Chapter 41 Christmas Day
41.
Christmas Day
Babs Belvedere had been diagnosed with relapsing-remitting multiple sclerosis when she was fifty-one years old. Eighteen years ago. Three years before Babs moved from New York City to the Catskills. Eighteen birthdays, eighteen Christmases. Each one celebrated with their mother keeping this colossal secret. How? Why?
Only a handful of people in her current orbit knew, including her specialist, whose Connecticut office Babs had been at the day Liz and Birdie first arrived at Belvedere Inn. And most recently, Jin-soo, who, in addition to being an assistant, was certified as a private nurse: Babs hired them once her symptoms started to worsen.
Between talking at length with the hospital’s admitting doctor and some additional Googling, Liz was on her way to understanding MS by the time they drove their mother home in the afternoon on Christmas Day. Multiple sclerosis was a chronic, typically progressive autoimmune disorder in which a person’s own antibodies start destroying their nerve cells. Many people could live for years, even decades, without visible symptoms, often recovering completely after an “attack,” which could range from tingling or numbness to a complete loss of consciousness. As the disease progressed over time, the effects of each attack became more pronounced. Symptoms included impairment of speech and muscular coordination, blurred vision, and severe fatigue.
Almost falling in the foyer while dealing with the electrician. Her slurred speech at the holiday party. Their mother hadn’t been clumsy or tipsy. She wasn’t tired from another banner year. She’d never been thrown off a goddamn horse. Looking back, Liz felt like a fool for not connecting the dots sooner. Sooner, at least, than eighteen years after the initial diagnosis. She’d spent most of her adult life in the dark. Part of the reason why she didn’t notice the disease’s effects.
Even though MS didn’t affect life expectancy, the recommended course of action for someone Babs’s age was to eat well, exercise regularly, and get plenty of rest. Not star in a major television show with fourteen-hour production days. The future of Babs’s ability to perform, however, hung in the balance. Her medical team needed to review her test results after the holidays. Relapsing-remitting MS was the most common initial diagnosis. As Babs’s career had proved, it could be relatively benign and highly manageable. But most people developed secondary progressive MS over time, characterized by a worsening of symptoms. Irreversible disability could occur.
The house was oddly quiet when they all arrived home. Ash had left to spend a few days in New York City, to give the family some space. Liz, Birdie, and Rafi gathered around Babs’s silk-sheeted bed to open a few presents. While everyone made an effort to be upbeat, the atmosphere was strained. Rafi’s gaze kept straying to the spot on the carpet where he’d found his mother unconscious. Birdie made a lot of dark jokes about being the world’s worst daughter. Liz was consumed with questions, each one its own difficult mountain to summit: How should they best care for her? What came next? And, of course: “Why didn’t you tell us?” Liz glanced at her siblings for their support before addressing her mother. “Why did you keep it a secret?”
Babs let out a long breath. “Well, of course I was devastated when I found out. Rafi, you were still a boy, and you two”—she indicated Liz and Birdie—“were about to start your own lives. No one needed to know. Years passed, and it just became something I managed. The illness and the secret. I was protecting you. I suppose I didn’t want you to see me any differently.”
But that was the problem, wasn’t it? “Maybe,” Liz said slowly, “we all need to see each other a little differently. We can’t stay the same forever. Change is inevitable. I know I’m not the same person I was.” As if to prove the point, tears welled in Liz’s eyes. They didn’t feel bad. They felt like a release. “And that’s a good thing. I think we’re all changing. I think we need to.”
—
As the winter-pale light faded to night, Babs’s eyes drifted shut. Her three children tucked her in and tiptoed to the kitchen.
“Thrown off a horse?” Birdie sounded bewildered. “How’d we believe that?”
“Because that’s what she told us.” Liz uncorked a bottle of wine and started pouring.
Birdie pushed her empty glass back across the kitchen island, reddening. “None for me.”
Liz was taken aback. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you say no to a drink. Not even when you had the flu.”
“Dark.” Her sister looked embarrassed. Birdie retrieved a tote bag from the far end of the island. “Merry Christmas.” She handed two presents out to Liz and Rafi, both wrapped in holiday mailers.
Liz unwrapped hers, holding it up with a quizzical frown. “A Wayne Gretzky bobblehead?”
“I’ve got LeBron!” Rafi held his bobblehead up happily.
“Might’ve been drinking at a sports bar last night, before I saw the texts about Ma,” Birdie confessed. “Might’ve won a bet.”
“What sort of bet?” Liz asked.
Rafi put LeBron down in alarm. “Or do we not want to know?”
“If I can put fifty chopsticks in my mouth,” Birdie replied, opening the fridge to get a Diet Coke. “I can.”
Surprising herself as well as her siblings, Liz laughed. God, it felt good to laugh. She examined her bobblehead with affection. “I love it.”
“I’m starving.” Birdie popped the can of soda. “I’ll cook.”
Over a plate of Birdie’s Sunday Eggs, the siblings talked out their mother’s diagnosis and secrecy. The signs they had missed when they’d been wrapped up in their own problems. Their powerful desire to do better. Be present. Help, in every way they could.
By the time Liz was crawling into bed, a smidgen of her pain had been relieved. Whatever came next, she had her brother and sister, ready to face it with her. And Ash, of course.
What about Violet? Emotions had run high—too high. Liz wanted to spend the rest of her life trying to figure out Violet and what their future together held. Soon. But not now.
Her bedside lamp was the only light on at the Inn as Liz typed out a text. I’d like to talk. I just need some time to help my mom.
Vi’s reply came the next morning, when the sky was the frozen pastel blue of dawn.
I need some time, too.