The Valeditztorian (27 page)

“I’m going
to carry the pregnancy and give the baby up for adoption.”

From my s
tarry-eyed vantage point, I was already picturing a kind, handsome-looking couple in their twenties, or possibly early thirties, hoping to adopt a baby. They’d be hard-working, well-off people with fertility problems, who wanted more than anything to adopt. By making their dreams come true, I’d be doing a good deed for them and society in general. And of course the baby would always be happy, wanted, and well cared for, growing up to become an emotionally healthy adult.

“That is the dumbest idea I’ve ever heard,” my mother answered without hesitation
. “Listen to me, Emma. Just have the abortion, before you ruin your life.”

But it was her life I was ruining, not mine
.

“I don’t understand why you’re getting so mad about this,” I said
. “When I told you I was pregnant, you didn’t get angry, and you didn’t mind the idea of me having an abortion. What’s so bad about carrying the pregnancy?”

“Emma,” she answered, “
you’re six weeks pregnant. Scraping away a few embryonic cells is no big deal. But you’re talking about giving away a child—your child, my grandchild. How can you possibly think that doing such a thing would be okay?”

“The baby wo
n’t really by ‘my baby,’ or ‘your grandchild.’ It’ll belong to someone else.’”   

As a teenager, it was easy for me to think this w
ay, but my mother vehemently disagreed. Over time our relationship deteriorated. Two months into my first trimester, we essentially stopped speaking to one another.

I remember the l
ast evening that my mother, father, and I all sat around the dinner table together. It was the beginning of my second trimester, and I still wasn’t showing at all.

“Larry, w
ould you please tell Emma to pass the butter?” said my mom.

“Emma, please pass the butter to your mother,” he said.

“Dad, could you tell Mom that if she wants more butter, she’ll have to go to Stop and Shop and buy some more. I used the last bit for my potato.”

“Larry, tell Emma that she u
sed way too much butter. That piece must’ve been half an inch thick.”

"
Dad, can you remind Mom that I’m eating for two now.”

“Enough,” said my d
ad, losing his temper. “I’ve had enough of the two of you fighting, bickering, and not speaking to one another. I’m tired of being in the middle of all this. As a family, we’ve got to come up with a solution to this problem, before I go crazy.”

“I have an idea,” said my mother.

“Really?” said my father, suddenly looking afraid.

“I think
it’s time for Emma to move out,” she said.

“Cecile, that’s not really a
n op….”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve already contacted Aunt Pam, who said she’d be more than happy to have Emma move in with her until the end
of high school.”

“But, Cecile, don’t you think that’s
a bit extreme? Do you really want Emma to switch schools, right in the middle of her senior year? Moreover, Pam isn’t her mother. Who’s going to look after her during the pregnancy?”

“Pamela is a perfectly competent woman
. I know she doesn’t have kids, but she’s been a pediatric nurse for the last ten years. Plus she’s a blood relative, my own sister. I can’t think of a better guardian for Emma.”

“I’m sorry, Cecile, but I’m just going to have to put my foot down here
. What you’re proposing is absolutely….”

“Gre
at! I think it’s a great idea!” I interjected.

“You do?” asked my d
ad, staring at me.

At the time
, I didn’t want Red to know about the baby. If I moved out soon, before I started showing, he’d never learn the truth. Not to mention the fact that I’d finally get a break from my mother, who was rapidly driving me insane.

“Yeah
, I do. How soon can I leave?”

“Tomorrow
,” said my mother.

“To
-tomorrow?” my father stammered.

“Yes,” she said
. “I transferred Emma’s records to the high school in Pam’s neighborhood last month, just in case.”

“Perfect!”
I said.

Jumping up from the table, I
ran to the basement to get my suitcase.

“Aren’t you going to finish your potato?” my father called after me.

My poor dad. Caught in the crossfire between my mother and me, he was never able to glue the broken pieces of our family back together.

After moving in with Aunt Pam
, my life did improve. Sure, I was pregnant, and looking more and more like a large marine mammal with each passing day, but at my new high school nobody knew me or cared enough to bother me about it. Plus I wasn’t the only girl in this situation. Since I’d be leaving soon for college, I didn’t try to make friends or socialize with the other kids—not even the pregnant ones. Mainly I read a lot of good books, focused on my schoolwork, and hung out with Pam, my fun-loving Aunt who indulged me like a doting big sister.

One af
ternoon, when I was about eight months pregnant, Pam took me out to Friendly’s for dinner. Halfway through my unhealthy dinner of deep-fried chicken and French fries, she snapped my picture with a Kodak Instant Camera.

“Oh, my goodness, kid,” she said
, “This is the funniest picture. Here you are, shoving food into your mouth, with your enormously fat belly sticking out of your pants.”

“Gee, that’s hysterical
,” I said.

“Want to see it?” she asked.

“I guess so.”

Pa
m handed me the picture.

“Wow
. You’re right,” I said. “This is a funny picture. My stomach looks bigger than a beach ball.”

“D
on’t feel badly about it, though,” said Pam. “At this point in the pregnancy, you’re supposed to look humungous. Say…would you mind if I mailed this picture to your mom?”

“No…
but why do want to send it to her?”

“I
just want her to see how you look. Your appearance has changed so much over the past few months.”

“Tell me about it
.”

A few days aft
er Pam sent the photograph, my mother called me; this was the first time we’d spoken since I left home.

“Hell
o, Emma,” she said when I answered the phone. “How are you?”

“Fine
. How are you?”

“I’m alright,” she said.

“What’s going on?” I asked, curious about the reason for her call.

“Emma,” she said, getting to the point, “I wanted to let you kn
ow that I’ve been doing some thinking, and I’ve decided that I’d like to take care of the baby, at least until you finish school.”

“But Mom, I don’t want to….”

“I’ll take a leave of absence from work, or maybe hire a nanny to watch the baby during the day.”

“I’m sorry, Mom,” I answered
. “I’m not ready to become a mother.”

“
Emma, you’re making the wrong….”

“But it’s my decision to make
, not yours.”

For a while we argued, and eventually she hung up on me.

Thereafter she called a few more times, repeating her offer with slight variations, almost to the point of begging. Yet no matter what she said, I couldn’t envision raising a child in this manner—allowing my mother to take charge, while I visited intermittently, on weekends and during vacations. If I was going to be a parent, I wanted to do it the old-fashioned way—fulltime and in person. This simply wasn’t the right time for me to enter the world of motherhood.

A few days before my due date
, when my belly was so swollen I could barely breathe, she scolded me over the phone.

“Emma,” she said, “you’re behaving
like a blockheaded idiot. Just wait. You’re going to regret giving up this child.”

Naturally I
ignored her.

One week later, f
ollowing a relatively easy delivery, I gave birth to a six-pound nine-ounce baby girl.

“Oh, s
he’s so beautiful,” crooned a nurse in the delivery room.

Though my daughter
was a gorgeous infant, I didn’t change my mind about putting her up for adoption. With no regrets whatsoever, I handed her over to the nursery staff who would care for her and complete the adoption process. Blinded by the fantasy life I’d constructed for this child, I never worried about the competence of the adoptive parents.

Nor did I tell Red abo
ut the baby. As much as I cared about him, I didn’t want to marry him, especially not at that time in our young lives. Given his recent immature behavior, I doubted his ability to competently assume the role of either husband or father.

Postnatally
, I managed to resume a somewhat normal existence. While living with my aunt, I graduated from high school with honors, subsequently completing four years at Columbia College. Red and I occasionally exchanged e-mails or phone calls, but our lives moved in very different directions. He finished college, found a great job in the computer industry, and married a nice local girl who wanted a big family right from the start. As Red began having children, I took oral contraceptives, managed to avoid getting pregnant again, and eventually started medical school. When the opportunity arose to travel to Brazil and simultaneously straighten out my head, I jumped at the chance.

In all those
years after giving birth, I never once considered the possibility that my child might end up unhappy. The idea that she could be neglected or mistreated, even unintentionally, simply didn’t occur to me. Thus deluded, I initially failed to recognize Aimee for who she was—my emotionally disturbed daughter. Nearly 10 years later, the moment I recognized Aimee, my mother’s warning finally rang true.

Chapter Eighteen

Little Pitchers

“I promi
sed your mom I’d bring you straight home after we finished with the computer,” I say.

Aimee kicks the floor w
ith her foot, a gesture she seems to use frequently when frustrated.

“But
we need to get the medicine now,” she says.

“Aimee,” I say, grasp
ing her shoulders, making direct eye contact, “you need to trust me. I’m going to do everything I can to help your father, as quickly as possible.”

She nods, still looking doubtful
.

“Good
. Now, I don’t want your mother to worry. Since I promised to take you home, that’s where you’re going.”

Aimee
pouts unhappily.

“Oh, alright,” she says
. “I just hate waiting around. No one ever tells me what’s going on.”

“Would it help if I promised to call per
iodically, to let you know what’s happening?”

“Ok
ay,” she says begrudgingly.

As we begin walking toward the door, my feet suddenly freeze
. Then she tugs my arm.

“Emma,
come on,” says Aimee. “Why are you just standing there?”

“Umm, c
an I ask you a question that’s going to sound strange?”

“I guess so.”

“During our first tutoring session, when you were walking around at home with bare feet, I noticed something interesting about your toes.”

This is the first time I’ve lied to her, and I hope it will be the last
.

Aimee smiles
.

“Oh, yeah
. My toes are really strange. My mom is always saying that I must’ve been a mermaid in another life.”

“How come?”

“You know, because the second and third toes on both of my feet are stuck together. You saw them, right? They’re webbed, like a mermaid’s tail.”

“Mermaid, huh?”

“Do you want to see them again?” she asks.

“No thanks,” I say
. “They might be stinky from running around all day.”

Aimee giggles a bit
.

“
Also, I remember how they look.”

Only not from our tutoring encounter
last week, but from the one and only time I was brave enough to hold her—for a few seconds in the delivery room.

“Let’s get you home now,” I say
.

After dropping Aimee
off with Maria, I head straight to Memorial. As luck would have it, Joan Riley is busy zooming around her lab.

This time I give her some warning.

“Hi, Joan,” I say loudly, but not too loudly, as I enter.

“Emma!”

She spins around, but thankfully doesn’t lose her balance.

“Nice to see you again
. Oh, my. What happened to your hair?”

“Oh, I totally forgot about that
. This morning I had a little problem with some dye. No big deal. How are you?”

“Fine, thanks
. What brings you here on a Saturday afternoon?”

Joan smiles and crosses
her arms politely, with just a touch of impatience, waiting for my reply. She looks like a busy woman with a whole a lot more work to do. Since this is no time to be shy, the words start tumbling out.

“Well, it’s a bit urgent, actually
. There’s a patient on the fifth floor, room 509, who’s very sick…dying, probably. He’s got metastatic melanoma, but not just any melanoma. I think he’s got the Mts mutation, the one I worked on in Brazil.”

Joan raises her eyebrows
. She’s probably wondering where I came across this information, and I’m hoping she won’t ask for any detailed explanations.

“I was wondering whether you might have enough medicine to treat him
. I know you received a bunch of vials from Alvin, but I’m not sure whether you have enough for an adult. I don’t even know if administering GrR to a person is allowed at this point. By the way, I’m related to the family, so I’m really hoping you can help them.”

“I’m glad you bro
ught this to my attention, Emma,” says Joan. “You’ll be interested to know that a couple days after you delivered the fungal samples, I convinced one of my pharmaceutical colleagues to begin purifying GrR. Yesterday I received a highly concentrated form of the drug, possibly enough to treat a grown man. Would you like to see it?”

The look on her face is pure excitement
.

“Sure.”

Joan zips over to one of the small refrigerators and removes a 10 cc syringe.

“Voila,” she says
, holding it up for my perusal.

The fluid in the syringe is purple
, similar in shade to my hair.

“Whoa
. Why is it purple?” I say. “Alvin’s solution was clear.”

“T
o avoid confusing the more concentrated drug with the original, we’ve added a dye. Emma, the drug in this syringe is one hundred times more potent than the original sample. Given the amount needed to treat your average mouse, we might have enough here for a human. Until we test it, though, we can’t be sure.”

“Can we try it on the patient upstairs, then
?”

The ton
e of my voice is a bit too high pitched. I’m trying, and failing, not to get as excited and impatient as Aimee.

“No,” Joan answers, “a
t least not yet. As you probably know, getting a new drug approved by the hospital isn’t a simple process. First we need to complete an IRB proposal. I actually started working on one last week, but I’ll need a few more days to finish it. Then we’ve got to run the proposal through the IRB itself, and their next full committee meeting is three weeks from this coming Wednesday. Realistically speaking, the earliest we could possibly hear from them is next month.”

“Next month
?”

I nearly kick the floor with my foot.

“Yes.”

“But t
he situation upstairs is a bit…fragile,” I say. “The patient might not last another month. Is there any way to expedite the IRB review?”

“I could try calling an emergency meeting, but at the moment
, that’s going to be tricky, since one of the IRB directors is on vacation. I’ll do what I can, but for now you’re just going to have to wait.”

I must look unhappy, because Joan adds, “Emma, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you need to remember that there’s a reason we have the IRB
. Previously untested drugs are potentially dangerous, even lethal, and our first job as physicians is to do no harm. As frustrating as it may seem, the IRB process is immensely important for patient safety.”

“I understand
,” I say. “Will you call, or send an e-mail, when you have some news?”

“Of course,” she says
. “I’ll be sure to keep you updated.”

“Thank you
. I think I’ll go upstairs now and speak to the family.”

As I turn to exit, a tremendous clanging noise reverberates through the hallway, as thoug
h someone has just dropped a hundred pots and pans all at once. Joan and I rush outside to investigate. Lying on the floor, rubbing his head, is a cute, young researcher wearing a white lab coat.

“Are you okay
?” I ask.

“I think so,” he answers, looking bewildered
.

“What
happened?” says Joan.

“It all happened so
fast, I’m not really sure,” he says. “As I was pushing my cart away from the autoclave, some kid almost ran into me. She came out of nowhere, running really fast, and I had to swerve to avoid hitting her. When the cart tipped over, I banged my head against the wall. But I’m okay. At least I think I’m okay.”

While Joan helps the poor guy to his feet, I right th
e cart and begin loading the fallen beakers and flasks. Mistrusting my ability to handle pieces of broken glass, I purposefully grab only intact objects.

“W
hat did the kid look like?” I ask, hoping that I’m wrong about what I’ve just been thinking.

“Hair in braids…
pointy ears. She moved so fast, she looked just like a leprechaun. Gee,” he shakes his head, “maybe I did hit my head too hard.”

Joan glances curiously at me for a moment
.

“Do you know any kids who fit
that description?” she asks.

I
shrug my shoulders, finding myself at a complete loss for words.