by Tom Reilly
“That’s fine, and be nice to Cheryl, little brother.”
“I will. Love ya.”
“Love you, too.” She gave him another hug, and he left.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
TIMOTHY ARRIVED HOME from the library to begin hibernating. That’s what he called his quiet time. Private time. A time to study and relax. It reminded him of R & R in Vietnam. Troops called it “rest and recreation” or “rest and recuperation” or “rock and roll.”
The military gave the troops a few days off to rest and relax in Thailand, Hawaii, Australia, or in-country in cities like Vung Tau or Saigon. Timothy opted for in-country. He went to Saigon and shared a room with another pilot at the Rex, a luxury hotel known for the daily briefings by the military hierarchy. The cynical press corps named these briefings “The Five O’Clock Follies” because high-ranking officers delivered overly optimistic assessments of the war. The Rex had a rooftop bar frequented by the brass and correspondents. Timothy spent most of his days and evenings in the bar because his roommate spent most of his time in the room with local working girls. The choices for most GIs included sex, drugs, or alcohol. Some chose more than one option. Timothy chose alcohol as his antidote to the war and brought the thirst home with him.
He called his study space at home his cave, a small tool room in the corner of the basement. His father’s tools were gone, but the memories lived. He spent countless hours here with his father during better times, tinkering, building, piddling, doing the kinds of guy things dads and sons do as a rite of passage, an initiation period into manhood. It smelled like a basement—damp but tolerable. It had plenty of light since the old man put in extra lighting, and in the afternoon and early evening, sunlight shined through the two windows. Most of the time, Timothy opened the windows.
Timothy built his desk out of an old wooden door supported on each end by two-drawer filing cabinets. He had few distractions on the desk—an old desk lamp that had been around about as long as he had, and a pencil cup with a dozen clear Bic pens, highlighters, and Ticonderoga pencils. On one end of the long desk sat his father’s old Smith-Corona typewriter, which Timothy used for papers. Typing on it was an aerobic exercise. He imagined hitting the same keys his father struck for business letters. He sat in a straight-backed wooden banker’s chair, a fact he found ironic since he was broke. He built the bookshelves with cinder blocks and pine boards. He filled them with books and memorabilia: two dictionaries, an American Heritage and a Thorndike Barnhart Children’s Dictionary left over from grade school; a worn copy of Roget’s Thesaurus; a high school grammar book with his freshman homeroom number in it; Bob Gibson’s autobiography, From Ghetto to Glory; three novels, Don Quixote, Huckleberry Finn, and A Farewell to Arms; and every psychology book he ever read. Next to the books sat his childhood catcher’s mitt, which cradled a baseball he caught during batting practice at the old Sportsman’s Park, and a bowling trophy for rolling the highest game in a grade school Christmas tournament. He beat everyone with a score of 143. A beer mug he got for high school graduation from an old girlfriend sat between a picture of Cheryl and another of himself, Scoot, and Bobby in front of a helicopter.
No one bothered him in the cave, especially Mom. The blood clots in her legs discouraged her from making trips up and down stairs. And few others came by these days. Most of his high school friends graduated already from college and had careers. Scoot came by from time to time but not during the day because of his business.
Timothy loved being alone with his thoughts and books. He also wondered how someone majoring in psychology could value private time that much. He feared he had trust issues with people, which was terrible if he wanted to join that profession.
Today he had an English paper due on Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, a satirical novel about a bomber group in World War II. Timothy connected with this book because it addressed the absurdities of war. In his war, they fought to win but suffered political pressure at home. Catch-22 became a phrase Timothy often used to describe his options in life. Damned if I do, and damned if I don’t.
By the end of the day, he had written a paper he viewed as his best work ever. Then he studied for a political science exam. It made sense to Timothy to tackle both in one day. Heller stacked one set of bizarre experiences on top of another. Lumping his own experiences in his political science class on top of Heller’s made sense to Timothy. Bizarre begets bizarre.
In his paradoxical world, being busy with schoolwork calmed his mind. It struck him as odd that a week so filled with activities could feel this relaxing. In his cave, he had no bills, no shifts at the hospital, no pressure from Dez, and, most of all, no self-pressure to be some indefatigable hero. He came into this week distressed and planned to leave it de-stressed. He liked the play on words and wrote it in his journal for future reference. Timothy used his journal as a therapist. He viewed a blank sheet of paper as a patient and nonjudgmental listener. By Friday, he had studied himself into a state of confidence.
He and Cheryl planned to go ice skating to celebrate the end of study week. He had not done so in a few years. He thought his leg would make it difficult but agreed to give it a try. As he prepared to leave the house, Mom asked for a favor.
“Tim, before you leave, would you be a dear and take a load of wash down to the basement. I want to do a load of laundry. And please add some detergent and turn on the machine. I’ll try to go down later and empty the machine.”
“Sure, Mom. How’s your leg?” he said.
“It hurts tonight. It must be the veins acting up. Oh, I made some oatmeal raisin cookies for you to take to work tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mom. Kenny will be thrilled. He bugs me about your cookies nearly every time I work.”
“I’m glad to do it, Son.”
Timothy took a load of wash to the basement and started the machine. He decided it would only take a few minutes for the load to wash, so he went to his cave and reread his paper on Catch-22.
I enjoyed writing this. It feels completely natural. I can’t get over how easy this is for me. It’s like the words are already in the pen, and my job is to get them on paper. I wish the rest of these subjects were that easy.
He was making minor edits and was deeply concentrating when the washer bell startled him. Wow! Done already? He unloaded the washing machine and hung the clothes on the line in the basement to dry. One of these days, we need to get a dryer.
“Mom, I finished the wash and hung it on the line.”
No answer.
“Mom. Mom? Mom!”
Upstairs, Mom lay motionless on the floor. Timothy checked her pulse and breathing and called an ambulance, then Leslie.
The ride to the hospital with his unconscious mother seemed to take forever. Leslie and Ike lived close to the hospital and met the ambulance outside the emergency room entrance.
“What happened?” Leslie said after Mom was wheeled away.
“I don’t know. I was in the basement, and when I came upstairs, Mom was on the floor. Unconscious but breathing. So I called the ambulance and you guys,” Timothy said.
“What have you heard?” Leslie said.
“Nothing. The paramedic in the ambulance said it looked like a stroke but wasn’t sure,” Timothy said.
“Oh my God, how bad is this?” Leslie said.
“I don’t know. We have to wait for the doctor to come out and talk with us. We need to keep our heads right and not go worst-case scenario yet.”
Timothy felt more like the older than the younger brother. His military training kicked in. He learned in the war to compartmentalize in stressful situations to maintain his cool. Cheryl slipped into the waiting room while Timothy and Leslie talked. Timothy failed to notice her entering.
“Tim, what’s going on?” Cheryl said.
“What? How did you get here?” he said.
“I called Cheryl after you called me. I thought it would be good for you to have her here,” Leslie said.
Timothy remained
silent for a couple of moments as he processed the series of events.
“Is this okay, Tim?” Cheryl said.
“Oh, yes. Yes. Of course. I’m trying to clear my head,” he said.
“That’s why I called Cheryl—to support you,” Leslie said.
“Where are the kids?” Timothy said.
“My mom came over,” Ike said. “We didn’t know what we were dealing with here, and I wanted to be here in case . . .”
“I’m sure it’s going to be okay, guys,” Cheryl said.
At that moment, the door to the treatment room opened, and the doctor came out to talk to them.
“Hey, Tim. Can’t get enough of this place?” The doctor’s casual demeanor reassured Timothy.
“Apparently not,” Timothy said.
“What is it, Doctor?” Leslie interrupted the small talk.
“This is my sister, Leslie, brother-in-law, Ike, and my girlfriend, Cheryl,” Timothy said.
Leslie was getting more anxious. Timothy nodded to Cheryl, and she moved closer and grabbed Leslie’s hand for reassurance.
“We think your mother threw a clot. We’re still evaluating it. We have some tests to run, but that’s the preliminary diagnosis. Her condition is stable. She’s conscious and can move all of her limbs, but her speech is labored. I see a slight drooping of an eyelid. But we’ll know more later,” the doctor said.
“Oh, dear Lord,” Leslie said. Cheryl placed her arm around Leslie’s shoulders and squeezed her into a hug.
Timothy nodded to Cheryl.
“So what’s the plan?” Timothy asked in a clinical tone as if he were on duty discussing a patient other than his mother.
“We will need to keep her here for a few days to observe what’s going on. She’ll be okay here but will need a lot of monitoring. Whatever is going on, we want to deal with it sooner rather than later. It looks like you got her here just in time. Tomorrow, the neurosurgeon will study the films to see what we should do next.”
“You mean surgery?” Leslie said. Tears leaked down her cheeks, and Cheryl tightened her hold.
“We don’t know yet. She did hit her head when she fell. We’re keeping all options open at this time,” the doctor said.
“Is there a window or critical time period for this type of situation?” Cheryl surprised Timothy by her calm demeanor and insightful question.
“Good question,” the doctor said. “Yes. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
Timothy noticed the doctor’s use of the word critical.
“I need to get back in there.” The doctor tilted his head toward the treatment room. “The nurses will be out in a few minutes to update you on where we need to go from here.”
“Thanks, Doc,” Timothy said.
“Is my mom going to be okay?” Leslie asked.
“That’s the plan, Leslie. We will do everything we can to make sure of that,” the doctor said.
Leslie shook her head and closed her eyes. Timothy thought it looked like Cheryl was keeping Leslie on her feet at this point.
“Okay, thanks, Doc. We’ll stay out here until we hear from the nurses,” Timothy said.
“Folks, once you hear from the staff, go home and get some sleep. It’s going to be a long weekend, and you’ll need your rest. You can’t do her any good staying up all night,” the doctor said.
“Thanks.” Timothy knew he had to take charge of this situation, like every other situation. He suddenly resented his father for leaving him this responsibility. With Cheryl here, he knew he could rely on her.
The doctor returned to the treatment room, and the family sat looking at each other and decompressing. Finally, Ike offered to get some coffee, and Cheryl said she would go with him.
When they got out of sight, Timothy looked at Leslie. “I can’t believe you called Cheryl. I don’t want to pile my baggage onto her.”
“Don’t you get it? This isn’t about you, Tim. It’s about all of us. This is what it means to have someone in your life. Cheryl’s not a spectator. If she’s going to be in this family, she needs to be in your life. Cheryl has to see the whole picture, not the one you want to paint for her. It’s unfair to keep her out of this—unless, of course, you want to keep her out of your life,” Leslie scolded.
She’s right. He took a deep breath before responding.
“Of course I want her in my life. I don’t want her to think I’m some loser whose life is screwed every way possible,” he said.
“She doesn’t think that, and stop making this about you,” Leslie said. “This is Cheryl’s life, too.”
Cheryl and Ike returned with the coffee.
“What did you two decide?” Ike said.
Timothy and Leslie looked at each other. Timothy didn’t want to go into their conversation, so he manufactured something. “We decided to wait and hear what the nurses have to say and take the doctor’s advice to go home to get some sleep.”
“Yes, I think that’s the best thing to do at this point,” Leslie said.
“Here, Tim. I think you need this,” Cheryl said and handed him the coffee. She cupped his hand affectionately. Leslie saw this and smiled at Timothy. He nodded at his sister.
“Thanks. You’re right,” he said.
They sat for a few minutes, sipping coffee and making the kind of small talk people make when they’re nervous. Ten minutes later, none of them would remember what they discussed, but it didn’t matter. The nurse came out of the treatment room.
“Hi, Tim. Sorry about your mom,” the nurse said.
“Thanks. What’s the verdict?” he said.
“We’re transferring her to Three-Main, and she’ll be there for a few days. Tomorrow, they will run some tests. I can’t tell you anything more about her condition other than what the doctor told you. I think it would be best for all of you to go home and get some sleep,” the nurse said.
“Okay, you’re right. Can we see her before we leave?”
“Sure. Come on in.”
They went into the treatment room to visit Mom. The staff had sedated her, so they couldn’t tell if the medicine or the stroke affected her speech. They stayed long enough to reassure her they would be back in the morning. She asked Timothy to hang back.
“Timmy, I don’t want you to feel guilty about this,” Mom said. “This is not your fault. I would have fallen whether or not you were there to catch me.”
These words stunned and stung.
“Mom, are you saying this is my fault?” he said.
“Oh, no, dear. And I don’t want you to feel that way. I know sometimes you feel you don’t do enough for me. You should not feel bad about this.”
He decided to let this slide. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Always the dutiful son, he held her hand and bent over to kiss her forehead. He left the treatment room and went to the lobby where the others waited for him.
“How about I give you a ride home?” Cheryl said.
“Thanks,” Timothy said.
“So what are your plans for tomorrow?” Cheryl said.
“I’m supposed to be at Dez’s in the morning, but I’ll call him and tell him I’ll be in later in the day.”
“Will he be okay with that?”
“No, probably not, but what’s he going to do? Send me back to Nam?”
Ike laughed. He had heard other Vietnam vets use this false choice at the post office.
“Okay, I guess I walked into that,” Cheryl said.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to be flippant. How about that ride?”
She locked her arm in his. He didn’t know if he supported her or the other way around. It didn’t matter. Either way, he liked it. They all said good night and Timothy and Cheryl walked to her car.
“Want to spend the night tonight?” he asked.
“Sure. I planned on it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
THE DRIVE TO the hospital on Saturday morning gave Timothy the time to think about his week. What began as light and hopeful tu
rned darker. He spent most of the week studying for exams and last night with Mom in the hospital. He was running late this morning because he wanted to stop at the hospital. He knew Dez would be irritated with him. With the parking lot at the hospital full, Timothy parked on the street. He saw no pickets out this morning. This gave him one less thing to think about. He walked through the main entrance and up the stairs to Mom’s floor.
“How did she do last night?” Timothy asked Sandy, the charge nurse on Three-Main.
“She had a bit of a tough night last night. Her breathing was labored but settled down by early morning. Wasn’t she recently here for a breathing issue?” Sandy said.
“Yes. It was a reaction to furnace fumes in the house. Do you think this is connected?”
“Oh, I don’t know. We have her scheduled for more tests this morning.”
“Sandy, you’ve been at this awhile. How bad do you think this is?” Timothy said.
“I really don’t know. The doctors are being cautious at this point. During the night when she was having trouble breathing, the house doctor increased her blood thinner and that seemed to help. I’m thinking there’s another clot in there somewhere obstructing the breathing. But we won’t know until later today.”
“Okay, can I go see her now?” Timothy said.
“Sure, as soon as the aide is finished with vitals, but don’t stay too long.”
“Got it, thanks. Who’s the aide?” Timothy asked.
“Ginny.”
“Good, she’s a good aide. Going to be a nurse, right?”
“That’s what she says,” Sandy said.
Timothy waited outside Mom’s room for Ginny. He knew second-guessing the previous diagnosis made little sense at this point. Is this a sign of what’s coming? No use going there—I’m not a doctor, but it is a good question for later.
“Hi, Tim. Your mom is stable and resting. Going in?”
“Yes. Thanks for your help.”
“That’s what we do, you know.”
“I know, but it helps having people you know involved,” he said.
