Black Beans & Vice (21 page)

JAMES MADE SURE MILLA was settled before trudging down the hall to his boyhood bedroom. Jackson had done little
to change the small room since his son
had moved to his own house on Hickory Hill Lane. The only alteration James
noticed was that Milla was now using
his aged, kneehole desk to organize her
business accounts. The corner of the desk once occupied by James'
tin rocket ship bank now featured a pair of framed photographs
taken during Milla and Jackson's winter wedding. Another photo
showed Eliot making a snowman in the Henry's backyard. Eliot
had tried his best to create a snowman resembling his grandpa. To
accomplish this, the little boy had taped a paintbrush to the end
of one of the stick arms and wrapped Jackson's favorite plaid scarf around the snowman's wide neck. Milla had captured him planting a kiss on Snow Jackson's icy cheek.

Eliot's smiling, playful face was a balm to James. Cradling the
photograph, he carried it to the nightstand and stared at his son
while he wondered what news tomorrow would bring regarding
Jackson's condition.

At first, James resisted sleep, feeling guilty that he would be
resting in comfort when his father was alone in a hospital bed
miles away. As the night wore on, however, his tired body and
weary mind were no longer able to dwell on the dozens of "what
if" questions that had been steadily amassing inside James' head.
Eventually he surrendered to slumber.

The next morning he awoke to the pleasant sound of Milla
moving about downstairs in the kitchen. These ordinary domestic
noises-water whooshing through the pipes and the clanging of
bowls and pans allowed James to believe that it was possible for
life to return to normal. He jumped out of bed, showered, and got
dressed in record time, worried that his father was already awake
and frightened.

"Don't fret," Milla said as he rushed into the kitchen. "I called
and asked about your daddy. He's still resting quietly, so come fill
your belly with a hearty breakfast. You know there won't be anything decent at that hospital. Lord knows I cannot take another
swallow of the slop that vending machine calls coffee."

Nodding in agreement, James accepted a plate of eggs and bacon, but he found himself forcing down the food. For once in his
life, he didn't feel like eating. He cleaned his plate, however, because he knew it would please Milla, but it took every ounce of patience he possessed to watch her tidy the kitchen before finally
turning toward the door.

"I know you want to race to his side, dear." Milla patted James
on the cheek. "But we're still going to get there well before visiting
hours start as it is."

James frowned. "I don't care about the rules. If they refuse
to let us see him, the least I can do is try to track down Dr. Frey
and gather more details about Pop's condition. Why did he have a
stroke in the first place? Is he going to need surgery? Rehab? Will
he eventually be ... okay?" The word came out sounding strangled.

Milla slid her arm around him and leaned her head against
his shoulder. "We'll make it through, honey. And if I don't get a
chance to tell you today, then let me say it now: I sure am grateful
you're with me, James. I couldn't have asked for a better son had I
raised you myself."

Hugging her tightly, James carried their travel coffee mugs to
the Bronco and, after watching Milla load a basket of baked goods
into the back seat, drove north toward the hospital.

"What time did you get up this morning?" he asked her, gesturing at the basket.

"About four," she answered brightly. "I figured it couldn't hurt
to whip up some cinnamon scones for the nurses. Jackson isn't going to be the easiest patient they've ever had and I figured I'd best
start bribing them right off the bat."

James chuckled. "Nicely put."

The volunteer at the hospital's reception desk directed them to
Jackson's room. As they approached the door, last night's knot of
fear reformed in James' chest. Taking Milla's hand, he moved into
the room and then stopped, inhaling sharply.

Jackson lay on the bed, attached to a multitude of tubes and
wires. His arms and face were almost as white as the sheets covering his body and he looked shrunken, diminished. After all, to
James, Jackson was the epitome of manliness. He was willful and
fearless, his unapologetic personality rendering him taller and
more powerful than his wiry physique suggested.

"Pop," he whispered.

A nurse bustled into the room and James turned to her in anxious appeal. "Miss? Can you tell us how he's doing?"

The woman smiled at him. "He had a peaceful night," she replied brightly while checking Jackson's IV and making notes on
a chart. "Woke up once during my shift and tried to talk, but he
couldn't get the words out. I told him where he was and that you
all would be here to see him in the morning. He grunted and went
right back to sleep." She glanced at her watch. "We change shifts
at seven, so I'll introduce you to the nurse on duty before I leave."

"What about Dr. Frey?" James persisted. "Is she available to see
us?"

The nurse paused to think. "Dr. Frey was on call last night, so
one of her partners will be seeing Mr. Henry today. His name is
Dr. Scrimpshire and he's a neurologist. He's on rounds at the moment, but should be swinging through here any second now." She
gave them a comforting smile on the way out. "Your daddy's in
good hands, I promise you."

Not knowing what else to do, James and Milla pulled chairs up
to the side of Jackson's bed and waited. They chatted to Jackson
about last night's party in hopes that he could hear them, but he
remained unresponsive. The only comfort his family could garner
was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Dr. Scrimpshire entered the room fifteen minutes later and
upon seeing a white lab coat, James jumped to his feet. The physician had encountered countless family members desperate for information about a loved one's condition, so he wasted no time in
explaining the situation. He placed a thin stack of folders on the
nearest table and shook hands with Milla and James.

"Mr. Henry has suffered a cerebral embolism," he began in a
deep, no-nonsense voice. "This occurs when a clot, usually originating from the heart, travels through the bloodstream and lodges
in an artery in the brain. This blocks the blood flow to the brain."

Milla was wringing her hands. "That sounds pretty serious."

The doctor turned a pair of sympathetic eyes on her. "Your
husband has sustained damage to his brain, Mrs. Henry. He will
have to relearn many of the simple tasks we take for granted. But
with the help of occupational therapy, there's no reason he can't
live a long and fulfilling life."

Relief washed over James. "So he doesn't need surgery?"

"No" Dr. Scrimpshire shook his head and uncapped his pen.
He began to examine Jackson and made several notes in one of his
files. James and Milla remained silent, watching the doctor with
expressions of dread and awe. "We'll start him on blood thinners
to prevent those clots from reforming, but he doesn't require surgery. That doesn't mean that his road to recovery is going to be
quick or easy. Fortunately, patients with supportive families tend
to show the most marked improvement in rehab."

"Is he going to wake up soon?" Milla ventured.

The doctor nodded. "It won't be long now. He may be disoriented at first and I suspect he will have difficulty speaking. He may
also express signs of fear, anger, or both. He's basically waking up to a body that won't do what he wants it to do" He capped his pen
and closed the file. "Just so you're prepared..."

James glanced at his father. "Before the paramedics came, he
seemed to have lost feeling in the left side of his face. Is there any
way to tell the extent of the..." James had to push the word out,
"damage?"

"I have the results of Mr. Henry's initial imaging tests on my
office computer. As soon as I've finished seeing the rest of my patients, I'll come get you and we'll look at them together." The doctor rose and gathered up his paperwork. "The nurse will page me
once your father is awake." After giving them another compassionate smile, he left the room.

James and Milla were silent for a moment.

"I'm not sure I understood all of that," Milla finally said, "but
I'm holding fast to the part about Jackson living a long and full
life!"

Reaching out to cradle his father's limp hand in his own, James
said, "Me too."

Less than an hour later, James noticed his father's eyelids fluttering
and dashed from the room in search of a nurse. He knew he could
have hit the call button on Jackson's bed frame, but he trusted his
own actions more. As he rounded the corner of the hallway, he
nearly knocked Jane right off her feet.

"I'm so glad to see you!" he cried. She gave him a fierce hug in
return but James abruptly broke free and pulled her toward the
nurses' station. "Pop's waking up!" he simultaneously told Jane
and the pair of nurses behind the counter.

By the time Jackson opened his eyes, a small crowd had gathered around his bed. A nurse bent over him, fussing with this and
that while Milla squeezed Jackson's hand to alert him that she was
near.

"Good morning, darlin'," Milla spoke tenderly, keeping her voice
calm and even. Her husband looked in her direction and she exhaled loudly relief. "You can see me, can't you?"

A strangled sound came from Jackson's mouth.

"Don't try to talk, sweetheart," Milla coaxed. "You're in the
hospital. You had a stroke last night. Can you nod your head if you
understand me?"

Jackson dipped his chin, his gaze never leaving Milla's face.
Milla's and James' eyes met across the bed. The fact that Jackson
could see, move, and respond to other people gave him a surge of
optimism.

From that point onward, the medical team took over. They ran
tests and checked vital signs and machine readings and Jackson's
fluid bag while James tried to find something useful to do. It was
only later when he met with Dr. Scrimpshire and stared at images
of his father's brain on the computer screen that he began to fully
understand what had happened to Jackson.

The doctor swiveled his computer screen toward James and
pointed out the shaded areas indicating damage. When James responded by blanching and gripping the arms of his chair, the neurologist put a firm hand on his shoulder. "The brain is a wonderful
and mysterious organ, Mr. Henry. Damaged tissue does have the
ability to recover."

"But not dead tissue?" James asked after he'd collected himself.

"No," the doctor admitted. "It will take many more tests to see
what kind of rehabilitation your father will need. The good news
is that our Rehab facility is one of the best in the state."

James looked away from the computer screen. "Sorry. I'm trying to digest everything. This hit us out of the blue. One moment,
he was my typical, cranky, feisty father and the next..." He stood
and thanked the doctor. "Let me tell my stepmother about the results. I'd rather she didn't see this image unless it's absolutely necessary. She's already having a hard time taking all of this in, and I
think it would be best if she and I focus our energies on his recovery." His eyes strayed back to the color-coded screen. "That's the
present. Now I'd like to turn to the future."

Dr. Scrimpshire nodded in agreement. "That sounds like a very
wise plan."

Later, after hospital visiting hours were over, Jane and James
shared a quiet dinner at his house. Jane had arranged for Eliot to
be picked up from preschool by his best friend's mother. To the little boy's delight, he was to experience his first sleepover that night.

"It's a good thing my parents were already planning a visit this
month," Jane said as she dropped a dollop of sour cream followed
by a sprinkle of Monterey-Jack cheese over a bowl of black bean
chili. "I told them to fly in this weekend. As for me, I just need to
turn in grades this week, tidy up the office, and then I'll be available."