Free The Life You Longed For by Maribeth Fischer Page B

looked like a little elephant man. The jokes about him being an alcoholic because of the broken capillaries— spider telangiectasias— in his cheeks, caused by his malfunctioning liver. Or that time she and Andrea, one of his night nurses, were watching him sleep, up on his knees and elbows, which he did to protect his swollen stomach, and Andrea commented that he looked uncomfortable, and Grace laughed and said that at least if she needed to give him a suppository in the middle of the night for his blood pressure, he was in a good position. Andrea had laughed. She squeezed Grace’s arm and whispered, “Isn’t it awful? You really do start thinking like that after a while, don’t you?”
    She wondered if her mother might have said something, without meaning to. That Grace seemed consumed with Jack’s illness or that she was overprotective. Grace had questioned Stephen even, and found herself watching him watching her and wondering what he was thinking.

    â€œWhat are you doing ?” She grabbed Jack from Stephen’s back where he’d been clinging like a little barnacle. Stephen was pinning Max to the floor, and Erin was trying to tickle Stephen enough that he’d release Max. They were all laughing, trying to pull each others’ socks off, the goal of the wrestling match.
    Jack started howling the minute Grace pulled him away. “Do you not get it?” Grace said furiously to Stephen. “Are you trying to kill him?”
    Erin started to explain: “We were just—”
    â€œI’m talking to your father,” Grace snapped. “Here—” She put Jack down. “Take Jack. Go do something, all of you.”
    They waited until the kids were out of the room.
    â€œTrying to kill him, Grace?” Stephen was livid.
    â€œOh, please. You know I didn’t mean that, but my God, he’s in heart failure, Stephen.”
    â€œHe was laughing !” Stephen yelled. “He was having fun, for crying out loud. Or have you forgotten what that’s like?”
    â€œGo to hell,” she said. “You think I like being this way? You think I don’t want my child to be happy?”
    He didn’t say anything. They were standing in the middle of the living room, facing off like boxers, both of them breathing heavily. Couch pillows were strewn on the floor, toys were everywhere. “I mean it,” she pressed. “Is that what you think?”
    He stared at her coldly “You’re so wrapped up in the medical stuff—”
    â€œI have to be,” she said. “I have to be because you won’t, Stephen.”
    â€œ Won’t , Grace?”
    â€œFine, can’t . Whatever. You were still wrestling with a child in end-stage heart disease. I mean, how stupid—”
    â€œ Stupid? Jack was laughing. Laughing .” His voice cracked. “God damn you,” he said, and walked away from her to the fireplace, where he spread his arms like someone under arrest and bowed his head, shoulders heaving.
    When he turned to look at her, he was crying. “Jack having fun like any other child,” he said, “that’s what I’m going to have to hold onto, and how dare you, how dare you try—” but he was sobbing then, and there was nothing to do but go to him and promise that it would be okay. She resented it, though; she resented a lot, she had realized these past few days, and she couldn’t help but wonder how deeply he resented her too.

Eight
    G race stared at the row of black-and-white photographs of the four main bridges connecting Philadelphia to New Jersey that hung on the wall to her right. Bennett Marsh, the lawyer, sat across from them in a leather wing chair, a tall floor lamp just behind him.
    Stephen filled Bennett in on what they knew: someone had called Child Protective Services last spring accusing Grace of making Jack sick—Munchausen Syndrome by Proxy. No one had informed