Thursday, July 27, 3:30 p.m.
With Colleen on mandatory vacation because of her cold, all household chores fell to me. Justine could barely get through the day caring for RJ, and I couldn’t ask her for help. I didn’t mind though, because my temporary leave of absence from the hospital gave me more free time than I’d had in years.
On my way back to the rectory, I stopped at a grocery store and grabbed bread, sandwich meat, a few microwavable meals, milk, and Lucky Charms cereal for RJ. I tossed a six-pack of Molson’s Ale into the shopping cart and proceeded to checkout.
I don’t enjoy cooking and I’m not good at it, so I picked up a large pepperoni pizza and antipasto salad for dinner at a local restaurant. After lighting the candles on the dining room table, I loaded my CD player with Simon and Garfunkel’s Greatest Hits as background music, and enjoyed a quiet dinner with my new family. For most of my adult life, the idea of family had been an abstract concept, but I had quickly grown quite fond of the notion.
My sister again ate very little, complaining of stomach pain and nausea. I wanted to examine her abdomen to be certain her liver and spleen were not enlarging, but the poor woman was already frightened out of her mind. As Art Garfunkel sang about bridging troubled waters, I could almost hear her leukemia clock ticking to the beat.
After dinner, Justine said that she was exhausted and asked if I would mind giving RJ a bath and putting him to bed.
I gave her a thumbs up. She walked toward the stairs, then turned and said, “And tomorrow, I’ll pick the music. Something from my generation. I’m not quite as ancient as you are, Father Time. How about some Melissa Manchester or Red Hot Chili Peppers?” She tilted her head to the side and grinned. “Maybe R.E.M.’s ‘Losing My Religion.’ That okay with you—Father?”
Anything Justine did was fine with me. I even enjoyed our verbal jousting.
“Now that I’ve gotten to know you better, I would have guessed that something by Twisted Sister was more your style.”
She laughed for the first time that evening and disappeared slowly up the stairs.
I soon found that bathing a rambunctious four year old boy was surprisingly difficult. The uncle gig was much easier than babysitting. RJ’s hands became submarines and seaplanes, soaking the bathroom floor and covering me in shampoo, and toweling him off was about as easy as drying a wet cat. I had to chase the naked, pint-sized cyclone around before I could wrangle him into his Sesame Street pajamas.
When I offered to read a bedtime story, RJ grabbed a dog-eared copy of Dr. Seuss’s The Cat in the Hat. Apparently, I wasn’t the only doctor in his life. I caved repeatedly to his pleadings and read much later than I should have, finally managing to tuck the rascal into bed and get him to sleep.
I’m not sure which of us had more fun, although by the time I got downstairs I felt as if I’d just finished a night on-call at the hospital. Popping the top on a Molson’s, I flopped onto the living room sofa and tuned in to the baseball game. The Indians’ usual summer swoon was fast becoming a deep coma. The Tribe was hopelessly behind by the fifth inning and I turned off the television.
I was sipping on my beer and mindlessly staring out the window at passing traffic when I heard tapping on the glass pane. I couldn’t see anyone, so I got up and cautiously edged closer. The tapping came again and a crow hopped along the sill. His feathers were as shiny as black glass. As a child, my grandmother had told me in her Old World accent that a bird tapping at the window was a sign of death. I, of course, didn’t believe that kind of superstitious nonsense, but the sight of the crow carried my thoughts back to Pablo’s vegetative state.
The contrast between my nephew and Pablo was stark. While RJ was safely tucked away in his bed with his stuffed animals and ratty old blankie, baby Pablo was tethered to monitors and machines in the PICU. The similarities, however, were terrifying. Both of them and every one of us, including Justine, clung to this world by our fingernails. Only God’s tender mercy could keep us safe from the irrational whims of fate.
I remembered Dr. Taylor’s request that I speak with Tina and Miguel about organ donation and autopsies. As the crow pecked an urgent rhythm on the window pane, I began to dial their number, then decided that it was too late in the evening to phone them.
Miguel attended Mass regularly, so I wasn’t surprised that he might balk at terminating life support and organ donation on religious grounds. I had more trouble with Tina’s easy acceptance of the idea. Usually it takes time and considerable persuasion for parents to face hard choices about their children. Maybe she was mentally and physically exhausted and unable to deal any longer with the crisis, or maybe she merely wanted part of her child to live on, but I didn’t like the other possibilities floating around in my head. They were disturbing enough that I started to punch Tree Macon’s phone number into my cell. I hesitated.
Did I really want to unleash the police hounds on this unfortunate couple? What evidence did I have? Did I owe them my confidentiality as a clergyman? As a physician?
I took another sip of beer and stared out the window. The crow stopped pecking and eye-balled me intently as if waiting to see what I would decide. Technically, Miguel and Tina were not my patients and they had confessed nothing to me as a priest. I dove through the small loophole and dialed.
“Hey, Tree. Are you watching the game?”
“That’s no game. It’s a massacre. Glad you called though. I spoke with a Louisiana vice cop who thinks your father may be tied to drug trafficking in The Big Sleazy. Not good. If we do locate him, he may end up in jail and be unable or unwilling to help your sister.”
I was disappointed but not surprised. “I don’t care if he’s the spawn of Satan, drag his tail back here. Soon. Justine needs his bone marrow, and I’d be happy to personally suck out every drop!” I took a long draw of Molson’s and refocused. “Anything new on the couple with the SIDS baby?”
“Funny you should ask, buddy. Guess what? They moved here not long ago from Pennsylvania and get this, they lost their first baby two years ago—wait for it—to a sudden infant death. A four month old girl.”
I wondered why Dr. Taylor hadn’t mentioned that. Perhaps it hadn’t seemed relevant in the chaos of treating a dying infant, or maybe the admitting intern hadn’t taken a family history. Or maybe the parents had chosen not to disclose that information.
“Jake, hello? You still with me?”
“Sorry, Tree. I’m listening.”
“Anyway, two kids, same problem. Pretty damn suspicious if you ask me, but not proof of anything. The only past dirt I found on Mommy is a speeding ticket. Hell, my grandma has a longer rap sheet than that. Daddy, however, is not so clean. I like him as the doer. The guy’s got a history of boozing, bar brawls, and DUIs.”
“Heck Tree, so did I back in the day, before I finally got my shi … ah, poop in a group.”
“Yeah well, there’s no evidence that Miguel has gotten his shit together. Their apartment smelled like a beer hall and looked like a landfill. What I need is an excuse to drag his sorry ass to the station and read him his rights.”
“Easy, big guy. Most of the time, sudden infant deaths occur with no indication of wrongdoing or known cause.”
“Two dead kids in one family? I told you before, Jake, I don’t believe in the tooth fairy, unicorns, or coincidences. Does their son show any medical evidence of child abuse?”
“I spoke with Dr. Taylor today and he didn’t mention anything like that. He did say that Pablo initially appeared normal but developmental delays began appearing around nine months of age, which the pediatrician thought was probably due to cerebral palsy from birth trauma. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Appreciate it. The doctors aren’t likely to talk to me, what with patient privacy rules and all.” Tree paused. “So, why’d you call? What’s up?”
“I wanted you to know that Tina brought up the possibility of pulling the plug on Pablo and donating his organs. That’s very unusual.”
“Brain damage, huh? So maybe Pablo’s a burden on his parents? A little caring euthanasia to ease the boy’s suffering and end the financial drain? That sure as hell casts a different light on things. I’ll check the details of the first baby’s death. Thanks, Jake. Call me if you hear anything else.”
I considered opening another beer but headed upstairs instead. Sleep did not come easily.