of those infected with hep C were genotype one, which responded poorly to interferon treatment. Only fourteen percent were genotype two, which had an eighty-one percent cure rate.

“Listen to me,” Sally said. “I feel guilty because I have the
less
deadly form of hep C!” If there was one thing she had learned from the denizens of this room, it was gallows humor. “I started the twenty-four-week course of Pegasys and ribavirin. I went in last week and . . .” Sally paused. She hadn’t included this part in her written speech, for fear of seeming cruel. “I tested clear.”

Her friends applauded. Sally, an expert in detecting mixed emotion, knew their happiness was pure. “Oh, you’re just clapping because you want to get rid of me.”

“We do!” called a leather-faced granny.

“Not more than me!” said Sally. But really, she rued the thought of saying good-bye to these people, her unlikely tribe. Although she’d never be far. David had given her money to start the Sally Parry Foundation, which would raise money for hep C research by staging marathons. The first event would be a 10K run/walk whose finish line would be in David and Violet’s yard.

“I still need to wait another six months before I’m declared virus free,” she said. “And even then, it could reappear as another genotype. But I can’t help it, I feel lucky.” Sally laughed. “Not
too
lucky, mind you. The interferon just about killed me. I couldn’t work, which was especially horrible, because I’d just declared bankruptcy —” Sally couldn’t believe she’d actually admitted that. “That’s right. I’m diabetic, hep C positive, bankrupt,
and
single! Men in the audience, I’m
available!
” Once again, the group laughed.

Sally was still waiting for the complete nervous breakdown to hit her because of the divorce. As Violet had put it, You can’t secretly abort your husband’s baby because you think he’s retarded and expect to stay happily married. Tonight would be hard. Sally would be seeing Jeremy for the first time since they broke up.

Sally sighed. “I know as the speaker I’m supposed to share my difficulties. In my speech, I wrote about how horrible the interferon treatment was, with the vomiting and the fever and my sister-in-law having to hold me still while my brother gave me my insulin shots. And I became severely anemic, so I had to get blood transfusions, which terrified me. I think I ended up in the hospital four or five times. I lost count. But really, that was nothing.” She looked up. She’d lost the crowd again. “Okay, don’t believe me, but I’m diabetic. I had to have one of my toes amputated.” She shook her left flip-flop at the crowd. Several people craned their necks to get a look at her half-toe, the one with the ring on it. “It cost me my career as a ballerina. Next to that, interferon was a breeze!” She paused. “I didn’t plan on telling you about the hardest part for me, because it’s going to sound so stupid.” She looked at the faces. Nobody was going to make her say it. And so she said it. “The hardest part for me”—Sally’s voice filled with tears—“is not knowing how I got it.” She didn’t try to stop the tears. She knew nobody minded. Mascara was a thing of the past, anyway. “Most of you are ex-junkies, so
you
know how you got your hep C. And I’m just telling you, be grateful, okay? I’m serious. I’m sure you’re all thinking, Oh, she’s diabetic; she probably got infected from a needle. But I promise you, I never shared a needle once. I’ve never had a blood transfusion. Diabetics never even
hear
about hep C. It’s not something that happens.”

Sally sensed a presence. Violet had appeared and was standing against the back wall. Today was one of Violet’s workdays, an important one, as they were shooting an episode she had written. Sally had begged her not to drive all the way out to the valley just for this, but there she was, beside the sign that read
BETWEEN BLACK AND WHITE ARE ALL THE COLORS OF THE RAINBOW.
Violet winked.

Sally continued, “I would give anything to find out how this disease happened to me. I know it’s stinking thinking to say all I need is this one thing and
then
I can be happy. But I swear, if I could just know how I got infected, then I’d be okay.” Nobody in the room seemed to hold this against her. “Can I just say? When I first got here, I really hated you people.” Everyone laughed, Violet the loudest. “See! That’s why. You all laughed too much. Some of you looked so sick and scary, and I hated you for it. But I really,
really
hated those of you who
didn’t
look sick. I thought, How dare you walk around in your nice clothes and try to pass yourselves off as
normal
. Don’t you just love how I thought that?” Sally laughed. “I couldn’t see what was so funny about a bunch of dying people. Worse, a bunch of dying people who talked about how hep C was some frigging
gift from God
.”

Sally smiled at the housepainter who had spoken at that first meeting. “God is the ultimate physician,” he had said. “He is open for business twenty-fours hours a day and he still makes house calls.” At all the God talk, atheist Violet had twisted so much in her chair she practically tumbled to the floor.

“When I first came to this room,” Sally said, “I knew better than everyone. I had all the answers. I woke up every morning with a plan. But now . . .” Sally started crying again. “I hate you guys — you’ve turned me into one of
you!
Because I
do
feel so blessed by this disease. And for the first time in my life, I wake up and I don’t care what happens. I’m just so happy to be alive. Now I wake up and I say . . .” She raised her eyes, as if talking to God.

“Surprise me.”

V
IOLET
had been to enough Emmy ceremonies to know her way around the Shrine Auditorium. She hurried along the deserted red carpet, brandishing her jumbo ticket to the security people, who, at this late hour, just talked among themselves.

The banquet room was hushed and dim. Violet looked for her table number atop the wilted centerpieces. These weren’t the Primetime Emmys or the Technical Emmys, which had been held over the weekend. These were the Sports Emmys, held on the following Monday night. Regardless, it was a bunch of people in black-tie, unimpressed with the food. A familiar voice from the stage caught Violet’s attention.

“Seventeen years ago, our son Michael was diagnosed with autism.” It was Dan Marino.

Violet wove through the tables and slipped into the empty seat beside David. He’d saved her the best one, facing the stage. “Nice to see you, Ultra,” he whispered. “How was work?”

“It went well, thanks.” She kissed his cheek.

“Since 1992,” Dan Marino was saying, “the Dan Marino Foundation has raised over twenty million dollars to fund spectrum disorder research.”

Violet reached across David and squeezed Sally’s hand. In support of Jeremy, David had bought a table. It was brave of Sally to come. She flashed a smile at Violet, then returned her attention to the stage.

“Tonight,” said Dan Marino, “to present the First Annual Dan Marino Humanitarian Award, I’d like to introduce a tireless warrior in the fight for spectrum awareness.”

A waiter set a plate in front of Violet. “Spinach, potatoes, grilled mushrooms, and Diet Coke,” he said, then turned to David with trepidation. David nodded. Everyone else was eating dessert. David must have ordered it especially for Violet. She smiled. She was cared for.

“Please welcome Nora Ross,” Dan Marino said, then stepped back.

Violet’s heart still broke for Dan Marino’s Super Bowl loss to the Forty-Niners, his second year as a pro. “Never made it back to the Super Bowl,” Violet whispered to David. “Isn’t that so sad?” David shook his head in mock exasperation and gave her a kiss.

Nora looked as disheveled and fabulous as ever. She stood at the podium and spoke extemporaneously. “My husband and I are proud parents of a son who has autism. As Dan alluded to, I spend every waking minute raising money, having meetings, going in front of Congress, and in general, haranguing anyone who crosses my path into helping us find a cure. So you can imagine how pleased I was, six months ago, when I received the most extraordinary phone call. It was Jeremy White, saying he wanted to know more about Asperger’s.” Nora dropped her jaw and affected an exaggerated look of amazement. “I had met Jeremy a few times. He wasn’t one for chitchat, so of course I thought he was on the spectrum. But ask my husband; I think every neuro-typical is on the spectrum. I
did
know Jeremy was a television personality, so I asked him if we could use him as the face of our SOS campaign. He obliged, and we coordinated the media message with his Gap ad.”

Jeremy’s ad appeared on the screen. In it, he wore khakis and a button-down shirt, and flipped a coin. Across the top were the words YOU WILL BE FAMOUS. It was the same giant Jeremy that graced Sunset Boulevard, Times Square, and every other bus in America.

Nora continued, “I got Jeremy in touch with a fabulous cognitive therapist. A few months later, he started driving for the first time in his life!”

Violet knew how hard this must be hitting Sally. She looked over. Sally’s smile was huge, her eyes fixed on Jeremy. She wore the same look as Dot did when she’d spot a woman breastfeeding in the park. Dot would walk over and stand an inch away, enthralled, delighted, not knowing it was socially unacceptable to look so nakedly interested in another person.

“The
New York Times
picked up the story,” Nora said, “and it’s been the most e-mailed article of the past month. That shows you just how hungry people are to learn about spectrum disorders. Jeremy White’s brave ‘coming out’ has been the tipping point that made people realize a person can be brilliant, successful,
and
still be on the spectrum. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome this year’s recipient of the Dan Marino Humanitarian Award, Jeremy White.”

Sally jumped to her feet and applauded. David and Violet did, too.

The day Violet had gone to Sally’s apartment to pick up her medicine and clothes, she came across the Hermès belt she had given her for her birthday. To Violet, it was an afterthought, something she’d thrown in because she knew Daniel would deliver the chocolates if she bought a gift from Hermès. There was the belt, proudly displayed on a shelf in Sally’s closet. It was coiled in the original orange box, the brown ribbon neatly tied around it. Seeing the tender care Sally had taken of a dumb belt somehow repelled Violet. She decided then to step up and love Sally well.

Everyone in the ballroom was on their feet. Although Jeremy had continued to write his column and appear as a commentator, he had never publicly addressed his Asperger’s. Jeremy stepped to the podium. There was a palpable sense in the room that tonight they would all witness a small piece of history. He leaned in to the microphone.