Lucky Man: A Memoir by Michael J. Fox

Author:Michael J. Fox [Fox, Michael J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biography & Autobiography, Entertainment & Performing Arts
ISBN: 9781446408292
Google: msRrebRvwzYC
Publisher: Ebury Publishing
Published: 2011-05-31T03:00:00+00:00

The Michael J. Fox Collection

CHAPTER FIVE

Reality Bites

Studio City, California — January 6, 1990

As the limousine traveled the quarter mile from our home in the hills down to the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Ventura boulevards, the sky darkened into night, the streetlights came on, and a gentle rain slicked the roadways. The traffic signal went to yellow as we approached Ventura, the driver wisely choosing to slow to a stop rather than trying to beat the red. There were young kids in the car, and though he knew we were in a hurry to get to the airport, he also knew the purpose of our trip. Why risk adding tragedy to tragedy?

The five of us needed to catch the next flight to Vancouver, where my father had been rushed to the hospital. Dad hadn't been feeling well for the last month or so; not that he had ever felt physically great throughout most of his adult life. He chain-smoked, and over time packed in excess of 300 pounds onto a frame so naturally slight it once earned him mounts as a jockey. His body, on this, the first Saturday of the new decade, had finally surrendered after a sixty-one-year assault. His heart gave out first, then his kidneys began to fail. At last report, he was still alive, but barely.

Tracy and I sat on either side of my sister Jackie, who was weeping softly. Tracy held Jackie's hand. Across from us on the rear facing bench behind the driver, our seven-month-old son, Sam, strapped into his car seat, had already nodded off to sleep. Next to him, Jackie's nine-year-old boy, Matthew, squirmed and fidgeted, using a shirt sleeve to wipe away tears of both fear and disappointment. Just old enough to recognize that his grandfather was very sick, Matt was still young enough so that to him, understandably, the more immediate crisis was the sudden cancellation of the rest of his California vacation, including the next day's trip to Disneyland.

As we waited in the idling limo for the light to turn green, a white sedan rolled to a stop beside us — a white, 1987 Chrysler Fifth Avenue, to be exact. I knew the year and make instantly because, from the ivory Naugahyde of its landau roof down to the whitewall radials and maroon pinstriping, it was the same car I'd bought for my father on his fifty-ninth birthday. This was Dad's car. Except of course, it wasn't.

I looked to my left and directly into my sister's face; she was staring past me out the window and at the car. Though tears rolled from her eyes, her mouth formed a smile.

"It's a good sign," she whispered.

"Yeah," I said, though as I embraced her, my eyes met Tracy's. She was crying too, but not smiling. She didn't think the ghost car was a good sign; not a good sign at all.

At LAX, my family boarded the plane while I stayed behind in the lounge to return a phone call. There'd been a message waiting for me from a close friend of the family.

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