“I need to see her,” I said. “Where is she?”
CJ took my arm. “Come with me. You must be strong, Elise. For your dad.”
He took me down a hall and into a room that held an array of beeping monitors and various bags and tubes all connected to my mother. CJ left us as my dad rose from his chair and put his arm around me, drawing me close to her bed.
Nothing had prepared me for the shock of seeing her like this, with her head shaved and wrapped except for where a tube drained fluid from an opening in her skull. She was breathing with a ventilator while monitors continually assessed her temperature, heart rate, blood pressure and oxygen level. An IV in her arm delivered fluids and medications. The machines maintained a constant rhythmic sound, but my mother was silent and unmoving.
“Can she hear us?” I asked.
“The doctors aren’t sure. She doesn’t respond to any stimuli, verbal or tactile. But I keep talking to her, stroking her face and hands, hoping . . .”
“Have you had any sleep? Anything to eat?”
He shook his head. “I can’t leave her.”
“Daddy, our whole family is here. We’ll take turns sitting with her. You must get some rest and food. Please.”
“No. Not yet. The doctor should be here soon. Then we’ll see.”
A nurse brought another chair and I sat beside my father at my mother’s bedside, swamped with feelings of helplessness and guilt. My father had been unable to reach me because I was too busy having an affair with my own cousin! What kind of a daughter was I, anyway?
The neurosurgeon came in, assessed my mother’s condition and conferred with the nurses on duty. He then took us to the far side of the room and explained that the brain continues to swell for up to seventy-two hours after a hemorrhage, so my mother’s condition could worsen if pressure caused further damage to her brain. Brain death—where she would never wake up or breathe again—was a possibility.
“But it’s a very slight possibility, right? There’s a good chance she will recover?” My father was clinging to hope.
“We just have to wait and see,” the doctor replied. “The next seventy-two hours are critical.”
“Just wait? Isn’t there something you can do to help her?”
“We’re doing everything we can, Mr. Larson. Other than that, if you believe in God, I would suggest prayer.”
So our vigil began. Our normal lives were put on hold as we focused entirely on the hospital and my parents. My father refused to leave my mother, so he caught snatches of sleep on a cot in her room and ate meals we brought from the hospital cafeteria.
The rest of us used my parents’ home as a base of operations, rotating in and out for meals and sleep between shifts at the hospital. Johnny organized all the comings and goings with his usual efficiency, while my grandmother kept everyone fed by supplementing her own cooking with food brought in by friends and neighbors.
We worked in six-hour shifts. I sat beside my mother’s bed, holding her hand while I talked about my childhood and all the things we’d done together. I thanked her for her constant love and care. I asked her to fight to live. But if the fight was too hard—if she had to leave us—I would understand. I asked her to forgive me if I had ever hurt her. I told her, over and over, how much I loved her. I cried silently so I wouldn’t upset her. And I prayed.
Despite the prayers and the best of care, my mother’s condition slowly deteriorated over those seventy-two hours as increased pressure caused further damage to her brain. She remained motionless, speechless, and nonresponsive to stimuli as her vital signs grew weaker.
On Wednesday afternoon, her doctors performed an examination to determine brain death, which required the presence of coma, the absence of brain stem reflexes, and cessation of breathing when the ventilator was disconnected. My father and I watched as the tests were conducted, silently praying for some response that would give us hope. There was none. My mother remained in a coma, unresponsive to stimuli and unable to breathe without the ventilator. However, according to protocol, we had to wait six hours for a repetition of the same tests.
Our family gathered in the waiting room late in the evening while Daddy and I watched as the doctors once again looked for any indications of life. We’d been informed that life support could be continued indefinitely, but my father decided to discontinue support if brain death was verified. When my mother failed to breathe without the ventilator this time, our family joined us as it was disconnected. My mother was gone.
I remember hearing condolences from the medical staff. I remember feeling my father’s arms around me as we clung to each other and cried. I remember seeing tears in the eyes of my family. But most of all, I remember looking at my mother’s beautiful face and recalling how she’d smiled when she said goodbye to me in Eugene just eight days earlier, telling me how proud she was and how much she loved me.
I would never hear those words again, and I would never be able to tell her how sorry I was that I wasn’t there when she needed me the most. My guilt and my pain and my loss were overwhelming.
Johnny took charge as usual, making sure the family’s basic needs were met while arrangements were made for the funeral. Nothing had been prearranged, since my mother was only fifty-eight and in seemingly good health, though my father did tell me she had high blood pressure, which may have caused the stroke.
Her funeral was held three days later and was well-attended by family, friends and business associates. My mother was buried in Boise’s Pioneer Cemetery, only a mile and a half from our home. Johnny gave the main eulogy, but others also spoke tearfully of my mother’s kindness, caring and love.
When it was finally over and the mourners dispersed, I stood between Johnny and my father until the burial was complete. Then we returned to a house that no longer seemed like home, because my mother wasn’t there.
Trey and I had scarcely spoken to each other in the six days since we left Eugene, but on the seventh day—the Sunday after my mother’s funeral—he knocked on my bedroom door. I was sweaty and disheveled from tossing and turning during a night of scattered sleep and didn’t want to see anyone, but the knocking persisted until I crawled out of bed and opened the door.
“May I come in?” he asked.
“I guess. What time is it?”
“Almost ten. Everyone else is up and fed. Here—drink this.” He handed me a fresh strawberry smoothie, which I ordinarily loved.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry.”
“Drink it.”
I sat on my bed and took a few sips while he looked at me. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked.
“Some, but none of it was good. The dreams were awful. I kept dreaming that she’s crying out for help . . . calling to me . . . and I can’t reach her and then she’s gone and I . . .”
My tears made miniature puddles on the top of the smoothie until I couldn’t even see it through the blur. Trey took the glass from my hand, sat on the bed and gathered me in his arms as I sobbed against his chest. He said nothing, just held me and stroked my hair and my back for long minutes until I finally quieted.
I looked up at him, my blotchy face streaked with snot and tears and wet strands of hair. He gave me a tissue and a lopsided smile. “Feeling better?” he asked.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I may never feel better again. It hurts so much, Trey. I never thought anything could hurt this much. She was so well—so happy at my graduation less than two weeks ago, and now she’s gone. I still can’t believe it. Can’t accept it. And I feel so guilty!”
“Why?”
I looked at him in astonishment. “Surely you know why. Because when my mother and my father desperately needed me, my phone was turned off for an entire weekend while you and I were . . . we were . . .”
“I know what we were doing, Elise.”
“And you don’t feel guilty? Not at all?”
“I’m sorry your father couldn’t reach us until Sunday morning. Naturally I regret that. But I don’t
regret the reason for it. I don’t feel guilty about making love to you. And I hope you’re not thinking your mother’s death was somehow caused by our being together, because that’s just wrong.”
“Of course I don’t think we caused it, but I can’t help associating the two. Don’t you see? We were busy having sex while my mother was in critical condition in a hospital in Boise! She needed me. My father needed me. And I . . .”
“There’s nothing you could have done. Your being there a day earlier wouldn’t have changed a thing.”
“Maybe not the final outcome, but when she had the stroke—while she was still conscious when my father first tried to reach me—I could have told her I loved her! She would have heard me say those words. But by Monday morning it was too late. And I can’t forgive myself.”
“For what? What can’t you forgive yourself for, Elise? For turning off your cell phone, or for having sex with me?”
“I don’t know. I’m so confused right now. I can’t sleep, I can’t think, I can’t make sense of anything. But I do know one thing. I’m not going back to Eugene. My father needs me here.”
“For how long?”
“I don’t know. We’ll take it one day at a time. That’s all I can say right now. So please box up my things and send them here. Whatever you think I’ll need.”
“And what about me? Will you need me at some point?”
“I can’t answer that now, Trey. I need time to figure things out. So much has happened lately.”
He stood up. “All right. Take time. I know you’re hurting. We all are. Lisa was a very special part of our family, and we loved her very much. But you must stop blaming yourself for the weekend we shared. We did nothing wrong. Our love is not wrong.”
And he left me.
Chapter 12
P eople talk about getting back to normal. They say time heals all wounds. But they’re wrong. Life would never be normal again, and our wounds were raw and bleeding.
Grandma Ellen stayed with Daddy and me for a couple of weeks because she rightly thought we needed her, but the rest of our family returned to their homes and lives. We drifted through the days, trying and usually failing to comfort each other in a house full of memories of my mother. Nothing seemed to matter; life’s basic necessities were just something to get through.
Trey sent my things and I unpacked the boxes. I helped Grandma in the kitchen and listened while she talked. In the evenings, I sat with my father on the bench beside my mother’s flower garden, holding his hand when he cried. One evening I told him about the DA’s refusal to prosecute Ben, and it was Daddy’s turn to comfort me.
Trey called several times to check on us. He said he missed me. He’d resumed work on his dissertation and was making some progress. I wished him good luck with it. That was all I could give him.
Two weeks after the funeral, my father decided to return to work. He owned an accounting firm with six CPA’s and assorted support staff, and he was needed. His first heartbreaking task was finding a replacement for my mother, who’d been his office manager for years and knew every aspect of the business.
After a week of fruitless interviews, Daddy came home one evening and asked to speak with me in his home office, which was a bit unusual. I sat in a leather armchair in front of his desk and looked at him: this big, strong, handsome man who suddenly seemed so much older, with dark circles under his eyes and sorrow etched in his face.
Forcing myself to smile, I attempted a joke. “Have you called me here for an interview?”
He surprised me by nodding. “You might call it that, honey. I haven’t found anyone I’d trust to take your mother’s place at work, so I’m hoping you’ll take the job.”
I was shocked. “Me? But . . .”
He raised a hand. “Hear me out. You’re smart, hard working, capable, and you’re familiar with the business and how Lisa did things.”
That much was true. I’d helped my mother in the office during summer breaks in high school and college. But there was so much I didn’t know.
“You’ll quickly learn all the details,” he went on. “And Peter will help you.”
Peter Grant had an accounting degree and was learning the business while studying for his M.B.A. I knew he’d worked with my parents on several important projects during the past year. But still . . .
“Do you have other plans, Elise? Surely you’re not going back to Eugene, not after the law school rejection and the DA’s refusal to prosecute Ben. I’m sure you want to stay right here in Boise.”
“I’m not going back to Eugene,” I replied. “But I’m planning to apply for law school at the University of Idaho for next year’s admission.”
“That’s more than a year away. Help me out at the office for a year while you apply for law school. See what you think. Maybe you’ll like it and decide to stay. Please, honey. Do this for your old dad.”
Of course I could not deny him. Not now. And I had no other plans anyway. He was right; there was nothing for me in Eugene except Trey, who would soon be back together with Kelly.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll give it a try for a year. Then we’ll see.”
I quickly caught on to the work and routine at Larson & Associates, Inc. I’d expected some resentment from those who’d been passed over for the job—nepotism surely crossed their minds—but I felt no real hostility. The staff greatly respected my parents and welcomed me for that reason alone. I was determined to earn their respect on my own merits, so I dug in and worked hard.
I spent long hours at the office for the rest of that summer, arriving early and staying late into the evening. Daddy and I commuted together; he was no more eager to go home to that big lonely house than I was. We often worked until eight or even nine o’clock, as the sun was just starting to go down. Then home for a quick meal and bed and back to work at sunrise.
Per my request, our family had no party for my twenty-second birthday on August 14th. No one felt like celebrating anything.
Though I was pleased with my work and progress as office manager, I couldn’t take all the credit. Much of it was due to Peter, who shared his time and knowledge and answered my innumerable questions that usually began with, “Hey, Peter! Got a minute?”
I was attracted to brilliant men, and Peter definitely met that criteria. He had other attractions, too: tall, good-looking in an aristocratic sort of way, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, a straight nose and symmetrical lips above a firm chin. But his smile revealed two dimples that broke the aristocratic veneer and showed he was approachable.
I was accustomed to big men like my father, Uncle Johnny, my cousins and Ben. Big in body and personality, though some, like Johnny and Quinn, were truly formidable. Peter was not that type at all. I could not picture him on a football field or wielding a construction hammer. But his slim build was perfect in a business suit, and I imagined he would look good on a tennis court in shorts and a T-shirt. So I decided to find out.
My father belonged to the Boise Racquet & Swim Club with its eleven outdoor courts, twelve indoor courts, weight room, fitness instructors and outdoor swimming pool. In the middle of September, after another long work week, I challenged Peter to a singles match on Saturday. He readily accepted.
He played as well as I’d expected, winning the match with a final score of 2-1. He also looked as good as I’d suspected in his white shorts and matching T-shirt that showed off his tanned physique. How, I wondered, did he acquire a tan while working sixty hours each week? My own body was embarrassingly pale in comparison.
We changed into swimsuits and jumped in the pool to cool off. I soon grabbed a towel and relaxed in a lounge chair, watching Peter swim lap after lap. He was good at tennis but was an amazing swimmer. Many of the other swimmers paused to watch his long, powerful strokes.
He finally joined me, drying himself with a towel. “That was great,” he said with a grin. “The water temperature was perfect today.”
“I take it you come here often?”
“Sure. Almost every weekend. I’m addicted to swimming.”
Which explains the tan, I thought. “You’re a wonderful swimmer, and not bad at tennis, either. Is there anything you don’t do well?”
He showed me a long thin scar on the inside of his left forearm, which I hadn’t noticed before. “I broke my arm during my first and only attempt to play football in high school. The surgery scar is proof that I’m much safer in a swimming pool.”
I laughed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just that I come from a family of rabid football players.”
“I know. Your Uncle Johnny was a great running back for the Ducks. And there’s his son CJ, a star running back for the Ducks and eight years with the Steelers. Then there’s Quinn, leading the Vikings to a Super Bowl win. I don’t play football, but I’m a big fan.” He paused. “You have another cousin, right?”
“Yes. Trey. He doesn’t play football, but he’s a legendary runner at the university level.”
“You must be very proud of your family.”
“I am. My family is very special to me. What about yours? You’ve never mentioned your family.”
He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I’m an only child. My parents separated when I was ten. I spent the next eight years being shuffled back and forth between them, caught in the middle of their ongoing battles over alimony and custody. The happiest day of my life was the day I left for college.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t imagine . . .”
“Of course you can’t. You grew up with loving parents and that whole Larson clan your dad talks about. I hope I’ll get to meet them someday, so I can talk football with your uncle and cousins. But for now, let’s get dressed and find a place to eat. I’m starving.”
I felt guilty about the fun I had with Peter, partly because I was still grieving for my mother and partly because of Trey. He called at least once a week to check on me, so I told him about work and my father and how we were doing. Trey was making good progress on his dissertation and expected to complete it in time for his oral defense in May. He would graduate with his doctorate in June. He didn’t mention Kelly at all, and of course I said nothing about Peter.
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