Features clearing as his lids closed, he nodded but held on as if she were his one lifeline to consciousness.
Elizabeth stood there for several minutes before she tried to extract herself, but when she did, he roused again enough to resist. Maybe if she distracted him. “Are you hungry?” she asked,
pulling free. “The doctor said if you’re hungry, they could take out the tube and start giving you some clear liquids.”
His blue eyes flew open. “God, yes. Get this tube out of me,” he said, suddenly alert. “But forget the fluids.” He grabbed the NG tube and started pulling it out, gagging in the process.
“Howell, stop that!” Elizabeth buzzed frantically for the nurse, then tried to stop him, but he swatted her away.
“Yes, Mrs. Whittington?” came over the intercom.
“He’s pulling out his NG tube!” By the time she’d said it, he’d gotten the thing out completely and lapsed into a fit of coughing.
Fortunately, the tube seemed to have come out clean. There wasn’t any blood. Elizabeth held his water close enough to sip. “Drink. Sip it slow.”
Howe gasped, then did as she instructed. “Ah.” He took another sip, followed by a hoarse, “Better.”
His two swing-shift nurses appeared—Rachel and Mavis. “Mr. Whittington,” the shorter, older Mavis challenged rhetorically, “what do you think you’re doin’? Do not, and I mean do
not,
remove anything else from your body. Do I make myself clear?” She snatched the NG tube and shook it at him. “This could have gone very badly. Your family and your insurance company are paying through the nose for us to do those things for you.” Pun intended? Mavis scowled. “If you want something, call us. Understand? Or do we need to put you into restraints?” She glared at him with her fists planted on her ample hips.
Howe had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. I just couldn’t stand having that tube in there anymore. It felt like a fire hose in my throat.”
Not impressed, Nurse Mavis pointed to him in warning. “No more do-it-yourself, mister. Those IVs and that catheter stay till your doctor says they come out. And
we
do the takin’ out, not you.”
Howell let loose another brief spate of coughing, nodding and waving her away.
“All right, then.” Silent Nurse Rachel in tow, Mavis hitched her uniformed booty back to the nurse’s station.
Howe subsided into his pillow, clearly exhausted. “Remind me never to cross her again.”
He closed his eyes for a few minutes, then roused, focusing on his surroundings for the first time. “Where am I, anyway?”
“At the new stroke center near Emory. You had a stroke. But you’re fine now.”
“Stroke,” he murmured, drifting away. “My father had a stroke . . . He died.”
“You’re not going to die, Howell,” Elizabeth told him. “You’re going to be fine.” She willed it for him. What they would do then, she didn’t know. P.J. . . .
Howe didn’t say anything else for another ten minutes, then woke with a start. “Man. I’m starving.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “I want a chili dog from the Varsity.” Hunger claimed his features, brightened by the prospect of junk food. “No, two. And a Glorified. And an order of rings. And fries. And a brownie. And a Big Orange.” His stomach growled so loudly, it all but echoed. Then he let out another huge fart—and laughed!
Prim and proper Charles Howell Whittington II had not only farted but found it amusing. The world had turned upside down.
“Who are you,” Elizabeth blurted out, “and what have you done with my husband?”
“It’s me,” he said with a boyish half-smile. “At least, I think it is. And God, am I hungry.” He shot her a salacious glance. “I sure am glad to see you.” He reached out with both hands, arms open. “C’mere, Lillibet. I’m as horny as I am hungry. The Varsity can wait. How ’bout a quickie?”
That tore it. “Not till you pass your AIDS test, and another one, six months later,” she snapped just as the curtain swished open to reveal their son.
Charles froze, blinking in surprise while he took in the sight of his father’s arms open wide to his mother, then stammered, “Uh, hey. I know you said to wait, but I couldn’t. The judge gave me the rest of the day off when I told him.” Charles hesitated. “Do you two need some privacy, because I could—”
“Charles!” Howe’s attention shifted abruptly to his son, his eyes welling with tears as he sat up. “Son! By damn, come here. Give your dad a hug. God, it’s good to see you.”
Cussing and hugging? Charles shot Elizabeth a look of surprise, but she was so grateful for the distraction that she cocked her head for him to do as his father asked.
Howe enveloped the boy in a bear hug, all but pulling him off his feet. Tears streaming, Howe clapped Charles on the back. “How’s my boy? You’ll make a fine lawyer. Much better than I ever would have been. I’m so proud of you for getting into Emory law. So proud.”
Unable to believe what she was hearing, Elizabeth felt her own eyes well. All his life, Charles had struggled to win his
father’s approval, but the most Howe had given him was an occasional
attaboy
. Like Augusta’s, Howe’s affections had been reserved for their daughter Patricia.
Howe thrust Charles to arm’s length. “Look at this . . .
man
of ours, Lizzie. So handsome. So good. Can you believe he’s ours?” Abruptly, Howe looked stricken. “I haven’t been the father I should be. I have so much to make up to you, son.” He searched Charles’s shocked expression. “So much. But God’s given me another chance. I know He’s real, now. He spoke to me.”
God spoke to him? Elizabeth must have fallen down the rabbit hole, for real! Howe had always said people who thought God talked to them were crazy—including Jimmy Carter and George Bush.
“Can you forgive me, Charles?” Howe pleaded roughly. “Can I ever make it up to you?”
“Sure, Dad,” Charles said gingerly. “Sure. We’re okay.” He shot Elizabeth a questioning glance. “Maybe you ought to lie back for a while and rest.”
Howe nodded, releasing Charles. “I love you, son. I’ve loved you from the day you were born. You’ve never given me or your mother a minute of trouble. I love you.”
To Elizabeth’s knowledge, Howe hadn’t said he loved their son since Charles was little.
Charles swallowed heavily, turning away.
Elizabeth didn’t have to be clairvoyant to read his mind. Whatever had happened to his father, he was grateful.
Abruptly, Howe sat up again. “God, I’ve never been so hungry in my life. Charles, do you think you could go to the Varsity
for me? I’m starving, and my tongue is set for some real food. Could you get me two chili dogs and a Glorified and some rings and fries and a Big Orange?”
Charles was skeptical. “Dad, don’t you think you ought to start off a little easier? You haven’t eaten any real food for more than six months.”
Howe halted abruptly. “Six months?” He turned to Elizabeth in dismay. “What’s the date? How long have I been here?”
“It’s June,” she told him. “You were in the hospital for almost a month, then they transferred you here.” She could see it was a lot to take in. “You’ve been here since January.”
Stunned, Howe lay back down, then stared at his hand, flexing his fingers. “Whoa. Major sinking spell.” Suddenly pale, he tried to lift his knees, but gave up after raising them only a few inches. “No wonder my legs don’t work so well.”
“You were pretty strong when you first woke up,” she said dryly. “But the adrenaline’s probably worn off.” She just hoped the testosterone had.
“It won’t take long to get back up and going,” Charles reassured him. “You’ve had physical therapy every day here. Lots of it.”
Howe shook his head. “Well, shit!”
Charles and Elizabeth stared at him in shock. “What did you just say?” Elizabeth heard herself ask.
Wide-eyed, Howe shook his head again in denial even as he said, “Fuck me!”
“Howell,” Elizabeth scolded. Her father and brothers had worn the word out, but Howe had never, ever succumbed to
such common talk, even in private. He’d always said cursing debased the one who did it even more than the ones who heard it, and she agreed.
“Sorry.” Howe seemed perplexed. “I can’t believe I just said that. I never even
thought
that before, much less said it. Shit.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “What’s going on here?” Should she call the doctors?
“Damned if I know,” Howe said, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
By then, Charles was having a hard time keeping a straight face, so he wasn’t any help.
Ruffled, Elizabeth explained to Howe, “The doctor said there might be some emotional side effects, either from the stroke or from the experimental drugs they used to wake you up. Or maybe from the tumor.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say that last.
Howe’s eyes widened. “Tumor? What tumor?”
So much for breaking it to him gently. “A small one, in your frontal cortex,” she hastened to qualify. “Very slow-growing.
Not
malignant. They operated the day you were admitted, and got it all.”
Howe reached up to feel his scalp and encountered the scar. He paled. “Shit! I had brain surgery?” His voice shook with alarm. “Shit!”
Elizabeth pressed the nurse’s call button as she tried to reassure him with, “The tumor’s blood supply ruptured, which caused the stroke. They took care of that, too. You’re fine now. You’re fine.”
“I don’t think so,” her husband argued. “I can’t control my language—or my appetites.” She followed his glance to the tented sheet above his groin. “I am
not
fine.”
Nurse Mavis’s voice crackled over the intercom. “What can we do for you, Mr. Whittington?”
“Roll back the clock six months,” Howe snapped toward the microphone in the side rail of his bed.
“My husband wants some chili dogs from the Varsity,” Elizabeth tattled. “And rings. And fries. And a Glorified and a brownie and a Big Orange.” And never mind what else. Stroke or no stroke, no chance was he getting
that.
“Men. I tell you,” Mavis opined. “We cain’t give him anything but liquids, but if y’all want to make a Varsity run, I cain’t stop you,” she said. “I’ll be here to hold his head when he throws it all back up.” She crackled off.
Some help. Elizabeth vowed to hold the woman to her word.
Charles moved close and took his father’s hand. “It’s okay, Dad. You’re gonna be okay. Like you said: God gave you another chance. Try to focus on that.”
Howe inhaled deeply, a range of emotions from fear to frustration to despair rippling across the face that had once been so impassive. He exhaled deeply. “You’re right. You’re right.” The ravenous look reappeared. “But I really am starving. I’d kill for that Varsity order.”
Charles and Elizabeth both froze at his choice of words. Under the circumstances, they weren’t sure whether to take him literally or not.
“Jeez, I didn’t mean I could really kill somebody,” Howe
grumbled. “Lighten up.” Something he hadn’t done in a quarter of a century. “But I really want that food. Could you just get me the food, Charles? I may only be able to have a bite or two, but I want it.”
Charles exchanged a pregnant glance with Elizabeth, then shrugged. “Okay. The Varsity it is. Be back within the hour.”
Elizabeth shook her head as the door closed behind their son.
“Don’t give me that look,” Howe told her. “That’s my mother’s look. I hate that look.”
Confrontation, from Howe? Elizabeth regarded him with a mixture of amazement and insult. “Kindly do not compare me to your mother.”
“It just came out,” he said. “I’m sorry.” The words reflected more annoyance than repentance. He extended his hand. “Can I have the phone, please? I need to tell my mother I’m not in a coma anymore.”
“Are you sure? I could call her for you.” Lord only knew what he was liable to say. Then she’d be the one who had to deal with the aftermath.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He was getting cranky. “I wouldn’t want to inflict her on you. God knows, she’s been nasty enough to you up till now.” He waggled his hand for the phone.
Stunned, Elizabeth handed it over. In all their years of marriage, Howe had never said a word against his mother, much less taken Elizabeth’s side on anything. He’d simply avoided conflict, telling Elizabeth she had to work things out with his mother on her own.
“Just punch star eleven, then the send button,” she instructed.
He did so, then waited. “Mama? This is Howe. I’m awake.” Elizabeth heard a very un-Augusta-like shriek of joy from the phone as Howe pulled it a safer distance from his eardrum. “But don’t come see me yet,” he all but yelled. “I’ll call when I feel up to visitors. Not just yet.”
A torrent of cultured Southern protest followed. “Mama,” he said, “if you act like that, I’m going to hang up. I mean it. Do not come up here. And don’t call Elizabeth. This is my decision, not hers.” Pause, with more agitated mama-leakage. “Dammit, Mama. I’m going to hang up.” Augusta’s voice shifted lower and slower. “I don’t know when I’m getting out,” he said, shooting Elizabeth a questioning look.
She shook her head, mouthing
weeks.
“Weeks. Maybe longer. I can’t even walk, yet.” He frowned when his mother resumed her tirade. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m hanging up now, so I can call Patricia.”