The Healing (14 page)

chapter sixteen

Karen's hands shook as she stood in front of the stove and stirred the risotto. She might have been staring at the rice and shrimp simmering in a tomato-based sauce, but it was Mike's face that was implanted on her brain. His emotional confusion at her little outburst—the way his expression went blank and his gaze had seared into her in search of something he had lost—hijacked both her sensory perception and her composure.

Don't break down,
Karen had to keep telling herself. If she allowed one tear to slip out, the dam would give way like it had earlier that week at the beach. And with her mother-in-law due to arrive any minute, it wasn't the right time for a meltdown.

She took a few deep breaths and said a quick and silent prayer for strength. Somehow she thought it was going to be a better day after having tea with Grace that morning, but it wasn't meant to be. When she had gotten home, the visiting nurse was in the living room with Mike, checking the new tap in his lower belly. After letting herself in the back door and pouring herself a glass of ice water, Karen had suffered quite a jolt when she heard Mike let out a painful groan in the living room.

“Almost done, Mr. Donnelly,” the nurse had soothed.

Karen had leaned on the counter and put the glass of water to her forehead. Her first instinct was to run into the next room and throw her arms around Mike in an attempt to absorb some of his misery. But she didn't know how he would react. She didn't even know how
she
would react. Would a simple gesture of solace on her part open a Pandora's box of repressed emotions? Unable to answer that question for sure, Karen couldn't bring herself to move from her place until she was certain the nurse was finished with whatever she was doing. She ventured into the living room a few minutes later to find Mike sprawled on the sofa bed like he had been shot. He was horribly pale and looked totally drained. The nurse was quietly cleaning up, gathering her empty packets and removing her rubber gloves, with lines of sweat beaded across her brow and upper lip. The living room smelled of antiseptic.

Karen opened her mouth to ask if everything was all right, but she knew her voice would fail if she tried to speak. So she just approached the side of the bed and stood silently and attentively while the nurse told her that Mike's new permanent catheter was giving him a few problems, but it would be fine in a few days. She gave Karen step-by-step instructions on how to clean the opening on Mike's body, care for the catheter, and empty the bag. Don't kink the tubing, always keep the bag lower than the bladder, report any discoloration. Karen registered all the information and tried to appear as unaffected as any seasoned medical caregiver.

“Changing the catheter itself is something we do about once a month, but you should know how, in case it needs to be done when you're alone,” the nurse said.

Mike's head turned away, and she thought she saw wetness at the corners of his closed eyes.

Perhaps it was just from the physical discomfort.

Karen nodded mechanically when the nurse asked if she understood everything.

She hadn't fully recovered from that ordeal when her brief dialogue with Mike caught her off guard. She knew he didn't deserve her anger. She just couldn't stand to see him become so complacent in acknowledging his defeat. It wasn't like the Mike Donnelly she had known and loved for almost thirty years. Karen wanted him to be strong. She wanted him to be stronger than her. Maybe she even wanted him to be stronger than his disease.

If that was the case, then she was expecting the impossible.

It wasn't long after the tense moments in the living room when Luka heralded Nora Donnelly's arrival with a bout of lively barking from the side porch, and Karen felt a bolus of dread drop into her stomach. Resigning herself to contend with whatever situation arose, and resolving to function like an android for the duration of her mother-in-law's visit, Karen wiped her sweaty palms on the seat of her faded denim shorts and marched through the house to properly greet her guests at the side entrance. On her way through the living room, she glanced at Mike in the chair. His eyes were closed.

Karen took firm hold of Luka's collar before opening the door. Her face felt tight as she smiled at the two women getting out of the car. “Hi!” she called, hoping her forced delight sounded believable. “How was the ride?”

Nora looked predictably frazzled as her daughter handed her two small shopping bags from the backseat. “Well, I don't have to tell you about trying to get out here on a Friday night in the summer,” she replied from the driveway.

Trish Donnelly, on the other hand, simply said, “We made it.”

It had always amazed Karen that a woman like Nora, who tended to be high-strung and who was a master at making mountains out of molehills, managed to raise two rock-solid children like Mike and his sister, Trish. But it was their father's genes—not only the physical ones that gave them their dark hair, deep blue eyes, and solid musculature—that were dominant and resilient enough to withstand Nora's steady diet of pessimism and neuroses. “God rest his soul,” everyone said. He had been a good man.

Nora eyed the dog warily as she climbed the three steps to the porch door. “Is she going to jump all over me like last time?”

Luka whined with anticipation, her entire body bending like a Slinky with the wagging of her tail. “I've got her,” Karen said, her grip still firm on the dog's collar.

It was going to be a long weekend.

Nora was in good physical shape for her seventy-nine years, suffering only from a slight elevation in blood pressure and the creaks and groans of arthritis brought on by age. Yet she moved as though the most ordinary task were an overwhelming, exasperating chore. By the time she arrived at the open screen door and kissed Karen hello, she looked like someone who had been traveling through the African bush country for a week, with no provisions. At the corners of her mouth were two little foamy spots where the spittle had dried during the course of the three-hour ride. Her silvery gray hair, poufed and sculpted at the beauty parlor earlier that week, was springing out of its neat silhouette. Her fair skin was as sallow as crinkled parchment, and her light gray eyes, once a feature of distinction, added no color whatsoever to her washed-out appearance. There was no spring in her step or joy on her face that indicated she was happy to be visiting her ailing son and his family. Life was just too hard.

Once on the porch, she dropped the bags she was carrying and let out a long sigh. One of many.

If she was already done in, how was she going to handle seeing Mike?

Karen turned to Mike's sister, who was watching her almost apologetically. Trish had the patience of a saint. That was why she was highly qualified as a teacher and why she was able to live with her mother and stay sane. The four years she had spent as a Dominican nun also equipped her with an extra dose of the virtues she needed to deal with Nora.

“Hey, Trish,” Karen said as they kissed. “Thanks for driving out.”

“No problem. How's it going?”

“We're hanging in there.”

Nora piped in, “I told Trish she should just stay for the weekend. Why drive all the way back tonight? It's silly.”

Karen and her sister-in-law exchanged knowing glances.
Because Trish needs a weekend home alone. That's why.
They almost giggled, reading each other's thoughts.

Trish set her mother's overnight bag on the porch and crouched down to shower some attention on Luka, who was about to self-destruct if someone didn't pet her. “Who's a good girl?” she said, indulging the dog. “You just want to say hello, don't you?”

Karen was finally able to let go of Luka's collar, thanks to Trish. “Come on inside,” she urged, trying her best to sound cheerful. “Mike's waiting to say hi.”

Luka panted with excitement and darted back and forth between the legs of the three women as they made their way to the living room. As a result, Nora hung on to the furniture and the doorframe as she stepped along, careful not to let the dog trip her. When Bitsy sprang into action and started rubbing against her ankles as well, Nora clucked with annoyance and sighed.

Karen scooped the cat into her arms. She turned and ushered Trish and Nora through the doorway with a flourish. “Look who's here,” she said to Mike, and braced herself for the ensuing scene. She couldn't help but think her husband looked like an imposter sitting in his chair—dressed up and groomed to look like the real Mike Donnelly, who had long since abandoned the sinking vessel that was his own body. In fact, she felt like an imposter herself. How else could she continue to pretend that she had a handle on everything?

“Hello, little brother,” Trish called out, not so jubilant as to sound artificial, but keeping in character with her reliably temperate behavior. Her time in the convent seemed to have ingrained itself in her being, both in her appearance—her short dark hair, gold-framed glasses, perfect posture, and modest mode of dress were befitting someone once called Sister Patricia—and in her unassuming mannerisms and solicitude.

Mike used to joke that she was doing more penance at home than she ever did as a nun.

Karen appreciated how her sister-in-law purposely refrained from becoming part of the drama that was about to take place. Trish knew her limits and always took things in stride, and those wise and pacifying qualities were much needed at a time when everyone else was going off the deep end. She was eight years older than Mike, and they didn't have a whole lot in common growing up. But somehow it was obvious that for Trish, tending to her kid brother's scraped knees and helping him with his homework had given her a fleeting taste of maternal love. Surely it broke her heart to see Mike in a wheelchair. Surely her most vivid memories of him were as a wiry, mischievous boy who had grown into a strong, athletic young man before her very eyes.

Trish could have dissolved into tears upon seeing that her brother was dangerously close to becoming a quadriplegic. The newly delivered Hoyer lift and the power bed in the middle of the living room were a testimony to that fact. Yet Trish simply stepped up to Mike, bent forward at the waist, and kissed his smooth jaw. Mike tried to smile up at her, but Karen noticed that he looked away when his sister's eyes met his. Without a word, Trish stood behind him and rubbed his shoulders while their mother approached . . . calming him and supporting him at the same time.

“Hey, Ma,” he said.

Karen could tell he was trying his best to find a voice that would assure his mother he was the same old Mike. It was natural for him to try and make things appear as close to ordinary as possible. But, as Karen had sensed when they walked into the room, the man in the chair was a contrived persona, and the real Mike had absconded.

“Oh, Mikey,” Nora sobbed, and practically fell on top of her son to smother him with her own exaggerated reserve of wretchedness, as if he didn't have a big enough inventory of his own.

Mike draped one arm around his mother and stoically tolerated her melodramatic purging of emotion. It was Trish who gently attempted to pry Nora away from him, leaning down to speak in her ear. “Mom,” she said softly, trying to neutralize her mother's behavior with as few words as possible.

“But Mikey, you're so thin. When did you get so thin? And what is all this stuff? Do you
need
all this stuff?”

The more agitated he became, the more he quaked. And the more he quaked, the more his mother clung to him and cried. It played out exactly as Karen had expected. Everyone but Nora realized that her son's dignity and composure should have been the priority. Everyone but Nora knew that Mike certainly didn't need his mother buckling at the knees and sobbing over him as if he were in his casket.

Karen couldn't watch anymore. At least without an audience, Mike would be spared some of the awkwardness. “I think I'd better check on the risotto
.
”

Trish took her cue and followed her into the kitchen. “I'll help you.”

As they left the living room, they heard Nora asking Mike how long he had been using the motorized wheelchair. “And you can't use the walker
at all
?”

Did she really need to remind him? Mike knew better than anybody that his legs had become useless.

“I'm sorry,” Trish said to Karen when they faced each other in the kitchen. She didn't have to elaborate. It was obvious she was apologizing for her mother's lack of self-restraint.

“No, I'm the one who's sorry,” Karen replied, and released Bitsy, who promptly trotted back to the living room. “Your mother hasn't seen Mike in almost three months, and I haven't been up-front with her about his condition.”

“We talked on the drive out here how she had to put her own feelings aside and try to encourage him,” Trish said. “I tried to prepare her. But it didn't sink in.”