by Tom Reilly
Ginny squeezed his arm and walked away. He stood at the door and stared at Mom lying there. She looked pale. He put on his game face and went in. He leaned over and kissed her clammy forehead. She stirred and opened her eyes.
“Hey, Mom. How did you sleep last night?” he said.
“It was rough, Son. I had some breathing problems, but they got it under control with some medicine. It kind of feels like last week when I was here, but they said something about a blood clot.” Some of her words sounded lazy and even labored, which led him to believe she threw a clot.
“Yeah, I talked to the nurse and she brought me up to speed. It sounds like things are stable now,” Timothy said.
“Yes, but it’s still . . . a lot of work . . . breathing.”
“More tests today, I understand. Then we’ll know for sure.”
“Yes,” Mom said. “I already feel . . . like a pin cushion. In all night . . . sticking me. Hard to sleep . . . when people are working on you . . . all night.”
“No one gets any sleep in the hospital, Mom. Have you eaten breakfast?” Timothy asked.
“Yes, I had a piece of dry toast, and some tea with lemon. My stomach’s upset . . . that’s all I could handle.”
“It’s probably unsettled from some of the pills, but you must keep your strength up.”
“I know, Timmy. You’ve been good to me. They told me you rode in the ambulance last night . . . and here you are early this morning. Every mother should have such a good son . . . I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“That’s not anything you need to think about now, is it? I’m here now and Leslie will be up with the kids later. I talked to her this morning before I left home.”
“Would you hand me some ice chips? My mouth is dry.”
“Sure, it’s probably the meds. How about a 7 Up? That should settle your stomach,” he said.
“Yes, good idea.”
Timothy went to the nurses’ station to get the ice chips and 7 Up. This gave him an excuse to tell the staff what Mom said about her stomach being upset. They already knew about it and told him she complained of her throat hurting from the tubes they put down it.
“She didn’t tell me about that,” Timothy said.
“She probably didn’t want to pile on,” Ginny said.
“You don’t know Mom,” he said and grinned.
Timothy went back into her room and Mom greeted him with one of her more pitiful faces. He thought she must practice these in the mirror to create the right effect. He laughed, but part of him felt guilty thinking that. Mom had a unique talent for eliciting an eclectic mix of emotions from people. He fed her the ice chips, as a dutiful son would do.
“Thank you, dear.”
“Is your throat hurting?” he asked.
“Yes. I thought it was parched from being dry, but apparently they put some tubes down my throat last night . . . and irritated my throat. That’s another reason I have trouble eating this morning,” she said this as she took a sip.
They sat silently for a couple of minutes, Mom treating her dry mouth with ice chips and sips of soda. What would she do if I weren’t here? Leslie can’t be here. Frank doesn’t care. How did I end up with all of this responsibility? It’s like I’m the last man standing. Shit, now I’m being dramatic. Timothy did not allow himself the luxury of asking these types of questions without feeling guilty. He dealt with his guilt the only way he knew; he felt it and stuffed it.
“Mom, how about I go to the snack bar and get you a chocolate shake? You like those when your stomach is upset.”
“Would you do that for me, Timmy?”
“Sure, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Timothy walked to the snack bar on the main floor. He threw a leg over one of the stools and sat down at the counter. Penny, a waitress, came over.
“I’d like a chocolate shake, please,” Timothy said.
“What! You can’t even say hello to a girl?” Penny said and smiled.
“I’m sorry, Penny. I’m preoccupied. Hi.”
“I don’t see you down here much anymore,” she said.
“I got moved to evenings and now nights,” he said.
“I heard.”
“How did you hear?” he said.
“Please, this is the smallest big hospital anywhere. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. That’s the favorite pastime around here,” she grinned.
“I’m here to see my mom. She’s up on Three.”
“Is this for her?” Penny asked.
“Yes.”
“I’ll make it extra special for you,” she said and winked.
Timothy thanked her. Penny was a sweet girl, a few years younger than he. He heard from other employees she had a crush on him. That surprised him. He never did anything to encourage her. She normally gave him a heaping serving of fries with his burger and a large soda when he ordered a medium. Sometimes, she even threw in a piece of lemon meringue pie. She made up some bogus excuse that she cut it for someone else by mistake and couldn’t put it back in the tin. Her attentiveness embarrassed him, especially when he sat there with coworkers. She returned with two shakes with lids and straws. He shook his head in amusement.
“Thank you, but two?” he said.
“Oh, yes. I put too much ice cream in the cup for one and didn’t want to throw away the rest so I decided to make two shakes. You only have to pay for one. The other is compliments of the house.” She smiled and handed him the shakes, making sure she touched his hand as she gave them to him. He flinched.
“No need to jump. I don’t bite,” she said.
“Sorry. I’m jumpy today. Lots going on. Thanks a bunch. I appreciate it.”
“Anytime, Tim,” she said and smiled.
As he turned to walk away, he nearly bumped into the director of nursing.
“I’m glad I ran into you, Tim,” Monica said. “When I took census this morning, I saw your mother’s name on the admission list. I understand she may be here a few days?”
“I don’t think we know yet. Waiting for some more tests this morning. Thanks for saying something.”
“Oh, that’s okay.” She paused. “You know we have a policy that prohibits employees from working on the same floor where family members are patients?”
“Yes, I seem to remember that,” he said. “I guess that means I go back to nights on Psych until she’s discharged?” he said.
“No. Doctor Faro prefers that you not work on the floor. He thinks Psych is not for you.”
“Does he have some special power that enables him to read minds?”
“I know this is a trying time for you, mother and all—”
Timothy didn’t want to hear any phony sympathy, so he cut her off mid-sentence.
“So what’s the plan?” he pushed.
“The good news is you can keep your Tuesday and Thursday nights schedule, but we will need you in the ER.”
“ER?” They are trying to get rid of me.
Timothy had worked a few weekend shifts in the ER and had a bad experience after a bloody night. It took him back to a place he didn’t want to go. He did not look forward to the sights and sounds of the ER. He felt trapped. He took a deep breath and calmed himself.
“Do I start with my next shift?” he asked.
“Yes,” Monica said.
“Okay, if that’s what I have to do, fine. Will I go back to the third floor after my mother is discharged?”
“Not immediately, but yes.”
“Okay.” End on a positive note and keep your job. “Thanks again for mentioning my mom.”
“Of course. We’re interested in our employees’ problems. Thanks for understanding, Tim. And don’t let Dr. Faro’s comments discourage you from your studies,” she said.
Why would I let that discourage me? That was nowhere in my mind. That guy is a button-happy pill-pusher. There’s no way I’d listen to him.
Timothy took the shakes up to Mom’s room. Between gulps, she managed to
say how nice of him to take such good care of her and that the shake soothed her scratchy throat. After he had enough of the shake, he kissed Mom on the forehead and told her he would be back later today after his work at Dez’s.
“Timmy, you work too hard. I wish you didn’t have to push yourself this hard. If you want to take some time off . . . it’s okay. Everyone would understand. I’m sure even Cheryl would understand.”
“Okay, Mom. Thanks. Bye.”
Time off. Time away. Time to myself. All of that would feel good at this point.
The pickets were now out on the sidewalk as Timothy walked to his car. He picked up his pace and reached his car a little winded. With his leg, a brisk pace tired him quickly. His car started on the second attempt.
Now I get to deal with Dez.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TIMOTHY ARRIVED AT Schoen’s and headed for the shop. He needed to talk to Dez.
“Well, well, Ed, look what the wind blew in,” Dez said. Edna coughed up the pack of cigarettes she already smoked this morning.
“Hey, Dez. You got my message this morning, right?” Timothy said.
“Yeah, the ol’ lady told me. What happened?”
Timothy told him the whole story.
“They gonna be able to help her?” Ed asked.
“I don’t know. They’re running some tests this morning. We’ll know more this afternoon.”
“Boy, leave it to those old penguins to suck the last dime out of a sick person. Tests. They always do more tests. It’s like taking your car to the repair shop, and the mechanic finds all kinds of shit to fix. More dough for them,” Dez said. “Boy, you ain’t as smart as you think you are.”
“They’re trying to figure out what’s going on,” Timothy said.
“Keep tellin’ yourself that, boy,” Ed chimed in. “And we’re jus’ tryin’ to sell more trees.”
“You gonna be late tomorrow, too? Can’t nobody in your family help ya out?” Dez said.
“Not really,” Timothy said.
“All right, but ya better take me up on my offer. It’s about the only thing you got goin’ on right now. Those hospital dames will stick it to you. Sock you with big bills you’re gonna have to pay,” Dez said.
“Yeah, well, for now I better get out there and sell some trees. They’re not going to move themselves off the lot. Besides, it looks like those guys can use some help.”
“You bet they can. That dope is tellin’ every kind of lie he can think of to move trees. I don’t care what he says as long as it gets a tree on the roof of a car. And the old man can barely lift anything taller than himself. Get out there and help those two charity cases,” Dez said.
Timothy nodded and walked outside. He brought with him a bag of the oatmeal raisin cookies Mom had made earlier in the week.
“Hey, Chester. About time ya showed,” Kenny said.
Chester was a deputy on the television show Gunsmoke who walked with a limp.
“Those for me?” Kenny said, pointing his cigar toward the bag of cookies.
“Yeah. My mom made these for you, Kenny.”
“Tell your mama I said thanks.” Kenny stuffed two cookies into his mouth. “Better go in there and get a carton of milk to wash these down. Hope Ed’s busy and don’t see me so I can get one and not pay.” He spit as many crumbs as he swallowed.
“Do what you have to do, Kenny.”
Hoffen saw Timothy come outside and held back until Kenny went into the shop. He had his work cut out for him today. He had been in the shop when Edna got Timothy’s call this morning explaining why he would be late. Edna couldn’t contain herself when she hung up the phone and gave Hoffen an earful of sarcasm between hacks. He knew Timothy must have been running dry on hope. I hope he didn’t spend too much time in there with Dez and Edna. Their attitudes stink so bad they would knock a buzzard off a manure wagon.
“Those two deserve each other, don’t they?” Hoffen said to Timothy as he approached him.
“Huh? Morning, Hoffen. You mean the two in the shop?”
“Yes.” Hoffen didn’t want to talk about Dez and Edna. He redirected the conversation quickly. “How’s your mother this morning?”
“You heard?” Timothy said.
“Yes, I was in the shop when you called earlier, and Edna told me.”
“She’s stable. Good for now. Rough night. Breathing issues. More tests today.”
The short, machine-gun-burst answers were uncharacteristic for Timothy. It sounded like statements on a police incident report. Hoffen knew many people used cool detachment as a defense mechanism. It was how they kept things together, and Timothy appeared to be trying to hold it together.
“So, how are you doing?” Hoffen said.
“Okay.”
“Just okay?”
“That’s about all I got right now,” Timothy said.
“Well, ‘okay’ will get you through the day. That’s all you have to do. Get through the day,” Hoffen said.
“Hope so.”
“Boy, we’ve really thinned the herd here, haven’t we?” Hoffen said, referring to the number of trees they’ve sold.
“Yeah, we may be able to empty the lot this weekend. That ought to make Dez happy,” Timothy said.
“Anything that puts money in Dez’s pocket makes him happy,” Hoffen said.
“You seem to have caught onto him pretty quickly in the past few weeks. Ever study psychology?” Timothy said.
“No, not formally. But I’ve known people like Dez for a long time.”
Timothy started to loosen up, and Hoffen dug deeper.
“So, what happens when the lot’s empty? Back to more hours at the hospital? Work here for Dez?” Hoffen asked.
“I don’t know, Hoffen. This thing with Mom has complicated things a bit. I’m the only one that’s in any position to help her. Leslie can’t help, and my brother doesn’t care. If I worked here and blew off school for a while, I could make enough money to get us out of the hole we’re in, and with her in the hospital, the hole is getting deeper.”
“What about school?”
“I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. You know what’s funny? I just wrote a term paper on a novel, Catch-22 by Joseph Heller, and I’m thinking the whole time I’m writing this that I’m living a Catch-22 life. School is a dream and a nightmare at the same time for me.”
“How so?”
“It’s my dream to become a psychologist, but getting there is proving to be a nightmare.”
“That’s a little dramatic, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but you asked what I’m thinking.”
“You know why Heller wrote that book, don’t you? He was a bombardier in World War II and discovered that being declared insane was a legitimate way out of the war. Those who wanted to fly were thought to be insane and therefore didn’t have to fly. But anyone who claimed insanity because of the war was really sane. In other words, acting crazy was the sanest thing you could do,” Hoffen said.
Timothy laughed at this. “Yeah, well, I feel like I know about insanity. Maybe that’s why I want to go into psychology. To understand a crazy world.”
“Or maybe yourself.” Hoffen paused to let his words sink in.
“Have you read Catch-22?”
“Oh, heavens yes. I met Heller once.”
“What?” Timothy said.
“Yes, I told you, my son was in World War II as a bombardier. He and Heller were stationed together. When my son didn’t come home, Heller came to see me. We talked about the craziness they experienced and how their reaction made them sane. Heller said he wanted to write about the war. Twenty years later, I was browsing in a bookstore and there, in the best seller stack, was his book. I bought a copy and enjoyed it, especially the craziness of life. I still have it.”
“That’s an amazing story. You really have had some interesting life experiences,” Timothy said.
“That’s one advantage of having been around for a while—you see a lot of thin
gs. For example, I’ve seen that life is difficult but not impossible,” Hoffen said.
“Yeah, it seems like I’m still stuck on the impossible side.”
“Give it time. And here’s the real paradox—be patient. Let some things happen. Your dreams may be in the process of reshaping themselves a bit right now, and maybe you’re pushing too hard,” Hoffen said.
“That’s my Catch-22? Be patient even though I’m running out of time?” Timothy said.
“Yes. And you’re not running out of time. You’re young, ambitious, and hardworking. That is a great combination.”
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
“Did you enjoy writing that term paper?” Hoffen said.
“Yes, I did. A lot, in fact.”
“Why?”
“Because I understood what was happening. I could identify with it.”
“Have you found that same insight in your other studies?”
“Not really. Not yet,” said Timothy.
“Then I would keep reading good books and writing good term papers. Others’ life experiences are good teachers for curious students. You may find you can work out a lot with pen and paper.”
“I could do that,” Timothy said.
Hoffen nodded. “And as far as this thing with Dez, you don’t have to make that decision today.”
“That’s true, but I feel like I’m running out of choices.”
“There are always choices—some you see, and others you don’t,” Hoffen said.
“Yeah, I wish I weren’t blind to other choices. And I have to consider Cheryl in all of this. She didn’t bargain for all of my problems.”
“What do you have to decide about Cheryl?”
“Whether or not to cut her loose. I love her enough to cut her free from my problems.”
“What! You mean break up with her because you have problems? Doesn’t she have a say in this?”
“You sound like my sister.”
“Then maybe you should listen. It’s like when you’re driving down the street and another car honks at you. You look around to see what’s wrong. If you see nothing, you think the other guy is wrong. But if more cars start honking horns, you should look closer. Maybe you’re causing it,” Hoffen said.
“I don’t think it’s fair for her to have to put up with all of this. You know, life in my world.”
