The Life You Longed For by Maribeth Fischer Page A

Hensen’s stripe, Cartilage of Wrisberg, Jacob’s membrane.
    Now, Grace tucked her feet onto the rung of the ladder-back chair and began typing. Munchausen’s would be no different from any other disease, she told herself. There had to be causes and symptoms and treatments. Case studies and research. Etiology. Prevalence.
    Facts, as unbreakable as stone.
    She moved the cursor down the screen, the clicking of the mouse the only occasional sound. She scanned the sites: an investigator specializing in Munchausen by Proxy cases, the International Munchausen by Proxy Network, National Center for the Prosecution of Child Abusers, the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Goosebumps rose on her arm. She hadn’t seen this one before.
    The site contained a “profile” of the typical Munchausen mother. Grace read it quickly, then again, slowly. “Mother-perpetrator ‘doctor shops’ until given attention she is desperate to receive; consequently, child-victim has often been to numerous care-givers…”
    She heard again Anju’s words: Why, in God’s name, would you want to put him through that, Grace? And Jenn’s: Oh, Grace, are you sure? And her own, shouted amid sobs to Stephen the night they returned from Hopkins: I don’t care about quality of life! I want quantity , Goddamnit! I want him to live!
    Mother-perpetrator.
    Child-victim.
    It took a moment for the phrases to register. Was this how she and Jack had been described in that Child Protective Services report that Mandy had supposedly seen? Mother-perpetrator . Child-victim . The words were like thieves, stealing into her life without her knowing it, taking everything of value.
    â€œMother-perpetrator is willing to have child undergo numerous procedures and tests that often come back normal.”
    Oh, Grace are you sure?
    Why in God’s name would you even consider…
    â€œMother-perpetrator is medically knowledgeable and typically has a background in medicine.”
    You’re so wrapped up in the medical stuff.
    â€œMother-perpetrator is unusually friendly with hospital staff and other parents of sick children.”
    â€œFather is typically absent during the child-victim’s hospitalizations.”
    â€œChild-victim’s disease is often described as rare and multisymptomed.”
    She sat back, holding her palm over her mouth. She fit the profile. She tried to let that thought settle. It was like trying to balance a bowling ball on a pin. She fit the profile. But it didn’t make sense. Because Jack’s disease was rare? Because she, not Stephen, stayed with Jack in the hospital? Because she had a medical background? Had “doctor-shopped,” when there wasn’t a diagnosis? She thought again of all those letters she had sent to various experts, asking for help.
    â€œWhat was I supposed to do?” Her voice sounded scratchy and out of place in the silence. She heard the furnace kick in, the rush of warm air from the heating vents fluttering the Christmas cards pinned to the bulletin board above her computer. Light caught in the metallic red letters of the “Season’s Greetings” on one card. She glanced at it, her fingers stilled on the keyboard. She thought of robins, of red-winged blackbirds, of Noah.
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    It wasn’t until March that they made love for the first time. She was a wreck the entire drive there, her turtleneck drenched with sweat beneath her sweater, her legs trembling. She must have applied her lipstick a dozen times in the rearview mirror. And then she was knocking on the door of his condo, and he was there, enveloping her in his arms, whispering into her hair, “Oh, thank God. I was afraid you would change your mind.”
    His mouth was on hers then, and her hands were in his hair and he was holding the back of her head, then lifting her off her feet, kicking the door closed behind him, carrying her inside. His hands were on her shoulders