Between Husbands and Friends

by Thayer, Nancy

  “I don’t want to,” Jeremy insists.

  “Well, you see this X-ray here, Jeremy? It shows me that you’ve got pneumonia. Your lungs are congested. I would bet that you’re having trouble breathing. Even more than that cough, I’d bet that you’re working hard just to get breath into those lungs. That’s making you feel tired, like you don’t want to play ball or even go to school. Well, the only way we’re going to get rid of that congestion is in the hospital, with some really powerful medicine that’s going to zap the pneumonia. See what I’m saying?”

  Jeremy nods warily.

  “Let’s go back to my office and get your admission organized,” Wally says. “I need to make a few phone calls.”

  Jeremy takes the doctor’s outstretched hand and walks by his side. Stunned, I follow.

  Once we’re seated in the pediatrician’s office, a pretty young nurse appears.

  “Jeremy? Can you come with me? I forgot to weigh you.”

  I rise, but Wally says, “You can wait here, Lucy. He’ll be right back.”

  Jeremy obediently slides off my lap and takes the nurse’s hand. She shuts the door.

  Wally leans toward me, his face suddenly stern. In his white lab coat, with his thick glasses flashing like some kind of scientific equipment, his sharp scent of antiseptic and soap, he seems frightening and cold.

  “Lucy, Children’s Hospital called me three weeks ago to tell me that Jeremy has cystic fibrosis. I’m so sorry.”

  “Is he terribly sick?”

  “He’s got pneumonia, and with cystic fibrosis, infections in the lungs are always much more dangerous. Look, I’m not trying to scare you. I want him in the hospital because we can get better antibiotics into his system faster than with oral medications, and he needs some fluids, too; he’s becoming dehydrated. Have you told Jeremy he has cystic fibrosis yet?”

  “No. I wanted Max to be with me when I tell him, and we’ve just been …” How do I explain these past three weeks? “So busy.”

  “So you haven’t gone to any of the clinics at Children’s Hospital?”

  I shake my head. “We were on Nantucket …”

  Patches of red blotch Wally’s face; he is angry with me, or frightened. “There are all sorts of things you need to learn. Soon. Things that can prolong Jeremy’s life. That can save his life.”

  I nod meekly.

  “Lucy, this is not the end of the world. Jeremy can have a good life. He can have a long life. But you can’t be a coward about this.”

  “I know.”

  “All right. Let’s get Jeremy into the hospital. I’m going to call ahead. You take this X-ray with you.”

  I phone the newspaper. Max is out and not responding to his cell phone.

  I ask to speak to Roland Cobb: “Tell Max I’m taking Jeremy to Children’s Hospital. He’s got pneumonia. I’ll call him from there.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” Roland asks.

  “Yes, please. Call the high school. Someone needs to tell Margaret where we are. Perhaps after school she could go over to—” My mind stops dead. “Matthew Cunningham’s” is what I usually would say, have always said. Ordinarily I would have spoken with Kate a hundred times by now, arranging for Margaret to be picked up, driven to piano lessons, fed, and tended to. Without Kate there, it’s as if a void opens up beneath me. I can’t even think.

  Roland says, “I’ll have Andrea go to the high school and get Margaret. She can stay with us this evening, and as long as necessary.”

  “Thanks, Roland.”

  Jeremy sleeps and coughs during the ride into Boston. Even though it’s the middle of the day, the traffic along Route 2 is heavy, eight lanes across of rushing vehicles, vans, trucks, cars, Jeeps, swerving in and out of lanes, honking, braking, speeding past. The sun flashes off all the metal hoods and roofs like emergency signals. A red pickup truck cuts in front of me, missing my left fender by inches, and the driver leans out his window and gives me the finger. Startled, I focus on the road. I’m between the lane lines. I’m going sixty-five. What am I doing wrong? Why did that guy give me the finger? I want Kate with me. She’d lean out her window and shout, “Moron!” Or Max would say, mildly, “That wasn’t directed at you, Lucy. He’s just having a bad day. Don’t take it personally.”

  But everything feels personal right now. My heart thumps in my ears, the steering wheel is sticky in my hands, the traffic alarms me, we’re going too fast, we’re going too slow. I want to be there, where Jeremy can be helped; I want to stay away, because once we’re in that hospital, there’ll be no more evasion: Our lives will change forever.

  There’s valet parking at the entrance. Brilliant. Jeremy clings to me apprehensively as I carry him into the emergency room, but he perks up as he spots all the extravagantly colorful giant cardboard fish dangling from the ceiling, seeming to float in the air above our heads. The novelty of the bright rooms and the cheeriness of the nurses carry us through the admissions process and up to the fourth floor where we’re greeted by a cheerful nurse named Cindy who chats with us so pleasantly it could almost seem that we were here to have fun.

  Jeremy flushes with alarm when he sees his room. Max and I should have prepared him, we should have told him about his condition before now. In spite of the mural of animals ringing the ceiling, it is still very much a hospital room, with a high bed set next to a panel of equipment. A whip of self-loathing lashes me. Cindy and I settle Jeremy on the bed, remove his street clothes, tuck him into a hospital gown. Dr. Potter, as lean and leathery looking as a whippet, examines Jeremy, then tousles his hair.

  “Okay, Jeremy, here’s the deal. We’re going to put a shunt in your arm, right here. It will pinch for a moment, but that’s all, and then we’ll be able to hook you up to an IV tube that will provide your body with antibiotics and fluids that will help you get rid of your fever and moderate your coughing.”

  Jeremy’s lip quivers. “Mommy,” he cries. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Sure you do,” I say with false enthusiasm, wrapping my arm around him, wishing I could press him right back into the safety of my own body. “They’re going to make you well. You want that, don’t you?”

  “I want to go home.”

  “You will, baby, but first you’ve got to get all well.”

  He cries, just as I nearly do, when the shunt is put into his vein, but mercifully the nurse is adept and swift, and before we know it, Cindy is attaching a tube from the wall to Jeremy’s arm.

  Cindy smiles. “There. You did really well, Jeremy.”

  Tears spot the ends of Jeremy’s eyelashes, but he studies the IV tube snaking from the wall with some curiosity. “This is kind of like being a deep-sea diver,” he says.

  My brave little boy. “Right! Like the oxygen tubes going into their face masks.”

  “Kind of.”

  The nurse asks, “Do you want to be a diver?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We’ll get you in practice for that,” she says, “but now the best thing would be for you to rest.”

  Jeremy nods obediently, leaning back against his pillows, looking infinitely small and pale. He is very tired.

  “You’ve got your own bathroom, Jeremy.” Cindy opens a door to show us. “And see that big purple chair? That turns into a bed. Your Mom can stay here in the room with you tonight. And I’m sure you’ve noticed the television. It’s got a VCR so you can watch your favorite videos.”

  “This is a cool room, isn’t it?” I ask Jeremy.

  “I guess.” He closes his eyes, then opens them. “Mommy?”

  “I’ll stay right here with you, Jeremy.”

  I stand near him, holding his hand. I’m surprised at how quickly he falls asleep. He’s sick, I realize. He’s really sick. My heart plummets.

  Dr. Potter enters the room, a chart in his hand. “Mrs. West?”

  Jeremy’s asleep, still I stand close to Dr. Potter, wanting to shield my son from the man’s verdict.

  “Okay. I’ve spoke
n with Dr. Calder. I’ve seen your son’s X-ray. As you know, he has pneumonia, and with cystic fibrosis, it can be a real problem. I’m recommending that Jeremy stay in the hospital for a two-week course of IV antibiotics—”

  “Two weeks!”

  “This is not unusual with a CF patient with pneumonia. Jeremy’s lungs are badly congested.”

  “But two weeks!”

  “Perhaps, if you desire, you can learn to administer the IV yourself, three times daily, in which case, if things go well, it is possible that Jeremy could go home in about a week.”

  So many ifs.

  The doctor continues. “We can help you find a home care company who would arrange for a nurse to help you learn how to change the dressing and so on.”

  “I need to sit down.” I sink onto the large purple chair.

  Dr. Potter pulls up a chair. “He’ll only be actually hooked up to the IV three times a day, when he gets his dose. That will take about thirty minutes. Then we cap it off and he can get up and run around, play with the other kids, use the activity room. A physical therapist will be in soon to start Jeremy on chest percussion therapy. She’ll perform it three times a day. You can watch it so that you can do it when Jeremy’s home.”

  “Three times a day?”

  “For thirty minutes. It loosens the mucus, the child coughs it out, it frees the lungs. Your husband will want to learn it, too.”

  “I can stay with Jeremy.”

  “Yes. Twenty-four hours a day. Or his father can stay with him. Where do you live?”

  “Sussex.”

  “About an hour’s drive, then. Often our parents stay at the Best Western next door, take turns so they can shower and change clothes and so on.”

  “Can his sister visit?”

  “How old is she?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Certainly.”

  “And friends?”

  “Anyone younger than twelve is screened at the front desk for health purposes. And of course all visitors are allowed only at the parents’ discretion.”

  “Jeremy’s going to be all right, isn’t he?”

  “We’ll be able to get this pneumonia under control. But cystic fibrosis is unpredictable. We take one day at a time around here. But I assure you, the more you learn about CF, the better for your child.”

  I begin to learn. Late in the afternoon, when Jeremy wakes, a physical therapist begins the chest percussion therapy on Jeremy that she says will become a normal part of our daily lives, as basic as brushing teeth. We tell Jeremy only that it will help loosen the mucus in his chest. I want to wait until Max is with us to tell Jeremy about his illness. Jeremy dozes while I’m visited by a social worker and a nurse. They speak of glands. Secretions. Antibiotics. Enzyme supplements. Medications. Physical therapy. I ask questions, each question leading to ten others. It’s more than I can comprehend. They give me brochures to share with my family and friends and with Jeremy’s teacher. I stare at the brightly colored covers, illustrated with what looks like children’s drawings. Inside, the information is printed in a variety of types and colors, lots of white space, with pictures drawn by children. The information is direct and precise, presented in an unintimidating manner and I’m surprised to find myself wondering who created these brochures. Then I focus on the words.

  I’m reading when our phone rings. I snatch it up. “Max?”

  “How’s Jeremy?” he asks. He’s at his office, I can tell by the general commotion of ringing phones and shouts around his voice.

  “He’s got pneumonia. He’s on IV antibiotics. They say he’ll be here for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks! My God.” He covers the mouthpiece, but I hear him snap at someone: “Not now.” Back with me, he says, “I’m coming in right away. Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “His book. Caleb’s Friend.”

  “All right. I’m on my way.”

  Thirty minutes later, the phone rings again. I hear the cultured, slightly British tones of Phil Bergshon, the minister of the Sussex Congregational Church and a good friend.

  “Lucy. Roland told me about Jeremy. How is he?”

  Phil’s concern flows around me like balm. We’re not alone, I think; our family’s part of a community.

  “He’s got pneumonia. He’s on IV antibiotics. He’ll be in here for a while.” Talking about this makes it a little less terrifying.

  “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all? I thought I’d stop by tomorrow or the next day. I’d like to bring Jeremy a kind of magnetic puzzle that caught my eye in the toy store. It might help pass the time. When he feels up to it, of course.”

  Tears mist my eyes. “Phil, that’s so kind of you. You don’t have to bring a present, but we’d love to see you.”

  Phil’s voice changes slightly. “I was wondering … about Max …”

  “Yes?”

  “I know Max is on his way to the hospital now, as of course he should be. But frankly, Lucy, to be blunt, I’m calling to express my most sincere hope, and I know that the entire community joins me in this, that Max return to Sussex tonight.” When I don’t reply immediately, he adds, unnecessarily, “For the town meeting.”

  You fuck, I think. This is the real reason you called. Wearily I reply, “I don’t know what Max’s plans are.”

  “I don’t mean to appear callous about this, Lucy, when Jeremy’s ill and all that, but you’ve been such a wonderful part of our town for so many years now that I’m certain you appreciate how imperative it is for Max to appear at town meeting tonight. If you and Jeremy could do without Max tonight for just a few hours, you know it will make an inestimable difference in the way the town votes.”

  “Phil—”

  “I know Max has written editorials, and thank God he has. But his presence is so necessary, I’d venture to state that it’s essential. He speaks so well, and is so much respected by the community. He—”

  I don’t want to hear any more. “Phil. I know. I’ll tell Max you called.”

  There’s a brief silence, then Phil’s voice grows honeyed again. “Of course. Thank you, Lucy. My prayers are with you and your family.”

  Jeremy’s still sleeping at five o’clock when Max arrives. He leans over the bed and stares at the little boy’s face, then looks at me.

  “How is he?” Max looks exhausted. The skin beneath his eyes is nearly violet, he needs a shave, his clothes are rumpled.

  “He’s had a busy day.”

  “I brought the book and some other stuff.” Max settles in a folding chair, placing a large bag between us. “Did you tell him about …?”

  “Not yet. I wanted you to be with us.”

  “All right. Thanks.” His forehead furrows. “I guess.” He studies my face. “How are you?”

  “Tired. This is all so complicated, Max. It’s not like Jeremy will be cured by one hospital visit. We’re going to have to deal with it every day. Several times a day. There’s a ton of stuff to learn. How to do percussion therapy on his chest. About medications.” My voice wavers.

  “Okay,” Max says. Reaching out, he takes both my hands in his. “Okay, Lucy. We can do this.”

  I stare at him. “You said we.”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean you don’t want a divorce? You’re staying with us?”

  Max takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’m staying with you. If that’s what you want.”

  “Max. You know it’s what I want.” I’m whispering, as if any change in the atmosphere might scare him away.

  Max rubs the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been thinking and thinking about Jeremy, trying to sort out what would be best for him. He’s the one who matters most, he’s the one we have to protect. Right now, he’s just a little boy, and he believes that I’m his father, and I don’t think it would be right to take that away from him. He’s going to have enough to deal with, with his illness. He doesn’t need the confusion of all the rest of this.” Max looks at me levelly. “Does this make sense to you?”

>   “Yes.”

  “But someday we’ll have to tell him about … Chip.”

  “Yes.”

  “If Jeremy wants to change things later, he always will have that opportunity. We won’t keep anything from him.”

  “All right.”

  “We have to talk with Margaret about all this now, though. We can’t ignore her.”

  “I know. Oh, Max—”

  On the bed, Jeremy stirs and wakes. “Daddy?”

  “Hey, sport, look at you!” As Max stands by the hospital bed, I can see in every line of his body how he wants to pick Jeremy up. Instead he gently smooths Jeremy’s hair.

  “Your bow tie is crooked, Dad,” Jeremy declares. “I have pneumonia. Look at my arm. They put a needle in my vein. It hurt.”

  “Wow.” Max’s voice trembles. He clears his throat. “Does it hurt now?”

  “Just a little. And a lady came in and pounded on my chest and back!”

  “Did that hurt?”

  “No. She was funny. It made me cough.” Jeremy leans back against his pillow, suddenly tired.

  “I brought Caleb’s Friend in. Want me to read to you?”

  “Okay.”

  “Great.” Max undoes his tie, opens his collar, rolls up his sleeves, his movements efficient, masculine, yet domestic, each movement making this room more ours, more comfortable in our lives.

  “Max,” I say, “Phil Bergshon called. He wanted to urge you to come to town meeting tonight.”

  Without hesitation, Max replies, “I can’t.”

  “Well, you could,” I begin, reasonably. “I’ll be here.”

  Max stares at me. “I think this is where I should be tonight. Don’t you?”

  “Yes. Absolutely.” We gaze at each other. There’s so much I want to say.

  “Daddy?” Jeremy chirps. “Where’s the book?”

  Max smiles at me. I smile back.

  “Right here, son,” Max replies, and settles on the bed, pulling Jeremy firmly against him. He begins to read.