An old friend of my sister’s, Jan, spent the night with her; at home in my own bed I slept soundly, cuddled up to my sweet husband on a cold winter night. Jan was as solid and reliable as they come. About noon the following day when Jan called me, her voice was even and composed. She hadn’t been able to rouse Nancy Jane, she reported, so she’d phoned the hospice nurse. For an hour or so, I paced the floor and waited to hear what the nurse said. I was anxious but not fearful; after all, I’d talked to my sister just the night before, and she’d been fine. She’d been in good spirits so there was no reason for alarm, right?
As usual I was in denial, refusing to hear what I knew to be true. Nancy Jane was in a coma, the nurse said. By nightfall, she was gone. It was January 4, 2013, and freezing cold in Alabama.
* * *
I headed out early the next morning, after telling Pat that I’d get us a place to stay and let him know where, soon as I worked everything out. He’d been upset that I wouldn’t let him drive me, but I made him see that we needed to travel in separate cars. As the executor of my sister’s will, I’d have to stay afterward, and who knew for how long. I was on the road when my daughter-in-law, Liz, called. Efficient as ever, Liz had gone online and gotten everyone a place to stay. I told myself to remember that. In times of grief, someone has to do the practical things. We tend to forget that grieving families need more than condolences and casseroles.
The next day when Pat drove up to the VRBO house that Liz had arranged for us, I met him in the driveway, eager for his comforting presence. We held on to each other, then he went in to greet the family. My nephew came outside to fetch Pat’s suitcase.
“Where are Uncle Pat’s hanging clothes, Aunt Tanna?” Will asked me. When I stared at the empty trunk, I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head. Big surprise—Pat hadn’t brought anything to wear to the funeral. Nothing would’ve tickled Nancy Jane more.
Chapter 18
The Best-Laid Plans of Mice and Men
In the weeks following my sister’s death, I turned my attention back to the final edits of Moonrise, which was scheduled for release in the early fall. Editing was a much-needed distraction from my crippling grief, and I threw myself into it. It could not have come at a better time. For the past few years I’d focused almost all my attention on the health of my husband and my sister, and in a way that couldn’t have been healthy for me or them, either one. My nearest and dearest are quick to point out my tendency to obsess. My obsessiveness is a by-product of a decidedly unpleasant character trait that my father called being just plain bullheaded. Bulldoggish is a better description. My sister Beckie has a big fat bulldog who’ll sink his teeth into a discarded sock and clamp down on it for dear life. You can drag him all over the house with it, but, by God, he won’t let go. I can identify.
After Nancy Jane’s death, I struggled to regain my equilibrium. Losing someone I loved so deeply had thrown everything in my life off-kilter, it seemed. For one thing, I’d lost the joy I once took not only in entertaining but also in planning and preparing meals. With my obsessiveness over food as fuel, food as enemy, food as a power to be reined in or conquered, I’d gotten off track and lost perspective. My appetite was poor, and for a while, I lost my appetite for life as well. Thankfully I’d finished the rewrites of Moonrise and was only editing; otherwise my heart wouldn’t have been in writing either, something that had always carried me through dark times. It took some time before things leveled out and the Conroy household began to get back to normal (whatever that was).
Healthwise, Pat was doing better than I could’ve ever hoped for. He grew accustomed to our new lifestyle of exercise and healthier eating. Oh, he still cheated occasionally with the latter. He would be proud of himself for buying a power salad on his way home from exercising, but neglect to mention the chocolate-chip cookies he picked up as well. His daily routine of working out with Mina helped to counteract backsliding. On his own, Pat gave up alcohol completely. He told me he’d drunk enough in the past to last him a lifetime, and I didn’t doubt it. Exercising, eating right, and forgoing booze, he lost weight and looked great. Always ruddy-faced, even his complexion cleared. His eyes sparkled and glowed with pride when folks commented on how well he looked. For the first time in years, he had a bounce to his step and energy to spare.
I’d been so focused on Pat and Nancy Jane that the next health scare to come along caught me off guard. This time, it was me who got blindsided. In the summer of 2013 the stress, grief, and worry of the past years caught up with me, and I got thrown for a loop. One thing I should’ve known by then: if we don’t listen to our bodies, they have a way of getting our attention. And it’s never pretty.
June came, and Pat stood his ground about Camp Fripp remaining on Fripp. No one argued with him; on the contrary, the grandkids preferred staying at the beach. “Imagine that,” Pat said, glancing my way with a smug grin. I conceded that he’d been right but hoped he didn’t get too full of himself for such a rarity. In our sixteen years together, the tally was a million or so for me, one for Conroy.
One miserably hot day in June, everybody was at the beach but me. I hadn’t gone because I’d had one of those horrific commode-hugging nights we’ve all suffered through at one time or another, usually courtesy of a stomach virus (the puke bug, as the kids call it). That morning I still couldn’t keep anything down, so I called Dr. Laffitte for some nausea meds. He insisted on admitting me to the hospital and running tests. For a couple of days I went through a battery of medical tests that would make a medieval torture chamber envious. After a diagnosis of diverticulitis, IBS, and a highly inflamed stomach—the usual suspects—I came home to life as usual. Or sort of. Things still weren’t quite right, I knew, but I told myself I’d be back to normal in no time. As always, I knew better than my doctors. I could manage my own health, thank you very much. I’d dealt with the same issues all my life. The Princess and the Pea, Pat and I called my hypersensitive constitution. Dr. Laffitte took a wait-and-see stance, not quite as convinced. I was the worst kind of stubborn, know-it-all patient, but he was too gentlemanly to point that out.
For the rest of June and July our summer went on as planned, and I either felt okay or faked it well enough to fool everyone (including myself). Just as Pat had hoped, Camp Fripp had morphed into a different animal after our move into Beaufort, but it was still all-consuming. With the grandkids getting older and involved in their own activities, our families’ visits became even more erratic and spread out. Even so, things were decidedly easier on me and Pat. For our family togetherness time, we scheduled communal lunches or dinners either at the Beaufort house or on Fripp. Late one afternoon Pat and I were gathering up the ingredients for a Lowcountry Boil to take out to Fripp. I shucked corn as he peeled shrimp when he turned to glare at me. “Hey! Why are we doing this? Didn’t we move into town to get away from Camp Fripp?”
I asked how he’d spent his day. Hadn’t he been writing without grandkids coming into his office to pester him? He conceded that he had indeed. “Well, then,” I said. “Camp Fripp can come here, or we can go to them when we please. Which do you prefer?”
“I prefer we get the hell out of here,” he retorted. “When do we go to Highlands?”
“I told you, in August after everyone leaves.”
Pat groaned dramatically. “I was afraid you’d say that.” Before turning his attention back to the shrimp, he narrowed his eyes to study me. “Helen Keller? You’re okay, aren’t you? You better not be holding out on me. Dr. Laffitte says that everything’s fine now, right?”
“He did,” I said, then added, “but he told me not to buy any green bananas.”
My flippancy didn’t amuse Pat, so I assured him that all was well. His concern for my well-being moved me, though, and I told him so. His response was “I just don’t want anything to delay our departure.” He dodged my swat with the dishtowel, grinning.
I too was anxious to get away from the brutal heat of a Lowcountry summer and could hardl
y wait until August, when we’d head for the hills. Because Moonrise is set in Highlands the launch would be there, a big, hoity-toity affair at the Old Edwards Inn. I’d rented an isolated house by a waterfall, a perfect place for Pat to work and for me to prepare for my grueling tour schedule. Since Pat’s upcoming book, The Death of Santini, wouldn’t be released until late fall, his own travels were a few months away. And blessedly so, now that he’d started to map out a new novel and needed some alone time to write. That was our plan.
* * *
When the last of the kids were packing up to return to their respective homes, Pat decided to give his daughter Melissa his car and get a new one for himself. He was overdue, and Melissa was happy to have his hand-me-down. The grasshopper never traded in cars when he got ready for a change, he simply gave the old one away. Whoever was around at the time and in need of a car became the lucky recipient. It was a random gesture of generosity that amused me. He dispensed with his cars in the same way I might say, You’re cold? Here—take my coat. I need a new one anyway. This time, though, there was a catch. Pat claimed he could only get a new car if I’d be the one to shop for it. His argument was, I’d finished my book but he was busy at work on a new one. Besides, he always got ripped off at car dealerships. I was a much better negotiator than he was, he added slyly.
Melissa and family took off for Philly in Pat’s five-year-old car, and I went to the dealership and bought her dad another old-man Buick, exactly like the one he had. Or rather, as close to it as I could, considering they didn’t make the exact car anymore. I’d wanted to upgrade him to a roomier model but decided not to take any chances. Pat didn’t like change, and he knew how to work everything on the old car. The problem was, the things he knew how to work were now obsolete and had been replaced. I worried momentarily about the fancy bells and whistles on the new one, then told myself to chill out. Before Pat drove the car, I’d take him out for a demo. He’d do fine.
I had no way of knowing that I wouldn’t get the chance. The day the car was delivered, Pat balked at taking it out for a lesson. “It’ll keep,” he said with a shrug. I warned him not to drive it until I showed him some of the new features, which were high-tech even for me. I didn’t remind him of the real reason he refused to drive my Prius (which I’d nicknamed Miss Priss; Pat called it the Pious). He couldn’t even crank it because the starter’s so different. Without knowing how to drive his car or mine, he was trapped. Again, he shrugged me off when I pointed that out. He’d learn to drive the new car in a day or two, he assured me, if I’d quit bugging him about it. What could possibly happen during that time? Never tempt the gods like that, he’d say later.
The following day started out like any other. Now that everyone was gone, I spent most of the morning getting the house back in order. Then I planned to pack for Highlands. It’d be a couple of days before the rental would be ready for us, but we were determined to pull into the driveway as the previous tenants pulled out.
It was around lunchtime when I felt something was a little off. I didn’t feel sick, just a tad peculiar. A friend called to ask me to lunch, but I explained about the packing and asked for a rain check after our return to Beaufort (which wouldn’t be until early October, though I didn’t tell her that). We said our goodbyes, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t the least bit hungry. Odd, I thought; I’d had no appetite at breakfast either.
I shrugged it off and brought out the slow cooker for the pot roast I’d bought for Pat. Later I’d add onions, carrots, and brussels sprouts. It was one of Pat’s favorite suppers and worked for me because I could eat the veggies and be just as happy as he was with his beloved beef. I smiled to myself as I wedged the big roast into the cooker, recalling how I’d used pot roast to blackmail Pat into eating leftovers. Alas, I’d told him, I couldn’t find a roast small enough for only one meal, so guess he’d have to forgo having one of his favorite dishes. He gave in and said okay, okay, he’d eat leftovers if I’d quit harping about it. Afterward he was forced to admit that the roast was just as good—if not better—the second time around.
Later that afternoon I added the vegetables to the roast and had started toward my office when Bernie Schein let himself in the front door. By then I was definitely feeling puny but still couldn’t pinpoint anything specific, just an overall malaise. I feared I might be coming down with something but wouldn’t let myself go there. Getting a bug before a book tour ranks high on the list of a writer’s worst nightmares. Book tours are grueling enough in the best of health. Not only that, cancel a couple of gigs after all the advertising and planning involved, and you aren’t likely to get invited back. The launch in Highlands was a ticketed luncheon, with a waiting list. I simply couldn’t afford to be sick.
“Hey, baby!” Bernie called out when he closed the door behind him. “Pat upstairs?” Ever since Pat gave up his bad habits, he and Bernie had developed a new routine. Or rather, they’d traded one bad habit for another. Instead of cocktails at five, Bernie and Pat now smoked cigars, drank Diet Cokes, and shot the bull on our little porch off the master bedroom upstairs.
“You’re early, Berns,” I said. “Pat’s still in his office working. Don’t bother him, okay?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Bernie assured me. He then meandered to the kitchen as he always did when he came over. Every day, he’d go through any pots, pans, or foil-covered containers I’d left out or had simmering on the stove. Bernie had no qualms about dipping a spoon into our supper, or cutting himself a slice of cake or pie, even if I’d planned it for a dinner party and tried to hide it from him. He poked around at the roast, tasted the broth, and nodded in satisfaction, then got a Diet Coke out of the fridge. “Boy, have I got some good gossip,” he told me with a wicked grin. “You gonna join us on the porch?”
Maybe a little later, I told him, after I checked my email. I waved goodbye and went to my office without telling him that I felt a sudden need to lie down, and sooner rather than later. Just as I opened my door I heard Bernie yelling, “Hey, Pat! Get your fat ass out here—I know you’re only pretending to work. Man, I’ve got some gossip you ain’t gonna believe. And about some of your favorite Beaufortonians, too.”
Ordinarily I would’ve chided Bernie for pestering Pat after I’d said clearly that he was at work. Over time, Bernie and I had developed a sort of brother-sister relationship, and neither of us had any qualms about going back and forth at the other. But it was always in fondness, and with good humor. I adored Bernie and had from the first time I met him. Once you got to know Bernie Schein, you found that his zaniness hid a great big heart and a sweet, gentle nature. If I’d fussed at him for bothering Pat at work, Bernie would’ve been remorseful and apologetic. But I wasn’t up to it, so I hurried into my office. Pat might bitch and moan about being interrupted, but he’d gladly put his work aside for cigars and gossip.
In my office the daybed’s under the double windows that face Battery Creek. My computer’s there, making a bright and sunny spot to curl up in and work. But work was the last thing on my mind. Feeling more peculiar by the minute, I hurried over to the bed, moved my laptop stand off, and plopped down. Gone were my plans to check email. I was suddenly too dizzy and nauseated to stand upright. My mind went back to the Lyme disease I’d gotten soon after moving to Fripp. Oh, great, I thought. All I need now, a recurrence. It was always a fear with Lyme’s. When I got the diagnosis, Pat had been upset with me because I’d ignored the angry red circles around the infected tick bite and had only asked him to take me to the doctor when I became almost delirious with fever.
But nothing like that would happen again, I told myself. Pat and Bernie were right upstairs, and all I had to do was holler if I needed them. For now, I needed a nap. If I could sleep for a few minutes, maybe the dizziness would go away and I’d wake up feeling back to normal.
The way the house is laid out, my office windows are almost directly underneath the upstairs porch. Stretched out on my daybed, I could hear Pat and Bernie upstairs lau
ghing and talking, and I saw cigar smoke floating in the air. It was always like that during their cigar hour. On milder days when my windows were open, I’d end up closing them to block out the smoke and noise. Not only did Bernie have the biggest mouth in town, both he and Pat were about half deaf. As the hour wore on they got louder and louder.
If the conversation was especially good, cigar hour would stretch into two or three. I couldn’t count the times I’d been in the kitchen when Bernie came running downstairs in a panic. “Martha’s going to kill me,” he’d yell as he banged out the front door. “I left our supper cooking.” His wife, Martha, worked long hours as a psychologist and put him in charge of the evening meal. Most of the time Bernie either forgot to fix supper altogether or forgot that he’d started it and let it burn.
I tried to nap but closing my eyes made me dizzier, as if the daybed were a raft caught on the tidal surge of Battery Creek. I took several deep breaths to calm myself down. I’d had a couple of episodes of vertigo, several years apart, but vertigo was another thing no writer wanted to deal with before a book tour. A bug, Lyme disease, vertigo—none of those would be a problem if I had to miss the book tour because my publicist had put so much work into it that she’d kill me.
I caught motion outside and watched as our next-door neighbor, Liz, came to stand in the yard outside my window. She put her hands on her hips and glared up at Bernie and Pat on the porch above her. It was another song and dance that I’d seen often. Pat had recently hired Liz, a nutritionist, to help with his diet. Talk about a thankless job! Poor Liz came around with her handouts and readings on nutrition, which Pat pretended to peruse. As soon as Liz left, he tossed them. Sometimes she’d ask to see one of them to underscore some point, and Pat would pretend to look for it, knowing full well he’d thrown it away. But he soon found that Liz didn’t take any bull from him.
Tell Me a Story Page 28
