Reunion in October (The Calendar Girls Book 2) (18 page)

I sighed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Handler. I’ll speak to her.”

“Oh, don’t bother.” She waved a hand. “It’s too late to teach that girl manners now.”

In other words, I’d failed Motherhood 101.
Quick, get the pitchforks and torches…

“Of course, it’s not all her fault, just as it isn’t all yours,” she continued pouring venom into the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like
you
had a stellar example, either. How is your mother these days? Still working in that seedy bar in Nashville?”

“It’s a dinner theater,” I reminded her, for at least the thousandth time. “And she’s the manager.”

“Poor choices,” she retorted. “Everything in life is about poor choices. I just hope to God my son doesn’t wind up tending bar in some seedy backwoods gin mill when he’s sixty years old to keep you both afloat.”

I clamped my lips tight. No stress. My doctor had insisted I count to ten and not react to stress. But, oh, good Lord, this was a nearly impossible task.

After critiquing my parenting skills—or lack, thereof—and my mother’s poor choices in life, Sylvia took my television remote control and clicked on today’s round of daytime dramas, leaving me to simmer in my own juices.

Hoping to distract myself from my anger, I shot a glance at Margie, who looked toward the door, as if seeking someone to enter the fray. When no one appeared, she opened her newest puzzle magazine and buried herself in a Word Search game. I stared out the window at the rain slowly streaming down the grayish glass pane.

Shortly after lunchtime, Dr. Stewart popped into the room and asked my mother-in-law to step out for a while. Washing his hands at the sink, he said, “I need to spend a little time with my patient.”

After an inordinate amount of grousing, Sylvia stalked off.

Margie closed her puzzle book with a slap and muttered, “Thank God. I don’t understand why you haven’t decked that nasty woman yet.”

I offered an apologetic shrug. “Believe me, there’ve been plenty of times over the last twenty years I’ve wanted to.”

“Twenty years? Honey, I was talking about in the last twenty
minutes
. If you’ve put up with her for twenty years, you deserve some kind of medal. Maybe even sainthood.”

I didn’t know whether to smile or sigh. “I’m sorry she bothered you, Margie.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Nah. I’m sorry you’re stuck dealing with the old bat for a lifetime. I can put up with her for a few days.”

Now, why couldn’t
she
be my mother-in-law? Sure, she was old enough to be my grandmother-in-law, but I’d take her over Sylvia Handler any way I could get her.

“Thanks,” I told her as Dr. Stewart pulled the curtain to separate us.

“Save the chitchat for after I’m gone, ladies.” He performed a cursory exam: listening to my heart, checking the tickertape of the EKG machine, and a quick grope of the lymph nodes in my throat, before asking me, “So…how are we today?”

We
. Like he and I were sharing my misery.

I folded my arms over my chest. Well, I tried to fold my arms over my chest. The blasted I.V. stunted my reach, so I had to settle for arms over my left hip. Awkward, but not as awkward as adjusting my posture and giving up the suggestion of annoyance on my part. “You tell me,” I said. “How are we?”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a touch of heartburn from my lunch. The cafeteria’s food leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Tell me about it,” I grumbled.

Grinning, he flipped open a manila folder. “But as far as you’re concerned, most of your test results are back.”

“And?”

“And the results are very encouraging. Triglycerides are still a little high, but not unreasonably so. I’m thinking we’ll release you late Monday morning.”

“Really?” I probably should have been thrilled, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to go home. Not that the hospital’s room and board kept me enthralled. Between the low-sodium, low-carbohydrate, low-flavor diet regimen; the cardboard-mattress bed, the twenty-four-hour hallway lights, and the boots squeezing my feet all the time, this wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation. On the other hand, I didn’t want to find myself locked in the same house as Roy and his parents for more than ten minutes, either.

As if he could read my mind, Dr. Stewart wagged a finger at me. “You’ll have to learn how to effectively deal with life’s minor inconveniences. If the dishes aren’t washed immediately after dinner, don’t sweat it. Let the dust settle on your tabletops unless it becomes a health hazard. Don’t lose control when a driver cuts you off on the highway. Breathe, deeply and evenly, whenever tension rears its ugly head. Count to ten before reacting to anything. And always ask for help if you need it. Get your kids and your husband to pitch in more.”

I had to bite my tongue when I heard his last statement. Like
that
was going to happen in my lifetime. Seriously, to say something that insane, the man must have never met a teenager.
Ask my kids to pitch in more
. I might as well ask a hungry tiger not to eat me alive. And to pick up the meatless bones when he was done.

“This episode was a warning,” he continued, apparently unaware of my train of thought. “Treat it as such. As part of your follow-up care, we’re going to be starting you on a cardiac rehabilitation plan, and I’m scheduling you to see a nutritionist. In no time at all, you’re going to be leaner and healthier.”

Leaner and healthier. Beneath the scratchy hospital sheet, I ran a hand over my too-ample flank. So instead of chubby and miserable, I could be skinny and miserable. Wonderful.

Dr. Stewart cleared his throat, and I realized he was expecting an answer from me.

“Great,” I said flatly. “When do we start?”

“After you’ve seen Dr. Calderon for a few sessions.”

I didn’t recognize the name. “Is that the cardiac rehab guy?”

“No. Dr. Calderon is a family counselor. I think you and your husband will benefit from speaking to her.”

A family counselor. I almost rolled my eyes until I realized how closely Dr. Stewart watched my reaction. I could just see Roy sitting on some shrink’s couch, talking about his innermost feelings. Guaranteed, his primary feelings would center on nothing more than the counselor’s billable hours.

As Dr. Stewart continued staring at me, I squirmed, then opted for the non-committal, “Okay, if you think that’s best.”

“It’s not only best, it’s necessary.” The doctor’s finger bounced near my face again, and I swear, I considered taking a bite just to see how he’d react. “You’re both going to have to make some big adjustments, and you’ll need someone to keep you focused on creating a stress-free environment.”

“I’ll tell Roy when he comes by after work.” I tried to force a casual nod, but guilt steamed my cheeks and throat. Family counseling? Good God. I so did not want to broach the topic with my husband.              

“No,” Dr. Stewart replied. “
I’ll
tell Roy. I want him to understand how serious this is.”

“As serious as a heart attack?” I quipped.

He reacted with a steely glare. “This is not a laughing matter. On the off-chance you’re joking because you’re afraid of your husband’s reaction to this requirement, don’t worry. Many of my patients’ spouses are reluctant at first, but after a few sessions, they realize how much their relationship can benefit from counseling.”

Gee, was my doubt that obvious? I didn’t get a chance to ask.

Dr. Stewart flipped through his manila folder, and pulled out a stack of papers. “Now, let’s talk about your aftercare. I’ve already warned you about stress and your blood pressure. I can’t repeat that information strongly enough. You were one very lucky young lady. If you had been in the car alone at the time…” With his lips compressing into a grim line, he shook his head and didn’t continue the sentence.

Yeah, I got that reality slap when Ambrose Chase reminded me of the same possibility. Fear clogged my throat, and I swallowed hard. I still had trouble believing I’d had a heart attack. I was thirty-four years old, for God’s sake. And yeah, sure, my dad had died of a massive coronary infarction, but he’d been fifty-eight at the time. And at least sixty pounds overweight. I’d put on some pounds since the kids came along, but I still managed to shop in the Misses department at stores—the higher end of the racks, but not in the Women’s area yet. And okay…I didn’t get much traditional exercise, but the kids kept me hopping. I hadn’t exactly spent the last sixteen years sitting on the couch eating bonbons and peanut butter out of the jar every day.

“I’ll be in touch with Dr. Calderon, so she can set some time aside to see you before you’re discharged,” he said. “I recommend Dr. Hellman as your cardiac rehab specialist, but of course, you’re free to choose someone else. Just remember, I need to be informed about every aspect of the medical team involved in your care. I’ll see you in my office in one week for a follow-up. Call my receptionist first thing Tuesday morning to set up an appointment.” He fanned out three or four squares of paper like a poker hand. “Prescriptions, which I’ll give to Roy. He should bring them to the pharmacy to be filled and picked up before you get home so you’ll have them at hand when you need them. If your insurance doesn’t allow you to use a local pharmacy, he can use the hospital’s. These cannot be filled through a mail-order company. He should also pick up baby aspirin, which you’ll take—one tablet, every day, from now on.”

He continued the lecture, but my mind wandered again, and my gaze focused on the view outside my window. The rain had stopped but a heavy mist from the Sound wrapped the multi-hued trees in cold, gray silk. I empathized. A similar eerie chill had crept into my life, into my marriage. Shivers racked me, and I slipped farther under the blanket, covering myself up to my neck.

“Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Stewart’s voice thundered into my haze.

“Huh?” I jerked my attention from the fog and trees, back to my internist. “Oh, umm…” My brain scrambled to catch up. Only one question remained. “When can I go back to work?”

“That depends. What do you do?”

“I’m a 911 dispatcher.”

His forehead furrowed. “Any chance they’ll transfer you to a desk job? Something less stress-oriented?”

“For good?” Distress skyrocketed my tone into the stratosphere. Now I had to give up my job? I love my job. Seriously. I was damn good at what I did.

He sighed. “Tell me exactly what you do as a 911 dispatcher.”

I could’ve lied. I mean, he wasn’t going to accompany me there like a parent on a kindergartner’s first day of school. He would never know. I toyed with my options for several seconds. It was my mother-in-law who convinced me to be honest. Oh, she didn’t burst in with any sage advice for me. It was more the
idea
of her than anything pithy she might have said. Because I realized if I died, the dragon lady would become a permanent fixture in my household, taking care of my kids.

Much as I love my job, I love my kids a thousand times more.

Mentally waving goodbye to my career, I proceeded to tell Dr. Stewart the unvarnished truth.

****

The afternoon passed slowly. In the brightest spot of my day, my mother-in-law, unhappy with the exuberance of Margie’s gaggle of friends, departed five minutes after their noisy arrival. After the senior circuit left, Margie and I chatted for a while. At the end of his shift, Roy came up to spend a few minutes with me before heading home to our kids. As he sat back in the chair by my bed, the overhead lights magnified the dark circles bruising his eyes.

“Hey,” I greeted him with no enthusiasm. “You look tired, Roy.”

“Long day,” he huffed. “How are you doing today?”

“Good. Dr. Stewart says I’m probably going home on Monday.”

“He told me.”

“He did?” Great. Since Roy didn’t comment in greater detail, that meant I had to bring up the counselor. Coward that I am, I danced around the topic. “Did he go over all my after-care instructions?”

“Yeah. I’ll drop the prescriptions off tonight on my way home and pick them up tomorrow night.” Yawning so wide I could practically see what he ate for lunch, he flashed a thumbs-up. “So we’re all good.”

Not quite. “Did Dr. Stewart tell you about the rest of my care?”
One-two-three, cha-cha-cha, one-two-three, cha-cha-cha, one-two-three…

“Uh-huh. I’ll call the insurance company tomorrow to get a list of participating doctors for your rehab. If Dr. Hellman is on the list, we’re good to go.”

Crap. He was gonna make me say it. Stifling a wince, I fiddled with my I.V. tube while I murmured, “And the counselor? Dr. Calderon?”
Cha-cha-cha.

“Already called her. She plans to meet with you tomorrow after breakfast, then me after my shift later in the day. After you’re home, she’ll set up joint appointments with both of us. I told her every Tuesday night around seven would probably work best.”

My gaze snapped up. “You already spoke to her? You’re okay with this?”

He shrugged. “I guess. I mean, it’s not like I can say no, right?”

Sarcasm flew from my mouth before I could batten down the hatches. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Oh, come on, Em.” He slammed his hands on the chair arms. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No?” I quirked my brow. “How
did
you mean it?”

Beneath the day’s stubble, his cheeks pinkened. “I don’t know. I guess I just meant that your doctor insists we have to talk to her, so I’m not going to fight him on it. And I don’t want to fight with you, either. Dammit, you and I have been walking on eggshells around each other for months. So maybe this counselor is a good idea.”

“I’m sorry.” I blinked. “What? Did you just say you thought counseling was a good idea?”

“Yeah. I know. It’s a one-eighty for me. But…” Reaching over the bedrail, he gripped my hand tight enough to crush my finger bones. “Em, I don’t want to lose you. I need you. We all need you.”

A chill rippled through me.
Need
. Not love. When was the last time Roy had said he loved me? I couldn’t remember. Our anniversary? My birthday? Definitely not in the last several months. Pulling my hand away, I shook my head. “I think it’s already too late, Roy.”