CHAPTER 33
OPAL
OPAL STRETCHES AWAKE, GLANCES OVER AT THE clock. It's after ten. It's been years since she has had the luxury of sleeping late. Except this doesn't feel like a luxury. It feels like a bunk in hell.
Zack has been in New Zion for one week now, with one more week stretching ahead. It was a mistake to have agreed to the two weeks. She should have fought for one week now and then another later, safely in the future. Maybe Billy would be satisfied with one week. Maybe he would give up altogether. She listens to the too-quiet house. The loss feels physical, hollowness she can actually feel in her stomach, her chest, her throat. Her heart.
She'd feel better if she could hear Zack's voice, but she hesitates to phone again. Last night's conversation dissolved into tears on both sides. “Satisfied?” she said to Billy when he'd taken the receiver. “He was fine until you called,” he shot back.
Was he? How would she know? How can she believe anything Billy says? She doesn't trust him a quarter of a country mile. She should have fought the visitation. What had Vivian told her? It was to her advantage to appear reasonable? She doesn't want to be reasonable. She wants to have Zack.
Did Billy listen when she told him that Zack likes to have orange juice on his cereal instead of milk? Or that he can't sleep without Tigger? She knows Billy thinks she's too soft on Zack. Billy's philosophy is that he's a boy, he should be tough.
Thinking of him at Melva's is worse. Her mama's rules are rigid as a flagpole: Finish everything on your plate. (Even if it's cabbage. Or lima beans, which absolutely make you puke.) Bedtime at seven-thirty. (Even if you're wide awake and just lying in bed makes your skin itch.) No night-lights. (Even if werewolves wait in dark corners.) Her mama's rules are endless, without heart. Who will protect Zack from Melva?
Fuck it. She reaches for the phone and dials Billy's number. On the other end, the line rings. Once. Twice. Four times. Seven. No answer. No machine. Where the hell are they? She is powerless here. She has no hands to touch her baby.
She feels the rumble of panic. She wants Zack.
CHAPTER 34
NED
THEY HAVE FINISHED THEIR COFFEE AND THE LAST OF A lemon meringue pie. While Trudy clears the dishes, Ned switches off the television and opens the register. He counts the bills, notes the amount on a slip, pulls an elastic band around the money, and shoves it into the canvas night deposit bag. He has taken to helping Trudy close up. There is something about the routine that settles his nerves.
By the time he's done, she returns from the kitchen. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asks. “Phyllis needed the car.”
Her daughter is shopping for an apartment, the first step to leaving her husband, although Trudy has seen this scene played out enough not to get her hopes up.
“Sure.”
She waits while he makes room on the passenger side of the pickup. “Sorry,” he says, stuffing greasy rags and a parts manual behind the seat.
“I wasn't expecting a stretch limo.”
In the confines of the cab, he is aware of her smell, a surprisingly pleasing mix that contains traces of cooking grease and the warm scent of a woman's body.
She lights a cigarette. “Mind?”
“No,” he says, although he does. Rose will smell it on him. Although he has done nothing wrong, he feels guilty. Oh, sure, he's had
thoughts
about Trudy. What man wouldn't? She's an attractive woman. But thoughts aren't action. As far as Rose is concerned, he's been true to his vows. Never been a question of cheating.
Trudy exhales a lungful of smoke. It swirls around the cab. Ned adjusts the vent window so air is directed at him.
“You sure this isn't bothering you?”
“No. I used to smoke. Gave it up ten years ago.”
“I tried. Didn't last a day.”
“You should get yourself one of those patches.”
“Why bother? No one lives forever. Might as well get what enjoyment you can while you're here, that's my philosophy. What's that commercial? âGo for the gusto.' ”
As far as he can see, there isn't much gusto in her life. He wonders if she sleeps with anyone. There have been rumors over the yearsâ inevitable, a woman like Trudy aloneâbut never specific names. In Normal, a secret doesn't stay buried long.
“You're quiet,” she says.
“Just tired.” And this is true. He's glad the weekend is one day away. More and more lately, exhaustion takes him by surprise. He could use a vacation. A real one. Different scenery. Lazy days. Hammock days. Listening to ball games on the transistor. He exhales a long, tired sigh. He'd have as much chance of getting Rose to agree as winning Indy on four flat tires. He pulls up to Trudy's house. The screen door needs repair. The whole place could use a fresh coat of paint.
“Come on in.”
“I should be getting along.”
“Oh, come on in for a minute. I don't bite.”
“Didn't think you did.”
“I'll give you a beer before you head home.”
She's lonely, he thinks. Living alone like that. Of course a person doesn't have to live alone to feel lonely. What the hell. Grab the gusto. Or at least a beer. One beer never killed anyone. He steps out of the truck and follows her up the walk, wondering how the hell he's going to explain beer on his breath to Rose.
The house smells stale, but it's neat. There is a woven blanket hanging on the living room wall like some kind of painting. The colors are so bold they give him a headache.
“Miller do?” she calls from the kitchen.
“Fine,” he says, hoping it's not Lite. Might as well be drinking cow piss as that stuff they pass off as beer. He looks around. A row of framed snapshots line the mantel. He crosses for a better look. One of Phyllis, another of Phyllis and her little girl, Trudy's only grandchild. The third is of a dark-haired Indian child. The Lakota girl Trudy sponsors, he guesses. He picks up the photo. Bright-looking child. Brown eyes that stare straight at you asking to be liked. It's a good thing Trudy does, sponsoring this child. He wonders if Rose would be interested in doing something like that. Maybe he should bring it up.
He is setting the frame back on the mantel when the first pain hits. Out in the kitchen, Trudy is calling out something, but he can't respond. The pain isn't sharp, more like a weight, a weight so crushing he can barely breath. It radiates down his arm, up into his jaw. Christ, it's like the worst toothache he's ever had.
“Can or glass?” Trudy asks from the door.
He sinks into an armchair, struggles to get his breath. Christ, his jaw is killing him.
“Ned? You all right? What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, relieved he can speak. Already it's abating, leaving only the memory. But, Jesus.
“You're sweating. You sure you're all right?”
“Fine. Just a spasm of some kind. Gas.” He attempts a grin. “Too many donuts and pie.” He puts his hand to his chest, over the fluttery feeling.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
She crosses to him, lifts his arm, searches for a pulse with her fingers.
“Whatta you, suddenly a nurse?” he says, managing a smile.
“I'm calling the rescue.”
“No. It's nothing. Like I said. Gas.”
“Listen. I watched my father go from a heart attack. I'm not watching you. Better safe than sorry.”
What is she talking, heart attack? The worst of it had been in his jaw. Who has a heart attack in his jaw? He corrals enough strength to argue. “I'm telling you, I'm fine. It's already gone. If you want to do anything, get me some Maalox.”
But she is already off. He listens to her make the call, embarrassed. The whole thing is a big fuss over nothing.
He loses track of time. The next thing, Bud Flynn is walking in the door. He's carrying a green duffel bag.
“Ned, what's happening?”
There is a young kid with him, the new paramedic. Jesus, the kid looks like he should be in high school. He tries to make a joke, but doesn't have the energy.
“Nothing. Indigestion. Too many donuts.” The effort of speech exhausts him.
Bud takes his pulse. Peers into his eyes. “Maybe so,” he says, “but let me examine you anyway.” He opens the bag, takes out a cylinder of oxygen. Over Ned's protests, he places the mask over his mouth.
The kid sets up another machine. A computer of some kind.
“What the hell is that?” Ned pushes the question out.
“EKG monitor.”
“I tell you I'm fine,” Ned says through the mask. He is embarrassed by the fuss, embarrassed to be found here at Trudy's house. Christ, it was innocent, him being here, but he wonders what Bud is thinking. That's all he needs. Rumors about him and Trudy flying around town.
“Let me check your blood pressure,” Bud says.
Ned is done trying to protest. All he wants is to go home. He hopes Rose never hears about this. He's feeling better.
“Let's hook you up to the EKG,” Bud says. “Get a picture and see what's going on.”
“This is a big fuss over nothing.”
“Just let them do their job,” Trudy says.
“We're here,” Bud says. “Give us a chance to earn our pay.”
“Will it take long?”
“Only a minute.”
The kid wraps the blood pressure cuff around his arm and attaches the machine.
Bud checks the printout. “You're showing some arrhythmia,” he says.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means you get to take a ride with us.”
“Where?”
“Mercy Memorial.”
“No,” he says. “No way I'm going to the hospital.” He can't remember the last time he was sick. Hasn't even had a cold in years. It's indigestion. A toothache. That's all.
“Listen, Ned. It's in your best interest,” Bud says. “We'd feel better if you go in. Get you checked out. You'll feel better too. You don't want to be worried all night. Set your mind at ease.”
Finally he agrees.
They make him lie on a stretcher. They keep him attached to the oxygen.
The kidâDaveâdrives the rescue truck. Bud gets in back. As soon as they are underway, he inserts an IV.
“What the hell is that?”
“Saline solution.”
When the IV is secured, Bud calls the hospital. “Late middle-aged man. Chest pain, arrhythmia. High BP. We've administered oxygen and have him hooked to IV.”
Late middle-aged man.
Christ, they went to school together. Ned repairs Bud's car.
“Any pain?” a voice says over the speaker.
“Abating.”
“How about I give Rose a call?” Bud says. “Let her know what's going on?”
“No,” Ned says. He can't see any sense in worrying Rose. He'll just get checked out and then head home before she even realizes he's late. Everyone is overreacting. A man can't even have indigestion in peace. He wonders if Bud will give him a ride back to Trudy's to pick up the truck.
“You sure? You'll be late showing up for dinner, and if she calls the station no one will answer. If she's like Judy she'll be imagining the worst. Why not let me call her? I won't alarm her.” Neither of them mentions the fact that he had been at Trudy's house. He can just imagine how it looks.
Jesus, he's got to get on his feet, pick up the truck, and get home. Otherwise, how in hell is he going to explain this to Rose?
CHAPTER 35
ROSE
OPAL IS OUT WORKING IN THE GARDEN AGAIN. SHE'S been at it all day, weeding and watering, fussing over every tomato plant. That girl is hurting, taking badly the separation from Zack. Plus there's that woman from the court asking questions all over town. And there are plenty can't wait to give her an earful. The way the courts are allowed to meddle in a person's life is nothing short of criminal.
For once, the girl hasn't brought that tape machine out with her. She should have. Maybe it would help fill the silence created by her boy's absence. But then Rose knows better than anyone that there is no noise in creation that will fill that kind of void. She considers offering her a glass of iced tea, but before she can do anything, the phone rings.
It has been more than a week since the biopsy. The doctor's nurse said they would be calling her in a week with the results, and today is the ninth day.
If it's bad news, will they tell her straight out or ask her to come in to the office? Surely they don't just blurt things like “you have cancer” on the phone. She has tried to ready herself for this, but there is no way to prepare. She picks up the phone.
“Mrs. Nelson?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Murphy's office calling.”
“Yes.”
“The doctor asked me to give you a call.”
Her fingers tighten their grip on the receiver. “Yes.”
“We've gotten the results of your lab test.”
So tell me, she wants to shout. Just tell me. She is forgetting to breathe.
“They're negative.”
“Negative?”
“Yes. Absolutely. This is one problem you can forget, okay?”
She exhales one long sigh, thanks the nurse, hangs up. Beneath her breastbone, she feels the hard, black fist open its fingers and flex. People say things like a cloud lifted when they get good news, a weight off their shoulders, a new lease on life. Rose feels the surprising truth of these old saws. Does she want a new lease on life? She does. The fact, the
amazing
factâthe
startling
factâis that she does.
She climbs the stairs to Todd's room. A shaft of late sun streams through the window, bathing the dresser top, the ceramic tiger he made at summer camp. She strokes the figure. She fingers his watch. Blood is still encrusted in the links of the band, after all this time. She picks up one of the photos. For years she has been unable to allow herself to remember fully the day it was taken, as if memories held the power to . . . To what? Flatten? Crush? Destroy?
She sinks down on the mattress and traces Todd's face with her fingertip. They had been having a cookout in the backyard that day. She had just come from the house with a bowl of potato salad. Ned was grilling chicken. Todd was goofing around, juggling tennis balls in the air with an air of both intense concentration and grace. He was fifteen. Taller than she was and gaining on Ned. Growing tall; growing away from them. Lately, girls had been calling, giggling when they asked for him. She doesn't remember what impulse led her to return to the house for her camera. She never was much of a picture taker.
“Aw, Ma,” Todd said when she aimed the lens at him. But he smiled, and she caught him at that moment, lit with the late summer sun, hands palm up, tennis balls suspended in midair, as if hung by strings from heaven. One second of one minute of one hour in his life. Time enough to take a picture. Time, under glass.
She rises, places the frame back on the dresser top. She wishes she could talk to Ned. She would like to ask him if he remembers that cookout. If he recalls how Todd kept five tennis balls in the air, flipping them from left hand to right, from right hand into the air, around and around until it made you dizzy just watching. Where had he learned to do that? What does Ned remember of that day?
Why can't they ever talk about what matters? Has she tried? Has she tried hard enough?
The trouble with secrets is how they keep you separate. She has kept from Ned all the things that have happened to her in the past months. How she lied for Opal at the hospital. How in that class she wrote all the things she felt about Todd's death. How a magazine wanted to publish her piece in a special edition. How a mole on her stomach had been itching since last Fall and she had gone by bus to Springfield to a doctor to have it biopsied. How afterward, she had gone to Todd's grave and then decided to let the magazine publish the article. And now the phone call with the news that the biopsy proved negative. All these secrets built on the biggest one of all: She refused to let Todd take her car the day of the accident, and if she hadn't he would probably be alive today. Some mistakes are both simple and huge.
Now she wishes she had told him about the biopsy so she could share the news that the mole was benign. But it's too late to tell him. He would be angry that she hadn't told him earlier. She has missed the chance to do him good. Still, she'll make a special dinner. Swiss steak with mashed potatoes. There's time to get to the market and pick up a nice piece of meat. Lately he's not had much of an appetite when he comes home from the station.
When the phone rings again, she answers at once, sure it is Ned, he is so in her mind. Opal's rubbing off on her.
“Mrs. Nelson?” an unfamiliar voice says.
“Yes,” she says, guardedly. There should be a law against these telephone solicitors.
“Mrs. Nelson, this is Helen Blake. I work in Admissions over at Mercy Memorial. Your husband Edward has been brought into emergency. We're in the process of admitting him now.”
An accident, Rose thinks.
The lift.
She has never trusted that thing. Never. She pictures Ned crushed beneath it.
“Is he badly hurt?”
“I don't know, Mrs. Nelson. I just want to tell you he's being admitted. The doctors are with him. You can see him when you arrive. Get a friend to drive you, okay?”
Rose grabs her purse and heads over to get Opal. As she crosses the lawn, she begins negotiations with God. She wonders if He minds that she no longer believes in Him. She wonders if God will believe her if she says she repents of her lies.
Opal doesn't even take time to wash her hands.
“I've never trusted that lift,” Rose tells her over and over all the way to Mercy. “Never.”
“MRS. ROSE NELSON,” SHE TELLS THE WOMAN AT ADMISSIONS. “Someone phoned me. My husband has been admitted.”
“His name?”
“Nelson. Ned Nelson.”
“We have an Edward Nelson.”
“That's him.” No one has called him Edward since his mother died.
“He's in North Three. Coronary Care Unit.”
She is so unprepared for this information the woman might as well have been speaking Swahili. Coronary Care Unit? For an accident?
“There's some mistake.”
“How do we get there?” Opal says.
“Take the elevator to the third floor and follow the green arrows.” She hands them a printed card with directions. “Someone at the nurse's station there will be able to help you.”
“What did she say?” she says to Opal.
Opal repeats the directions, then takes her arm, leads her to the elevators.
“He's just been brought in,” a nurse tells her when they get there, shutting off Rose's questions. “Give us five minutes to get him stabilized. ” She points to a room at the end of the corridor. “Have a seat in the visitors' lounge, and a doctor will be with you shortly.”
The lounge is empty except for a hollow-eyed woman staring at a television set. The volume is on mute. She does not look up when Rose and Opal enter.
Rose is grateful for Opal, for the soil-stained fingers that are now interlaced with her own. “It's a mistake,” she says. Of course it's a mistake. A huge mistake. If you don't count an occasional cold, Ned has never been sick a day in his bed. Has never been in the hospital. Has never had his tonsils out, for heaven's sake. Or appendicitis. He's only fifty-seven.
Another nurse approaches.
“Can I see him now? What's wrong? Why is he here in Coronary Care?”
“Your husband has had a coronary episode. Right now he's stable. The doctor will explain everything.”
“When can I see him?” Episode. That doesn't sound too bad. Like an interjection in a story.
“Soon. In the meantime, I have a few questions.” She holds her pen over the clipboard.
“How old is Edward?”
“Ned,” she says. “He's called Ned.”
“How old is Ned?”
“Fifty-seven.”
“You're his wife?”
Of course she's his wife. Don't these people listen? She's already said that. “Yes.”
“Do you have children?”
She falls silent. Opal takes over.
“One. A son.”
“And where does he live?
Rose stares at the television. A newscast. A man staring out at her, mouth moving, no words.
“In her heart,” Opal says. “He lives in her heart.”
The nurse, for the moment, is silenced.
In her heart.
Rose tightens her fingers around Opal's.
“When can she see her husband?” Opal says. “They told us five minutes, and it's been fifteen. What's going on?”
“And you are?”
“Her niece,” Opal says, the lie rolling off her tongue without hesitation.
“Mrs. Nelson?”
This doctor looks too young to have finished college, let alone medical school.
“Yes.”
“I'm Dr. Richards.” He holds out a hand that Rose ignores.
“What's wrong with my husband?”
“He's had a myocardiac arrest, but he's stabilized now.”
Myocardiac arrest.
“You mean a heart attack?” Dear God. An episode, the nurse had said. Myocardiac arrest is no episode. “Will he be all right?”
“It looks good. We're waiting for the enzyme test results. Would you like to see him?”
“Yes.”
“Five minutes. You can see him for five minutes.”
Suddenly she is scared.
“It'll be all right,” Opal whispers.
Rose follows the doctor to Ned's room.
He is sitting up in bed, plastic tubes running from his nose. He is hitched up to a monitor. An intravenous tube drips a colorless fluid into the vein in his right arm. “Hi, Rose,” he says.
“Oh, Ned.” She starts to cry. She wants to kiss him but is afraid she will disturb the tubes in his nose. She squeezes his hand.
“Hey,” he says. “Hey, Rosie. Don't cry.”
“I can't help it.”
“I'm fine,” he says. “Look.” He lifts his left arm and flexes it, making a muscle with his biceps and pointing his finger out, mimicking a body builder. “Which way to the beach?” he says. It's an old joke from their courtship.
The monitor emits sharp fast beeps.
“Dear God.” Rose looks around for help.
A nurse bustles in. Ned lowers his arm, looks sheepish.
“You better go,” she tells Rose.
Fifteen minutes pass before she is again permitted to see him. She tiptoes in, as if even her footsteps will alert that monitor, set it off again. She has promised herself she won't cry, but the tears seep out.
“Rosie, Rosie,” he whispers.
She pulls her chair close to his bed, rests her head in the crook of his shoulder. He winces, and she draws away. He pulls her head back. “That's nice,” he says.
She stays there, quiet, listening to his heart, his lovely steady heartbeat. With her other ear she hears the sound of the monitor. Stereophonic sound. She giggles, tells him what's funny when he asks.
“I love you,” she says.
“I love you too, Rosie. I always have.”
When she returns to the lounge, Opal has ordered a sandwich for her. Coffee. She is surprised to find she is hungry, amazed to find it is after eight.
The shifts change. A new nurse tends to Ned. Another one sits at the desk watching the monitors. Rose takes an immediate, illogical dislike to this one.
“Go home,” the nurse says. “We'll call you if there is any change.”
“Do what the hell you want to do,” Opal says. “Don't let them boss you around.”
She decides to stay. Why would she want to be anywhere else? Opal stays with her.
Around eleven, she finally believes it will be safe to leave Ned for the night.
“Is he asleep right now?”
The nurse checks a monitor. “He just woke up.”
“Can I go in to say good-bye?”
“Five minutes. Sleep is the best thing for him now.”
“Ned? Honey? It's Rose.”
“Jesus, Rosie, I know that. I had a heart attack, not amnesia.”
She kisses his cheek, rough with a day's growth of whiskers. She makes a mental note to bring him a razor.
“I'm going home now. I'll be back in the morning.”
“Okay. That's good.”
“Oh, Ned,” she says. “Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Honest?” She can't believe this. “I am.”
“Rosie,” he says, “there's nothing to be scared of.”
She forces herself to say the word. “Death. I'm afraid you're going to die.”
“Death is just the next big adventure.”
“Don't you say that,” Rose says. “Don't you say that. It's not.” Don't you leave me, she wants to say.
She is shouting and the nurse comes, makes her leave.
Outside in the corridor, she apologizes. “Let me go back. I won't get upset.”
“You're tired. Go home. Get some sleep. He'll need you to be rested. Come back in the morning. He'll be here. I promise.”
As if anyone can ever promise anything like that.
AS THEY CROSS THE LOBBY, A WOMAN RISES FROM A CHAIR SET in the shadows. “Rose?” she says.
It takes her a moment to recognize Trudy.
“Yes.” What the hell is she doing here?
“How is Ned? They wouldn't let me come up. Only family.”
“He's sleeping. He's had a heart attack.”