By the end of the third day, my perspective has widened. It’s as if I’ve lifted my head. I take note of how Michael’s precarious position has impacted others: Kate, Tommy, Maggie, and most of all, Brian. He was the present parent. He raised our son into manhood. It could be argued that he’s closer to Michael than I am, although I don’t know how one measures such things. I spent years imagining that any nurturing instincts left after my loveless childhood had been obliterated over decades in service to a monster. Five years with my family, even in hiding, has given me reason to hope.
I will not lose that hope now. Nor will I let it be drained from my husband.
I emerge from my black hole to catch Brian just as his resolve begins to crumble. He loves Michael fiercely and hasn’t allowed himself to imagine a world without him. I hold my beloved close, whisper reassurances I may not fully believe, and give him permission to weep silently against my shoulder. At some point, dear Kate comes upon us. I open my arms to include her in our group.
To all outward appearances, I’ve regained my strength. Most importantly, I no longer terrorize or concern those around me. I appear both steady and reliable, able to weather the storm and help others do the same.
Appearances, though, can be deceiving.
At some point, I remember to call Lisette. Michael is her grandson, I reason. She needs to know what has happened to him. Maybe I simply need to tell her.
We first reconnected six months into my university life, well before I met Victor Kemp. I discovered she’d remarried and then shed her Santa Barbara husband and several years of couples’ swaps for the tamer environs of Boca Raton. She’d decided to become a writer; she wanted to focus on her career. Her first book had attracted both an agent and a publisher. It had the makings of a serial.
“Why not move to Key West?” I asked her. “Isn’t that artistically more fitting?”
“Oh, please, I’m no Hemingway,” she replied with surprising candor. “Boca’s close enough to Miami; I can still have some fun. I’m divorced, not dead.”
That earned her a laugh from her peripatetic daughter.
Lisette managed to stop talking about herself long enough to compliment me on how well I turned out. Though she didn’t take any credit (I would have laughed her off the phone), neither did she apologize for her shortcomings as a parent. I realize I didn’t need her to.
“You’ve really turned your life around, Suzanne,” she said.
“So have you, Mom,” I told her.
Now I hesitate before calling. I’ve deliberately kept her at arms’ length. She didn’t even know I had a husband or a son until a year and a half ago. She hurt me by sending me away so long ago. I would say I’ve repaid her tenfold with my lies of omission, notwithstanding I was trying to protect her.
To my surprise, she insists on flying into London from Florida. “I can catch a flight—I can charter a plane, for God’s sake—and be there tomorrow,” she says.
It’s been years since I’ve spent any significant time with Lisette, but I doubt she’s changed all that much. I can’t imagine bringing her outsized personality into the mix. I’m not sure any of us could handle her mix of virtuousness and attention-seeking. Which is to say, the last thing any of us here needs is more drama.
With the skill born of decades of practice in both active and passive resistance, I gently turn her down. She handles the refusal with equanimity. We talk a bit more. The conversation comforts me.
When she says, “I love you, flower,” I remember strolling down a city street long ago with my beautiful mother. She picked a daisy, affixed it to my barrette, and pronounced me a “little flower.” She either didn’t notice or didn’t care that she’d leaned into someone’s private garden to help herself. So like my mother.
I smile at the cell phone and sign off with, “I love you, too, Mom.”
Michael’s infection shifts him in and out of a semiconscious state. He mumbles or falls silent. His heart rate races and slows; his temperature rises, backs down slightly, and climbs again. People come and go: vague shadows, familiar faces. We’ve sent poor Harry Goldston home twice now, once to change out of his bloodstained clothes, another time because he nearly fell over from exhaustion.
While I pretend to be taking it all in stride, I feel panic hovering close by. Shouldn’t Michael’s problems be resolved? Shouldn’t he be on the mend? There’s no sense in demanding information from the surgeon; he’s in a wait and see state of mind.
Juliette calls from Brussels. Now director of a respected lycée, she has coped in recent years with her own health scare and the death of her husband, Guy. Brian discourages her from hopping a high-speed train to London, promising instead to provide updates.
Michael’s cousins also check in. Jules agrees to stay put. It’s nearly Christmas, and he’s got a large family and a job with a bank that does not grant him banker’s hours. Younger brother Simon won’t be dissuaded. We expect he’ll show up any day now, assuming he acquires permission from whatever agency he now serves. Most people believe he’s attached to a do-good nonprofit organization. Brian and I know the truth, or a portion of it. Like uncle like nephew, it seems.
He arrives on Christmas Day. Simon is a good-looking man, mid-thirties, of medium height, with a strong chin covered by one day’s stubble. It lends him a raffish air. A piece of his chestnut-colored hair flops over the lightly tinted square tortoiseshell glasses that partially obscure his indigo eyes. He’s dressed in jeans, work boots, subdued flannel shirt, and drab-olive jacket. The outfit looks utilitarian and probably cost a fortune. Simon gives off the air of a hip scholar or the founder of a state-of-the-art tech company. He is neither.
“How’s my cousin?” His tone is light. He squeezes Michael’s unresponsive hand before turning to us. “What can I do?” he asks.
My answer surprises me. “Pray.”
I’m not a religious person, not in the least. I enjoy certain holiday rituals, especially those that revolve around family, friends, and food. I’m still learning to relax in the company of others after so many years on my own. I will no doubt come to see the value of relationships in all their forms. The number of people who have supported us in the last few days alone testifies to the enduring power of love and friendship.
These are human connections, though. I have no evidence that anything else is watching out for us. My version of hope, insofar as I have any, exists without either expectation or faith. That makes it open-ended and unpredictable. My hope insists on action, because what else is one to do? We’re on our own. Brian has decided I’m an existentialist. He’s not wrong.
The problem is, there’s nothing to be done.
Perhaps Simon takes my advice and calls on a Higher Power. I don’t. I involve myself in a one-sided discussion with . . . something. Fates, furies, that part of myself I can’t forgive. Late into Christmas night, I argue, cajole, plead, threaten, and bargain while the others stand sentry over Michael. Around the world, people are celebrating the birth of the Redeemer. I’m negotiating in order to spare my only child, one of two people who have served as my personal saviors.
~
“Mamà?”
Cracked, weak, but unmistakable, my son’s voice lands on the last syllable of the word before skittering up. Michael spoke French the first several years of his life. He didn’t have much occasion to call for his mother then, but he does now. I jump from the settee, move over to the bed, and take his hand in mine.
“Ici, chère.”
Brian jumps out of the chair where he’s been dozing. He comes over, his face filled with wonder.
“Dad?” My son shifts back to English, which sounds just as beautiful to my ears.
“Welcome back, son. I’ll be right back.” He kisses Michael on the cheek and sprints out the door.
“Where is Kate?”
“Just down the hall, dear heart. I imagine your father’s gone to get her.”
Nancy, now my favorite nurse, charges in. She is either prescient or in possession of impeccable timing. She glances at the monitor and puts a hand to my son’s forehead. Then she nods briskly, causing her colorfully beaded braids to sway.
“I would say his fever’s broken,” she says. A wide smile splits her dark face.
Simon strolls into the room with a “hey, kid, welcome back.” Not a moment later, Kate bursts through the door with Brian just behind her. Artfully avoiding Nancy’s outstretched arm, she crouches next to the bed and rests her head gently on Michael’s chest. He lifts a hand to stroke her hair.
Brian reaches around Nancy's right side and lays his hand on Michael's forehead.
“Son.” He speaks so quietly I may be the only one who hears him.
“Out, now, the lot of you,” Nancy commands us. “I need to check some vitals and get this boy changed out of his gown. He’s soaked through.” She herds us to the door.
We tumble out of Michael’s room, all talking at once. It’s 9:00 a.m. on December 26. Five days have passed or perhaps an eternity, depending on one’s perspective. I consider that Michael’s recovery on Boxing Day has spared us from clichés delivered by well-meaning friends about Christmas miracles. I’m being churlish, which I put down to relief on top of stress and sleeplessness. If I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that many people truly care about our family. Whatever is out there or up there clearly has a sense of life’s absurdity.
Katie has moved to the waiting area and is talking excitedly on her cellphone, likely with her parents. Widgy, who has been sleeping in a chair in the hallway, is doing an odd little jig. Simon is grinning at everyone. Brian announces he’s famished. Everyone laughs. As we wait for the doctor, I expect to feel a spiritual wash of gratitude overtake me. Instead, dread pushes past my relief. Yes, my son lives. As does the man who has put him here. For now.