Now at least I wasn't afraid to go home, I wasn't seared about "acting
normal." We were once again sharing everything, even if it was the awful
knowledge that our days together were every one of them numbered.
There were things we had to discuss, things not usually broached by
twenty-four-year-old couples.
"I'm counting on you to be strong, you hockey jock," she said.
"I will, I will," I answered, wondering if the always knowing Jennifer
could tell that the great hockey jock was frightened.
"I mean, for Phil," she continued. "It's gonna be hardest for him. You,
after all, you'll be the merry widower."
"I won't be merry," I interrupted.
"You'll be merry, goddammit. I want you to be merry. Okay?"
''Okay.
"Okay."
It was about a month later, right after dinner. She was still doing the
cooking; she insisted on it. I had finally persuaded her to allow me to
clean up (though she gave me heat about it not being "man's work"), and was
putting away the dishes while she played Chopin on the piano. I heard her
stop in mid-Prelude, and walked immediately into the living room. She was
just sitting there.
"Are you okay, Jen?" I asked, meaning it in a relative sense. She
answered with another question.
"Are you rich enough to pay for a taxi?" she asked.
"Sure," I replied. "Where do you want to go?"
"Like-the hospital," she said.
I was aware, in the swift flurry of motions that followed, that this
was it. Jenny was going to walk out of our apartment and never come back. As
she just sat there while I threw a few things together for her, I wondered
what was crossing her mind. About the apartment, I mean. What would she want
to look at to remember?
Nothing. She just sat still, focusing on nothing at all.
"Hey," I said, "anything special you want to take along?"
"Uh uh." She nodded no, then added as an afterthought, "You."
Downstairs it was tough to get a cab, it being theater hour and all.
The doorman was blowing his whistle and waving his arms like a wild-eyed
hockey referee. Jenny just leaned against me, and I secretly wished there
would be no taxi, that she would just keep leaning on me. But we finally got
one. And the cabbie was-just our luck-a jolly type. When he heard Mount
Sinai Hospital on the double, he launched into a whole routine.
"Don't worry, children, you are in experienced hands. The stork and I
have been doing business for years.
In the back seat, Jenny was cuddled up against me. I was kissing her
hair.
"Is this your first?" asked our jolly driver.
I guess Jenny could feel I was about to snap at the guy, and she
whispered to me:
"Be nice, Oliver. He's trying to be nice to us."
"Yes, sir," I told him. "It's the first, and my wife isn't feeling so
great, so could we jump a few lights, please?"
He got us to Mount Sinai in nothing flat. He was very nice, getting out
to open the door for us and everything. Before taking off again, he wished
us all sorts of good fortune and happiness. Jenny thanked him.
She seemed unsteady on her feet and I wanted to carry her in, but she
insisted, "Not this threshold, Preppie." So we walked in and suffered
through that painfully nit-picking process of checking in.
"Do you have Blue Shield or other medical plan?"
(Who could have thought of such trivia? We were too busy buying
dishes.)
Of course, Jenny's arrival was not unexpected. It had earlier been
foreseen and was now being supervised by Bernard Ackerman, M.D., who was, as
Jenny predicted, a good guy, albeit a total Yalie.
"She's getting white cells and platelets," Dr. Ackerman told me.
"That's what she needs most at the moment. She doesn't want antimetabolites
at all."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
"It's a treatment that slows cell destruction," he explained, "but-as
Jenny knows-there can be unpleasant side effects."
"Listen, doctor"-I know I was lecturing him needlessly-"Jenny's the
boss. Whatever she says goes. Just you guys do everything you possibly can
to make it not hurt."
"You can be sure of that," he said.
"I don't care what it costs, doctor." I think I was raising my voice.
"It could be weeks or months," he said.
"Screw the cost," I said. He was very patient with me. I mean, I was
bullying him, really.
"I was simply saying," Ackerman explained, "that there's really no way
of knowing how long-or how short-she'll linger."
"Just remember, doctor," I commanded him, "just remember I want her to
have the very best. Private room. Special nurses. Everything. Please. I've
got the money.