The Wedding Thief

by Mary Simses

  “Fast?” It had seemed like a long ride to me, but maybe that was because I was in such a hurry. “It took me twenty-five minutes.”

  Her eyes darted from me to Mariel and back to me again, as if she thought my sister and I were in on some joke we hadn’t shared with her. “But I thought you went back to Chicago this morning.”

  “No, I’m staying for the wedding, remember?” Mariel was right. She was confused. What was going on?

  “Oh, yes.” Mom’s face fell slack, like a sail that had lost its wind.

  “Are you feeling any better? I was so worried when I heard what happened.”

  “I guess my blood pressure was a little high,” she said. “They gave me some medicine. I think it’s helping. At least I don’t feel dizzy anymore. That was frightening.”

  Her blood pressure. I glanced at the monitors, the green lines zigging and zagging. “How high was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Mom said, as Mariel raised her head and tried to adjust the pillow. “I hope it’s only up a notch or two.”

  “There. Is that better?” Mariel asked. It was just like my sister to try and score points even as Mom lay sick in a hospital bed. I mean, really. When had she ever lifted a finger to help her before?

  Mom moved her head back and forth. “Yes, thanks.”

  I sat down on the foot of the bed. “Mariel said you were at the farmers’ market when this started.” I straightened Mom’s blanket over her. “What happened?”

  “The farmers’ market.” She seemed to mull that over. “Oh, right. I wanted to get some beefsteak tomatoes.”

  “Corn, Mom,” Mariel said. “We went to get corn.”

  My mother scratched her head. “Was it corn? I don’t know. Maybe it was. I didn’t feel right from the minute we got there. It was so hot out. I probably should have stayed home.”

  “Maybe you have heatstroke,” I said, wondering why that hadn’t occurred to me before.

  “I didn’t think of that,” Mariel said, a sudden lightness in her voice.

  “Heatstroke. I’ve never had heatstroke, although I think I sang a song about it in that play of Dad’s, The Dalton Sisters.”

  Mariel leaned over and placed a palm against Mom’s forehead. “You do feel warm. I think I’ll ask them to bring you a glass of ice water.” She picked up a cup of water from the table next to the bed. “This doesn’t even feel cold.”

  “Not ice water,” I said. “Ginger ale. She needs ginger ale. Remember, Mom? Good for what ails you.” She always used to say that to Mariel and me when we were little.

  Mom turned to me. “Oh, well, sure,” she said. “Okay.”

  “Maybe she can’t have ginger ale,” Mariel said.

  “And maybe she can’t have ice water.”

  “I’ll take anything,” Mom said. “You can just hand me that…” She pointed to the table.

  “I think you need a blanket,” Mariel said. “You’ve only got one, and it’s freezing in here. Sara, can you get her a blanket?”

  “I don’t need another blanket. I’m fine, sweetie.”

  “But your feet are always cold. Sara, please?”

  Oh, for God’s sake. “Yes, I’ll get a blanket.” I got up.

  “A heated one,” Mariel said as I stepped outside. “She needs it heated.”

  Heated. I asked a medical assistant for a blanket, preferably heated, and some ginger ale with ice. When I got back to the cubicle, Mariel was sitting on the edge of the bed holding Mom’s hand. “Don’t worry about that right now,” Mariel told her.

  “Yes, but if I don’t get out of here soon—”

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” Mariel said.

  “Well, it must be something.” Obviously, they didn’t want me to know.

  “It’s the closet door in the guest room,” Mom said, looking at the blood pressure cuff, turning her arm back and forth as if it were a piece of jewelry. “I can’t get it open, and Uncle Jack and Aunt Ann are staying there when they come for the wedding.” This was Mom’s way of avoiding the real issue, her health.

  “I’ll call that handyman you use and have it taken care of,” Mariel said.

  “Would you? And there’s a light out in the kitchen ceiling.” Mom looked upward as though it might be above her.

  “I’ll get the electrician to come over,” Mariel said.

  “But I have a whole list of things. Maybe your sister can help you with it. She’s good at organizing.”

  Mariel patted Mom’s shoulder. “I can deal with it. I did stuff like that all the time at YogaBuzz. You know, calling people in to fix things, keeping the place running. I know where your list is. I’ll get everything done.”

  “Oh,” Mom said, looking a little surprised.

  This was too much. I’d never heard Mariel offer to do anything around the house. When we were growing up, she barely picked up her clothes. I was sure she still didn’t.

  “We’ll divide up the list,” I said, unable to keep quiet any longer. “We’ll finish it faster that way.”

  “Thanks.” Mom sighed. “You girls are so helpful.” The curtain opened and a man in a white coat stepped inside, a stethoscope in his pocket. “Camille Harrington?” He looked at Mom.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Paul Sherwood. Leslie Miller’s brother.”

  Leslie Miller was a friend of Mom’s who lived in a house on a ten-acre parcel to the right of Mom’s property. “You’re Leslie’s brother?” Mom asked. “I thought you were an orthopedic doctor. I didn’t know you worked in the ER.”

  “I am in orthopedics,” he said. “I don’t work in the ER. I was in the hospital, and I came by to check on you because Leslie called and told me she’d seen an ambulance pulling out of your driveway. She got worried and asked me to see if you were here.”

  I liked Dr. Sherwood’s soft voice, his long, elegant nose, his silver-gray hair. “I’m Mrs. Harrington’s daughter,” I said.

  Mariel sat up a little straighter. “And I’m her other daughter. The younger one.”

  Oh, please. Was I the only adult in the room?

  “Well, that was awfully nice of Leslie,” Mom said. “And nice of you. I’m just waiting for someone to come back and tell me what’s going on.”

  “I understand,” Dr. Sherwood said. “There’s a lot of waiting in the ER. Is there anything you need? I know my sister would want me to make sure you’re comfortable. And, well, I want to as well. I’m familiar with your work.”

  Mom smiled. “Oh, you’re a fan?” She tilted her head coyly.

  “I certainly am. I saw you in Right as Rein and Minor Infractions.”

  “How nice.” Mom tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and the two of them were off in conversation.

  “I was wondering,” Dr. Sherwood said a few minutes later, “if there’s any chance that…well, that you might take a selfie with me.” He looked almost shy.

  He was about to be disappointed. Mom never did selfies. With anyone.

  “Of course. We can take it right now if you want.”

  What?

  Dr. Sherwood took out a cell phone and snapped a couple of photos with Mom. “This is great. Thank you.” He slipped the phone into his pocket. “It was a pleasure meeting you all.” He glanced from me to Mariel to Mom, then walked out.

  I was still in shock over the selfie when the cubicle curtain opened again and a dark-haired woman came in. The badge clipped to her white coat said AUDRA FREEMAN, MD. She was followed by a girl of about twenty who carried a laptop.

  Dr. Freeman introduced herself. “And this is Meg,” she said. “One of our medical scribes.”

  “Can you please tell us what’s going on with our mom?” I asked.

  “Your mother’s blood pressure was very high when she was admitted,” Dr. Freeman said. “Two twenty over one eighteen. We started her on hydralazine to bring it down and she’s responding to that.”

  It had to be the stress of Mariel’s wedding that had cause
d Mom’s blood pressure to go that high. She just couldn’t say no. But it wasn’t fair. Mariel was a grown woman who should have been doing everything herself, not foisting it on our mother.

  Dr. Freeman turned to Mom. “We’re going to adjust your blood pressure medication. We’re switching you from a calcium-channel blocker to an ACE inhibitor. We think that will be more effective.”

  “Is that the reason why all this happened?” Mom asked. “Because my blood pressure medication wasn’t working?”

  “It could be the reason,” Dr. Freeman said.

  Fantastic. It could just be her blood pressure medication. Which was why they were switching it and…

  Wait. What blood pressure medication? “Hold on. You said adjust my mother’s blood pressure medication? She’s not on any blood pressure medication.”

  Meg, who’d been taking notes on the conversation on her laptop, looked up.

  “Yes, I am, honey,” Mom said.

  “Since when?”

  “Since about three months ago.”

  I glanced at Mariel. “I didn’t know about that. Did you?” If this was Mom’s way of not worrying us, it was coming back to haunt her.

  Mariel shrugged. “You mean the medicine? Yeah, I knew.”

  She knew and she’d never thought to mention it to me? This was just like the two of them, to have their little talks and not tell me a thing.

  “Mrs. Harrington, we’re going to continue the hydralazine until your blood pressure’s normal,” Dr. Freeman said. “And we’d also like to get a chest X-ray, a CT scan of your head, some additional blood work for troponins, and a D-dimer.”

  Hold on. X-ray? CT scan? And what were those other things? A cold feeling began to settle in the pit of my stomach.

  Mom had gone a little pale. “But I thought it was just my medication.”

  “Yes, why does she need all those things?” I asked.

  Dr. Freeman turned to me. “We want to make sure your mother didn’t experience any kind of cardiac event. And we also want to rule out any type of blockage, like a blood clot in the lungs or the brain.”

  Oh my God. Cardiac event. Blood clot. Did she mean Mom might have had a stroke? Or a heart attack? And what was that all-encompassing any type of blockage? She was talking about serious things. Very serious.

  “When is she going to have these tests?” Mariel asked.

  “We’d like to do them now. We’ll have her taken over to radiology and then—”

  “Now?” I said as Meg tapped away on her keyboard.

  “We’ll bring your mother back as soon as she’s done,” Dr. Freeman said. “But it may take a while, so if you need to leave, you might want to make sure the desk has your number.”

  “Oh, we’re not leaving,” I said. “We’ll be right here.”

  A few minutes after Dr. Freeman and Meg walked away, a man in a yellow uniform came in. He had the kind of body that made me suspect he’d once been a bouncer. I saw Mom checking out his name tag.

  “Your name is Jay?” she said. “I’ve always liked that name.”

  Jay looked pleased. “Yeah?”

  As Jay wheeled Mom away, I heard her say, “Did you know it’s derived from the Sanskrit word for ‘win’ or ‘victory’?”

  “I can’t believe this,” Mariel said. “Blood clots? A cardiac event?”

  “That’s a heart attack.”

  “I know that.”

  I thought about what Mariel had told me on the phone. “You said Mom ate a hot dog and fries at the farmers’ market. You knew she had hypertension. How could you let her have a hot dog? There are a million grams of sodium in one of those things.”

  “I don’t know, Sara. I didn’t think about that. And anyway, I can’t control what Mom does. She’s not a kid, you know.”

  “You could have controlled a hot dog.”

  She started to cry.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “My wedding’s in eight days. What if she can’t be there?”

  “This is about Mom, not you.”

  “I’m thinking about Mom. What if she’s still in the hospital? What if they have to operate on her or something? And what if—I mean, what if something bad happens and she…”

  I put up my hand. “Don’t even say it. She’s going to be fine.” I had to stay positive. These were tests, but tests could go either way. You could pass a test as easily as you could fail one. I had to believe Mom would be okay. But what if this was only the beginning of something horrible? What if she did have a blockage in her heart or—I could barely form the thought—a blood clot in her brain?

  Three hours later, Mom returned, but Dr. Freeman didn’t show up for two more hours. “So far, everything looks good,” she said when she finally breezed through the curtains, Meg still in tow. “X-ray, CT scan, urinalysis, blood work. Nothing unusual.”

  I felt as if I’d started to breathe again. Mariel clapped. Mom smiled and let out a loud sigh of relief.

  “But we’d like to admit you for further observation and blood pressure control,” Dr. Freeman said.

  “Further observation?” Mom asked.

  “You may have had a small stroke or a TIA. That’s like a stroke, but it lasts only a short time and doesn’t cause permanent damage. They’re not detected by a CT scan, though. Which is why we want to do an MRI. And repeat the troponin levels.”

  “Troponin?” I said.

  “The blood tests we’re doing to rule out a heart attack.”

  Heart attack wasn’t what I wanted to hear. I wanted Mom to come home. Now. More tests meant there could still be bad news. “What do you think, Mom?”

  “I guess I need to stay.” She looked exhausted. She looked worried. I just wanted to take her home.

  A tech came in with a stack of blankets. “Somebody asked for these?” He placed them at the foot of the bed.

  I started to complain that we’d asked for them hours ago, but Mom waved me off. “Yes, that’s very nice. Thank you, uh, Ed?” She squinted at his name tag.

  “Yes, ma’am. You’re welcome.”

  “Are you warm enough?” Mariel asked as Mom reached for the remote control and turned on the TV. “Maybe I should open these a little more.” She spread the blankets out, tucked the sides under the mattress, and folded the corners with the precision of a military officer. Trying to score points again. I was amazed she had any idea how to make a bed.

  “Oh, that’s great,” Mom said as she surfed the channels, then stopped at a cooking show.

  “What about your feet?” I asked. “Are they cold? I can go to the gift shop downstairs and see if they have socks.” Two could play at this game.

  “No, honey. My feet are fine.”

  “Are you hungry?” Mariel said. “Do you want me to see about getting you some food?”

  “Thanks, sweetie, but I’m okay right now. And I’m sure once they get me into a room—”

  “Mom,” I said, “if you don’t like what’s on TV, I have an iPad in the car. I can run and get it.”

  “An iPad? But I—”

  “She doesn’t want an iPad,” Mariel said. “She probably wants to listen to some music. Those show tunes on her cell phone.” Mariel went rummaging through her handbag. “I’ve got some earbuds in here. You can use them.”

  Mom put up a hand. “That’s sweet, but it’s—”

  “She can use my earbuds.” I began hunting through my own handbag. “They’re better.”

  “Girls, I really don’t need earbuds,” Mom said, as Mariel and I shoved our earbuds at her.

  A nurse walked in, HAILEY, RN, on her name tag. “How are you feeling, Mrs. Harrington?”

  Mom looked dazed, as though she’d just walked onstage and forgotten what play she was in.

  Hailey went from monitor to monitor, inspecting the zigzag of each readout. “Hmm. Your blood pressure’s gone back up a little.”

  Mom’s forehead crumpled. “It has?”

  Hailey nodded. “I wonder what c
ould have caused that.”

  Oh God. Had we done it? Mariel and I?

  Mom peered at the two of us. “I wonder.”

  Chapter 13

  Doesn’t Everybody Like Grilled Cheese?

  The next day, Mom called to tell us she was being discharged from the hospital that afternoon. The tests showed no sign of a stroke or a heart attack, which was great. Still, the blood pressure medication she’d been on hadn’t done what it was supposed to do. I hoped the new medication would work.

  While I waited for Mom to let us know what time to pick her up, I grabbed a few of the old photo albums from her bookcase and took them into my room. I sat down in the middle of my bed and chose some photos of Mariel that I knew she wouldn’t want the general public to see, including one where she was in her Britney Spears outfit. I snapped pictures of the photos with my cell phone and e-mailed them to Lory Judd at the bakery so she could print them on the cake.

  After that I called George Boyd at the country club.

  “I hope your mother’s all right,” he said when I explained why I hadn’t been able to meet with him the day before.

  I thanked him and told him she was going to be fine. “Maybe you could e-mail me your catering menu,” I said. “And we can do this over the phone.”

  He told me he’d send it to me in a few minutes. While I waited for the menu, I put in another call to Brian Moran, the keyboardist and contact for Eleventh Hour. This time he answered.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you,” he said. “We had a gig out of town and didn’t get in until really late last night.”

  “That’s okay. I just wanted to talk to you about some songs my sister wants to add to her playlist for the wedding reception.”

  “I’m sure we can handle whatever she’d like,” he said. “We can do just about anything—pop, rock, R and B, jazz standards.”

  “Great. Well, she’d like you to play ‘Fifty Ways to Leave Your Lover,’ ‘You’re So Vain,’ ‘Never Really Over,’ ‘I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For,’ and ‘D-I-V-O-R-C-E.’” I loved that old Tammy Wynette tune. “Oh, and for the first dance, the groom wants ‘To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before.’”