Entering Normal

by Anne Leclaire

This is what it would be like if she lost Zack. An empty room waiting. A space there’s no way to fill.

  There must be a sign she has missed. Or misread. How else could Billy be laying claim on her son? How else could something so catastrophic have happened to her? She hadn’t been prepared.

  “Want some toast? An egg or something?” Rose asks when she returns to the kitchen.

  “Nothing. I’ll just finish my coffee; then I’ll go and change. Visiting hours are at ten?”

  “Ten. You sure you don’t mind driving?”

  “I want to,” Opal says.

  As she is leaving, she hesitates, then grabs Rose’s hand and gives it a quick squeeze. You could knock her over with a whisper when Rose slips an arm around her and tightens it in a hug, holds on.

  SHE IS STEPPING OUT OF THE SHOWER WHEN SHE HEARS THE phone. This time it’s Zack.

  “How you doing, sugah?” Her stomach aches. She cups the receiver close to her head so his voice won’t escape, so she can hold as much of him as possible.

  “Guess what?” he says.

  “What?”

  “Daddy’s taking me to Disney World.”

  Daddy. “What?”

  “We’re going to Disney World. Tomorrow. And Melvama, too.”

  “Well, that’s a big surprise,” she says. So why is she not surprised? “Listen, bud, is Billy right there? Let me talk to him, okay?”

  “Hi, Raylee.” He’s using his cocky, I won tone of voice which just sets her off.

  “What the hell’s going on? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Like Zack told you. We’re taking a trip.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Yes, I can, Raylee. Check with that lawyer of yours. It’s perfectly within my rights to take a vacation with my son.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She knows Billy. The first time Zack throws a tantrum he’ll be looking for a way to ship him back. Billy doesn’t have staying power. “I’m calling my lawyer as soon as we hang up.”

  “You do that. You go ahead and do that. I know my rights, Raylee, and I’m on solid ground here.”

  “It’s Opal, you stupid fuck. My name is Opal.” She slams down the phone and turns to see Rose at the screen door.

  “What’s wrong?” Rose asks.

  What’s wrong? What isn’t? Opal stands in her towel, dripping water on the kitchen floor, and wonders how everything got so mixed up. “It’s Billy,” she says. “He’s taking Zack to Disney World. For five years he’s a for-shit, no-show daddy and now he’s trying out for Father of the Year.”

  What happens next absolutely amazes Opal. Rose crosses to her and takes hold of both her hands.

  “Don’t worry,” she says. “He won’t get Zack. We won’t let him take Zack away from you.”

  CHAPTER 37

  ROSE

  "I CAN STAY,” OPAL SAYS AS SHE DROPS ROSE AT THE “hospital. “If you’d like, I’ll come in with you.” “No. You go ahead. There’s no use in both of us sitting.”

  “You sure?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’ll call me later? Let me know how he is? Let me know if there is anything I can do?”

  “I’ll call,” Rose promises. What can anyone do? Least of all Opal.

  Once on the unit, she stops and checks in with one of the nurses on the morning shift. “How is he?”

  The nurse, a plump, pleasant-faced woman about her own age, checks the chart. “He had a good night.” She smiles. “He’s been giving us a hard time this morning, trying to talk us into letting him have a cup of coffee. That’s a good sign.”

  Rose looks down the corridor. Except for an orderly dumping trash in the bin by the visitors’ lounge, it is empty. She has hardly been able to sleep. She has to talk to someone, someone with experience in this kind of thing. “Last night,” she begins, “when I saw him, he said he wasn’t afraid of dying. He said something about death being ‘the next big adventure.’ ” She pauses, searching for the words that will convey her fears. “Is that normal? Does it . . . Does it mean he thinks he’s going to die?” She has read somewhere that a person’s will to live is a decisive factor in recovery. She needs for Ned to have this will. To not give up.

  “Mrs. Nelson.” The nurse smiles; her voice is reassuring. “You’d be surprised at the things we hear. When your husband came in yesterday, he was very calm, very matter-of-fact, in spite of the fact that he had had a heart attack. That’s not unusual. That’s denial. We often see it when a patient isn’t ready to accept the significance of what has happened. When they don’t get it that they’ve had a heart attack. The truth of it is that when someone says he’s ready to accept death, it’s usually because he doesn’t really believe he’s going to die.”

  Denial. Denial she can handle. It’s losing Ned that she can’t bear to think of. “So he’s going to be all right?”

  “His signs are good. The enzyme test results were what we like to see. I’d say this episode was a warning. Dr. Cassidy is the cardiologist. He’ll be talking to you about diet, exercise, lifestyle changes your husband can make to reduce the chances of this happening again.” She reaches over and pats Rose’s hand. “Why don’t you go on in and see him now? He’s been asking if you’re here yet.”

  “Hey, Rosie,” he says when she enters his room. He looks good, not at all as if he’s had a heart attack.

  “Hi, Ned.” He’s wearing one of those dreadful gowns that tie in back. She makes a note to bring him pajamas. Unaccountably shy, she looks around for a place to put her purse and the things she has brought for him. There are no chairs. They discourage visitors staying.

  She leans over to kiss his cheek, brushing her lips against his whiskers. “You need a shave,” she says. She looks around. There is no bathroom in the room, just a bedside commode. She averts her eyes, embarrassed, and occupies herself by smoothing the sheet. Already she is growing accustomed to the sound of the monitor, reassured by its steady beat.

  “The Sox won last night,” she says. “I brought you the paper.”

  “Did ya get the score?”

  She concentrates on getting it right. “Five to four. Eleven innings.” She flutters around the room, looking for something to occupy her hands.

  “Who pitched?”

  “Clements,” she says, pleased with herself that she remembers.

  She straightens out the blanket, reaches behind his head, adjusts the pillow.

  “For God’s sake, Rosie. Stop fussing.”

  She pulls her hand back, hurt. She’s helpless here. It frightens her, him lying there hitched up to machines.

  “Rosie,” he says. He averts his eyes, and she wonders what’s coming. She doesn’t think she can stand it if he starts up again with that foolishness about “the next great adventure.” She thought when Todd died she had lost everything, but now she knows there is always something more to lose.

  “The pickup. It’s over at Trudy’s.”

  She cuts in before he can continue. She doesn’t need to hear about Trudy. “I know. I picked it up last night.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes. Opal dropped me off there.”

  “You drove it home?”

  “Yes.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Of course, by myself,” she says, irritated.

  He grins. “If I’d known this it what is would take to get you driving again, I’d have had a heart attack years ago.”

  “Don’t you even joke about such a thing.” Once is not “driving again.” Once was necessity. Once was removing his truck from in front of Trudy’s house.

  “Mrs. Nelson?” The nurse beckons to her. “We like to keep the visits under fifteen minutes the first day. Why don’t you go down to the cafeteria, get yourself some coffee. Have you had breakfast?”

  Who can eat? She shakes her head.

  “The food’s not bad.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “Mrs. Nelson,” the nurse says, guiding her dow
n the corridor. “The best way you can take care of your husband is to take care of yourself. Get rest. Eat well. You’d be surprised at the number of care-givers who get sick because they neglect themselves. Ned will need you to be strong.”

  Caregiver. The woman makes it sound like Ned is going to be spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

  In the cafeteria she takes a tray and slides it along the counter. A short-order cook stands ready to take her order. “A bagel,” she finally decides.

  “Toasted or grilled.”

  “Toasted.” Less fat. Already she is beginning to think this way.

  When she returns to the unit, Dr. Cassidy is waiting for her. He’s dressed in a plaid shirt and a pair of chinos. You wouldn’t take him to be a doctor at all. She wishes he wore a white coat, something that would inspire confidence.

  “Your husband is recovering nicely,” he tells her. “He’s filled in some history, but I have a few questions I’d like to ask.”

  “All right.”

  “How has his health been in general?”

  “Good. He’s hardly ever sick. I can’t remember the last time he’s seen a doctor.”

  “What about annual checkups? Has he had one recently?”

  She thinks a moment. “Five years ago. When we changed insurance companies.”

  Insurance. Lord knows what this is going to cost. Are they covered? In the past, Ned tried to go over this kind of thing, but her ears were deaf. After Todd died he wanted to have their wills drawn up, but she refused. She has no idea about their finances or what kind of coverage they have. She hopes it is enough and then is ashamed to be thinking about money.

  The doctor is asking her something.

  “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

  “Has Ned had any complaints lately?”

  “Sometimes he has indigestion. A few headaches. Nothing else. He’d take a few Tums. Some Tylenol. Or Extra Strength Excedrin.”

  “How about his emotional health? Would you say your husband was worried? Is he an angry person?”

  “No.” Anger. If anger caused a heart attack, she would be the one lying on that bed with tubes stuck in her arms and taped up her nostrils, not Ned.

  Back when they were first married, Ned’s anger used to worry her. She believed he had a real capacity for violence and that if anyone harmed her or Todd, he would seek retribution. After the accident, she found this thought comforting. Any day she expected to hear that Jimmy Sommers had been beaten up, both legs broken, ribs caved in, face bloodied, and she took deep satisfaction in imagining this. Sometimes she feared—hoped?—that Ned would do worse than break bones. Now she wonders how she could have so misread him. Or, more likely, how he could have so changed. She knows for sure that she is the one, not Ned, who holds the truest capacity for retribution.

  Last year, she was driving by the garage and saw Ned with his torso half hidden beneath the hood of Jimmy’s new pickup. Jimmy was standing there laughing about something, and his wife sat perched in the front seat. Ned was actually helping his son’s killer while the man’s wife looked on and drank a Coke. The sight sucked her lungs dry. How could Ned allow the boy anywhere near the station, never mind work on his truck? How could he? Later they had had a terrible fight about it.

  You have to learn to forgive and move on, he told her. As if such a thing were possible. As if some things can be forgiven.

  “No,” she tells the doctor. “Ned isn’t an angry man.”

  He finishes up with his questions.

  “When can he come home?” Rose asks.

  “We’d like to keep him here for another day or two. As soon as possible we’ll be get him out of CCU, move him over to the West Wing.”

  “What about when he gets home? Can he go back to work?”

  “That will depend, of course, on him. On how he progresses. My best guess right now is that he’ll be able to start back part-time in four or five weeks. No heavy lifting. Nothing stressful.”

  “What’s to prevent him from having another attack?”

  “Prevention is the best way to prevent,” the doctor says, smiling at his joke. “Low-fat, low-sodium diet, lots of fruits and vegetables. No smoking.”

  “Ned doesn’t smoke.”

  He went right on, ignoring the interruption. “Avoid alcohol. Get regular exercise. He can start by walking a block a day. Not into the wind or uphill. Eventually work up to forty minutes a day.”

  “I should write this down,” Rose says.

  “We’ll go over this before he’s discharged. You’ll be meeting with the team—myself, the therapist, a nutritionist—to go over everything. What I want you to keep in mind is that it’s important you don’t treat him like an invalid. He can live a full life. In every way,” he adds, giving her a meaningful look.

  She stares at him blankly.

  “A lot of people worry about sex after an attack. There’s absolutely no reason that he can’t return to a normal sex life.”

  That is the farthest thing from her mind. What would he think if he knew she and Ned haven’t had sex in five years?

  She doesn’t care about sex. All she wants is Ned back. Whole. She wants to be given a second chance.

  CHAPTER 38

  NED

  VISITING HOURS ARE OVER, AND NED IS RELIEVED. Rose’s constant fussing drives him crazy. It’s his third day in CCU, and in point of fact, everything about the place is driving him crazy. He’s amazed at how noisy the unit is. You’d think they would try and keep a place like this quiet. His room is near the nurses’ station, and sound carries, especially at night. Periodically he hears the equipment cart roll down the corridor. And then there’s the rhythmic banging he has finally figured out is someone stamping charts. Earlier a man from housekeeping was buffing the floor.

  He wants to get back to his life, back to his own bed. He can’t wait to get a good night’s sleep. Here in the unit they keep the corridor lights on night and day, 24-7, as Tyrone would say. And even if you do manage to fall asleep, someone is always waking you for something. He’s had enough blood drawn in the past three days to meet a Red Cross quota.

  The first thing he’s going to do when he gets home is drink a real cup of coffee. None of that decaf shit. Regular is forbidden here, and Rose won’t sneak some in no matter how much he pleads.

  Most of all, he can’t wait to be able to use a bathroom. The commode is damned near impossible. They’ve given him something to soften his bowels, but he hasn’t taken a good crap since he arrived.

  This is his last day in the unit; tomorrow he’s being transferred to Medical West, which will be an improvement. He’ll get rid of this damn IV, the monitor wires. Be able to get up and go sit on the can where a man can have some privacy. According to Cassidy, the cardiologist, he can expect to be discharged after a day or two in the West Wing.

  They’ve told him not to worry, and no one seems to believe him when he says he isn’t worried. He’s heard that he’s the youngest man on the floor and finds consolation in this fact.

  In the morning, he and Rose are meeting with a dietitian and another member of the cardiology team, a “lifestyle counselor.” He wishes they would not make such a big deal of everything and just let him go home. If he has to talk to these people, he wishes he could do it alone, without Rose. Her questions go on and on: What will he be able to do when he gets home? Will he be able to go back to work? If so, when? Should they do more tests? How can they prevent this from happening again?

  The team plans to evaluate his diet, identify the kind of changes he needs to make, get his cholesterol levels down. He isn’t looking forward to any of it. Donuts won’t be on any diet he’ll be seeing.

  He hasn’t been particularly hungry, a good thing since the food here would make a T-shirt taste good. No salt. Reduced fat. Tonight’s dinner—if you could call it that—was baked chicken without the skin. White rice. Green beans steamed to death. Jello. Decaf coffee. Skim milk. Trudy would go out of business if she served food li
ke this.

  He hasn’t talked to Trudy. He wants to thank her for taking care of him, for calling the rescue squad, but he doesn’t have a phone here. He wonders if she has tried to get in to see him. They only let family members on this floor. Of course he can’t ask Rose to call her. He’s tried to tell Rose that he was only giving Trudy a ride home, but she hasn’t let him talk about it. He wonders what she thinks. She can’t think he was cheating, can she? Why can’t they just talk? Get things straight.

  He switches on the bedside lamp. Instantly a nurse—Nancy, the older one with the faded red hair—pokes her head in. She’s the best of the lot, although all the nurses are great.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Do you want a sedative? The doctor’s okayed it.”

  “No.” He doesn’t want to get started on that stuff. He just needs to get in his own bed. Once he’s home, he’ll be able to sleep fine.

  She scans his chart, checks the monitor. “Any discomfort?”

  “No. Just can’t sleep. I’m going to read a little bit.” He picks up the Sports section Rose brought in, stares at it until she leaves, then lets it drop on the blanket. He focuses on the monitor and listens to the beeps, the beating of his heart pulsing on the screen. He concentrates on his heartbeat, counting out the beats. He inhales deeply, waiting for any sign of trouble. All is calm. All is well. A Christmas carol floats through his head. He presses his thumb on the hydraulic button until his head is slightly raised. He lifts both arms above his head, pumps his fists in the air. A sort of early detection system. No alarming increase on the monitor. He concentrates on his chest and waits for any indication of pressure. That’s what he remembers now about the episode. First inkling: a dull, vague ache—not a pain exactly—followed by the heavy, clammy sweat. And then the sudden, intense pressure on his chest. Like a concrete block. God-awful pressure. Then the pain in his jaw. And a fluttering beneath his breastbone, like a trapped bird beating its wings against a cage. Thinking about it now, in some ways that fluttering had been the most alarming. The misfiring of his own heart. Not exactly something a man can reach in and adjust with a wrench.