The final meeting with my lawyers went well, for they have done their best and I was sure to let them know it. My correspondent has accepted me and is anxious to continue work after the holiday. And my doctors.... well, it went as well as could be expected, though I feel a bit of guilt toward the best of them, Dr. Omar.

“So now you will not even let us examine you? Not even another x-ray to make sure…” he had asked me, incredulous.

“No. I am so sorry, but I have had enough of being poked and prodded. You are a good and wise man, but you may not touch me.”

“But you could at least show me again the wounds, for if there is an infection you might…”

“You are a fine doctor, truly. But I have no infection. You may continue to monitor me if you really must, but only to be sure I remain stable. That is all.”

“You still will not consent to at least talk to the oncologist, the cancer doctor? He has thoughts he wishes to share with you, questions he would like to ask you, maybe it would not be so bad like you think, things perhaps can be done that would not….” But then his voice trailed off. He wanted desperately to help me, and the look of defeat was heartbreaking.

“No.”

His face, normally an impressive and impassive mask, finally cracked.

“You do not even need us, do you?” It came out a little hoarse. He is a man from a nation still plagued by shamans and witch doctors, superstition and demonology, and has worked his whole life to accept the ways of Western science and rationalism. But he can no longer deny what he saw on the weekend’s MRIs and x-rays, or the rapid healing of my surgical wounds that had so astonished him when I last consented to his examination. He now finally allowed himself to sense why I would not let him see, and drew the conclusion his deepest childhood memories would force him to consider. His look betrayed a fear that I had not seen in many years, one that in a just world would never have marred his face: she is a witch.

When he turned and left without another word, I cursed myself. I curse myself again when I remember. It cannot be helped, but I add it to my private list of sins anyway, for it is not fair.

It is never fair. But I will remember.

In the dark of the hospital room I light a forbidden cigarette, risking the nurses’ wrath, and turn on the little bedside television for company. Would that I had mustered the courage to leave a day or two sooner.

But enough. It is done. Decisions have been made, and events shall unfold as they will. As I doodle now in this ridiculous journal, I think again of this planned book, this revelation, this confessional tome. My ghostwriter tells me we will use some of these journal entries, and so I find myself thinking of you whom may one day read these very words.

What are you thinking of me, as you read? I suppose soon enough I will know. I am ready to accept your judgment. Please know that much.

25-November-2004 (later)

It is a foolish obsession, I admit, but with nothing left to think about or do, and a few hours remaining before the chartered jet is ready to wing me away, I am no longer able to ignore the intriguing sign adorning the doors to the ward adjoining my own. It calls to me, just a curiosity… no, as earlier, I am lying to myself again, and that is never a good thing to do. There are signs listing liberal visiting hours, and restrictions on who may enter, but I am certain I can exploit the open nature of that ward, if only for a few minutes. Today it should be especially easy, Thanksgiving having reduced the staff to a skeleton crew.

It is simple to do. I lack the notoriety here that I had earned up in the ICU. In a wheelchair and with some extra blankets, I look fairly normal, and I wear a patient’s wristband. I blend in. Even with the hospital chair’s wheels locked, maneuvering with one hand and foot is maddeningly slow, if workable. So I quietly watch the routine, and when the breakfast carts arrive I casually push my way past those adjoining doors and into a new and brightly lit wing, full of cheery colors and the smell of vitality, the sounds of life.

The Maternity ward.

There are many about, but they take little notice of me as I make my way patiently towards the large windows that open onto the nursery. I pass open rooms where women cradle their new sons and daughters, see the joy and exhaustion of new motherhood writ upon their faces and bodies.

“Hey, let me help you out there, little lady” a cheerful masculine voice startles me, and somebody takes the handles of my wheelchair. I look back and see an man of perhaps sixty, wearing a silly grin, “Where to?” He asks.

“Just the nursery window, please.”

“Off we go!”

His name is Jack and he is finally a grandfather, and ecstatic for all that. I make encouraging remarks, but my attention is drawn to the small, swaddled forms laying in their neat rows on the other side of the glass as he pulls me up to the window. I touch the glass, and hear myself making foolish noises. They are so small, and peaceful, even those beginning to cry out for the attentions of the nurses. Precious and irreplaceable each one. How much better their lives are now, compared to the vast numbers I have seen before—it is still somewhat hard to accept that so many of them will live to see long lives, and babies of their own. Some things are certainly much, much better than they used to be.

Jack takes his leave from me as his new grandson is taken to his mother’s room. I know I cannot remain long, particularly being alone like this, but I am rooted to my spot. The desire to simply wheel my way around to the door, to reach out and touch them, to drink in the scent of them… my chest is suddenly heavy. Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all.

I hear a gentle, laughing sob. I do not hear it so much as sense it, a strained undertone in an otherwise soft, smiling voice. I am unable to ignore it, even knowing there is likely a whole world of someone else’s personal pain I might be invading. Post-partum depression can be devastating.

I find myself pulling my chair across the hall to a room across from the nursery. Cautiously I look through the door, and there is a young woman cradling her child to her breast. She is smiling, but I see the unhappiness there. I should turn and go, but I cannot, not even after she looks up at me, a questioning expression on her face.

“I was just listening to you talk to your son,” I offer, “He is quite beautiful.” The words are unimportant; it is the expression, the open invitation to emotional intimacy that is key here. Within minutes she is sharing with me more and more of her personal struggle. She is a young woman, twenty-one, single, and a college student, caught at a crossroads in her life.

“I feel stupid for being so… so lost over this. I know I have a lot to be thankful for. Compared to others I mean, but…”

“You’re not where you thought you would be this time last year?”

“No,” she sighs, “not at all.” Her child squeaks at her and she lifts him to her shoulder to rub his spine. I do not attempt to conceal my envy, but smile as I let it show. Her eyes close as she cradles him again, and she continues, “I’m happy, but I’m not. It’s so… strange. I had plans, you know? My friends at school all thought I should have an abortion, but I just couldn’t do it. So I change my plans, right? It all sounds so simple.”

“And the father is where on all of this?” I see the answer before she even speaks.

“He doesn’t know.” I look at her, smiling a bit, and give a little knowing nod. “I know I should find him, but it was just a Spring Break thing. We met up in Myrtle Beach, it was something that was supposed to last a couple of days and be over. I didn’t even know how to find him, and what was I supposed to say to him?”

“’I’m pregnant’ would have been my choice, but then it’s not my choice, is it? What will you do?”

“I don’t know. I have to take some time off from school.”

“And you fear you might not be able to go back?”

“My family… I haven’t even told my mother. They won’t be able to help much. She’d tell me to give him up, that I couldn’t handle it myself. And,” her voice broke, “she’d probably be right.” Tears fell down her cheeks, and she clutched him tightly.

“Adoption can be a loving choice…” I say. But she hears without listening, and isn’t looking at me. She knows, and is struggling with a choice no one can make for her, that no one should push upon her.
I hear a quiet conversation behind me and I know my time is up. I squeeze her wrist, smile at her, then glance at her chart. Amanda Beech, mother of Justin Michael. I know I cannot play Lady Bountiful for everyone, and the worst that can happen to this girl is better than what many others must face every day. But an idea is forming.

“You might be surprised what options are available, you know.”

She looks oddly at me and is about to ask what I mean when a nurse intervenes.

“Ma’am?” she enquires, “You’re not a patient in this ward, are you?”

“No, I’m from down the hall a piece,” I reply, “I just got tired of hanging with the bedridden crowd.”

“She wasn’t bothering me…” the girl interjects, but the nurse is having none of that.

“This ward is off-limits to other patients,” she begins, then a suspicious look crosses her face, “You’re the one from the ICU.”

“Guilty as charged,” I grin at her as her face goes stern. I turn to the girl and say, “Don’t let it worry you today. Enjoy your son. You never know what tomorrow may offer up, but I know you will make the right choice.”

I allow the nurse to usher me unceremoniously off the ward. On the other side of the door she delivers a stern lecture on both the dangers of sick patients wandering into the maternity ward as well as the security issues that raises, but I am only half listening. I firmly promise to behave myself in the future, and she looks somewhat deflated, as if she were anticipating an argument. I wheel myself back to my room to enjoy—if that is the proper word for it—my ridiculous hospital breakfast, and finish off the last of my extra food.

For good measure, I finish the rest of the vitamin and mineral supplements. I have never bothered with such things before, but they do seem to help. Checking the time, I telephone the limousine service, and confirm that they should be here within the hour. Then, for the first time since my awakening last week, I look through what is left of my clothing from the luggage Mitch recovered from my hotel for me last week.

I am annoyed to note that my blue jeans are baggy on me, and that I have lost so much weight I do not even need my brassiere. How utterly revolting. I must look almost like a boy, or one of those absurd modern fashion magazine models. If I had someone to lodge a complaint with, I surely would. Ah, but patience I do have, and I should look better once my body no longer needs its resources for more pressing concerns. Fluffing my hair a bit will give me at least a little to be vain about in the meantime.

The phone chirps. It is the limo service. I tell them I will be right down, and grab my purse.

Wheeling myself toward the ward’s front desk, I confront the young nurse behind the counter. My attorneys told me I should always sign all appropriate forms, and I suppose if I have listened to their advice this far, I must do this last thing.

The staff are mostly young this morning, most of the senior people either gone for the holiday or sulking in their offices. She looks panicked when I tell her I am checking out immediately, but before she can bolt for someone in higher authority, I put a commanding tone in my voice and give her a steely gaze.

“You will find me the papers first, then you may go tell whoever you need to tell,” I say. She looks like a deer caught in headlights. With an edge of impatience, I say, “Get me the paper. Now.” She fumbles about, finds me the form, hands it to me, and then bolts into the back office. I give it a perfunctory signature and date, and leave it on the counter.

As I grunt my way toward the elevators with all speed, a flight of scrub-clad nurses explodes from the back offices, their high-pitched voices blending together into a sound like frightened birds as they call out to me, saying silly things about insurance and needing to call doctors and asking me to wait. I keep going, and make it just far enough to press the elevator button before they descend around me. I resist the urge to strike at them with my stolen cane, but merely raising it causes them to flutter back a bit.

Making it very clear to them that I will brook no opposition, I consent to allow one of them to push me downstairs and outside to my limousine. Startling both the nurse and driver, I stand, open the door myself, throw in my one bag, and hop inside.

“Get me to the airport now, I don’t have any more luggage I care about,” I tell him as I slam the door.

As the car pulls away, I am disturbed to find myself shuddering almost uncontrollably. I begin to realize that it is a wonder I did not go completely mad.

Lighting a cigarette, I lean forward and ask the driver how long it will be before we reach the airport. Satisfied with the answer, I lean back and open my window to feel the cold blast of icy wind against my face and chest, hoping it will brace me a bit. It does, and after a few minutes I roll it back up again, close my eyes, and meditate.

I detest hospitals.

As I relax, I check the time, and calculate. It should be nearing noon in Pennsylvania. That thought brings a new and unexpected pain to my breast, the sudden hot pang of loneliness. They are gathered there, those people… his people. The ones he gave to me. Unable to shake the darkness closing in upon me I open my phone and dial.
Edna’s son Joshua answers the phone. I apologize for disturbing him at home. He responds in mock outrage and tells me he expects to see me there for supper that evening. I demur, telling him I am still in Denver, but that I wish I could be there.

“Joshua, I came across a girl here in Colorado who I think may be a good candidate for our foundation. I’d like to give you her name and some information on her. If you’re going into the office for a few hours tomorrow, I’m hoping you could track her down before she slips away.”

“Sure, just a second…” he locates a pen and I give him what I have regarding Miss Amanda Beech.

When we are finished I ask him if Edna is available.

“Umm, she’s down in the family room. I’m upstairs in my office, hang on.” There is the muffled sound of Joshua shouting for somebody to pick up the phone. I hear the extension pick up, and Edna’s voice comes through.

“THAT YOU GENEVIEVE?!” she bellows, and I jerk my ear from the phone. She grew up before telephones were common, and still seems to think that to speak across long distances, one must yell to be heard. I hear her son chuckle and hang up his extension.

“Yes, Edna, your Genevieve is here!” I yell back, suppressing a laugh. “And I can hear you just fine, you needn’t shout.”

“Sorry,” she chuckles. “When are you coming home, child? It’s not good for you to be wandering about the world so unattached at times like this.”

My heart melts a bit, and I reply softly, “I know, Edna. It can’t be helped. I promise, it really can’t be.”

“You’ll be here for Christmas I trust?”

I think hard about it. “I hope so. I will try, I promise.”

“You know some things better than I ever will, but I am very nearly a hundred years old, you know.” I smile to myself. She likes to remind me of that as often as she can. “I think I’ve learned a thing or two in my time,” she continues, “and let me tell you, I’ve learned that you can’t miss these chances when you have them. We want you here, and not everyone can say they have people who do, you know.”

“I know,” I say, my voice growing softer. How is it that I sometimes feel so much the child when talking to this woman?

“Well, you’d better,” she says. “I want you to make sure you’re eating, girl. Are you eating well?”

I laugh out loud. “Yes, Edna! I am eating well! I can certainly promise you that!”

“Well all right then,” she grouses. “You finish your business and come home quick, all right? That wet-behind-the-ears quack of a doctor only lets me have one drink a month and I was saving this one to have with you. I’ve just missed out on that, don’t make me miss another, understand?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, feeling a bit of a strain in my voice.

“You’ll do better than try.”

I chuckle. “Yes ma’am,” I say with mock seriousness.

“Alright then.”

“It sounds as if you’ve quite a crowd there.”

“Oh, yes! You should be here! Would you believe my daughter Cathy came all the way from Hawaii? Her and her son, and the great-grandchildren… oh, it is such a treat! They’ll be leaving Sunday, but we’re going out to the house tomorrow, assuming that manservant of yours remembers…”

She goes on for several minutes and I let it flow through me, picturing the scene at Joshua’s house with so many generations gathered under a single roof for that day. No wonder Edna is so wistful in her desire to have me there with her.

“Are you alright, child? You’ve hardly said a word.”

“I wasn’t, but I certainly am now. Edna… can you find some privacy? There is something I need to tell you.”

“Oh... certainly, I’ll just step out… marvelous things these cordless phones, aren’t they? Okay, I’m in the loo. What’s wrong?” Her voice is immediately fraught with concern and I nearly balk at what I mean to tell her, but she is one confidante I cannot keep in ignorance.

“I want to tell you why I could not come home from Denver, and I need you to understand first that I am okay…”

It comes out terribly wrong, but Edna is wise. She understands me and listens quietly as I explain the accident and its aftermath.

“Ann Arbor! Good God, why? All they have out there is hippies and bad football!”

“I need to be somewhere I am not known until… until I recover. Edna, no one must know. There will be too many questions, do you understand?”

“Of course I do, I’m old, not stupid. I’ll be out there as soon as I can manage.”

My heart sings Yes, but my head knows better. She is a stubborn woman, but I manage to convince her to give me at least another week or two. As strong and energetic as she is I know she is not up to the trip, and I fear her reaction should she be confronted with my injuries in person. Eventually she relents, but her unhappiness is evident in her voice.

“You call me every day, do you understand? I don’t hear from you, and I’ll be out there in a trice.”

“Every day, I promise. I’m nearly to the airport now, I have to go… I’ll call from the hotel when I’m settled in.”

We part with uneasy words, but I feel better now that she knows. The heaviness that had threatened to crush my heart is gone now and I find I can finally enjoy a drink from the limo’s bar. As I sip on my scotch I think again of the man who gave these people to me. I still wonder if his betrayal was worth it. Can I forgive him?

Ann Arbor and my uncertain future await. But for now, I am at peace.

—[End Journal entry]—

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Methuselah's Daughter, A Novel