The Healing (15 page)

“It's all right. Mike was more prepared than anyone, I suppose.”

Trish's voice dropped to a whisper. “She wasn't like this before my father died.”

“I know.”

“Everything is so overwhelming to her now. She's like a child.”

Karen couldn't help but wish that her mother-in-law was the type of seasoned older woman who handled difficult situations with practical wisdom. If that were the case, then Nora would have brought comfort and reassurance with her instead of doling out more pain. She would have pervaded her son's struggling household with a presence that made them feel like everything was going to be okay—the kind of presence imparted by Grace Mitchell.

Trish paused before voicing her next observation. “You look tired, Karen.”

Hold it together.
“It's hard,” she admitted, hoping her voice wouldn't break. “You know? It's really hard.”

“Do you want me to stay for the weekend?” Trish asked. “I don't know what I could do for Mike, but I'm sure I could do a few things for you.”

Karen shook her head. “No, Trish. I know things are hard for you, too. You have your own . . .” Cross to carry? Burden to bear? She didn't want to label her husband's mother as such, so she chose her words carefully. “You have your own responsibilities. And you need a break, too.”

“But having her here will be like, well . . .” Trish tried to be diplomatic. “It will only add to your stress.”

Karen awarded her sister-in-law a weary but genuine grin. “That's okay. It's small potatoes in comparison to everything else.”

They heard Nora's voice loud and clear in the living room. “It breaks my heart to see this happening to you, Mikey. It just breaks my heart.”

Trish and Karen locked glances that flickered with frustration. “She can't keep from stating the obvious,” Trish said. “She just can't help herself.”

Of course she can't,
Karen wanted to add.
She wants to make sure everyone knows she's suffering, too.
But out loud she said, “You're staying for dinner, right?”

Karen dished out the risotto and started to pour iced tea into the three glasses on the dining room table.

“Did you make that with bottled water?” Nora asked. “The water out here isn't fit to drink.”

Karen was well aware that the unchecked use of pesticides had ruined the groundwater on Long Island back when she was a child, but it had been potable for years. Still, she patiently replied, “Yes, I use bottled water for everything.”

“Especially with Mike's condition,” Nora said. “You don't need him getting any intestinal bacteria or anything like that.”

“Of course not.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Trish glance at her.

“Would the health aides help you if something like that were to happen?”

“Something like what?” Karen asked.

“If Mike were to get sick.”

“I'm sure we would work it out.”

Nora shook her head and expelled one of her trademark sighs. “I don't know if I'd be able to deal with a troop of strangers coming and going through my house every day.”

“Ma,” Trish said a little too sharply. “I don't think Karen has much of a choice.”

Nora was penitent, but not because she thought she was wrong. She never considered that possibility. “I know, I know. Not everyone is in a position to care for a sick husband. Believe me, I realize better than anybody how hard it is.”

Karen made a conscious effort to squelch the anger rising up within her. She made sure her face didn't harden, and she kept her eyes averted so her mother-in-law wouldn't see the impatience and resentment simmering in their depths. The woman had only been here for half an hour.

“Let me get the bread,” Karen said as calmly as if they had been discussing whether to serve it with butter or olive oil.

Once in the kitchen, Karen closed her eyes and clenched her jaw. Nora's insensitive commentary forced Karen to recall how Mike's father had been debilitated by heart disease while still in his early sixties. Five years before his death, he underwent triple bypass surgery, but because his heart was damaged from two previous heart attacks, he never really got the new lease on life that most cardiac patients enjoy after a successful operation. Frank Donnelly, however, lived life to the fullest for as long as he could. He played cards with old friends from the fire department, tackled small home projects, and enjoyed doting on his only grandchild, who was a toddler at the time. A month before he died, he ended up in the hospital with congestive heart failure. His cardiac output was too compromised to maintain basic body functions like digestion, so he couldn't really eat. The doctors couldn't even give him the appropriate diagnostic tests because his kidneys couldn't filter out the iodine. So they sent him home.

Karen remembered it well.

For a month, Nora nagged her husband to eat when he couldn't. She was a nervous wreck because she knew his heart was like a time bomb in his chest, and any minute it would simply stop ticking. She drove her two children to the brink of alcoholism and tranquilizer dependency with her daily paranoia about finding their father dead and how she was going to fall apart when it happened. So Trish and Mike had to make sure someone was with her most of the time. Trish practically moved in at that point, but she was teaching and didn't get home until three o'clock. Mike worked nights so he could be with his ailing father during the early part of the day when his sister wasn't around. While Mike was there, he helped his father do all the things Frank didn't want the females doing, even getting into the shower with him because he was too weak to bathe alone. Mike helped him shave and go to the bathroom. He helped him out of bed and into his chair in front of the television. There were even times Mike told his mother to go out and get what she needed at the store so he could pour his father a swallow of scotch.

Nora didn't need a home health aide. She had two exceptional children who were willing to put their own lives on hold in order to help their parents. And Mike's father was never totally crippled. When his heart finally did give out, Mike was actually walking him to the bathroom. He died in his son's arms.

Karen didn't want to be the one to tell her mother-in-law that her perspective on having a sick husband, and on how heroically she had dealt with such an ordeal, was a little warped.

Give me patience,
she prayed before going back into the dining room.

“I assume they're trustworthy,” Nora was saying as Karen returned to the table and passed the bread around.

“Who?” Karen asked.

“All these people who come and go. The health aides and whoever else.”

“Of course they're trustworthy,” Karen replied, her voice remarkably pleasant.

“I mean, they're here when you go out. Do you keep your valuables locked away?”

Karen brought to mind the people who helped care for Mike. Raymond and his gentle strength. The young nurse whose beads of perspiration betrayed her humanity. The occupational therapist who maintained a positive attitude no matter how hopeless some of her cases may have been. And Karen felt insulted on their behalf. “I don't have to keep things locked up,” she told her mother-in-law.

“Well, you never know. You and Lori should still work it out among yourselves to be here when these people are with Mike.”

Oh, should we?
Karen screamed inside herself.

Fortunately, Trish spoke up. “Well, Mike looks very well taken care of,” she said. “So everybody must be doing what they have to do.”

Thank you, Trish.
“Dig in,” Karen said, and watched her sister-in-law quietly make the sign of the cross.

“Isn't Mike eating with us?” Nora asked before picking up her fork.

“He ate earlier,” Karen replied. “He had to take his medicine.”

Another sigh. “And what about Lori?” Nora asked. “Where is she?”

“She's working.”

“Couldn't she get the night off to be here with us?”

Karen beat back every snide and impatient retort as though they were live demons. “This job at the Bayview Inn has been great for her. I wouldn't want anything to jeopardize it.”

“One night off is going to jeopardize her job?” Nora asked as if the notion were foolish. “I don't know, Karen. You and Mike were always a little too soft with Lori. Maybe that's why she has a hard time dealing with real life.”

Karen thought she was hearing things. She knew her mother-in-law did not understand Lori's precarious emotional state, and she realized that Nora needed to blame someone for her granddaughter's adversity, but she was stunned to hear such ignorant words tumbling from the woman's lips. Nora seemed to derive some kind of self-righteous strength from the desperate struggles of her son and his family. Was Karen feeding into that false sense of assertiveness by not putting her mother-in-law in her place sooner? She was trying to be noble and hold her tongue for Mike's sake, but was it wise to allow his mother to foster such a twisted view of their situation?

Nora was the one who obviously had a hard time dealing with reality.

“Ma,” Trish piped up before the fur started flying, “eat your dinner before it gets cold. You'll see Lori in the morning.”

Karen barely heard the hum of Mike's wheelchair over the hum in her own ears. But before Nora could say another word, Mike rolled into the dining room and up to the table, taking his place beside his wife.

“What's the matter, Ma?” he asked. “You don't like the risotto?”

Nora looked confused. “What do you mean? I haven't even tasted it yet.”

“Well, why don't you give it a try? Karen's been cooking for you all afternoon.”

Karen turned in her seat and gaped at him, puzzled at first. She assumed he would brood all night because of their earlier altercation in the living room. Had he joined them because he wanted to shut his mother up? Or because Karen had confessed that she needed him here?

It didn't matter. She found herself mesmerized by the quickening in his eyes when he looked at her. And for the first time in months, Karen didn't retreat from his gaze. Somewhere in the vast oceans of his eyes she caught a fleeting glimpse of the Mike she had known and loved for thirty years. She wanted to hold on to that person . . . to embrace him and never let him go.

“Do you want a shake?” she asked him.

“Yeah. Chocolate.”

It took Karen only thirty seconds to fetch the protein shake from the refrigerator, open it, and insert a straw. Her hand was trembling as much as Mike's when she gave it to him.

“Thanks, babe.”

His sister kept her eyes on her own plate, but his mother stared across the table with a wrenched expression as Mike struggled to get the straw to his mouth. Karen helped him, and he winked another thank-you at her.

Finally, everyone seemed to relax a bit.

“The risotto is delicious, Karen,” Nora said, suddenly on her best behavior. “Thank you for making it.”

“My pleasure.”

chapter seventeen

Mike analyzed every nuance of what had happened in the dining room. Those few moments when he connected with Karen played over and over in his mind's eye, tempting him to believe it was a continuation of his afternoon reverie. He didn't want to be anywhere else. He didn't
have
to be anywhere else. Trish had already left to drive back home, and his mother was sitting in the living room with him, chatting about some trivial neighborhood gossip while canned laughter from some insipid sitcom cackled out of the TV. And all Mike could think about was the way Karen had looked at him when he came to the table. She hadn't looked at him like that since before Lori's accident.

If only he could live in that moment. If only he could respond the way he always did when Karen's gaze stirred him to the very soul. Instead, Karen was in the kitchen, making herself scarce so that his mother could spend some quality time with him. Soon they would be reverting back to their clumsy roles of caregiver and patient. That was the extent of their intimacy.

Mike put it off as long as possible. It was after ten o'clock, and he was still in his chair. His body and his head ached so badly he could barely move at all. Just getting into bed was going to be an ordeal. He had felt the warm weight of the full urine bag against his leg for over an hour, and he was still so sore from the surgical insertion of the catheter that he just wanted to pull the damn thing out. Finally, he physically couldn't take it anymore.

He was about to call to Karen when she appeared in the living room doorway, as if drawn to his need by some telepathic means. Mike didn't have to say a word. “Ready?” she asked.

Mike nodded once and positioned his chair by the bed while Karen plucked clean pajamas from the laundry basket behind the sofa. It occurred to him that he should probably tell his mother to go upstairs, but he didn't want to insult her. At this point he was too tired to care about his own sense of dignity or privacy. He had lost both a long time ago, anyway. “What can I do?” Nora offered, hauling herself stiffly from the cozy wing chair.

Karen whisked the polo shirt over Mike's head, exposing his diminished torso. He saw his mother's reaction. She took one look at him in a state of physical helplessness and stopped in her tracks. She appeared even more baffled as she watched Karen adroitly slip on his pajama top and button it for him.

Mike realized Nora wasn't going to be of any use to Karen. He should have gone with his instincts and told her to go upstairs. When Karen slipped the hammock sling under Mike and began to attach the straps to the Hoyer lift, Nora looked horrified. Mike tried his best to appear complacent with regard to his new routine, but he was in too much pain. As soon as the lift hoisted him from the chair, he grimaced and caught his breath, momentarily unable to focus on anyone else's anguish.

Nora gasped. “Mikey.”

He was suspended in the sling like a sick dolphin out of water.

“Mother of Jesus—my poor Mikey.”

“Ma, you can go up, if you want,” Karen said with remarkable calm.

Nora didn't seem to hear her. She stood transfixed as Karen wheeled the lift a few feet to the bed.

Mike felt like he couldn't breathe, both from the physical discomfort and from seeing the reality of his situation through his mother's eyes. How could he go on like this? How could he continue to exist in a world where the four women who made up his family had to watch him disintegrate?

Karen pressed the button to lower him onto the mattress. The damned thing moved in slow motion, allowing plenty of time for Nora to work herself into a tearful state. Mike saw the tightening in Karen's jaw and the controlled apathy in her gaze. She removed herself by staring blankly at the mechanized arm above them. And Mike wanted to vanish into thin air.

To make a bad situation worse, he felt wetness against his leg as his weight was transferred to the mattress. “Karen. The bag!”

Karen snapped to attention, and without thinking she yanked the loose khaki trousers down from his hips so fast that his boxers almost went with them, not even bothering to undo the fly. Mike made a spastic grab for the boxers' waistband, only because he sensed his mother had been traumatized enough. She didn't need to see tubes coming out of his body.

Karen fumbled to disconnect the catheter tube from the leaking bag. She didn't seem to hear the litany of saints that was now emanating from Nora's lips.

“Maybe you'd better go upstairs,” Mike told his mother gently.

She stroked his head and began to weep openly. “Oh, Mikey. Even your late father didn't go through all this,” she said, lamenting. “My poor, poor baby.”

Mike knew his mother's raw emotions weren't really doing any good, and he knew they kept her from thinking clearly and from acting in a constructive manner. Yet he couldn't help but wish some of that emotion would rub off on Karen, whose smooth brow was knotted in a frown as she concentrated on her task. She was stoic as a soldier helping a wounded comrade. And she was just as strong, just as courageous, just as loyal. But Mike simply wanted her to look at him again. He wanted another glimpse of what he had seen in the dining room earlier—to see his loving wife in those hazel eyes. He wanted to see a lifetime of passion, humor, and shared moments.

Instead, he saw a final flash of impatience. A simple sigh from Nora was the catalyst. “Mom, would you please go get me a washcloth and a towel?” Karen said with an unmistakable edge in her voice.

Finally, Nora moved from her spot.

As soon as his mother was gone, Mike spoke up with breathless urgency. “We can't go on like this, Karen. We have to look into—a place.”

Her eyes darted at him. “Don't start,” she said.

“But I don't want you to do this,” he said, trying to shimmy himself into a more comfortable position.

“Stay still!” she snapped, obviously not realizing he was in pain.

Mike clenched his jaw and obeyed, not wishing to make things harder for her than they already were. “Sorry, babe.”

Karen softened at his apology. She blinked and bit her lip. “We'll get used to it,” she said.

“Karen,” Mike began, knowing he couldn't whitewash the truth, “my arms are getting weaker. And my hands are almost completely shot. You know that.”

“It's worse when you're tired.”

“That's true, but who knows how long before—”

Karen straightened up with a jolt, the full urine bag in her hand. “I have to empty this,” she said, cutting into Mike's premonitory statement. She bolted from the room before he could finish the sentence . . .
before I can't move at all.

He was well aware that Karen was waging war against their inescapable destiny. But seeing her suffer along with him, revolving her daily life around his mounting physical challenges and endangering her own health to take care of him, was becoming more than he could bear. Especially since he felt she might end up doing it out of some sense of duty.

Tears threatened to blur his vision as his mother came rushing back into the room. Nora looked downright scared to be alone with him and stopped while she was still six feet from the bed. “Oh, Mikey,” she said for the umpteenth time.

“You can go upstairs now, Ma,” he said in a flat voice.

She held up the wet cloth and towel. “But Karen asked me to—”

“Just leave it on the table. Karen has to wash me.” His voice was almost a monotone. “Go on up. I'll see you in the morning.”

“Are you sure?” Nora asked.

“I'm sure, Ma. Karen knows what to do.”

Nora approached the bed a little hesitantly but then broke down when she bent over to kiss him. Karen returned just in time to witness another scene that was more fitting for a funeral parlor than a living room. Mike saw her stop, take a deep breath, and raise her eyes to heaven. Surely she was pleading for one last measure of patience.

When Nora was upstairs and out of earshot, Karen let off a little steam. “Can't you just tell her to stop?”

“It wouldn't do any good,” Mike told her. He didn't blame Karen for snapping. She had endured enough of his mother's unchecked histrionics for one day.

“Do you want
me
to tell her?” Karen offered, her eyes still sparking as she washed his leg and reconnected the bag. “Or do you enjoy having someone wail over you and treat you like the King of Tragedy?”

Now it was Mike's turn to look away and remain silent. He had to believe his wife knew him better than that.