Legacy - 53. Family Gathering - Jeremy Kimball

“Dad?” my daughter asked me again as we sat together in her kitchen in her North Carolina home. “Out with it, how in the world do you know about Shy Drager syndrome?”

I was trapped. How could I respond without tipping her off that I knew something? I was desperately trying to avoid turning her world upside down, but Sandy was smart. Unless I outright lied to her, she’d figure it out. On the other hand, she always could tell when I wasn’t telling the truth. No, lying was not an option.

“I mean it’s not exactly a common disease,” Sandy went on. “Multiple System Atrophy is rare. Most neurologists will never see a case in their lifetimes. For me, it’s a perfect model disorder for neurodegenerative diseases, and it’s especially devastating and lethal. That’s why I’ve made it my life’s work.”

What a strange coincidence. How ironic that the disease she’d chosen for her life’s work was a very rare disorder her Pop had. How could she have known?

“I’m curious why you didn’t choose Parkinson’s Disease,” I countered. “After all, it’s a much more common disease and you could help so many more people that way.”

“But everyone and their mother’s studying Parkinson’s, Dad,” my daughter explained. “Why enter a crowded field when there are rare diseases that are hardly being studied at all . . . true orphan diseases? There are already excellent treatments for Parkinson’s . . . maybe not perfect, but they do mitigate the symptoms quite nicely until the disease is very advanced.

“The situation with MSA is so dire that it used to be a death sentence. Thanks to the work of our lab and others, it’s now highly treatable. We may not be able to help as many people, but the ones we do help, we help profoundly. Besides which, because MSA shares some features with Parkinson’s Disease, perhaps we can learn something about Parkinson’s too.”

Just then we heard footfalls on the stairs and I caught a glimpse of Dan coming down. Obviously he wasn’t expecting me, as he wasn’t wearing anything - at all. How embarrassing - as much for me as for him.

Dan actually managed to walk into the kitchen, walk up to the counter and grab the coffee pot, pouring himself a mug full of steaming hot coffee before he turned around to face what he presumed would be only his wife. When he turned around, however, his face suddenly registered shock as he realized he was not alone with his wife. The coffee mug slipped from his hands, landed on the floor and shattered into at least a dozen pieces, spraying coffee everywhere but mostly on his feet and legs.

Of course his first reaction to being scalded with hot coffee was to jump up and back, but this only made him jump onto a piece of broken mug, causing him to scream, “Fuck!” The whole scene would have been funny, had it not been for my poor son-in-law being in so much pain.

Finally, he managed to eke out, “Excuse me . . . be right back,” as he headed to the half-bath on the main floor, presumably to wipe the coffee off his feet and to extract the mug fragment, and then he made his way back upstairs. Soon we could hear the shower running.

In the meantime Sandy wiped up the spilled coffee and started picking up the pieces of the coffee mug, giggling the entire time as I helped her.

Finally, Dan returned and as he entered the kitchen and poured himself another cup of coffee, he said, “Sorry, Dad, I didn’t mean to flash you like that. I wasn’t expecting you or anyone else to be down here besides Sandy.”

“What if Cindy had been sick and home from school?” I asked.

Shrugging his shoulders, Dan replied, “Wouldn’t be the first time she’s seen me in the altogether.”

“And the boys have seen me in the nude as well,” Sandy admitted. “It’s not unusual for any of us to see each other in the nude,” she went on. “We often skinny dip in the pool. Our yard is completely fenced in and, thanks to all the trees, we have complete privacy.”

“So you’re nudists,” I stated as I mulled it over in my head. “I guess I can understand that. Most people are way too hung up on the human body.”

“Funny, but I never thought of us as nudists before,” Dan responded with a laugh, “but I suppose you’re right. It’s just that we don’t go to nudist colonies or nude beaches or anything like that. We keep our nudism private.”

“Do you think you’ll need to make any changes once you have teenagers in the house?”

“When was the last time you ever thought about your parents, your brother or your sister, sexually?” Dan countered.

“Point well taken,” I replied.

“So what brings you to North Carolina?” Dan asked. Perhaps Sandy would forget my earlier slip of the tongue.

“We were just talking about my work with neurodegenerative disorders like Parkinson’s disease,” Sandy responded, “and Dad added something like, ‘and Shy Drager Syndrome.' So Dad was about to explain how he came to know about Shy Drager Syndrome.” Shit!

As the two of them looked at me expectantly, I tried to think of how in the world I might get out of this situation. There had to be a way I could explain how I knew about the disease without giving away just who it was that had it. I was starting to sweat and I almost felt ill.

“Dad are you all right?” Sandy asked.

“I’m fine, sweetheart,” I responded. “It’s just that all the talk of Shy Drager brought up some unpleasant memories.”

“You knew someone who had it?” Sandy asked with compassion in her voice.

For some strange reason, tears started to come to my eyes and all I could do was to nod my head.

“Was it someone I know?” she asked.

“I can’t tell you,” I replied through my tears.

Even through the blurriness of my tears, I could see Sandy’s face change as she said, “My God, you know, don’t you?”

When I didn’t answer, she continued, “I always thought he kept you in the dark. He didn’t want anyone to know, but I thought that especially applied to you. Otherwise you might never have remarried.”

As her words slowy sank in, it dawned on me that we were both dancing around the same issue. We were both afraid to tell the other about David. “You know about Pop?” I asked.

Nodding her head, she responded, “The cure for Shy Drager Syndrome, such as it existed at the time involved harvesting skin cells from a young, female relative. We didn’t yet have the knowledge we do today that allows us to use someone’s own dermal stem cells and, at the time, the only successful results were obtained using female cells from people under the age of thirty. I was the only relative that fit the bill.”

“So Pop sought you out?” I asked in astonishment. I couldn’t have imagined David telling either Sandy or Josh, even if it could save his life. He wanted to spare his children the pain of losing him a second time.

“Pop would have never sought me out on his own, but he wasn’t alone,” Sandy answered in a soft voice. Slowly I realized what she was trying to say.

“Pop found another man?” I asked, then hastened to add, “That’s wonderful if he did. The only reason he told me about his situation was to give Sammy and me his blessing. He wanted to be sure we didn’t feel guilty, and that we didn’t let the guilt keep us from getting together. Of course I would want the same thing for him . . .”

“Dad, Pop didn’t find another man,” Sandy explained as she shook her head. “I know this will sound strange, but he has a wife now.”

I must have shown a look of shock on my face, as Sandy continued, “I know it may be hard to fathom, knowing Pop as you did. Of course he’s still gay . . . nothing will ever change that . . . but love knows no bounds. None of us is completely gay or straight and, under the right circumstances, we can fall romantically in love with either sex. It happens all the time.

“It was one of Pop’s physicians, Rebecca, who saw Pop for the wonderful, caring, extraordinary man that he is. She fell head over heels in love with him and, in time, he fell for the wonderful, caring person that she is too.

“Pop tried not to let it happen . . . he didn’t need more entanglements, as he put it . . . but Rebecca saw what he was doing and eventually, she figured it all out. It wasn’t hard, given that she had complete access to his DNA. Confronted with her knowledge of who he was, all pretence fell away. And she gave him a reason to want to live.”

Suddenly, my eyes flew open wide as I recognized the obvious. “Your change in career direction. That was all because of Pop!”

“Absolutely, but it wasn’t only because of Pop,” Sandy explained. “It was as much because of me.

“When I was approached about donating a portion of the skin from my back, I was reluctant to do so, as there would always be a scar. I wasn’t being vain or anything but I could easily see this stretching into a lifetime commitment to someone I didn’t even know.

“But then Rebecca herself came to see me and she told me that it was for someone I knew. Someone I knew and loved, but she couldn’t tell me who it was per their request. My initial thought was, if they aren’t willing to show their face and make the request in person . . . if they don’t care enough about their own life to take that step . . . then why should I care about them? However, the look in Rebecca’s eyes told me it wasn’t just someone I loved, but she as well.

“And then it all started to come together for me. Although Rebecca never mentioned the disease, she spoke of neurologic deterioration and it didn’t take me long to stumble upon Multiple System Atrophy as the most likely cause. I read up all I could on it including the latest experimental procedures and clinical trials. As I read up on the various procedures, I realized that the only reason I would have been sought out was for treatment of a brother or a parent. That meant it had to either be you or Josh . . . or Pop. Since neither you nor Josh had any symptoms, I could draw only one conclusion.”

“So you met with Pop?” I asked.

“I more than met with him, Dad. I’ve been a part of his life ever since.”

I was shocked but, even more, I couldn’t help but note the irony and stated it aloud before I even realized what I was doing. “Here I’ve been searching the world for Pop’s whereabouts, mining the archives in his library, reading his memoirs and a manuscript written by Bruce Warren, meeting with Bruce’s son, all that and more . . .”

“You’ve been searching for Pop?” Sandy asked and I merely nodded my head. “But whatever for, Dad?”

Taking a deep breath, I responded, “It’s at Uncle Sammy’s request. He’s a lot sicker than I’ve told you. The second bone marrow transplant has failed. He’s in reverse isolation to protect him from infectious diseases and he’s getting regular transfusions. He’s a man in a bubble and he doesn’t want to live that way.

“Sammy made a request of me. He wants to see Pop one last time before he dies. I think more than anything he’d like to see Pop and I reunited as friends if nothing more. It’s the friendship we used to share that he’s missed the most.

“If I come home empty handed, Sammy intends to remove himself from reverse isolation tomorrow. Given what I’ve found, he’ll wait a bit longer but his intent remains the same. I can tell from our nightly phone calls that each day he spends inside his bubble, a small piece of him dies. I need to honor his request and then let him have his freedom.”

“Oh Dad, I had no idea,” Sandy responded before enveloping me in a hug. Dan, who had largely been silent throughout the time, hugged me as well.

“So how do I go about finding Pop?” I asked.

“He’s on his way over and should be here in less than thirty minutes,” Sandy answered.

“But how?” I asked.

“The latest implanted phones are really amazing, Dad,” Sandy answered. “You can send a text message without even moving a muscle. You should try one.”

Chuckling, I responded, “I’m not quite ready to join The Collective.”

“The Collective?” my daughter asked.

“Look up your late twentieth century science fiction.” I replied with a smile.

After sitting in silence for a minute, I asked, “How do you handle your relationship with Pop? You said you’ve maintained a close relationship with him over the years, but Pop supposedly was killed in 2043. He assumed a new identity afterwards, but everything about that identity ends in 2050. There are no records associated with Dr. Kenneth Landry after then, so I assume he no longer uses that name or the associated Social Security number.”

“I’m not going to go into the details of how Pop changed his identity,” Sandy started to explain, “but when he realized he could be cured of his disease, he knew he couldn’t stay in his retreat in Idaho. There would have been too many questions and there was too much risk of his true identity being discovered.

“He needed to make a complete break with the past and he felt that included a break with his closest friends . . . even Uncle Trevor. You can’t imagine how much that hurt him and he almost didn’t go through with the treatment because of that, but his fiancé wouldn’t back down.

“It’s a lot easier to change an identity than I would have ever believed,” Sandy went on. “All it takes is a little cash to the right people and a dead person’s identity can come back to life, complete with your own DNA in their records. That’s how Pop became Ronald Francis Jeffers, a widowed and childless tax attorney from Columbia, Missouri who originally died of a heart attack.

“In any case, after successfully completing the treatment for his disease, Pop needed to start his life anew. For some reason, assassinated presidents aren’t eligible to receive a pension and there wasn’t a way for him to claim any of his assets from before.

“His disease was pretty advanced when he began the treatment, so it was too late to reverse all the damage. He still moves very slowly and he has some difficulty speaking. His residual degree of disability therefore significantly limited his opportunities for work.

“His wife made enough money to support the two of them but, as you can imagine, Pop insisted on doing his share and he wasn’t ready to retire on disability. To make a very long story short, they moved to Winston-Salem, not far from here, and Pop took and passed the North Carolina bar exam, giving him the credentials he needed to open a law office, even though he never intended to practice, and he took to writing. He writes under the pseudonym of Gregory Peckham”

My eyes flew open wide as I realized that Pop - my David - was Gregory Peckham, a highly respected author of first person biographies of prominent historical figures. What Peckham did was unique. Unlike historical fiction writers of the past that worked by interjecting fictional characters, usually with a lot of conjecture, Peckham used painstaking research to reconstruct the lives of those he studied. History came alive as he explored events in the lives of men like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson and Aaron Burr from their own perspective. Although no one could possibly know what they thought at the time, Peckham made use of their own writings and the writings of those around them to project their likely thoughts onto the ‘printed’ page.

Peckham was known to be a bit of a recluse. He never attended book signings and rarely entertained guests. It was no wonder so little was known about him. He was considered an odd ball, but a brilliant author nevertheless.

Shifting topics, I asked, “Does Pop know I’m here?”

Shaking her head, Sandy replied, “No. I didn’t think that was the sort of thing I could send him in a text message. You surprised me when you showed up on my doorstep and now you’ll have a chance to surprise him, too.”

“Knowing Pop,” I continued, “I’m surprised he let you remain a part of his life. Not that he wouldn’t have wanted you in it, but he would have done everything possible to make a break with the past. How did you do it, and do the children know?”

“As you know,” Sandy answered, “Pop’s stubborn, but I’m his daughter and I’m every bit as stubborn as he is. I refused to have anything to do with his cure unless he promised to keep in touch and to keep me informed of where he was. He was fine with simply walking away, but Rebecca was not. She agreed to my terms and, in case you didn’t know it, the woman is always the dominant member of a relationship.

“Of course there was a real danger that people would find out about Pop if he had ongoing contact with me. It was a risk he was unwilling to take and I couldn’t blame him. There was no reason to have any contact with me.

“Fortunately for us, as you know, Dan is adopted . . .”

“Indeed I am,” Dan chimed in. “My mother became pregnant when she was only thirteen. She was a rebellious teenager and had had sex with a lot of boys, some of them complete strangers. She had no idea who the father was. Her parents were religious and so abortion wasn’t an option, but they were poor and couldn’t exactly handle having another baby in the house. They also feared having a baby would interfere with their daughter’s chances of going to college and having a better life. Reluctantly, they put me up for adoption.”

“With my background, it wasn’t hard to ‘prove‘ that Pop was a distant cousin of Dan on his father’s side. It was then only natural that we settled down in North Carolina to be with Dan’s one known living relative. And, yes, the kids know all about their Cousin Ronnie . . . everything but the fact that he was once David Reynolds.

Sighing, Dan added, “Except that Cliff has figured it out. We keep denying it, but that has only made Cliff more persistent."

“He’s getting old enough to be responsible,” Sandy suggested, so maybe it’s time to come clean with him, but that is a decision for Pop to make.”

I was thrilled that David had gone on to make a new life for himself and, obviously, done quite well in the process. I was happy that he and Sandy had reconnected and that he had frequent contact with his grandchildren, even if it did present some added risk. I knew how important they must be to him now as they were to me.

It was at that moment that the door bell chimed. Dan got up and went to answer the door while Sandy pulled me close to her side. Moments later Dan was ushering a couple of people into the kitchen as I heard a woman’s voice say, “It sounded urgent, so we dropped everything and came right . . .”

First to enter was an older woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties. She was tall and she stood tall, and had a rather stately manner although she exuded warmth. The shocked look on her face made it clear she knew exactly who I was, albeit not why I was here.

David entered more slowly and it was evident he still had significant difficulties walking. His posture was stooped, his gait was shuffling and his right hand had a very slight tremor.

When he saw me, he likewise registered shock and then asked, “Jeremy! What are you doing here? Sandy would have never brought me here to see you unless something was very wrong. Out with it, Jaywalk.” Jaywalk was a nickname he used only during our most private moments. Jaywalk was based on my initials, JWK.

“It’s Sam,” I replied. “His immune system collapsed about two years ago and he’s undergone two bone marrow transplants in an attempt to save him. The first transplant attacked and nearly killed him. The second was a last ditch attempt, and it has failed.”

Tears came to my eyes as I went on, “Sam is living in a ‘bubble’ . . . it’s a room with reverse isolation that prevents him from catching germs from others. The two of us can’t even touch except through a plastic barrier. We can’t hug or be intimate in any way. And he’s dependent on regular transfusions, without which he would die from oxygen starvation.”

Taking a deep breath, I continued, “Sam doesn’t want to live this way. Very few of us would, and I would never be so selfish as to ask him to live in misery on my behalf. He had planned to remove himself from the bubble tomorrow and let nature take its course, but he decided to wait . . . to wait for you, David. Somehow, Sam knew you were still alive. He wants to see you one last time before he dies.”

“And I suppose he was hoping that you and I could be together again,” David interjected, reaching the inevitable conclusion.

“Perhaps he hoped that,” I confirmed, “but I reminded him that even if you were still alive, you’d have likely long moved on. As they say, ‘you can’t go home again’. We’re neither of us the same person we were eighteen years ago when you ‘died’. I have a feeling that even if you were available, it wouldn’t work between us anymore.”

“You’re undoubtedly right,” David replied, “although it pains me to admit it. Besides which, I would never leave my wife for anyone . . . not even you.”

“I completely understand,” I replied. “I would never willingly leave Sammy.”

“Does it surprise you that I have a wife?” David asked.

“I would have never thought it possible,” I admitted.

“I wouldn’t have either but, then, you have to admit that it’s the perfect disguise. No one would ever think to look for President David Reynolds, the first openly gay President of the United States, in a relationship with a woman.

“The surprising thing is that Rebecca and I love each other very much, and our relationship is very much physical. Being with a woman doesn’t change anything. I’m still gay and always will be gay. I’m not in any way attracted to other women but I love my wife and I enjoy making love to her. It feels . . . natural.”

“Then I’m happy for you, David,” I replied.

“I always did have a thing for Jewish partners,” David added with a laugh, and I laughed along with him.

The sound of Rebecca clearing her throat reminded us all that, firstly, she was in the room with us and, secondly, we hadn’t been formally introduced.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rebecca,” I began as I extended my right hand. “I’ve heard so much about you from my daughter. I’m glad you make my ex-husband happy. Even more, I’m glad you were so forceful in talking him into the treatment. It would have been a great pity to have lost him twelve years ago. He’s done so many great things since, as a noted author, as a father to his daughter and a ‘cousin’ to his grandchildren and, I’m sure, as a husband to his wife.”

“That’s very kind of you to say that, Mr. Kimball,” she replied. “I’ve always wanted to meet you and was saddened that there was no way we could before now. I didn’t know you already knew about Ron’s survival, or I would have insisted we made contact long ago. He’s a very stubborn man but, then, you already know that. I can see how he fell in love with you in the first place.”

“Why thank you, Rebecca,” I responded.

The five of us ended up spending the rest of the morning and early afternoon talking with each other and catching up on lost time, up until the children returned from school. By necessity conversation had to turn to lighter fare once they were home, but we continued to have an enjoyable afternoon and evening, including dinner together.

We agreed that we would leave for New York in the morning, driving up in my limo by the light of day. Dan would stay behind and take care of the kids. It wasn’t until I made my nightly call to Sam, however, that the trip took on utmost urgency. Sam had taken a significant turn for the worse and was running a fever - never a good sign in someone who was immune compromised.

We needed to leave right away, but changes of plans were not the forte of the Secret Service. The route needed to be cleared first to ensure there were no construction projects along the way that could pose a security risk. Work hour restrictions precluded the driver who brought me to Raleigh-Durham from driving any further that night. Also, police escorts needed to be arranged. Clearly, even if we pushed it, we weren’t leaving any earlier than tomorrow morning.

Sammy had been sedated and made comfortable and, although he wasn’t in immediate danger, the situation could turn dire at any moment. There was a very real possibility that Sam would pass away before we had a chance to return to New York. Even if he survived that long, he might not be lucid enough to recognize us when we got there.

~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~

East coast traffic could be horrible, particularly on a Friday. We left early enough, at just after six in the morning, hoping to avoid the worst of the rush hour traffic common to the Raleigh-Durham area. Unfortunately, the one thing that’s predictable about traffic anywhere is that it’s unpredictable. David told us that visitors to the region are often surprised when they encounter stopped traffic, seemingly in the middle of nowhere but, with more than two million inhabitants spread out in a mish-mash of rural and suburban enclaves without a real city center, everyone has to somehow get from here to there. Multiple attempts at implementing a viable rapid transit system had failed, even in a time when nearly every medium and large city in America had one.

We hoped to get out of the area before the start of rush hour and then grab breakfast at a diner along the way. With a police escort we should have been able to speed by the worst of the traffic; however a police escort is worthless once traffic reaches saturation. Other than driving on the shoulder - a practice discouraged except in dire emergencies - there is no way to get past bumper-to-bumper traffic. After nearly two hours of barely inching our way along, thanks to an early morning fender bender, we ended up stopping at a diner far closer to our starting point than we would have liked.

Rather than cause a mob scene by eating inside and incurring further delays, we decided to order takeout. Besides which, people would have wondered who David was and why he was traveling with a former U.S. president. We therefore had the Secret Service bring us menus, take our orders and then have everything boxed up.

Eventually we got past the worst of the traffic and we made much better time in Virginia, right up until we entered the environs of Washington, D.C. Although not as bad as what we’d experienced in North Carolina, Beltway traffic was heavy and the trip around the capital added an extra hour to what we’d planned. We did manage to stop for lunch at a diner on the northern outskirts of Washington, but then Baltimore turned out not to be much better when it came to the traffic.

Finally, we reached the New Jersey Turnpike but, with frequent lane closures in the so-called express lanes, our speed barely averaged thirty. We stopped for dinner at a diner just off the Turnpike at exit seven. The food was excellent.

I warned everyone that there would be long delays getting into New York City on a Friday night and the traffic did not disappoint us. Traffic was bumper-to-bumper from the moment we reached the Newark Turnpike until we exited the Holland Tunnel. It was after ten o’clock by the time we reached our condo on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, where Josh would be waiting inside.