Cracks in the Sidewalk(18)

There’s only one thing JT hates more than being wrong, and that’s Daddy being right. One time I suggested maybe he should have listened to Daddy’s warning, and JT nearly went ballistic. At that point I backed off and started giving him some space. I figured he’d calm down once the expansion was finished and business picked up again. Besides, with two kids I had more than enough to keep me busy.

Before we were married Jeffrey said he felt just as I did about having a large family, so I thought he’d be glad we were expecting a third child. I thought maybe it would take his mind off of his business problems, but it was just the opposite. He said we had trouble enough and didn’t need any more babies. I’ve always felt children were a blessing. Until you hold your baby in your arms, you can’t begin to imagine the size of the love inside of you.

When I was ten, maybe eleven, I had two best friends, Jeanne and Emily. Jeanne wanted to be an actress, Emily a model. “How about you, Liz?” they’d ask. “What do you want to be?”

“A mother.” That’s what I’d say, every single time. While Jeanne and Emily were busy reading movie magazines, I’d be down the block watching Missus Tillinger’s babies for free.

Of course nothing ever turns out the way you think it will. Jeanne went to Hollywood, but last I heard she was a secretary. Emily married a forest ranger and moved to Canada. And me? I’m back at my parents’ house allowing some stranger to care for my three babies.

Maria Ramirez is nice enough but she’s still a total stranger, and it kills me to think she’s the one mothering my children. It ought to be me. Me or Mom—at least she’s their grandma. Of course that’s not likely to happen; Jeffrey has made it obvious he doesn’t want Mom around. Before I came home from the hospital, she’d help out with the kids whenever she could. Then JT told her to stay away. It’s a shame, because David and Kimmie both adore her. Christian, well, he’s still an infant. The first few months of a baby’s life is when they come to know the touch and smell of people. If Jeffrey continues to keep the kids from us, how can Christian ever get to know Mom? Worse yet, how can he get to know me?

Jeffrey’s trying to force Daddy to give him the money he wants, and he’s using our kids as leverage. Unfortunately, the one who suffers most is me. Me and Mom. I haven’t seen David and Kimberly since the week after Christian was born, and I haven’t seen Christian since we left the hospital. As much as I miss Jeffrey, I miss the kids a whole lot more.

You’d think Jeffrey acting that way would be cause enough for me to hate him, but I don’t. It’s not that easy to stop loving someone. You feel hurt and angry, you sizzle like there’s a bonfire inside of you, but at the end of the day you’re still in love. If Jeffrey came to me tomorrow, wrapped his arms around me and asked me to come home and be his wife again, I’d do it in a heartbeat. I might say I’d do it because of the kids, but that would be a half-truth. I want my life back—a husband who loves me, my kids close by, all of us living together, breathing the same air. If I had Jeffrey and the kids alongside of me, I know I could defeat this monster inside my head.

Mom and Dad aren’t quite so forgiving. They really hate JT these days. It’s obvious by the way they speak his name, like it’s something with a bad taste. That’s why I don’t tell them everything. They’d only hate him more than they already do.

I’m sure Mom knows anyway. Times like that she starts her “Let’s-cheer-Liz-up” act. “You look lovely today,” she’ll say. “Lots more color in your cheeks.” She doesn’t want me to know she’s worried about me, so I play along. It’s our own little game. She pretends I look better, and I pretend to feel better.

Next week, I start the radiation treatments that will hopefully shrink this tumor. I pray it works. Let me live long enough to see my babies grow up, I ask. Then I’ll go willingly. I want my children to know how much I love them. I want them to soak up the smell and touch of me, because that will stay with them long after I’m gone.

I wish I could tell you I’m not afraid, but I’m so scared that at times I can barely breathe. I know I’ve got an uphill battle on my hands, but I’m going to give it everything I’ve got so I can live long enough to raise my children.

Pray for me.





November 1984


Elizabeth returned to St. Barnabas Hospital for her radiation treatments. Most people traveled back and forth, arrived in the morning, got a quick zap of radiation and were home by supper. But the complications of Elizabeth’s case meant someone had to watch over her night and day. Her progress had to be monitored in minute increments.

On the second Tuesday of the month, Claire packed a bag containing five cotton nightgowns, a bathrobe, slippers, and the book Elizabeth would probably never read. Then together they left for the hospital. Moments after Elizabeth arrived, a transport aide whisked her off to an icy room where she lay in a coffin-like machine that growled and clicked as they ran several new CT scans. The technicians measured her from the tip of one ear to the other, from the bridge of her nose to the top of her head. They analyzed those measurements crossways, at right angles, and upside down until finally they concurred on the precise spot for placement of the powerful radiation beam.

On Thursday, the day of Elizabeth’s first treatment, Claire arrived early carrying a huge pot of yellow chrysanthemums. She placed the flowers on the windowsill, angled them toward the sun, then suggested, “Why don’t I run out and get us a container of that good coffee from the diner?”