The Healing (19 page)

“Seeing me like this—it unraveled her,” Mike said. “She can't handle it.”

Some people just aren't equipped to deal with illness,
Grace had said.

Karen might have had a hard time accepting that, and God knew she had little patience for Nora's dramatics, but she couldn't believe Mike had taken such a drastic measure. “So you told her to go
home
?” she asked.

“Well, I didn't quite put it like that,” he replied. “I said I knew this was too hard on her and I didn't want her to get sick over it. Then I told her she didn't have to stay. I told her to call Trish.”

Karen still couldn't believe it. “But
why
?”

His eyes shimmered. Soon they were going to swallow her up. “Because it's not fair to you. You put up with enough.”

She didn't know whether to feel horrified or flattered. What had happened in the hour she had spent outside? Had Mike heard everything that was going on and decided he had no choice but to ask his mother to leave? Had he come out of the little bathroom off the kitchen and thrown a tantrum of his own?

Now Karen had to look away. She had drawn too near to the love burning in Mike's eyes and reacted as though it had scorched her. It was time to start straightening the magazines on the end table. “So, what did your mother say? I hope she wasn't too hurt.”

“I think she was relieved, actually.”

Karen wasn't surprised. But when her mother-in-law went home and realized she had let her son down, she was going to blame the rest of the world. Poor Trish was going to have her hands full over the next few days. “Maybe it's for the best,” Karen said, although Mike didn't seem upset at all. In fact, he seemed totally at peace with his course of action.

“Of course it's for the best,” he reasoned. “Being around me just made her nervous. I could see that.”

Karen wanted to tell him how sorry she was, but the words wouldn't form. She couldn't imagine what it felt like for Mike to know his own mother was uncomfortable in his presence. “Do you want something to eat?” Karen offered softly, her gaze fluttering back to his for a heartbeat.

“Just a shake.”

“Are you sure? I was in the middle of making scrambled eggs when I—you know—walked off the job. I could make some for you.”

Mike wrinkled his nose like an eight-year-old offered a plate of steamed cabbage. “I'll pass. I'm not hungry.”

Karen went into the kitchen to fetch the shake, her mind in a whirl. She returned, still preoccupied, and tried to hand the can to Mike. He started to reach for it, but his hand was trembling so violently he could barely grasp it. He finally did, but the coldness of the can seemed to repel his uncooperative fingers, and he couldn't hold on to it.

So he was upset after all.

Karen felt herself go numb, as she so often did. Holding on to the can, she aimed the straw at his mouth. “Here, let me help you—”

But Mike jerked his head away, his expression going from placid to crestfallen in a single breath.

“I'll wrap it in a cloth,” Karen suggested, thinking it would be easier for him to hold. She held it out for him again, but he just looked out the window, his mouth pulling downward in a disheartened bow.

“Forget it,” he mumbled.

“But you have to eat
something
.”

“Later.”

“Okay.” Karen retreated without debate, aligning her posture and nodding mechanically. But a disturbing thought rooted itself in her mind. Mike had lost his will to live, and maybe his refusal to eat was a conscious choice to hasten the inevitable. There was no way to know for certain without confronting him, and Karen wasn't about to do that. Mike usually broached the subject of the future while in the midst of a highly emotional or physically challenging ordeal, and Karen could never bring herself to hash it out with him. The closer she drew to her heart—where her love for Mike and her fear of his illness were festering as dormant and dangerous as a killer virus—the harder it was to pretend she was handling it.

Karen walked back into the kitchen feeling like she had slipped out of her body. It was a hard thing to admit, but maybe her idea of being strong for Mike was way off target. Maybe, instead of standing as a separate entity who cared for his physical needs alongside the health-care professionals, Karen had to find the strength to reconnect with her husband on that deeper level she had taken for granted all those years. That meant sharing
everything.
They would have to huddle together against all the suffering inflicted by Mike's disease—the pain, the despair, the bitterness, the anguish, the humiliation—and they'd have to arm themselves with the only weapon that couldn't be defeated. Their love.

But where did Karen start to find their old relationship in the rubble of their circumstances? How could she allow Mike to see her agony when he had so much of his own? He had already told her she should leave him because he couldn't stand the thought of her going down with the ship.

Oddly enough, that was typical of the Mike she'd always known. Yet
she
was far from the
Karen
that Mike always knew.

Wouldn't it be worse for Mike to think it
doesn't
hurt you?

chapter twenty-three

Karen stood at the end of the driveway and waved to the taillights of her sister-in-law's blue Camry. She watched the car until it was out of sight and then spun around to face the house. As she walked toward the porch door, she tried to convince herself it was a good thing for her to be alone with Mike. Lori had gone off to work, and now Nora was gone. So was the rookie aide. If Karen didn't have to go back inside and face Mike with her new firmness of purpose, she would have felt relieved.

She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Mike's chair hadn't budged. Karen realized it was already three o'clock in the afternoon, and Mike hadn't eaten anything all day. He looked drained, but she suspected it wasn't from lack of food. The good-bye scene was painful, even for her. Nora sobbed her apologies, and Mike kept telling her it was okay. Trish had to peel their mother off him and lead her to the car.

Now Mike's eyes were glazed and vacant. There were dark circles under them that enhanced the sickly pallor of his skin. He was folded into his chair like a ninety-year-old man whose young, handsome face had not aged with the rest of his body.

Even his hair looked grayer at his temples and sideburns.

When Karen stepped closer, his eyes moved in her direction without really focusing, as if it took too much energy. She was tempted to touch his hairline or brush her fingers along his cheek, but she was still too wary of the deluge breaking through the dam. Mike had endured enough salty tears being spilled on him for one weekend. “You must be hungry,” Karen said softly.

His head moved only slightly from side to side. “Just tired.”

Karen marched into the kitchen and came back with a shake, but Mike just shifted irritably.

“I don't want it, babe.”

“Please don't do this,” she said.

He frowned. “Do what? I don't want the damn thing.”

She aimed the straw at his mouth. “Just one sip.”

“Karen—”

“For me?” she urged, making the request she knew he could never ignore.

His eyes fired up with questions, boring into her with their old intensity. It was as if her plea had woken him up out of a stupor. “Don't make a game out of this,” he said, cautioning her.

“Oh, this isn't a game,” she replied plainly. “And even if it was, I would think we'd be on the same side.”

His lip jutted out stubbornly for a moment, and she saw the thaw in his gaze.

“Come on, Mike,” she urged. “Please?” She allowed her own eyes to send a very clear message:
I don't want you to get any worse.
“Do it for me.”

Mike moved his head toward the straw, and Karen placed it between his lips. He took hold of the can, his hand a little steadier than before, and drank a few swigs. His Adam's apple slid up and down as the liquid went down his throat.

She relaxed a little. “Maybe later I can grill you a nice steak,” she offered. Mike had always been an avid carnivore for a slab of rare beef. “I have a good T-bone in the freezer.”

But he wasn't enticed. “I'm so beat, I don't think I could chew it.”

Karen didn't know if he was kidding or not. So she didn't humor him. “I'll cut it into thin little slices. It'll melt in your mouth, I promise.”

He shrugged apathetically, looking utterly spent. Karen couldn't steel herself against the resentment that surged through her when she thought of her mother-in-law and the consequences of her short visit. Nora's inability to cope just added more weight to Mike's overburdened shoulders. It was so unfair.

“You know what else you need?” Karen asked.

“A nap?”

“Some fresh air. You're white as a ghost.”

“I can't go out in the heat, Kar.”

“It's not hot out today,” she said, leaving no room for argument. “It's perfect. And it's already after three. You can sit in the shade.”

Mike surrendered to a gaping yawn, as if the mention of time triggered a reflex for more oxygen. He shook his head. “Not now.”

“Oh, come on. You haven't been out of this house in weeks except to go to the doctor. You're turning into a mole.”

His eyes narrowed at her thoughtfully. “What's gotten into you?” he asked. “Did my mother get under your skin?”

Karen couldn't resist a sarcastic retort. “Oh, she got under my skin, all right. But not the way you think.”

“I know damn well how she got under your skin,” Mike said with a sudden swell of conviction. “Why do you think I told her to call Trish and go home?”

Everything Mike did, he did for Karen. It was like scales were falling from her eyes to allow her to see it. If he couldn't muster the desire to do something for himself, he could always be bribed into doing it for his wife or daughter.

“Come on. Come outside with me,” she said, persuading him gently. “I want to show you something.”

He was still studying her, trying to figure out why she was being so insistent about things that didn't seem to matter. “Karen?” he said, as if waiting for her to come to her senses. “What is it you really want?”

Karen felt the familiar heat in her face—the dead giveaway that she was coming undone inside. There was no hiding it from Mike, so she didn't try. Her gaze shifted away from his. “I just want you to come outside with me,” she replied a little breathlessly, her cheeks burning. “I want you to get some fresh air. I want you to see the tomato plants that are growing wild in the garden.” She paused, not sure she could blurt out the next sentence. “And I want you to sit with me under the apple tree for a few minutes.”

Something quickened in his expression, and Karen hoped she had paid forward a small share of what she had experienced beside the compost heap that morning. She hoped that something had come alive inside of him. It was hard to tell for sure, since Mike looked more baffled than anything—like someone who was certain he misunderstood what was going on.

“All right,” he said, as though given no choice. Propping his protein shake in the drink holder on the arm of the chair, he added, “For a little while, I guess.”

Karen was too adept at guarding her emotions to bubble over with enthusiasm. But she did brighten. And she did notice that Mike zeroed in on her eyes, obviously trying to discern what was in their depths. She kept her gaze averted until he turned his chair around, following him when he moved forward. She didn't realize her heart was pounding until she stopped to open the back door for him.

Mike was still in the doorway when the sunlight hit him, and he cringed against the brightness. Karen reached across him, snatched his old Yankees cap from its hook by the door, and planted it on his head with the visor pulled low. He hesitated for a moment, as though emerging from the house took great courage, and then started slowly down the ramp, with Karen trailing behind. Gazing at him in the light of day as though assessing his condition for the first time, she noticed that his neck, once as thick as a linebacker's, was now just an ordinary pedestal for his head. But she felt a strong stirring of affection upon seeing the dark hair that still curled at the nape and stuck out from under the cap in a kind of testimony to Mike's old sauciness.

“Isn't it nice out?” she asked, whispering in deference to the late afternoon tranquillity.

He looked up and nodded, but it seemed he was only appeasing her. As they neared the rear of the property, Luka started whining and whizzing back and forth on her run.

“You can smell the sea today,” Karen added, and parked Mike's chair at the edge of the old garden, where he was protected by the shadow of the apple tree. She stole a quick glance at him, hoping to find him in the midst of a deep, restorative breath. But he was looking at the neglected patch of earth, his face expressionless. The red T-shirt he was wearing looked faded and sad in the light of day, and his old track shorts, which once fit snugly around his well-muscled thighs, gaped open at the legs, exposing his boxers and the catheter tube.

He looked so sick. Karen almost lost it.

“How about we take your shirt off?” she suggested, thinking that perhaps the sun would give him some color . . . infuse him with energy. Something.

Once again, he shook his head. And once again, Karen coerced him. “Come on, Mike. Just the other day the nurse said you ought to get some fresh air. You can't get everything you need in a can of protein shake.”

“Tell me about it,” he said.

“Do you want to take off your shirt?” she asked, moving forward to help him.

“You first.”

Karen thought she was in total control of the moment, but she wasn't ready for Mike's sudden blast of wit. She searched his face to make sure her ears hadn't deceived her. She was thrown off balance by what she saw glowing at her from under the visor of his cap. Sunlight and humor glinted in Mike's eyes as he looked up at her. His eyes resembled shattered crystals, outlined by the dark brows and long black lashes that appeared to be painted on his pale skin. There was even a hint of a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth.

It was like a divine gift . . . a confirmation that she had stumbled upon the old Mike in the dark cavern of his illness and depression.

“After all these years, you should know better,” she said, referring to her staunch modesty.

Mike lifted one shoulder in a devil-may-care manner. “Figured I'd give it a try,” he said. “It would be a helluva lot more interesting than tomato plants.”

Their gazes danced together for a brief but glorious moment. Karen felt her face stretching into a smile, and she blushed because she didn't know how to react. “But I was so excited about the tomato plants when I found them this morning,” she told him; she had lost the upper hand in their awkward little rendezvous.

He looked pleased. “All right,” he said. “Show me your tomatoes.”

A laugh actually escaped her. It was just a little rumble, quickly stifled behind her hand, but its effect was profound. A palpable euphoria descended on the both of them in the wake of those few moments. The only difference was that before Mike had gotten sick, Karen might have lifted her shirt and shown him her tomatoes, causing him to howl and her to turn crimson. Now she could only leave their repartee unfinished and turn to the young plants that had rekindled her hope.

Mike watched her as she pointed out the accidental tomato and squash plants and weeded around them. He watched her with a silent longing she could feel from yards away. She could only guess what was going through his mind, because she wasn't brave enough to ask him. Having known him so intimately for so long, Karen easily could have seen all the answers in his gaze, if only she weren't afraid to immerse herself for more than a few seconds at a time.

After about a half an hour, she wheeled him to the other end of the apple tree's canopy and fired up the grill. “What do you want to drink?” she asked, noticing that he had not finished his shake.

“How about a nice cold beer?” he replied.

Karen stopped and tilted her head at him, pondering whether or not to take him seriously. She realized that the urine bag, strapped discreetly but visibly to the back of his leg, had been empty for most of the day. At this point, a beer certainly couldn't harm him any more than the threat of dehydration. In fact, a beer might do Mike a world of good. And it was more nutritious than soda or iced tea.

She went inside and popped the caps off two Budweisers. If Mike was going to sit in the shade and have a beer on a sunny Sunday afternoon, then, by God, she was going to join him. She slipped the chilled bottles into foam insulators—two of the six she had bought for their foiled Fourth of July barbecue—and carried them outside while the cool mist was still wafting invitingly from their open necks.

It was the first time in weeks that Mike reached for something with any gusto. His hand still quaked, and his fingers waved out of sync like those of an infant grabbing for a brightly colored toy, but he managed to grasp the bottle and get it to his mouth. Karen held her breath and watched him throw his head back to take a long, thirsty guzzle. Then he let out a great exhale of satisfaction and a healthy belch.

“Well,
something
still works!” he said.