Kassie checked the clock again. Almost five-thirty and still no sign of a doctor or Mike. The other couples had already left. Leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes, she inhaled, imagining the rest of the day, starting with getting Mike out of the hospital as soon as possible. She calculated they’d need to head home by ten at the latest.
The pit stop to the ER was not on her agenda. She wanted to get on with the first day of the rest of her life, starting with the Red Sox game. A couple of months ago Kassie was invited to sit in the company box at Fenway. Under the circumstances, she declined the invitation. Instead she’d called her ticket broker and bought bleacher tickets for two.
4
Truthiness
Just before dawn. Kassie’s mind roamed as she slouched in the waiting room seat and struggled between drifting to sleep and staying alert.
At first, lying to Mike was so much out of Kassie’s comfort zone, she’d break out into a clammy sweat and call Annie, her BFF since fourth grade, for moral support. Annie, who had dubbed her “Bad Kassie” during the stepfather years, accepted Kassie’s deviousness as her survival apparatus. Along with that, Kassie developed and sustained into adulthood a quick wit that caused her to roll back her tongue like Ally McBeal on more than one occasion. The moniker stuck.
“Cinderella may have had a wicked stepmother, but I had a wicked stepfather,” Kassie confided to Annie. “He’d beat me for talking back, he’d beat me for not eating Cream of Wheat, he’d beat me just for the sake of beating me. Once, he choked me until I passed out because I fibbed about eating my lunch at school. Wouldn’t you think I’d have learned never to lie again?”
After her mother divorced him when she was a young teen, Kassie rarely lied except for an occasional white lie. Yet there she was, a full-grown woman lying as easily as she breathed to her husband for goodness sake. For her sake. What will Mike do when he finds out? Choke her? Not likely. He was more of a Boston bully than a Boston strangler.
Soon after her marriage to Mike soured, Kassie brought her mother into her circle of trust. Much to her despair, her mother often stuck up for him, encouraging her to hang in there and work things out.
“He’s a good man, KO. Don’t hurt him.”
But she hurt, inside. In the last years before her mother died, she complained to her how their marriage was clinging to the edge of a cliff, hanging by a threadbare bungee cord. She and Mike had grown apart. Doing less together. Tending to their own needs, rather than each other’s. When did they last hold hands? Five years ago? Ten? It didn’t matter anymore.
They’d developed their own interests. Hers mostly centered around her career, and sports—Red Sox, Patriots, of course. His around his business, and . . . what were Mike’s other interests anyway? She realized she didn’t know what floated his boat anymore. For sure, it wasn’t her.
Kassie long held a philosophy about marriage she’d share with anyone who’d listen, especially at cocktail parties after a couple of Cosmopolitans.
“Marriage is work. Hard work,” she’d say to a small group of friends gathered around her. “Many of us married folk take for granted we’ll be together forever. And if not, that’s okay. Divorce is too easy. If, however, marriage was a five-year renewable contract, dissolvable by either party at the end of the term, just think about it, maybe the fourth year would serve as a wake-up call. Either make it or break it.”
“What are you a lawyer now?” Mike would interrupt her, rolling his Paul Newman-blue eyes, suggesting to her that he’d given up on their marriage. Sometimes she wished he hadn’t.
The waiting room provided Kassie no refuge. Ambulance sirens jarred her back to real time. Sliding doors screeched open and a bell ding-dinged. Tommy Thompson rushed a woman past the admitting desk. The woman gripped the arms of the wheelchair as a rather excited man hurried in with a tote bag slung over his shoulder. Kassie assumed it was her husband, but these days, who knew? It didn’t matter.
Staring out the window at the twinkling lights of the city, she wondered if their marriage would’ve thrived if they’d had children. Did she stop trying too soon? Should she have pressured Mike to adopt?
Where was all this melancholy coming from? Hospital-induced memories? The intoxicating influence of a sleep aid? The anticipation and fear of telling Mike she wanted out?
“Mrs. Rizzi.”
No response.
“Mrs. Rizzi.” And then more sternly, “Kassandra Rizzi?”
She turned toward the voice, rubbed her tired eyes, and saw a short bald man with glasses standing in the waiting room doorway. He’s really short. Shorter than me.
“Do you mean, Ricci? If yes, it’s Ricci, which means curly in Italian, then yes, I’m Mrs. Ricci.” She bumbled and rose to greet him.
As this small man approached her, she wondered if they made special lab coats for him. He must be a technician.
“Hello, Mrs. Ricci. I’m Dr. Alexander. Pleased to meet you.” He offered his right hand.
“Oh! Doctor! I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. And mostly I go by my maiden name, O’Callaghan, but you can call me Kassie.”
She continued to babble. “When I hear Mrs. Ricci, I think someone’s talking to my mother-in-law. But that couldn’t possibly happen now because she’s dead.” She giggled. “And you said Rizzi, so I didn’t hear you right away.”
“Mrs. Rizzi. Kassie. Please sit.” The doctor sat down and leaned toward to her. “You’re obviously concerned about your husband and understandably you’re tired. You’ve been here half the night waiting to get some news.”
“Yes, that’s true. Is he ready to leave now?” She resituated her body, taking back her space.
The short doctor continued his long explanation. “I appreciate how stressful this must be, and I know our waiting room isn’t as comfortable as your living room.”
What’s with this guy? Just answer my question.
He droned on about the damn waiting room. “You’d think we could at least get a television installed here. With all the budget cutbacks, we were lucky to replace some of the old furniture. We can barely order Q-tips,” he said with a half-grin and raised eyebrows.
Oh, that’s reassuring. Let’s suspend with the pleasantries already, shorty, and tell Bad Kassie what’s going on.
She inhaled deeply and tried to gain control of her tongue before she embarrassed herself.
Switching gears, Kassie noticed his full name on his badge, Dr. Samuel Alexander. Kassie adopted her mother’s practice of putting professionals like doctors and lawyers on an equal footing by addressing them by their first name, if and only if, they called you by yours.
She had already given him permission to call her Kassie. The name calling should be reciprocal in her mind. She wondered if he went by Sam or maybe he preferred Alex, which was always an option when a person’s surname could also be a first name.
“Dr. Alexander. May I call you Sam?”
“But of course. But most people call me Alexander. Some even call me ‘the Great.’ You know, Alexander the—”
A smile danced on her lips, though she was frustrated with his dillydallying.
“Seriously, Doctor, where is my husband? What is going on with him? When can I see him and take him home?”
“Well, Mrs. Ricci . . .”
Finally, he’d gotten her name right. They apparently reverted to formalities. This wasn’t boding well. The great doctor went on.
“It’s possible your husband’s kidney disease is progressing. But we’re waiting for Dr. Singleton to arrive. We called him, and he said he’d be here after the test results came back. Some results are in, but we expect Dr. Singleton will want to run more.”
The waiting room became a whirling dervish. Trying to process his words, Kassie closed her eyes, leaned into his space, and then tilted her head toward him.
“Excuse me? What did you say? His kidney disease is progressing? What kidney disease?”
“Oh dear. You are unaware of your husba
nd’s illness, I gather.”
“You gather right. Tell me more, Doctor.”
“Mrs. Ricci, under the circumstances, I’m unable to continue. The privacy laws, you know, even protects spouses.”
Privacy, schmimacy.
“That’s hogwash.” Kassie stood and snagged her briefcase. Her cellphone dropped to the floor with a thud. She picked it up, checked it hadn’t cracked, and out of habit clipped it to the waistband of her jeans, covering it with her turtleneck.
“Where is he? I’d like to see him now if you don’t mind. I need to get to the bottom of this.”
The doctor looked up at her, his forehead furrowed. “Maybe that’s not a good idea right now. He’s had a rough night. I don’t think he’s had any sleep.”
“He’s had a rough night?” Bad Kassie burst onto the scene. “I guess you’d say I was stepping out on the Ritz then, eh, hanging out in this posh waiting room? Let me be the judge of whether or not I should see him.”
Dr. Alexander stepped back on his heels, his eyebrows rose above his glasses.
Sensing she may have crossed a line, she consciously switched tactics. “Okay. I promise not to upset him.” She crossed her heart and lowered her voice. “I’ll stay calm. But I need to know what’s going on and what we’re going to do about it. When will Dr. Singleton get here?”
“If you promise not to alarm your husband and say anything rash, I’ll take you to see him. Agreed?”
Kassie nodded and tweaked her ear lobe.
As they left the waiting room, she noticed the pink sky in the distance. It was a new day. Good Friday. Would it be a good day . . . or a bad day? It mattered.
Kassie was grateful to see Mike was alone in the examining bay. Not a private room. No such thing in emergency rooms. More like a horse stable, with one stall after another.
Mike opened his eyes as the doctor walked in with Kassie close on his heels and half-smiled at her, reminding her of when she’d catch him watching porn. Explaining his porn habit was one thing, justifying hiding his kidney problem quite another.
Abiding by her promise, Kassie softened her approach. “Hey, babe, what’s all this about?”
The doctor jumped in. “Mr. Ricci, I think you should know I was unaware you had not shared your health condition with Mrs. Ricci. As is hospital custom and protocol, I intended to give your wife a full update on your situation ahead of Dr. Singleton’s arrival. As I was talking with Mrs. Ricci, though, it became apparent that you had not advised your wife of the problems you’ve been having and the treatments—”
“Treatments, what treatments?” Kassie demanded, her eyes boring into the doctor and then Mike for answers. So much for her promise. It was off the table.
“Please don’t be alarmed,” Mike said. “I’ve got everything under control. Sit down. I’ll tell you what’s going on. Alexander, can we have a few minutes alone here?”
“I’m sitting down. Alexander said you have a kidney disease, and that it’s progressing. What does he mean? How can that be? It must be a misdiagnosis. Maybe the tests are wrong. He thought my name was Rizzi, not Ricci. Maybe they got the test results crossed.”
“There’s no mistake. I do have chronic kidney disease. This is probably just a flare up, not a progression. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Flare up? Progression? Conclusions? What the hell, Mike, I don’t even know where to begin.”
Kassie put her head in her hands, trying to think fast.
“Look at me, Kassie. I never wanted to worry you. I thought I could take care of it myself. But I’m not the superman you once thought I was. I’m not able to jump buildings in a single bound anymore.”
Superman? Who’s he kidding? Not even close. She bit Bad Kassie’s tongue and refrained from bursting his bubble, giving the short doctor time to wisely leave the scene.
“This is no time to joke. You’ve been lying to me. For how long?”
As Mike frowned and shifted his weight, the sounds of a strumming guitar reverberated from Kassie’s waistline.
“Are you going to get that? Who’d be calling at this hour, and on your day off?”
Kassie stood poker-faced. She didn’t have to look; she knew by the ring tone. But she looked anyway. Her caller ID read Topher. The redeye from San Francisco had landed.
5
Here’s Ricci
The jig was up. Mike waited in the emergency room cubicle alone, staring at the ceiling tiles, counting them one by one. Wearing just a light-green-striped johnny coat, Mike felt a chill, the kind that’s difficult to shake unless you had socks on your feet. But no, Kassie insisted he wear flip-flops. With no blanket in sight, he reached around his neck and then his back to be sure the strings of the hospital gown were tied. One was not, so he fixed it. Maybe that would help.
On the positive side, he was relieved that tests done in the ER would take forever. The longer it took, the better. He needed time on his side.
“How will I explain this to Kassie?” He shook his head, glancing at the IV the nurse just inserted. He’d succeeded at hiding his illness. Until now.
Getting up during the night to pee without disturbing Kassie was a big challenge for a couple of years. The damn waterbed sloshed with his slightest move. He wanted to get rid of it, swap it for one of those trendy Sleep Number beds, but Kassie wouldn’t hear of it. Sentimental value. Great sex; memories of great sex. Distant memories.
How long had it been since the waterbed had seen any real action? How long had it been since he and Kassie had seen any? Three, four, maybe five years? His passion for her had faded gradually, though he couldn’t remember exactly when. Didn’t seem to matter to Kassie, which was fine with him.
After he’d turned fifty, Mike put on a few pounds here and there. The ol’ beer belly many middle-aged men battle, he’d convinced himself. An active lad in his younger days, he played softball, tennis, squash, racquetball. He held his own with a racket in his hand and a ball to hit. Football and basketball, on the other hand, reminded him of hand-to-hand combat. To be honest, he avoided most sports like the Ebola virus, turning Kassie down whenever she invited him to join in her running, yoga, meditation exercise routine.
Laying there shivering, he covered himself with the sterile white sheet so as not to expose himself to the world. With two monitors humming alongside him, Mike focused on preparing to meet the doctor.
He remembered he was looking forward to the long weekend when he’d gone upstairs to bed. Kassie was going to the Red Sox game with folks from work, which meant he’d have the house all to himself. A little tinkering around the house, a little beer, a little porn. Good times.
Kassie had gone to bed a couple of hours earlier. Mike assumed she was already asleep. As usual, she lay facing away from his side of the bed, her breathing measured. She claimed he snored like Amtrak at full speed. Total exaggeration on her part. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? Rather, he was convinced she’d turned her back on him in direct response to his tossing and turning and getting up so damn frequently to pee. Sometimes he’d whiz a little, sometimes not at all, despite the ever-present urge to go.
Mike’s first appointment with Dr. Singleton, a highly recommended nephrologist in the area, was two years ago. The doctor ordered routine tests. They both thought it was the proverbial prostate acting up, a common ailment and complaint among guys his age. But that wasn’t it.
Dr. Singleton ordered more blood and urine tests that revealed Mike had a kidney problem. Nothing to be alarmed about. Drugs should take care of it. Mike decided there was no need to tell Kassie. She needed to stay focused on her career, and her travel schedule meant he could arrange follow-up doctor’s appointments when she was out of town. She wouldn’t have a clue. He could straighten this out without her ever being the wiser.
That’s what Mike thought. Dr. Singleton said his tests showed that he had a chronic kidney disease possibly heredity or caused by his high blood pressure. To his knowledge, no one in his family had kidney pr
oblems. It must be a blood pressure issue, he’d decided.
The doctor’s initial recommendation focused on medication and diet. They’d monitor him over time and see if he improved. It would help, Dr. Singleton advised, if Mike could lose about forty pounds and by all means, stop smoking. He gave Mike a firm warning and handed him some reading material. But the words fell on deaf ears, and the pamphlets found their way to the circular file at the office. The first two recommendations—diet and pills—seemed reasonable. It would be easy to explain to Kassie. Most men his age needed to diet and take medication, right?
Quit smoking? Maybe he’d just cut back. He’d tried to quit multiple times before, always unsuccessfully. If he tried hard, he could cut down from two packs a day to one.
“Those non-filtered cigarettes will kill you,” Kassie used to harp on him day-in and day-out. “You’ll make me a young widow if you keep that up.”
After Dr. Singleton’s news, he succumbed to her nagging and switched to filtered. He still enjoyed smoking, but not as much.
As was his custom, Mike fell short of telling Kassie the whole story. He fibbed when he told her all he needed to do was change some of his lifestyle habits—lose weight, cut back on red meat, eat more veggies, drink more water, put the salt shaker away. That should make her happy.
Kassie embraced Mike’s new diet like a challenge, as if she was fulfilling the requirements of a Girl Scout badge. She enrolled in a healthy eating and cooking class and joined Mike in his weight loss program. Of course, she lost more weight than he did.
“Whoever said it’s easier for men to lose weight than women wasn’t married,” Mike would say, letting himself off the hook.
It wasn’t long before Mike observed that Kassie was benefitting from his diet. For a tiny lady who had always battled her weight, Kassie looked mighty fine, sexy, and inviting. But Mike hesitated to pursue her. His guilt and his lies had caught up with him. He’d hoped she interpreted his distance as a combination of being middle-aged and being married for so long. The bloom was off the rose sort of thing. Mike wanted to believe Kassie, too, was disinterested for the same reasons because she hadn’t touched him like she once did in years. There were already so many divides between them. Lack of intimacy was just one more breach.
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