I looked out the window. The street was clear and silent. Suburbia sleeps. No more answers would come tonight. In the morning, I would take my father for our weekly walk and then I would call MVD and maybe even Regan.
I climbed into bed and waited for sleep.
The phone next to Edgar Portman’s bed rang at four-thirty in the morning. Edgar jerked awake, pulled out in middream, and fumbled with the phone.
“What?” he barked.
“You said to call as soon as I knew.”
Edgar rubbed his face. “You have the results.”
“I do.”
“And?”
“It’s a match.”
Edgar closed his eyes. “How certain are you?”
“It’s preliminary. If I were taking it to court, I’d need a few more weeks to line up all the arrows. But that would just be following proper protocol.”
Edgar could not stop shaking. He thanked the man, put the phone back in its cradle, and began to prepare.
Chapter 13
At six thenext morning, I left my house and walked down the block. Using a key I’ve had since college, I unlocked the door and slipped into my childhood home.
The years had not been a friend to this dwelling, but then again, it hadn’t been featured inHouse and Garden (except maybe as one of their “before” photos) to begin with. We’d replaced the shag carpet four years ago—the blue-white speck had been so faded and threadbare, it practically replaced itself—and went with close-cropped office-gray so that my father’s wheelchair could move with ease. Other than that, nothing had been changed. The overvarnished side tables still held Lladró porcelain knickknacks from a long-ago trip to Spain. Holiday Inn–like oils of violins and fruit—none of us are the least bit musical or, uh, fruity—still adorned the white-painted wood paneling.
There were photos on the fireplace mantel. I always stopped and looked at the ones of my sister, Stacy. I don’t know what I was looking for. Or maybe I do. I was searching for clues, for foreshadowing. I was searching for any hint that this young, fragile, damaged woman would one day buy a gun off the street, shoot me, harm my daughter.
“Marc?” It was Mom. She knew what I was doing. “Come help me, okay?”
I nodded and headed toward the back bedroom. Dad slept on the ground floor now—easier than trying to get up the stairs with a wheelchair. We dressed him, which was a bit like dressing wet sand. My father lolls from side to side. His weight has a tendency toward sudden shifts. My mother and I were used to that, but it doesn’t make the task less arduous.
When my mother kissed me good-bye, the faint and familiar whiff of breath mint and cigarette smoke came off her. I had urged her to quit. She kept promising, but I knew that it would never happen. I noticed how loose the skin on her neck was getting, her gold chains almost embedded in their folds. She leaned down and kissed my father on the cheek, holding her lips to him a few seconds too long.
“Be careful,” she told us. Then again, that was what she always told us.
We began our journey. I pushed Dad past the train station. We live in a commuter town. Mostly men but yes, women, too, were lined up in long coats, briefcase in one hand, coffee cup in the other. This might sound odd, but even before 9/11, these people were heroes to me. They board that damn train five times a week. They take it to Hoboken and switch to the PATH. That train takes them into New York City. Some will head up to Thirty-third Street and change to hit midtown. Others will take it to the financial center, now that it’s opened up again. They make the everyday sacrifice, stifling their own wants and dreams in order to provide for those they love.
I could be doing cosmetic plastic surgery and making a mint. My parents would be able to afford better care for my dad. They could move someplace nice, get that full-time nurse, find a place that could cater more to their needs. But I don’t do that. I don’t help them by taking the more traveled route because, frankly, working such a job would bore me. So I choose to do something more exciting, something I love to do. For that, people think I’m the heroic one, that I am the one making the sacrifice. Here’s the truth. The person who works with the poor? They are usually more selfish. We are not willing to sacrifice our needs. Working a job that provides for our families is not enough for us. Supporting those we love is secondary. We need personal satisfaction, even if our own family is made to do without. Those suits I now watch numbingly board the NJ Transit train? They often hate where they are going and what they are doing, but they do it anyway. They do it to take care of their families, to provide a better life for their spouses, their children, and maybe, just maybe, their aging and ill parents.
So, really, which one of us is to be admired?
Dad and I followed the same route every Thursday. We took the path around the park behind the library. The park was chockful—and you’ll notice a suburban theme here—of soccer fields. How much quality real estate was tied up in this supposedly second-tier foreign sport? My father seemed comforted by the playground, by the sights and sounds of children at play. We stopped and took deep breaths. I glanced to my left. Several healthy women jogged by clad in your finest, sheer-clingy Lycra. Dad seemed very still. I smiled. Maybe Dad’s liking this spot had nothing to do with soccer.
I no longer remember what my father used to be like. When I try to think back that far, my memories are snapshots, flashes—a man’s deep laugh, a little boy clinging to his bicep, dangling off the ground. That was pretty much it. I remember that I loved him deeply, and I guess that has always been enough.
After his second stroke sixteen years ago, Dad’s speech became extremely labored. He’d get stuck midsentence. He’d drop words. He’d go silent for hours and sometimes days. You’d forget that he was there. No one really knew for sure if he understood, if he had classic “expressive aphasia”—you understand but you can’t really communicate—or something even more sinister.
But on a hot June day during my senior year of high school, my father suddenly reached out and grabbed hold of my sleeve with an eagle-talon grip. I’d been heading out to a party at the time. Lenny was waiting for me by the door. My father’s surprisingly strong grasp stopped me cold. I looked down. His face was pure white, the tendons of his neck taut, and more than anything, what I saw was naked fear. That look on his face haunted my sleep for years afterward. I slid into the chair next to him, his hand still clutching my arm.
“Dad?”