A Little Piece of Me

Marcia could tell when her mother wanted to take charge of things. Since her marriage to Michael, it was less blatantly obvious than in the past, perhaps because Barbara recognized that Michael’s need to take charge was more immediate. During the three days since Lina Padilla had arranged for them to see a second pediatric hepatologist, Marcia had spoken on the phone mostly to her mother and a few times to her father. Barbara had, as usual, wasted little time on solace in their early conversations. Alan, also as usual, had been loving and comforting and supportive, but didn’t help with the decision. “Perhaps you should bring Max to New York,” Barbara suggested. “No, I don’t think that would be so easy and, besides, we can’t see any special advantages to going anywhere else. As far as we can tell—and Michael and I both spoke to Dad about it—we’ll get good care here, as good as anywhere.” Barbara was silent. “There’s a lot of liver transplant experience here, if it comes to that.” Marcia had called her mother’s cell phone and now she wondered if the connection had been broken. “Did I lose you?” “No, I’m here.” “Where are you?” “I’m in the extra room, Frank’s old room. I was going to use the treadmill for a while. I just didn’t realize we were talking about a transplant. Does your father know about this?” “I’m sure we told him. But it’s not definite, it’s just a possibility. I shouldn’t have mentioned it. We don’t know for sure.” “That’s pretty serious, don’t you think? I suppose I didn’t really understand that Max is that sick.” “May be that sick, may. We don’t know yet. Not for sure.” Marcia traced her fingers lightly along the bedspread’s floral pattern. “And you said you were seeing another doctor somewhere else, is that what you said?” “Yes, that’s right. At Kates-Spencer Medical Center, in Beverly Hills. The doctor we saw at UCLA, Lina—the one who’s going away—referred us to someone there.” “Well?” “Well what?” “What if he needs a transplant? Then you’re not at UCLA.” “They do transplants at Kates too. Lina seemed fine with that. She assured us that he would be fine at either hospital. It’s actually a bigger hospital than UCLA’s, and they do a lot of transplants there. She said transplant patients go back and forth, I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask for details. There were other things to think about. The doctor we’re seeing worked with Lina for a number of years before going over to Kates to start up the pediatric transplant program. We’re comfortable with this. Michael and I discussed it for a long time. Dan Fogel said this guy’s great also. Daddy spoke to somebody too, I think it was Dr. Schiffman or Shaffner or something like that, the big liver doctor at Sinai. We’re okay with this. Really.” Barbara didn’t respond, so Marcia nervously rushed on. “Lina actually said he was the one she would go to if one of her children had a liver disease.” “Okay, I understand. I do.” A pause, then Barbara coughed and sighed. Is she crying? “Marcia,” her voice was raspy, “are you sure we shouldn’t come out?” “No, no, not yet.” “It’s not a problem. If Dad can’t come right now, I can fly out and help you.” “Not yet. We may need you—we will need you—before too long, but not quite yet.” A long silence and then, “Okay.” Marcia now realized there was music playing in the background, a Chopin impromptu. “Is that one of your recordings?” “Good God, no. I never listen to myself. That’s Rubenstein. Chopin and Rubenstein.” “Quite a pair.” “Yes.” Another pause, and then, “I could so easily just get on a plane . . . “ “No.” Marcia raised her voice a little, rolling her eyes and looking up at the ceiling. The last thing she needed right now was Barbara taking charge, yet she was acutely aware that Barbara might get on a plane no matter her objections. Marcia’s mother faced life the same way she faced her music. When Marcia was about twelve, she and her father had watched Midway and, for a long time afterward, she had imagined her mother commanding those around her from the bridge of some great warship. Nimitz of the Steinway. “Really, Mom, we need to find out more about what’s going to happen with Max. I promise we’ll call you for help when we need it.”