The Healing (24 page)

chapter twenty-eight

Karen rolled the van's window all the way down so the rush of air would hit her in the face as she drove. She was exhausted after spending half the night at the hospital and calling a taxi to drive her home in the wee hours before dawn. But the only time she could get back to see Lori was when Raymond was at the house with Mike. Over the next few weeks, splitting herself between the hospital and home was going to be a real juggle of time management and organizational skills. Karen felt frazzled already.

The van practically drove itself to the house on Terry Lane.

She pulled up to the wrought-iron gate and was mystified to see a black Lincoln Town Car in Grace's driveway. Putting the van in reverse, she backed it away from the gate and let it idle as she watched three well-dressed men emerge from the side entrance and get into the car. One was wearing the trademark collar of a Catholic priest. The car coasted down the length of the driveway and pulled away.

She waited a few minutes before driving up, wondering what dealings Grace would have with three men at ten o'clock in the morning. Especially when one of them was a man of the cloth. Yet she knew she couldn't ask. Perhaps it was just a simple visit from an old colleague, and Karen was making too much of it.

Then why did it strike her as so odd?

Grace was already at the side door when Karen stepped out of the van, and she was wearing her gardening clothes. She certainly didn't look like someone who had just hosted a business meeting or taken sacramental instruction.

“Hi, Karen. You look tired.”

There was no mention of her previous visitors, and Karen just put the whole puzzle out of her mind for the moment. She walked into Grace's airy, old-fashioned kitchen like someone seeking sanctuary. Except this time she couldn't leave her emotional baggage outside. “I was at the hospital half the night,” she explained, not mentioning that her weird encounter with Greg had kept her awake for the other half. “I'm on my way back there right now.”

Grace gave a little gasp and pulled out one of the chairs at the table. She motioned for Karen to sit down. “What happened? Is it your husband?”

Karen fell into the offered seat. “No, my daughter.”

“Oh, goodness.” Grace sighed and sat opposite her.

Karen related the saga of the previous night, leaving out any reference to Greg. As she spoke, the older woman put a gentle hand on her arm, her honest eyes shadowed with concern.

“I'm glad you were home,” Karen told her. “It feels good to talk about it with someone who won't make any judgments.”

Grace looked like she didn't understand. “Judgments about what?”

“About my daughter's illness.”

“Why would someone make judgments about your daughter's illness?”

“Oh, you'd be surprised.” She spewed a little of the resentment she couldn't share with her friends or family. “Everybody thinks they know what Lori needs. They think her problems can be solved with discipline and direction.”

Grace appeared insulted on her behalf. “No, your daughter needs antidepressants, psychiatric support, and a twelve-step program,” she said, and got up to put the kettle on. “Just like a diabetic needs insulin. Would they make judgments against diabetics?”

Karen managed a wan smile. “Probably. They shouldn't eat gooey cake.”

Grace smiled, too. “You need a cup of tea more than ever. What can I get for you? Earl Grey? Maybe some chamomile to soothe you?”

“I can't stay for tea, unfortunately,” Karen said. “They're transporting Lori down to Stony Brook in an hour, and I want to go with her. The health aide is staying with Mike for a few extra hours today so that I can have peace of mind.”

Grace nodded and sat back down. “It's good that you'll be there for her.”

“Thank you for understanding so much.” Karen squirmed a little before stammering over her next thought, her fingers manipulating the car keys she was holding. “The reason I stopped by was to ask you—I need you to—”

Grace tilted her head in that regal manner.

Karen finally blurted it out. “I was hoping you'd pray for Lori,” she said softly. “I noticed that you have that little prayer room upstairs, and you're obviously a spiritual person, so I hope I'm not imposing by asking you to put a good word in for us.”

“It's no imposition, Karen. But—”

“And maybe you can pray for Mike while you're at it. It can't hurt, right?”

“Of course, but—”

“And if you can fit it in, can you say one for me, too? I mean, we used to go to church every Sunday when Lori was little, but—I don't know—we let everything get in the way, and I wouldn't know where to start. But now we need it more than ever.”

Again, Grace put a pacifying hand on Karen's fidgeting one. “Karen,” she said, looking her right in the eye. “I've been praying for you and your family since I first saw you crying at the beach.”

Karen fumbled for words. “I guess that's why I haven't keeled over yet.”

When Karen rose to leave, Grace followed her to the door. “You know, Karen, I'd be glad to keep your husband company for a few hours in the afternoon while your daughter is in the hospital. It must cost you an awful lot of money to have the health aide stay all those extra hours.”

Karen stopped in her tracks and regarded Grace with awe. “You would do that for me?” she asked.

“Why not?” Grace replied. Her manner seemed nonchalant, as though Karen were asking to borrow a cup of sugar. “It certainly wouldn't be the first time I've sat for a friend.”

Karen recalled the three men who had just left in the Town Car. Could it be that they had some connection to what Grace had just disclosed? “It just seems like so much to ask,” she said. “You barely know me.”

“I know you have more than your fair share of hardship,” Grace said. “And I imagine it's difficult to be so far away from the people who would help you.”

Karen thought of Helen and found herself fighting tears. “It is.”

“I'm a retired nurse, and I have nothing tying me down,” Grace continued. “I often make use of my time by sitting for someone's elderly parent or helping someone who's just had surgery. Sometimes I even go out of town if I'm called.”

Karen wasn't aware her mouth was hanging open. Once again she found it hard to reconcile the woman talking to her with the woman in black of her childhood imaginings. Why did so many people, even locals who had lived in Southold all their lives, think Grace Mitchell was some kind of eccentric recluse? Why did they find it so easy to believe that she was some kind of Druid priestess howling at the moon or casting spells? “I wish I'd had your phone number last night,” Karen confessed, feeling guiltier than ever for all of her misjudgments.

Grace glided to her counter and scribbled the number on a piece of paper. “There. Now you have it. Call me if you need me. Anytime, day or night.”

Karen folded the paper and slipped it into the pocket of her khaki skirt. “I might take you up on that. I'd love for Mike to meet you.”

chapter twenty-nine

Mike suspected he was coming down with something the day after Lori went into the hospital, simply because his daily burden of pain and fatigue suddenly intensified. His head ached so badly he didn't want to get out of bed, and his eyes felt like they were burning in their sockets. He didn't say anything to Karen before she left for the hospital, but he figured he was getting yet another urinary tract infection. He had suffered so many of them in the past two years that he had grown accustomed to living with fevers and antibiotics.

The morning ritual with Raymond felt like Marine Corps boot camp. Mike was so fatigued he thought he would die. And he just didn't have the will to struggle through it. By the time Raymond dressed him, he was sagging sideways in his chair.

“You're very pale today, Mr. Donnelly,” Raymond said.

“I'm tired,” Mike replied.

“More than usual?”

Mike didn't respond. He didn't want to alert anyone to yet another medical setback. There was enough anxiety brewing over Lori.

But Raymond was too good at his job. “You should see the doctor today,” he said.

Mike appreciated Raymond's help more with each passing day, but he wasn't going to take his advice. How was he supposed to tell Karen, after she drove all the way down to Stony Brook, bore the brunt of Lori's ordeal by herself, and drove all the way back home, to turn around and go all the way back with him because he didn't feel good? Not a chance.

He slept through most of the afternoon; Raymond had left and Karen was home when he woke up. Mike assumed she had been briefed on how lethargic he had been that morning.

Karen didn't waste any time. She voiced her concern as soon as she realized he was awake. “Raymond thinks you might be coming down with something.”

“Why?” he asked, playing dumb.

She put her hands on her hips. “You do look pretty pale,” she said.

“You think?” Mike replied. His tone was laced with enough sarcasm to let Karen know she was stating the obvious.

“I guess you didn't get any sleep, either,” she said.

Mike just shook his head. There was no need for him to tell Karen he was worried about Lori. “How is she?” he asked.

“A little better,” Karen replied. “You know the routine. It's going to take a few weeks.”

He couldn't form another response. The feeling of helplessness overwhelmed him. This helplessness went far beyond his fatigue and his physical disability. This helplessness reached to the core of his being because he couldn't be there to make things right for his little girl.

Mike closed his eyes to ward off the tears. He heard Karen venture into the kitchen. Hopefully she just thought he fell back to sleep.

Mike woke up before dawn the next morning with a flaming sore throat and erupting sinuses. There was no hiding his misery, no matter how noble he tried to be. He was sneezing and coughing before Karen even came downstairs, practically suffocating before he managed to raise the bed to an upright position. Even Luka, already agitated by Lori's absence, was up and pacing around Mike's bed as if she knew something was wrong. Mike could no longer avoid calling out for Karen. He hated to wake her up, but he needed her.

“Karen.” Her name came out in a croak, and Mike cleared his burning throat. “Karen!”

She came stumbling down the stairs and turned the light on with the dread of dissipating nightmares in her eyes. “What is it?”

Mike responded with a cough.

“Are you going to throw up or something?” she asked in a panic.

He shook his head. “I'm getting a bad cold, babe,” he wheezed. “Can you get me some tissues? And some water?”

Karen went into motion and brought him the box of tissues, relieved that he wasn't having a stroke or a seizure. As she propped the pillows around him for comfort and support, he fumbled to get the tissue securely around his nose before blowing it, wishing that Karen wasn't watching him so keenly. When she made a move to help him, he pulled away. It was bad enough that her duties now included carting away infected tissues and dispensing another slew of medicines, in addition to changing the urine bag and cleaning him up when he tried to feed himself. He wasn't about to let her blow his nose. How disgusting did it have to get for her before she began to view him as something subhuman? Maybe she already did.

“I'm sorry, babe,” he said, the words garbled by stuffiness. “You can go back to bed. I'll be all right.”

Karen was adjusting the rollaway tray so it was within his reach. “No, I'm up,” she replied. “Do you want some tea and toast? You need to take something for the cold, and you shouldn't take anything on an empty stomach.”

Mike regarded her with bleary, watering eyes. She was rumpled from sleep and wearing one of his old T-shirts, her hair loose and tousled, and his mind and soul wrapped themselves around her untainted beauty. Unfortunately, his body had left him with no means to demonstrate how much he still desired her. “Aren't you exhausted?” he asked.

Karen shrugged. “Nothing three cups of coffee can't fix.”

She actually gave him a tired smile, and Mike melted at the sight. As he watched her disappear into the kitchen, he had a mental flashback of how Karen looked right after Lori had been born: worn out, but still so beautiful; unadorned, but radiant. She would get up in the middle of the night, never complaining about the sleep deprivation, and lift the soft pink bundle out of the cradle beside their bed. Her movements were like a whisper in the dark, silhouetted in the moonlight spilling from the window. She was never aware that Mike watched her as she sat down in her grandmother's antique rocking chair to nurse, simply because her gaze was always fixed on their daughter's face. The purest essence of motherhood—the unconditional love, wonder, and giving of oneself—was reflected in the image of Karen breast-feeding their baby in the middle of the night. If Mike had to choose one picture in his memory to relate the meaning of life, he would have chosen that. He fell in love with Karen all over again while the soft, rhythmic creak of the rocking chair and the suckling sounds filled the silence of the bedroom. He had always known Karen was his soul mate, but now it had been confirmed. He had always known she had a nurturing soul, but now it had been perfected. He had always known she was a life-giver, but now it was fulfilled. They were complete.

When Karen would crawl back into bed, her skin remarkably warm even after being out from under the covers, Mike always nestled against the length of her. As their legs comfortably entwined, his arm automatically draped over her body and drew her close to his heart, his hand caressing the breasts that fed their daughter as if thanking Karen for performing a miracle. She had always teased him about it, claiming that he was suddenly infatuated with that part of her anatomy, which had tripled in size. And they would fall back to sleep, lying as one.

By the time Karen returned to the living room with his tea, Mike had been transported to another time and place . . . to one of many moments he yearned to relive but couldn't.

“Mike?” she called, gently hauling him back to the present.

He snapped out of it with a blink and looked at her, his eyes blurred. She was carrying a tray with everything he needed, including a special covered cup that would allow him to sip the hot tea without getting scalded—an adult version of a baby's sippy cup. He examined everything on the tray as she placed it in front of him, noticing the digital thermometer alongside the eating utensils.

No detail slipped by his Karen.

Before anything else, she popped the thermometer in his mouth. In less than a minute it read his temperature: one hundred degrees. Low-grade by most people's standards, but for someone in Mike's fragile health, any fever was significant. “We've got to get you to the doctor today,” Karen said, her tone soft but firm.

Mike hated when she sounded more like a medical supervisor than a wife. “It's just a cold, babe.”

“I don't care,” she said. “I'm calling the service at eight o'clock.”

“And what about Lori?” he asked. This was exactly what he didn't want. How did a head cold warrant a second thought when their daughter was falling apart in a psych ward?

Karen, of course, had a plan. “I'll go see Lori while Raymond is here, and then I'll come back and get you.”

Mike didn't like it. “You're going to drive down there twice?” It was a forty-five minute ride.

“Why not?”

“Because it's not necessary, that's why not,” Mike said. “I only have a cold, for God's sake.”

Karen let the argument drop for the moment. Eight o'clock was still a long way off. As she broke off a corner of the toast, dipped it in the tea, and offered it to him, Mike could see she was reining herself in. He knew she was doing it, he just didn't know what it was she was tucking away.

Probably hiding her aversion,
he assumed.
God knows she's had enough practice.

He wasn't about to tell Karen to go drink her coffee in the kitchen, because on the most fundamental level he still yearned for her company. Yet he was all too conscious of her close scrutiny as he convulsed with the effort to grab the offered piece of toast. Even the hair on his head was trembling. Eventually he took hold of the toast, but with all the finesse of a boy raised by wolves. She monitored his every move without meeting his gaze or staring directly at him, never flinching when he proceeded to jab the soggy toast into the side of his mouth. Too disheartened by the thought that Karen was repulsed by his physical deterioration, Mike was about to give up and drop the toast on the tray.

Then it happened. Karen whisked a tissue from the box and wiped the butter and crumbs from his mouth with such tenderness that it scorched him. Her eyes glistened intently while focusing on her task and then locked into his gaze for only a heartbeat. But it was long enough for him to get a glimpse of what was really there. And he was thrilled to see it wasn't disgust or impatience. It wasn't resentment or frustration or defeat. What Mike saw in Karen's eyes was something that had been there for nearly thirty years. He had seen it when she looked up at him on the lifeguard chair. He had seen it when she walked up the aisle on her father's arm and met him at the altar. He had seen it whenever she looked at him in his dress uniform. He had seen it whenever he made slow, transcendent love to her. He had even seen it through her tears—in those life-altering moments right after Lori had been born, in sharing his pain when his father had died, in seeking his comfort when her own parents had died . . .

Was his convulsive effort to feed himself deserving of that same look?

As Mike slowly chewed the toast, thinking hard about what he had seen and peering at her as if trying to draw her eyes back to his, Karen busied herself with the items on the tray. She picked up the oversized toddler cup, took the lid off, and held the steaming tea under his nose. He tried to breathe it in, but his nasal passages were clogged, so the attempt only brought on a coughing fit. Karen put the cup down and handed him a few more tissues. Once again she tried to help him blow his nose, and once again he pushed her away. Without so much as a sigh or a cluck of the tongue, she moved on to the next item of business and changed the urine bag, which was hanging off the bottom of the bed frame.

“You need to drink more, especially now that you have a cold and a fever,” she chided, holding up the clear plastic bag for inspection. It wasn't even half full. “You haven't been peeing enough the last few days.”

Mike wanted to fold up inside himself and disappear. One fleeting minute he thought he saw the love of his life in those hazel eyes, and the next minute he was back with another busy member of his medical team. It was like diving into a murky bog and trying to find a lost jewel when he couldn't see three inches in front of his face. Once in a while he thought he saw it sparkle, but then it was lost again.