Authors: Barbara Claypole White
TWENTY-EIGHT
“I thought he reserved his door-slamming for me.” Felix loosened his tie and pushed off from the kitchen island. “I should go and make sure he didn’t upset his mother.”
“Eudora’s got it covered,” Katherine said. “I’m sure she’ll shout for reinforcements if she needs them, and I was hoping to say something to you before I left.”
Felix dove into the fridge and pulled out a small bottle of Perrier for himself and a bottle of the ginger limeade that he’d started keeping in the house for Katherine.
“No, I’m good, thanks.” She reached down for her bags.
He put the limeade back, twisted the cap off his bottle of carbonated water, and guzzled. No alcohol today, not when he was contemplating an all-nighter. Thank God he could still make sound decisions about alcohol. He’d never realized before how exhausting the role of caregiver could be. Having a caregiver buddy—or in his case, two—might be the reason he was still drinking for pleasure, not need.
Katherine wound her hair into a knot and then released it. “I spend a lot of time reading people,” she said, “and apart from the husband fail, I thought I was a decent judge of character. But I have to admit I was wrong about you. I’d like to offer a carte blanche apology for every snide comment and evil glare. And I’d like to start over.” She hoisted her bags up onto her shoulder. “Felix Fitzwilliam, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”
She held out her hand and he shook it. “Does this mean I’m no longer the antihero?”
“Well, let’s not go that far.” Her crooked smile was almost endearing. “How are things between you and Harry?”
He and Katherine updated each other daily on the basics of Ella’s progress: she ate
X
today, her energy level was down, she slept for an hour this afternoon. The spikiness had disappeared from their conversations, but they didn’t discuss anything personal. Katherine seemed ready to change that.
“Unlike you, Harry does not think he’s misjudged me. I’m pretty sure he hates me.”
“Aren’t sons meant to hate their fathers and lust after their mothers? Oedipus and all that.”
“Oedipus didn’t hate his father. And he didn’t know the identity of either of his biological parents when he married the queen.”
“Right. Thanks for the potted history lesson.” She smirked and he relaxed. Sarcasm from Katherine he could handle. “Look, Harry’s a good kid; he’ll be fine. He and Ella are just so close, and this has to be turning his world on its head.”
“I don’t know what he wants from me.”
“Well, if my brothers’ interactions with my dad were anything to go by, I’d say that’s standard for a father-son relationship. My dad spent his life complaining that he didn’t understand his sons.”
“Your father’s dead?”
“Both my parents are.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “Ella’s the only real family I have. Brothers are useless, you know.”
He nearly contradicted her, but he wasn’t ready to open up their relationship to include Tom. “How’s the deadline coming?”
“Inspired by you, I asked for an extension.”
“Did you get it?” Felix stretched out yet another crick in his neck. Working at the dining room table was killing his back, his neck, probably even his eyesight.
She nodded. “How’s the deal?”
“D-day is looming. Which means enough pleasantries, woman.” He smiled. “As we say in England, bugger off. I need to check on my wife and get back to the grind.”
He started walking toward the bedroom, and then—pandemonium. Eudora screamed, Katherine dropped her bags—
Oh God, was that her computer smashing?
—Harry’s door flew open, and Felix’s gut said
Run
.
Ella and Eudora were huddled on the bedroom floor. Ashen, Ella clutched her chest. “Can’t breathe . . .”
“Katherine, call 911,” Felix shouted, tugging Ella into his arms.
Harry sank to his knees beside them. “Mom. I’m sorry! It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault!”
“No,” Ella wheezed. “No . . .”
TWENTY-NINE
“Here, child.” Eudora handed him one of Dad’s fancy cut-glass tumblers. The reddish-brown liquid in the bottom stank of rubbing alcohol. “Moonshine from my medicine cabinet.”
“As part of our intervention.” Katherine smiled.
Harry’s jaw popped and his head jerked sideways as if in some death spasm. Again and again. He looked at the rug in front of the black, empty fireplace. Everyone waited; no one spoke. They huddled around him like a blanket.
“I don’t drink.”
“I do,” Max said. Max had arrived within minutes of the ambulance. Probably broke the sound barrier along the way.
“Best not say that out loud, child. The ding-a-ling in that yellow house across the way is a bit”—Eudora tapped her head—“cray-cray, bless her heart. She’d turn you in for underage drinking faster than I can reload Daddy’s shotgun.” Eudora nodded at Harry. “Sip it so you don’t get tore up.”
“Tore up?” Max laughed.
“Redneck for sozzled. My car mechanic’s expression of the week.”
“Man, that’s disgusting!” Harry gagged.
“You’ll develop a taste for it when you’re older. I reckon this might ease those tics, though. That last one looked mighty painful.”
“Yeah, okay.” Harry held his nose and drank. Fire burned his throat, but he deserved it. And then warmth filled his insides, and his elbow stopped flapping.
“Good job. And one more,” Eudora said.
He still felt like shit, but at least he felt loved. A loved piece of shit.
“When the ambulance turned up, I thought she was dying,” Harry said. “I thought it was my fault.”
Max draped his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “So not true, dude.” He took Harry’s glass and had a gulp.
“Child, my mama used to have panic attacks all the time. Of course, they weren’t called panic attacks in those days. I think they were called a case of female nerves. The medical profession has not been kind to women.”
“Amen, sista.” Katherine leaned forward and took the glass away from Max. “I’ve had them too, Harry. Given the stress everyone’s been under, I’m surprised it didn’t happen earlier. To any of us.”
Dad appeared from the bedroom. He was still in his suit and carrying an overnight bag. He looked like an unloved piece of shit.
Harry jumped up, threw his arms around him. “Dad, I’m sorry. I’m sorry about everything. It’s all my fault.”
Dad stiffened, patted Harry’s back, and then clutched at him like they
were both drowning. “Hazza,” he said quietly. “You did nothing wrong. Katherine and I both believed your mother needed help managing—managing . . .”
“Her emotional stress,” Katherine said. “Harry, this is a good thing. They’ll keep her for a few days’ observation and probably send her home with an antidepressant. Felix, did you call Robert?”
Dad eased himself free of their hug. “I’m meeting him at the office in an hour—after I take this bag to the hospital.” He grabbed the photo of toddler Harry sitting on his plastic dump truck and slid it into the bag’s outside pocket.
“Dang. At this time of night?” Eudora said.
“Sadly, yes. Katherine, can I leave you in charge?”
Katherine nodded. “Stay in the office until you’ve met the deadline,” she said. “I’ll take over here.”
Max raised his hand like an overeager preschooler. “I’ll take Harry to school tomorrow. And drive him home.”
“I’ll make the best southern breakfast y’all have ever tasted,” Eudora said.
“With biscuits and gravy?” Max said.
“And fried eggs, country ham, fried okra, and grits.”
Max squealed.
“Now, you give me the number of that school, Felix, and I’ll call first thing in the morning and tell the director that these two delightful young men will be in my charge until I’m done feeding them.”
“I think I love you,” Max said to Eudora.
“I’m mighty flattered, hon, but I’m a lesbian.”
“Sick. Now I really love you.”
Dad pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, scribbled down the phone number for Eudora. “I have to go into work. Boys—Katherine is the parent in charge. Whatever she says goes. Katherine, you’ll need to put clean sheets on the spare bed. I’ve been sleeping there so as to not disturb Ella.”
Katherine gave Dad a long, hard stare. Mom hadn’t shared news of the family sleeping arrangements? Funny, he’d always assumed Mom told Katherine everything, the way he’d always done with Max—until Sammie.
A yawn slipped out. Harry couldn’t help it. The room seemed a little fuzzy, and suddenly all he wanted was sleep.
Dad squeezed his arm. “Go to bed, Harry. I’ll see you tomorrow evening. No guilt, alright?”
“I’m on it, Mr. FW,” Max said. “If he starts acting all melodramatic and contrite, I’ll beat him over the head with his Darth Vader cushion.”
Did Dad smile—at Max?
“Dad!”
Halfway to the front door, Dad swung around. “Yes?”
“Drive carefully. Be safe.” Harry bit into his bottom lip.
“Always, Hazza.”
“Heavens to Betsy,” Eudora said, then swallowed the leftover moonshine in one gulp. “I’m such a
Star Wars
fan. If it weren’t a school night, boys, I would suggest a movie marathon.”
Max pointed at Eudora. “So much love for this woman.”
THIRTY
Felix sat in a chair by the nurses’ station to answer his phone. Why was Mother calling his mobile and costing both of them a fortune? She knew it was an emergencies-only number.
“Darling! How’s my beloved grandson?”
Mother’s one saving grace was her devotion to Harry. Although she blamed his energy levels and tics on lackadaisical parenting. As if she would know.
“He’s fine.”
“Terrible line. Are you in a wind tunnel?”
“I’m at the hospital. A minor setback with Ella. Nothing to worry about.” His voice—flat, emotionless, disconnected—was not his own. “Shouldn’t you be asleep, Mother?”
“After hours of tossing and turning I have simply abandoned all hope.” She gave a labored sigh. “I decided I might as well start my day at three in the morning. Of course, my GP is responsible. That dreadful man is utterly determined to sabotage my sleep patterns and refuses to prescribe tablets. Personally, I think he’s on the sauce.”
“How about I send you some more melatonin tablets, Mother?”
“I suppose that would do. But the National Health Service is not what it was.”
“Mother, you have private health insurance. If you don’t like your doctor, find someone else.”
“But the family has been with the practice for generations.”
Felix tapped his palm. “I can’t have this conversation right now. I’m in hospital with Ella.”
“I thought Ella was back at home.”
“She was. As I said, a minor setback. She’s been readmitted for a few days.”
“I suppose I could get on a plane if you need me to come and help out.”
Help out.
How would that work when Mother didn’t cook, didn’t clean, didn’t parent, and hadn’t driven since the eighties? She smoked, drank gin, and pottered in her garden shed. Tom dead at forty-one because his long-term partner had strayed once; Ella fighting for life at forty-seven because of faulty genetics; Mother in prime health at eighty-two despite her pack-a-day-plus-Hendrick’s habit. Maybe all the cucumber slices soaked in gin kept her healthy.
“Felix, are you there?”
Felix balanced the phone between his shoulder and his neck, and put his thumb on his pulse. Yes, racing like the clappers.
“Felix!” she squawked.
“Yes, Mother?”
“If it’s absolutely necessary, I can ask my travel agent to book a flight.”
“Thank you, Mother, but it’s not. Harry’s in school most of the time and we’re coping adequately, thanks to Ella’s friend and one of our neighbors. Besides, I’m afraid there would be nowhere for you to sleep since I have decamped to the spare room.”
“Did you say a
neighbor
?” His mother’s tone was loaded with accusation.
“Eudora, yes. You’ll approve—she’s a retired horticulturalist. She also happens to be a gourmet cook.” He emphasized the word
cook
. “We’re eating extremely well.”
“A neighbor is feeding you? Most unorthodox, indeed. I would like to point out that I am also retired. And I have the added benefit of nursing skills.”
Retired from what? Mother had never worked—even inside the home. And volunteering in the cancer ward had hardly classified as nursing. One morning a week, she’d served tea and biscuits to family members and shuffled magazines around the waiting room.
“Mother, I appreciate your concern, but we’re managing.”
Somehow.
“And just how poorly is Ella?”
“She’s in heart failure and waiting for a transplant, which makes her pretty sick.”
“Oh, dear me.”
He had told his mother this several times. Maybe she’d been drunk. “Mother, I really have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow when we can talk properly.”
“Don’t forget to post the melatonin. I need two bottles.”
Felix said good night, hit “Call End,” and sat. Just sat. He needed to get back in his car and drive to work—
the deal must go on
—but his legs no longer functioned. Maybe he could stay in a hospital corridor for the rest of his life. That would really push Robert over the edge.
“May I join you?”
Felix looked up and frowned at Dr. Beaubridge. “I had you pegged for a nine-to-five man.”
“Hardly.” Dr. Beaubridge sat next to him. His white coat made a rustling sound that took Felix back to Sunday matins at All Saints Church and the starched white surplices of the choirboys. The hell of sitting still, sandwiched between Pater and Mother; the pretense of being the family that deserved the front pew. “I’m glad you requested the ambulance bring her here.”
“I’m sure our insurance will make us pay heavily for the privilege.”
“It was a good decision,” the cardiologist said. “How are you holding up?”
“I no longer know.” Felix spread out his hands and looked at the hairs, the creases of skin, his wedding ring. “Stress can really do that to someone with a heart condition?”
“When your heart is weakened, anything can be the enemy: too much salt; an infection; emotional stress leading to a panic-attack type setting, as appears to have been the case with Ella . . .”
“Now what?”
“I know this is not the answer you want, but we continue to wait for a donor.”
“But for how long?”
“I can’t answer that. It could be months; it could be longer. In the meantime, I’d like to keep her in for a few days’ observation, start her on an antidepressant, and then send her home again. Here.” He handed Felix a card. “Waiting can be a difficult, frustrating time. There are support groups for families such as yours.”
Felix wanted to rip the card into tiny pieces and scatter them like ashes. Support groups—the touchy-feely stuff of nightmares. Felix handed the card back. “We don’t need outside help.”
Dr. Beaubridge refused to take it. “You might change your mind.”
“I’m not a fan of dissecting my feelings in front of strangers.”
“I was that way.” Dr. Beaubridge paused to greet a nurse. “Until my wife died.”
A phone rang behind them at the nurses’ station, and a patient’s call alarm went off.
“How?” Felix said.
“Car wreck. Five years ago.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.” Dr. Beaubridge tried to smile. “My greatest regret.”
Felix collapsed his arms onto his legs and hung his head. “How do you do this day in, day out?”
“I make sure I’m the best.”
“Level with me. One husband to another.” Felix rolled his head sideways and stared at Dr. Beaubridge. “How bad is this?”
“It’s not a situation I would have hoped for, given how tenuous her heart failure is.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Given all that has happened in the past four weeks and today, Ella is now in the highest category of heart failure.”
“Class four?”
Dr. Beaubridge nodded. “There’s no way to predict whether she’ll have another episode of heart failure or an irregular heart rhythm, either of which could prove fatal, or not. She doesn’t meet standard indications for implantation of a device to predict irregular rhythms—an internal defibrillator—in part because she’s not far enough out from her heart attack for us to know if the heart muscle will recover or not. And since she’s stabilized, she doesn’t yet meet indications for an LVAD, the implanted pump we talked about earlier. Bottom line? We’re in limbo. And we could stay this way for months while we wait for a transplant. I’m sorry.”
Felix put the card in his pocket and stood. “Thank you,” he said, and walked away.
Finally, Dr. Beaubridge had been honest, and he had nothing worth saying.