“What are you drinking, Pat?” Liz demanded from her spot in the yard.
“Not vodka,” I heard him tell her. “Come see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”
“It better not be Diet Coke either” was her response. “That stuff’s as bad for you as liquor.”
“It’s unsweetened iced tea,” the liar said. He hid his Diet Cokes from her, just like he used to hide his liquor bottles. I never really knew if Liz was fooled by him or not, but I stayed out of it.
“Come up and gossip with us, Lizzie-poo,” Bernie called down.
Liz shook her head. “Gotta take the kids to soccer. I was just checking to make sure no one’s drinking over here.”
“Nobody but Cassandra,” Bernie told her with his high-pitched hyena laugh. “Usually she’s passed out drunk by now.”
Waving them off with a groan, Liz left, and their laughter and yakking picked up again. Whatever Bernie’s gossip was, it must have been good. I tried to get up to go to the bathroom and the room spun. It hit me that I was too dizzy to even sit up. Falling back on the bed, I could no longer deny that something was very wrong. My heart had started to race, really fast, but even worse, I began to sweat profusely. I never, ever sweated. When I had trouble catching my breath and began to gasp for air, that settled it. Oh my God, I thought—I’m having a heart attack!
That had to be it. As a woman in my late sixties, my age was a prime risk factor. A few years ago one of the SSGs had died of a heart attack, and another had survived one on a plane a year or so later. What was it like? the rest of us asked, and she’d described dizziness, nausea, pounding heart, and sweat. Lots of it. She had no history, was lean and fit—a health nut, actually—and was shocked to learn (from a doctor who happened to be on board her flight) that she was indeed having a heart attack that called for an emergency landing.
My problem was, I had a history. Nothing serious, just a congenital valve thing, but I’d be a fool to ignore the signs. Dr. Laffitte would still be in his office, and Pat could drive me over for a quick EKG. Ignoring the vertigo that even the slightest movement brought on, I banged on the window to see if I could get Pat’s attention. When that didn’t work, I managed to raise the window enough to call out to him. He and Bernie were making so much racket that my cries for help didn’t get any farther than the windowsill. I fell back on the bed.
I tried to talk myself down, to take deep breaths and not move again until the dizziness went away, but nothing worked. Matter of fact, things were quickly going from bad to worse. When it hit me that I was actually struggling to remain conscious, I tried not to panic but could feel myself fading out. There was nothing to do but call 911 while I still could. Otherwise I was going to die, and poor Pat and Bernie would come downstairs to find my cold and lifeless body. I fumbled for my cell phone and made the call, then fell back on the bed. “Do not move,” the dispatcher ordered. “Is your front door unlocked? Tell me exactly where you are in the house and they’ll find you. I’ll stay on the phone with you until they arrive. Then hang up, and the paramedics will take over.”
The ambulance got there in a matter of minutes, a shrill siren alerting me to its arrival. By that time I was only half conscious, but I was aware that four muscle-bound men had suddenly filled my room, dragging their equipment behind them. They hooked me up to oxygen and started an EKG. The EMT’s eyebrows shot up when he took my blood pressure. “Off the charts,” he told the others, and I tried to tell him it wasn’t possible. My blood pressure had always been perfect. I heard another one say that the EKG didn’t look good either. Before moving me to a stretcher, one of the young men leaned over to ask, “Ma’am? Are you here alone?”
In a small voice, I managed to tell him that my husband was upstairs. I heard one of them clomping upstairs and calling out, but I don’t remember a lot after that. They wheeled me out, loaded me up, and off went the ambulance to Beaufort Memorial, siren screaming. If I’d been in any condition to think about it, I would’ve assumed that Pat was right behind us. Our car situation never entered my mind, but neither did much of anything else. Everything that happened for the next few hours is a merciful blur.
The comedy of errors that followed I would only hear about later. After I was taken away, Pat and Bernie’s visit went on as it often did, much longer than either of them planned. Neither of them heard the EMT come upstairs or call out to see if anyone was there. We can only assume that the guy stuck his head in the bedroom door and failed to see them on the porch, which is not easily visible from the door. No doubt he’d figured it was more important to get a possible heart patient to the hospital quickly than to prolong a search for the husband. We’ll never know for sure. We don’t even know how long after I left that Bernie and Pat kept up their chatter and smoking, until Bernie suddenly remembered that he’d left something in the oven again.
The sun had set when Pat finally came downstairs. He turned on the kitchen lights, spotted the slow cooker with the roast in it, and decided I wouldn’t mind if he didn’t wait for me to have dinner. After all, I’d made the roast for him, right? It was time for the news, and occasionally we’d eat on a tray to watch the news or a ball game. It was not a practice I encouraged, as Pat well knew, but one he was more than happy with. He took advantage of the fact that I was working late (so he’d tell me later) to fix himself a tray and enjoy the news while feasting on roast beef, onions, carrots, and brussels sprouts. One of his favorite dinners, and his dear wife had fixed it just for him.
Not believing his good luck at getting to watch both the local and national news with as many refills as he wanted and no one to complain about his overindulgence, Pat enjoyed himself immensely. (At least he managed to look guilty when he related the story to me.) Afterward he took his plate in and cleared up his mess. Noticing that the living room had gotten dark, he turned on the lamps. Strange, he thought. His wife was a quiet little thing, but this was unusual even for her.
Finally, my prolonged absence struck him as odd. He called out to me, and when there was no answer, he went to look in my office. It was dark and deserted. Puzzled, he looked in the other rooms in the house, which were all dark and empty. Then he checked to see if my car was outside. Yep, in the garage, where it belonged. He thought I must’ve gone home with Bernie. I’d never done so before, but where else could I be?
Bernie answered Pat’s call in disbelief. “Of course she’s not here, you idiot!” Bernie yelled into the phone. “She’s probably gone to the store or something.” Hearing that my car was in the garage, Bernie grew alarmed. “I’ll be right over,” he said.
When Bernie arrived, he and Pat searched the house again and Bernie had to agree that I definitely wasn’t there. They got flashlights and went outside in a gently falling rain, where they walked all around the dark yard looking and calling out for me. Neither of our neighbors were home, but they tried their yards anyway. Pat told me that they saved the worst for last.
“We’ve got to go to the dock and look in the water,” Bernie told him.
Pat panicked. “No! She couldn’t be in the water,” he argued, but Bernie disagreed.
“It’s finally happened, Pat,” Bernie added helpfully. “Your biggest fear. Living with you has driven a woman to suicide.”
By the time they shone their lights on the water, Pat was convinced that’s what had happened. He was a terrible husband, as his previous wives had often pointed out. Bernie was right. Life with him had driven me to jump in the river rather than face another day.
When their search for a body floating in the water came up empty, Bernie declared there was nothing else to do. He was calling 911, he said, and Pat panicked again. “But—what can they do?” he asked Bernie fearfully.
“Pat, listen to me,” Bernie said and shook his arm to calm him down. “She obviously ain’t here. Something has happened to her, and we’ve got to get help.”
To their surprise and relief, the dispatcher told Mr. Conroy that his wife had been taken to Beaufort Memorial a few hours earlie
r. At first, Pat argued. “But that’s not possible,” he said. “I’ve been here the whole time.” Checking her records, the dispatcher confirmed the details and told them that the EMT had searched for the husband but not located him. Then she said the scary words, possible heart attack.
Pat hung up quickly, and he and Bernie rushed to his car. They’d gone a few blocks when Bernie yelled that the headlights weren’t on. “I don’t know how to turn them on,” Pat yelled back. “I’ve never driven this car before.”
“Then turn around and we’ll get mine,” Bernie said, stating the obvious.
“No way in hell,” Pat said. “I’ve told you before I’m never riding with you again. You scare the shit out of me.”
“Better scared than dead,” Bernie retorted, but Pat didn’t relent. Instead he started pushing any buttons he thought might work the headlights. Bernie joined in, hitting the things that Pat missed. After a few blocks, they’d pushed enough buttons that they finally got the headlights on. But just before they got to the hospital, the gentle rain turned into a downpour.
Pat didn’t know how to turn on the windshield wipers. “You’re a bigger idiot than I thought,” Bernie cried, and Pat told him to shut the hell up. “We’re going to die,” Bernie yelled, “because you’re too stupid to even drive a car.”
After some wrangling, Pat figured out how to roll down his window, so he stuck his head out to see the road. When they pulled up to the covered entrance of the emergency room, Bernie ordered Pat to let him out while he parked the car. “The hell I will,” Pat told him. “It’s my wife in there.”
“Yeah, but you’re already soaking wet,” Bernie said reasonably. “No point in me getting wet too. You park and I’ll meet you in the waiting room.”
Like a dummy, Pat did as Bernie suggested, and Bernie hopped out of the car and ran into the lobby of the ER. Soaked and shivering after finally finding a parking space, Pat rushed into the waiting room and ran to the security desk. “My wife!” he gasped. “Possible heart attack. Mrs. Conroy?”
The guard looked over the list then eyed Pat suspiciously. “Ah . . . Mr. Conroy’s already with his wife. Sorry, sir, but family only.”
“But I’m her husband,” Pat yelled, then it hit him. “Little bitty Jewish guy claiming to be me?” he asked the guard. “I’m gonna kill the son of a bitch!”
About that time, Bernie stuck his head out the door. “Hey, Pat! Don’t worry, she’s okay. Some kind of arrhythmia going on, they said, but not a heart attack. You need to calm down or you’ll have one yourself.”
When Pat turned to the guard and yelled, “I’ve got to see my wife,” Bernie walked out and put an arm around his shoulder.
“She needs her rest,” Bernie, the model of serenity and compassion, said. “They’re going to keep her for a couple of days, so why don’t you go on home? Trust me, I’ve got everything under control here.” The security guard demanded to know what was going on. Even though he’d forgotten to bring his wallet, Pat managed to convince the guard that he was the one who needed to be with me, not Bernie.
“Look at your records,” Pat told the guard. “My wife is Mrs. Conroy, a very Irish name, right? Now, which one of us looks like a Conroy, me or this grinning jackass here?”
Bursting into my room, Pat stood there soaking wet and utterly befuddled. “My God!” he said. “I thought you’d drowned.”
“Looks like you’re the one who’s been in Battery Creek,” I said.
Pulling up a chair and grabbing my hand, he said, “You’re not going to believe what happened.”
“Is it about you and Bernie?” I asked, and Pat acknowledged that it was.
“Then I believe it,” I told him with a sigh.
* * *
Somehow I got back on my feet for the Moonrise tour, though barely. It had been a harrowing time. In the hospital I’d gotten a rather scary diagnosis and was sent to the medical university in Charleston for further treatment. Only a few days before the big launch in Highlands, I had a successful surgical procedure that made everything right again. Through it all, I put on a cheerful, optimistic facade but it took a lot of effort. Pat’s barely concealed concern had been unsettling. If Mister Cool was worried, I thought, then the rumors of my demise might not be exaggerated.
It would’ve made me feel better if my husband had made jokes or teased me about my predicament, his usual way of showing concern, instead of hovering, bringing flowers and plants, and leaving sweet notes while I slept. Because it was impossible for Pat to stay serious for long, the love letters he wrote me always contained at least one sardonic or humorous twist. He might sign off as “one of your many, many husbands,” or declare himself a mere substitute for my ex. A note from that time did neither: The house you provided me is a constant joy and your company I don’t want to live without. It astonishes me and makes me proud that I finally made such a fabulous choice in finding you to share the rest of my life with.
It was only a day before the launch of my book when we finally got ourselves to Highlands. At first Pat was as solicitous as he’d been during my illness, and my apprehension flared up again. Had the doctor told him something they were keeping from me? Be extra nice to her during the short time she has left, maybe? I need not have worried. I’d soon see that the old Pat was back.
My friend Floozie and her husband, Tom, came to the launch party, driving over from their cabin in the scenic north Georgia mountains. After the luncheon and signing, Pat was helping me gather up my stuff when we spotted Flooz and Tom waiting for us. Delighted to see them, I called out, “Get your butts over here and give me a hug.”
As we were hugging and greeting one another, I told them how much it meant to me that they’d come. They’d had their tickets for months, Tom said, but had been concerned that I might have to postpone. “Concerned! That’s putting it mildly,” Flooz interrupted. “I’ve been sick with worry. And K.B.’s so blamed stoic I was afraid she wasn’t telling us everything.”
“Helen Keller not telling everything?” Pat said dryly. “You know better than that.”
“Yeah, right,” Flooz said. Squinting her eyes, she studied me from head to toe. “But seeing you, I feel much better. I’ll let the SSGs know that we can take you off our prayer list.” She then turned to Pat and put her arm through his. “Bless your heart, Pat! I worried about you almost as much as I worried about K.B. I’m sure you were scared to death.”
Pat nodded his head sadly. “Sure was. Matter of fact, I was so worried that I joined Christian Mingle. You know, in case she didn’t make it.”
Flooz and Tom tried not to laugh but couldn’t help themselves. Flooz rolled her eyes and looked at me sympathetically. “Lord, K.B. How do you put up with this man?”
“Hopefully I’m earning a lot of stars in my crown,” I said.
Flooz gave Pat a playful sock on the arm. “I swear, you’re the craziest person I’ve ever met.”
“You want crazy?” I said. “Let me introduce you to his friend Bernie. He makes Pat seem sane.”
“I can’t even imagine that,” Flooz said.
I refrained from telling her that I didn’t have to imagine it—I’d lived through it. But barely.
* * *
After we’d said our goodbyes to Tom and Flooz and returned to the peaceful little house by the waterfall, Pat and I sat snuggled together on the porch, too tired to move. The hypnotic sound of the waterfall lulled us into silence and a sense of serenity I hadn’t felt in a long time. I put my head on Pat’s shoulder and he gave me a squeeze. “I forgot to tell you this morning, but you looked great today,” he said softly. “I should remember to tell you that more often.”
“I need to hear it. Did I tell you what my friend Joan told me last time I saw her?” When Pat shook his head, I told him the story that’d been at the back of my mind that morning when I dressed and primped for the luncheon. “She said I really needed to get my eyes fixed before the tour so I wouldn’t look so tired.”
“Fixed? Wh
at does that mean?”
I leaned toward him and tugged at my droopy eyelids with my fingertips. “You know. Fixed.”
Pat scoffed. “Bullshit. I don’t want you to look different. Can’t we just let ourselves grow old?”
I told him not to worry, I was much too chicken to have anything done. All my droopy places would just have to stay droopy. “Anyway, it’s too late,” I added. “Ready or not, the tour starts tomorrow. First stop, Decatur, Georgia.”
The Decatur Book Festival is held on Labor Day weekend, which seemed an odd time to me. Other writers had expressed similar reservations, but when it grew to be one of the biggest festivals in the country, the skeptics were silenced. The following day at the Downtown Decatur Marriott, I entered my room with a sigh of relief. It’d been touch-and-go for a while, but I’d made it! I sent up a prayer of gratitude to the good Lord and a special word of thanks to St. Raphael, the patron saint of the sick. In my suitcase I found a note from Pat and sat on the bed to read it. Before opening it, I sent up another prayer of gratitude for such a dear and supportive husband. Then I read what he’d written:
Dearest Sandra, I’m proud of the books you’ve written since you got your room with a view. Your talent as a writer is exalting to me and makes me proud to be along for the ride. Now, if you’ll just do something about your f-g eyes. I adore you, Pat.
Chapter 19
Birthday Bash
A couple of years before his milestone seventieth birthday in 2015, Pat had plunged himself into a project that would bring him a lot of personal satisfaction despite the tremendous drain on his time. He’d always been in great demand not only as a speaker but also as a mentor to fledgling writers. Advising and encouraging new writers as well as writing blurbs or introductions for their books gave him immense gratification. Becoming editor-at-large for the University of South Carolina Press’s fiction imprint, Story River Books, enabled Pat to do all those things, and he threw himself into it wholeheartedly. The excitement that came over him after reading a promising manuscript was contagious. He’d come out of his office waving a manuscript, his face aglow. “You’ve got to read this,” he’d say to me, “and tell me if it’s as good as I think it is.”
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