Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

  Lila, Gracie, and Ryan head through the open door. Past them, I glimpse Catharine, small and pale laid out against her pillow. The drugs seem to have taken away even the glimmer of her usual strength. She barely turns her head in the direction of her grandchildren.

  “Will you be with her in the surgery?” I ask. I keep my eyes down and speak in a low voice. I don’t want Eddie’s wife to notice me, but I want to keep her here, near me, for just a few more moments. I don’t want to let her get away.

  “No, I’m not a surgical nurse.” There is an abrupt silence. I keep my head down, even though I know Nurse Ballen has recognized me. “Mr. Leary?” she says, in a different voice. “My goodness, hello.”

  “Hello,” I say, like an idiot.

  “Are you . . . are you related to Mrs. McLaughlin?”

  “She’s my mother-in-law.”

  The woman standing before me looks dazed. “I was part of the prep team,” she says. “You can be sure she’s in fine hands. Dr. Slotkin is an excellent surgeon. And Mrs. McLaughlin seems to be very strong and alert for a woman her age.”

  “I don’t know what her family will do without her,” I say.

  She tilts her head to the side. I think, Eddie must miss the way she tilts her head. He must miss the way she stands, so straight up and down. He must miss the freckles on the backs of her hands.

  “I’ve wanted to apologize,” she says, “for falling apart in front of you at the funeral.” Her face sags and then pulls back together. It is a horrible moment when her grief shows.

  I should have walked away when I saw her walk out of Catharine’s room. It was cruel of me to stand here and think I could have a conversation with her. The sight of me has brought up what must be the most painful memory of her life. My goal over the last six months has been to alleviate this woman’s troubles, not add to them. I wonder if there is anything I can say to fix this.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice different. “I didn’t expect to see you here. I wasn’t prepared . . .”

  “Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “You just go on with your work.” I gesture toward the nurses’ station down the hall. “I’m going to read a magazine. Gracie and Lila will be out any minute. If we have any questions about Catharine, we’ll ask another nurse. Really. Please.”

  “Don’t say that,” she says. “It’s just a surprise, that’s all. Eddie thought so highly of you. And the flowers you sent. Goodness, I should have thanked you long ago.”

  “No,” I say, horrified. She can’t thank me for watching her husband fall off a roof. I won’t let her. I will change the subject. I will keep talking. I say, “I almost thought it wasn’t you, because of the name tag.”

  She touches the name tag without looking down. “I use my maiden name professionally. I always have. It helps me,” she says, after a pause, “to have a different persona at work. I don’t think about Eddie as much here.”

  “Of course, sure.”

  “When I’m at home he’s everywhere I look.”

  He’s everywhere for me, too, I want to say, but don’t.

  “Louis.” It’s Kelly’s voice. I turn and see her walking down the hall. She has her car keys in her hand and her hair is slightly messed. I see that the sight of me talking to a nurse frightens her. “Am I too late? Have they already taken her in?”

  “No,” Nurse Ballen says, her professional half-smile back on, her eyes growing calm and distant. “You still have time.”

  WHEN MEGGY, Theresa, Angel, Mary, and Dina arrive, all bursting out of one cramped Toyota as if they have been at one another’s throats the entire drive and are now ready to take on someone new, I make my escape. Catharine will be in surgery for at least another hour, and with her two sisters and sister-in-law and nieces and daughters there, Kelly won’t need me. I kiss her good-bye on the cheek. She still smells like she does when she first wakes up, rumpled and like soap.

  “You smell nice,” I tell her.

  She shakes her head so abruptly that her nose hits my chin. I pull back, rubbing where contact was made.

  “I took a shower last night,” she says, sounding angry. “I told you I overslept.”

  “You look fine,” I say.

  “I don’t care if I look fine. We’re in a hospital.”

  “It’s a very common operation, Kelly. Your mother will be one hundred percent in no time.”

  “I know.” She looks at Meggy, Theresa, Dina, and Mary in the chairs across the hall. Mary has a set of rosary beads she keeps fingering. Dina is wearing a ripped T-shirt that has LIFE IS A PARTY! written across it. Angel is on the other side of the hall with her hand pressed against Gracie’s stomach. Lila paces around them all.

  Kelly suddenly looks down. “I don’t want to be here, Louis. Did you notice what Gracie’s wearing?”

  “Should I give her money to buy some clothes?”

  “My father’s cardigan. Don’t you remember? It was his favorite. My mother must have given it to her. Why would my mother give that to her? Why would she wear it?”

  “Probably because none of her own clothes fit her.”

  “I shouldn’t even try to talk to you,” she says. “You don’t want to be here for me. You’re faking it and I’m faking it, too. I’m too tired to pretend, Louis.”

  “I’m not faking anything,” I say. I’ve become used to the way things are between Kelly and me, and I feel only a little guilty. After all, I’m not faking. That’s the wrong word. “But I do need to check on my men. I’ll come right back.”

  “I don’t want you to pretend to care,” she says. “We’re past that. Just leave.”

  Because I can’t bear to look at Gracie for another minute, I do as she asks. I take the most direct route out of the building. Once outside, in the hot, sticky July morning, I concentrate on swallowing the fresh air. As far as I’m concerned, what you breathe inside a hospital is not real air. It is sickness and medicine and air conditioning and ammonia. It is the unholiest combination of molecules and chemicals that can be found anytime, anyplace. Both of my parents died in the hospital, wrapped in tubes and plugged into machines. I spent days sitting beside their adjustable beds, first with my father and then with my mother, drinking lukewarm coffee. I rode in the ambulance with Eddie Ortiz, although he had died long before we reached the emergency room. I hate hospitals.

  “Hey, Mr. Leary,” a voice says. I rub my hand over my eyes. My legs have taken me out into the vast parking lot, but I am nowhere near my car. A heavy young man sitting on the hood of a pickup truck is talking to me.

  “Hello,” I say. The boy looks vaguely familiar.

  “I dropped off your daughter,” he says. “I’m waiting to see how long she lasts in there. I bet her she wouldn’t stay very long. These kinds of family emergencies can be real stressful, you know.”

  I stare at him. I wonder if exiting the air-conditioned hospital into this humid summer day has done something to me. My head aches. “You dropped off Gracie?”

  He shakes his crew-cut head. “Lila.”

  “Oh.” Now Lila has a boyfriend?

  “I’m Weber James. Sorry about that—I should have introduced myself right off. It’s just that I feel like I’ve met you already. You look like Lila.”

  I am placing him now. “You’re a fireman?”

  “One of the full-timers.”

  “I’ve seen you around with Joel Shane.”

  “Yeah. He’s a friend. You probably saw me with him at the Municipal Building. When I’m bored I go with him on the mayor’s espionage missions.”

  Something about the way he offers this information bothers me. In fact, everything about this boy sitting on the hood of a pickup truck in front of the hospital as if he is tailgating at a ball game bothers me. What does Lila see in him? Who are my daughters?

  “Lila’s a medical student,” I hear myself say. “She spends half of her time in the hospital. Why would you think she’d have to leave after twenty minutes?” I force a smile, trying to lighten my t
one. “It just seems like you might be wasting your time out here.”

  Weber swings his legs to the side and, with a surprisingly graceful motion, jumps to the ground. “She doesn’t have very good attendance at school these days,” he says. “So she’s not crazy to spend time in this place. I’m betting she’ll show up soon.”

  I scan the parking lot for my car and find it, dull under the late-morning sun, several rows away. This boy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. “I need to get going,” I say. “Nice to meet you, Weber.”

  “Hey,” he says. “I might have said something I shouldn’t have. I have a hard time keeping track of what Lila’s official story is about school. I might have blown it big time. Can you just pretend I never said anything?”

  I am already a few steps away. I have to turn to hear him. My head is killing me. “No problem.”

  “Thanks, man. I owe you one.” Weber’s face cracks into a smile, and I see in it the joy and the youth I saw in Lila’s face earlier. I nod in the boy’s direction, and then weave my way across the hot asphalt.

  I HAVE no intention of leaving the parking lot right away, which makes the presence of Weber even more irritating. I can’t very well sit in my parked car while he sits on the roof of his truck a few yards away. I don’t know him, but I am pretty sure he would see that as an invitation to come over and continue to chat. To avoid that possibility, I turn on my engine. I pull slowly out of the parking space. As I take the car out of reverse, I see Lila. She slams out of the hospital door and pauses, just like I did, to breathe. Then she heads across the parking lot, book bag swinging from her shoulder, toward Weber. My only consolation, as I pull away, is that she does not look happy to see him.

  I drive around to the other side of the hospital and into the portion of the parking lot that is reserved for the medical staff. I easily locate Eddie’s big white Cadillac. I drive past it and find a parking space near the hospital exit. I turn off the engine but leave the radio on, and settle in to wait. I heard Nurse Ballen tell another nurse that she was off at noon, which is a half hour from now.

  I listen to the local news on the radio. The anchor lists the road closings in the county, the sites of major construction, the governor’s ambivalence toward the expensive renaissance of the city of Newark. I think about how Newark, just ten years ago, was more frightening to drive through than the worst sections of Manhattan. It was dirty and run-down and full of gangs. Every day at major intersections in broad daylight cars would be hijacked, people shot, drugs sold. I would never let my girls go anywhere near Newark. But now, thanks to a new arts center and new businesses and talk of a hockey stadium, and lots of money, Newark is becoming a golden place. Full of hope and promise. It is amazing to me that in my lifetime I have seen the rebirth of a city. Anything can happen, and sometimes anything does. It makes me think about what I can do for Kelly. Perhaps I will bring an ice cream back to the hospital with me this afternoon. A triple-header of her favorite flavor, pralines ’n’ cream. She is bound to forget to eat, with all the commotion of her family. The idea of handing her the white bag with a cup of ice cream inside pleases me. I can practically see her smile.

  When Eddie’s wife leaves the hospital, she is not wearing her uniform. She has on gray slacks and a short-sleeved blouse. Her hair is down. She carries a large purse, as most mothers of young children do. I have seen her, on other days, pull amazing things out of that purse. A sandwich for her son, a doll for her daughter, an entire newspaper or an apple or a fat novel for herself. Now she takes a pair of sunglasses out of the purse and slides into the white Cadillac. She drives out of the parking lot, and I follow her.

  My men used to make fun of Eddie because of his car. They called it the pimp mobile. Eddie called it a classic. When I got pulled into the teasing, I would only say that I’d never understood why anyone would buy a white car. Like white carpet, a white car shows dirt too easily. There is no way to hide or diminish its bumps and scrapes, and it’s hell to keep clean. Eddie washed the damn car twice a week, though, and it was always gleaming. It is clear that his wife no longer abides by that practice. The white has grown grimy, and there is dirt streaked across the windows. I am two cars behind her, and the glimpses of dirt bother me. We approach a car wash, and I think, Turn in, turn in. But she drives right by. We hit a traffic light and I watch to make sure her reflexes are good. I know she must be tired after the night shift, but she doesn’t show it. She’s a good, solid driver.

  I worry that I upset her this morning more than she showed. I have seen a comment from Catharine or one of the girls set Kelly off for days. I know how sensitive women are. And Kelly has never suffered a loss like Nurse Ballen has. She has not felt that kind of pain. I hate the idea that I might have sent her back there, reeling toward an abyss. I know from what I’ve seen that this woman is very strong, but still, everyone has a breaking point.

  As we turn onto her street, it occurs to me that I now think of her as Nurse Ballen, not Eddie’s wife or Mrs. Ortiz. She has a new name to me. Noreen Ballen. She pulls into her driveway and I slow down, pretending to be interested in a house a few down from hers. She gets out and kicks the car door shut with her heel, adding another scuff mark to the white paint. She follows the short walkway from the driveway to the front door. There are weeds poking through the cement, and the lawn needs to be cut again. I make a mental note to send over one of my guys with a lawn mower when she is at work. Now she looks tired to me. Her blouse has come untucked in the back. There is a thin stain of sweat on the fabric between her shoulder blades. It is half past noon, which means she can sleep for only two hours before her kids are dismissed from school. She stands at the front door for a minute, the key idle in her hand, before she lets herself into the house. She crosses the threshold with her head down.

  I can feel, sitting behind the wheel of my truck, the effort it takes Nurse Ballen to go inside. To walk into the loss, the memories, the grief, the life that no longer exists. I can feel all of that. It washes over me, so heavy and viscous I can hardly breathe. I shake my head, trying to shove the sensation away. I am angry for a moment that I have to feel this for a woman who is essentially a stranger. But then the anger is gone, too exhausting to hold on to. I watch the shades in her bedroom window clatter down like rain out of the sky, and then turn back toward the hospital.

  GRACIE

  I have not gone to work this week. I have not read any letters. I have not turned on my laptop. I have not returned Grayson’s phone calls. What I have been doing is sitting at home in my bathrobe when it is not visiting hours and sitting beside Gram’s bed at the hospital when it is visiting hours. Nurse Ballen says Gram is doing very well, but it doesn’t seem that way to me. She is going through the motions, and doing what she is told, but she’s not really there. She is quiet and she avoids my eyes and she sleeps much more than I would have thought possible. She seems like a totally different person, like an old lady who has taken over my gram’s body. Some of this behavior is the drugs, I know, because Gram says things to me, particularly in the first forty-eight hours after the operation, that are inexplicable and strange.

  “My mother turned on the television.”

  Even though I want to reason with her and draw her back to me, I don’t want to argue with everything she says the way Mom and Aunt Meggy do. “Maybe there was something your mother wanted to see.”

  “No. She did it to get me in trouble. She did it because she knew I didn’t want her to. She is always doing that to me.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Saying things I don’t want her to.” Then, suddenly, Gram is asleep again. Breath slides steadily in and out from between her parched lips.

  Aunt Meggy complains that the hospital staff is abusing Gram because they force her back on her feet only one day after her operation. A rehab nurse comes in with a walker, practically lifts Gram out of bed, and insists she walk into the center of the room and then back to the bed. Even with the drugs, Gram’s face is drawn and
her green eyes watery as she takes one shuffling step after another.

  “You’ve just cut her open with a knife and rearranged her bones,” Meggy says. “She’s old and hurt. Can’t you give her a few days of rest, for God’s sake? Is there someone with a brain around here that I can talk to?”

  Standing behind Meggy in the corner, watching Gram’s eyes swim with tears, I agree.

  Meggy sees me nodding, and says, “Shut up, Gracie.” Even though Angel seems to have forgiven me for refusing to give her my baby—she has been nothing but sweet, asking after the pregnancy, acting as if my situation is a positive one—Meggy has not been so kind. Nor has she given up the cause. She has made it clear that as far as she is concerned, my child will, by some means, go to my aunt and uncle.

  Nurse Ballen enters the room then, and Meggy turns her eyes away from my big stomach. Nurse Ballen explains that it is critical to get Gram moving as soon as possible so that she doesn’t lose any of her strength, flexibility, or capacity to walk. She explains that if Gram stays immobile now, the odds of her recovery will be cut in half. She says that this is a critical and dangerous moment in Gram’s health, and that if we can all point her in the direction of her pre-fall self, she will have a better chance of reaching that goal.

  Nurse Ballen’s talk seems to make Meggy feel better. At least she leaves the room and stops yelling. I am left alone with Gram, who is back in her bed now, eyes closed. But Nurse Ballen has made me feel worse. To me she seems to be saying that Gram is lost, and all we can do is force her to stand up and force her to eat and hope that she comes back to us. I need more assurance than that. I need more than just hope. I need Gram.

  I SIT by her bedside through every visiting hour for the five days that she’s in the hospital. At the end of the week she will be moved to a rehab hospital, where she will stay for two weeks before she returns to the assisted-living center. I read to her from magazines, then baby books, anything I think might get a response from her. I even try, toward the end of the week, to read some of my letters and answers to her. Ordinarily, hearing an expert opinion on feeding or bathing an infant would get some kind of rise out of Gram, who does not believe in expert opinions. And any mention of my column, or the letters from my readers, brings a snort of disgust. But I get nothing from her now. If she’s awake when I enter the room, she says hello, and she says good-bye when I leave. Other than that, she sleeps or looks out the window. The view is nothing to look at. The tops of a few trees green with leaves. A sliver of sky.