Part 36 (1/2)
”Does it even matter?”
”Of course it matters,” Jonas said. ”Everyone has a story to tell, just like everyone needs someone to tell it to. You never know whose life your story touches; that's why every person's story is precious. It's the only way I can reconcile the minutiae of every day with the vastness of the universe without feeling that life is meaningless. I don't know what's on the other side of my last breath any better than you do, but this I know for sure: We create our own stories one memory at a time. Whether you choose to type it up and show it to the world is your business.”
A blank piece of music paper formed in Jonas's mind. In an instant, staves and notes sprang to life across it. ”Your story can be a building, a symphony, a painting. Or Gil's play, or Gracie's photographs. Or it can be a book about legal strategy. Think of the stories you have to tell.”
”There's a lot,” Eddie said.
”You bet, brother. It's the best we can do in the battle against mortality. You. Me. We're all warrior poets. d.a.m.n if I'm going down without a fight. Neither should you.”
”What about you, Jonas? Besides your family, what will you leave behind?”
”My students for one thing; someone needs to teach the next generation. It's an honor. Then, there're the cases I testify at. Every time we win, someone gets. .h.i.t hard in the pocketbook. Do it enough and people will think twice before messing with someone's mind. That's my contribution to destigmatizing mental illness. I'm doing a case of legal malpractice where a colleague was wrongfully sued in connection with one of his patient's death. If I have my say I'll bankrupt the law firm that sued him. Call it my contribution to tort reform.
”And my theories and approaches to therapy with teenagers. What's happening with Gracie and Gil makes it clear there's still plenty more I need to learn. Gracie got me reading Harry Potter, which I want to mention in my chapter on adolescent development.”
”And your music? How many symphonies have you composed?”
”I'm writing one right here, right now. This is our symphony. Yours and mine. We all need more than one her in our lives, people who make our dormant seeds germinate. Margo can't tend your whole garden; just like Jennie can't tend all of mine.”
”I met her once, at the baseball game. I never forgot the way she looked at you. Or the way you looked at her. I remember her name, Jonas, just like I remembered Jane. Her name was Victoria.”
Jonas remembered the scene as if it had just happened. ”It still is.”
”Thanks, Jonas.”
”For what?”
”It still hurts, but having you takes the sting out of it.”
64.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Victoria's initial euphoria about Gregory's survival gave way to a steadily mounting dread that his basic character might not have survived intact. His body's functions were recovering more every day, but when she considered the possibility that the banter that they shared might be compromised or forever gone, Victoria felt paralyzed. Without her talks with Jonas to keep her grounded, her mood plunged violently in the days before New Year's.
With Anna Breckenridge gone until January, the hospital just wasn't the same. Not that the fill-in doctor, Dr. Percy Walker, a descendant of the whiskey-maker, wasn't well qualified and sympathetic, but he didn't have the same investment in Gregory, or in her, that Anna did. He always seemed tentative, as if he was afraid to get families' hopes too high.
Victoria's in-laws were unexpectedly supportive. Charles, who had bonded strongly with Melinda, visited frequently. Martin's sisters sent Gregory multi-colored helium balloons with a get-well message, and they were friendlier to Victoria than they had ever been. They even canceled their Caribbean cruise, to be nearby. But nothing could counter Victoria's increasing disconnect from Martin. Victoria found little comfort in her husband, with whom she discussed the mundane-who would do what, and when-as if he were a newly hired employee.
By New Year's Eve morning, the temperature inside 1912 Rittenhouse Square South was as cold as it was outside. Victoria awoke exhausted from dreams reminding her of childhood, angry that no one had offered her help when she was Melinda's age. Stiff and sore, she felt as if she had run a marathon in cold rain. She wrapped herself in a lamb's-wool throw and, brooding silently, sipped her morning tea. She stared blankly out the window onto Rittenhouse Square, trying to stop the sickening fantasies moving through her mind: picturing herself dead and gone while an imbecilic Gregory lay strapped to a urine-soaked, stool-ridden bed in a nursing home.
Martin entered the room quietly. He came up behind Victoria and laid his hand on her shoulder tenderly.
Victoria withdrew with a jerk. ”Don't do that. You know I hate to be surprised.”
Since the nightmare with Melinda and Gregory, flecks of gray hair had begun to frame Martin's brow and temples. ”Jesus, Vic. Every time I touch you, you act like I'm a child molester. How long is this going to go on?”
”I don't know,” she whispered.
”What is it that you don't know?” Martin said.
”I don't know; I just told you. I don't even know who I am anymore. All this running around between CHOP and Pennsylvania Hospital has me exhausted. Now, I'm supposed to do it again,” she said, referring to the day pa.s.s that would release Melinda that afternoon for a test run. ”I want the day off. You get her.”
Martin said, ”We agreed to do this together. It's supposed to be a special day. Dr. Milroy said that since this is Melinda's first time seeing Gregory, both of us should be there. Now that Gregory's better-”
”I don't call wearing a bib and s...o...b..ring over himself while he eats applesauce getting better. He looks like a drooling infant.”
”What is the matter with you, Vic? Look at the progress he's made in the last week. Since this whole thing began, you've been treating me like a stranger. What did I do?”
”This whole G.o.dd.a.m.n thing never should have happened. You know as well as I do that something should have been done about Melinda months ago.”
”You mean that I should have done something? And what is it you think I should have done?”
”You don't know?”
”No, I don't.”
”How can you not know? What kind of father are you? You're supposed to take care of things like this.”
”What in G.o.d's name do you mean?”
”You spent the summer buried in spreadsheets getting your mockjury business off the ground, while Melinda hung out with that grungy kid. Aren't fathers supposed to protect their daughters?”
Martin rolled his eyes. ”Excuse me for auctioning my shotgun collection. Or was I supposed to stalk her with a fish knife between my teeth and gut the first boy who came near her?”
”Your glib hyperboles won't work, Martin. I'm not some starstruck judge in Ashtabula, Ohio, presiding over slips and falls. I saw the look on your face when Melinda talked about that Todd character.”
”What look?”
”The look of a man realizing for the first time that his darling daughter might have other interests in the male s.e.x besides sitting on her father's knee playing pat-a-cake.”
”You know as well as I do that we had no idea of what was going on. We were both happy she had a group to hang out with.”
”It never occurred to you she might get involved with someone older?”
”Of course boys would be interested in her, but from what she said in therapy, it's not like this Todd fellow was just out to put her on his trophy shelf.”
”You don't know that, Martin. And about what she smoked; she sees you with your gla.s.s of wine every night. Where do you think she got the idea to try marijuana? You enable her.”
”Enable her? What?” Martin slammed his fist against the couch. ”Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean everyone who enjoys a gla.s.s of wine with dinner is an alcoholic. Like your father.”