by Desiree Holt
Resolutely, she dressed in another pair and headed downstairs.
Miranda fixed her chicken noodle soup and tea, so she sipped and chewed as the children ate spaghetti and told her everything about school. She wanted to keep them distracted as long as possible.
“I got to do the puppet for story hour,” Beth bragged.
“But I got to help on the playground,” Andy countered.
And they were off, playing Can You Top This, but in a giggly way, anxious for their mother’s approval.
She couldn’t avoid the topic of Charles for long, however. Miranda helped her with bath time and when they were in their pajamas, she took them both into Beth’s room and sat on the bed with them.
“You know Daddy hasn’t been living here for a long time,” she started.
They nodded solemnly.
“He’s divorced, like Mitchell’s daddy.” Andy’s tone was so matter-of-fact it hurt.
“Well, almost.” What a screwed-up social circle, she thought, where the idea of divorce was so commonplace with children.
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still love you as much,” she told them.
Beth and Andy exchanged a look.
“Okay,” Beth said. Her tone of voice told Julia what she needed to know. At seven years old, the twins had already accepted the fact their father found it impossible to love them, or maybe anyone. How terrible. Damn Charles anyway.
“Well, one of the reasons I’m late is because I went straight to the hospital.” She looked from one to the other. “While I was gone, Daddy got very sick so I went to see him right from the airport.”
Again, they exchanged a look. Sometimes Julia wondered if they weren’t one person split into two bodies.
“Will he get better?” Andy asked after a long pause.
“I don’t know.” Be truthful, she told herself. Lies never helped. “Right now the doctors are trying to figure out what to do to help him.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Beth wanted to know.
Julia took one hand from each of them. “It’s his heart. He’s had a bad heart attack and there’s a lot of damage.”
“Heart disease is the number one killer in America,” Andy recited in a solemn voice.
Oh, my God. What were they teaching second graders these days?
“You may be right,” she said slowly, “but right now we have to wait and see what the doctors say.”
“Can we see him?” Beth asked.
Julia shook her head. “Not just yet. He’s still in a special part of the hospital where children can’t visit. But the minute the doctor says it’s okay, you can see him.”
“Mommy?” Andy’s voice suddenly sounded very small. “Are you going away, too? Are you sick?”
Tears stung her eyelids. “Oh, no, sweetie. Mommy’s just fine. And I’ll always be here for you.”
She gathered them close to her and hugged them against her body. A fierce protective feeling came over her, even as her life unraveled. She hadn’t a clue how to prepare them to see the man who’d projected such strength, now lying white and drawn, surrounded by a myriad of machines monitoring his every bodily function.
Before leaving the hospital, she’d discussed it with Rombauer. He’d advised her as best he could, but he was, after all, a cardiologist, not a pediatric psychologist. He had referred her to one in the office tower next to the hospital, even called the doctor himself. The man had taken the time to come to her at the CICU and evaluate the situation. He’d been unbelievably kind and told her what he could in the abstract. He had, however, predicted the suddenness of their father’s illness and his impending death would require professional care for the twins, and she’d promised to schedule appointments.
Now she made a mental note to see about that tomorrow.
The nausea was creeping up on her again, but she gritted her teeth until the twins said their prayers and were tucked in bed. Then she pulled on a warm nightgown and collapsed in her own room, forcibly quieting her unsettled stomach and falling asleep with images of Luke unwinding across her dreams.
* * * *
The days passed as an unending train, one after the other, linked together. Julia woke early each morning to eat breakfast with the twins and give them the security of her presence to start the day. When the school bus left them at the door each afternoon, she was there to greet them, answer their questions, and eat an early dinner with them.
In between, she was a haunted-looking wraith moving between Charles’s bedside and the CICU lounge, waiting for the brief visits she was permitted, and fighting the nausea and fatigue she couldn’t seem to shake. Each night, she crawled gratefully into bed, falling into a dreamless sleep.
Rombauer made sure to spend a few minutes with her each day, always pragmatic but in his own way supportive. Undoubtedly Howard put him through intense grilling sessions in the evenings, but he never mentioned a word to her.
Miranda was a rock. She grounded them, coddled them, and made them laugh when tears threatened. She was the one constant no matter what happened. Julia was just glad that Charles had not lived at home for some time. His absence wouldn’t be such a rude shock to them as they grappled with the ways their lives were changing.
Julia’s visits to the hospital became divided into five minute and fifty-five minute intervals. Each time she was allowed into the cubicle, she sat beside Charles’s bed, watching him sleep, watching the machines, searching for any sign of response. But she had no intention of sitting there all day. She couldn’t do him any good and the only feeling she had for him was a remote kind of sympathy. What she’d feel for a stranger.
Her call to her parents was less than satisfactory. Her father was just as much a bully as ever and still enraged that Charles had disdained them and cut them out of her life. And the circle of privilege, she thought to herself. Her mother refused to come to the phone. As she’d done all her life, she followed whatever dictates her husband laid down. How disappointed Charles must have been that Julia wasn’t a carbon copy of her mother, addicted to social demands and obedient to every wish of her husband’s.
Her days became a manageable routine, mornings at the hospital with Charles, late afternoons and evenings at home with the children. The hours in between she spent at the office, her only sanctuary. Feeling guilty that so much of the load was falling on Claire, she drove herself in a frenzy, trying to accomplish a full day’s work in a few hours. Claire finally sat her down one afternoon, told their secretary to hold their calls, and shut the office door.
“Enough,” she said. “You’re not Superwoman, nor does anyone expect you to be. The Hot Ticket campaign is moving along and only requires maintenance at the moment. Believe it or not, I can handle the rest until things settle down.”
“I just feel so guilty dumping all this on you.” Julia stared at her friend, misery wrapped around her like a cloak.
“I’m happy to be dumped on. Right now, everything’s under control. Save your strength for when I really need you. Take some time for yourself and spend the rest with the kids.”
“I’m taking them to see Charles on Monday, when they move him into a private room. I think it will be less intimidating for them.”
“Let’s hope Charles will be less intimidating.”
“Claire, for God’s sake. The man is dying. Cut him some slack.” Yet the same thought rattled around in her head.
“Honey, regardless of his physical condition, Charles has a lot to make up for in the way he’s treated you and the kids. Just keep that in mind while you’re running yourself ragged with this.” She scanned Julia’s face carefully before she spoke again. “Luke’s been calling.”
“Luke.” She drew out the syllable. God, how she missed him.
“Yes.” She grinned. “You know, the man with the sexy voice.” The grin disappeared. “He’s concerned about you, sweetie. He wants to talk to you.”
“I can’t, Claire.” Julia felt te
ars gather behind her eyelids. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t push away thoughts of Luke, his warmth, his tenderness, his passion. “What can I say to him? I feel so damn guilty about everything as it is. I’m afraid if I hear his voice I’ll want to dump everything and run to him. I have to think about the twins. I certainly can’t ask him to come here, in this unholy mess.”
“You can dump the guilt, Julia.” Claire made a sound of disgust. “I heard what Rombauer said about Charles’s physical condition. Nothing you did precipitated this attack. Or its aftereffects. Nothing.”
Julia looked up at her friend, pain lancing through her. “Then why do I feel like it’s my fault?”
“Probably because Charles has you conditioned to accept the fact happiness isn’t something you deserve. Call him, honey. Call Luke. He desperately wants to hear your voice for himself.”
Julia shook her head. “I can’t. I couldn’t handle it. I’ll call him when Charles is out of the hospital, my life is somewhat back on track and I can get back to making plans. You talk to him, okay? Please?”
“And what exactly shall I say?”
“Tell him I love him and I’m sorry,” she whispered and fled to the powder room.
Despite her continued fatigue and the incipient nausea that never seemed to ease, despite the ache in her heart for Luke, whom she forcibly banished from her thoughts, she somehow managed to prepare herself to be compassionate with Charles. He was ill, he was dying, and she was ready to provide whatever support he needed. From a distance. She would forget the emotional wasteland of the past eight years and do her best to give him aid and comfort. Perhaps the heart attack would make drastic changes in his personality, give him a new outlook on life.
Yeah, right. She knew that only happened in fairy tales.
Those first couple of weeks turned out to be the easiest. Charles remained in CICU and heavily sedated. Their communication consisted mainly of him squeezing her fingers whenever she placed her hand in his. Besides, what could happen in five minute visits?
When they moved him to a private room, the heavy sedatives were cut back. Charles grew more alert, and she discovered if anything, he was more irascible and domineering than ever. He criticized everything, bullied the nurses, and bemoaned his situation. Julia, of course, was the repository for his venom.
“Why do you do it?” Claire asked. “For all intents and purposes, you aren’t even married to him anymore.”
“I feel so guilty,” she cried for the hundredth time. She blew her nose. “Jesus, I’m turning into a whiner and a dishrag. Smack me, will you?”
“I would if I thought it would do any good.” Claire studied her, eyes filled with sympathy. “Julia, Luke calls every single day. The man is in torment. Please, please, please just give him one call.”
“I can’t.” Julia turned away. “If I hear his voice, I’ll lose it.”
“Honey, he’ll wait for you until this is over. You know it. All he needs is one word from you. Why are you so insistent on punishing yourself? This is not your fault.”
Maybe she didn’t deserve any happiness. She’d made such a poor choice in her hungry need for a family and stability. Now she was paying the price.
“I’ll see.”
“Charles will probably be dead in six months.” Claire’s voice was hard. Pragmatic. “Are you going to give up what appears to be the best thing ever to come into your life for some idiotic notion of wearing a hair shirt?”
“And exactly how would I explain to my children when their father was dying, I was planning my future with another man?” she snapped.
Claire threw up her hands. “I give up.”
When Julia finally brought the children to see Charles, it was emotionally exhausting for everyone. Despite her careful preparation, walking into the room and seeing the reality of the situation was a terrifying experience for Andy and Beth. The smell of antiseptic and the lingering odor of illness permeated everything.
Their fear of the situation was palpable, and Charles, totally self-involved, did nothing to ease their panic. Julia forced herself to keep her voice and attitude cheerful and reassuring, but she was happy when they could escape to the car. Beth and Andy were deathly silent on the drive home, and not even Miranda could coax a smile from them.
She spent the remainder of the afternoon and evening at home with them. When she called Charles to tell him she wouldn’t be back until the next day, he simply growled, “Fine,” and slammed down the phone. But Julia knew the twins needed some guarantee their lives hadn’t crumbled away and left them adrift. She would have to be their anchor, their refuge, their source of comfort. But she couldn’t do it alone, and Miranda wasn’t the answer.
The next morning she called the pediatric psychologist and scheduled appointments.
Charles resented the time she spent away from him with the children and didn’t hesitate to let her know it. He dealt poorly with his situation, finding fault with everyone and everything. Julia realized one day with sudden clarity he was terrified of dying. She knew the death sentence pronounced on him paralyzed him with fear. She tried to convince him to seek professional help, to have someone more qualified than she to guide him through this, but he turned a deaf ear.
Religious support was out of the question. The last time Charles was in church was for their wedding, and then only under protest. He considered organized religion a challenge to his self-control. Rombauer recommended two therapists he deemed excellent, with extensive experience with dying patients. Charles took the slip of paper with their names, tore it into shreds, and dropped the pieces into the bedside wastebasket.
“Can they give me back my life?” He vibrated with anger. “Unless they can I’m not interested in seeing them. It’s a waste of time.”
It was obvious he was looking for an assurance that wasn’t there, a guarantee he was immortal, had been misdiagnosed and would wake up the next morning sitting at his desk reviewing a legal brief.
His partners visited in a preselected rotation, usually in the afternoon so she was spared any contact with them. Rod McGuire and Carter DeWitt were carbon copies of Charles—autocratic, dictatorial, and unmoved by the bumps and hurdles of life. The qualities making them good litigators also made them unlikable human beings. Julia was sure they blamed Charles for disrupting their perfectly oiled legal machine. Rod, especially. His longtime personal connection to Charles made him a bitter adversary. Sometimes she wondered if there wasn’t something deeper than just friendship, some event or series of events that bonded them together.
She was late leaving one morning and Rod showed up early for his visit. He stepped out of the elevator as she stood waiting for it and blocked her from moving.
“Charles could have done a lot better than you.” Venom scored every word. “I’d actually be happy for him to divorce you, but his parents are scandalized by the thought.”
“Why?” She raised her chin in defiance. “They hate me as much as you do.”
“For the same reason Charles has refused to sign the papers. The legal entanglements with the children would be enormous. You screwed him out of a lot of money, Julia, but there’s a lot more where that came from and he’s not about to let you get your claws into it.”
Her jaw dropped. “But the children. He has to provide for the children.”
“Yes, and if he could do it without providing for you he would. People in our circle don’t divorce, Julia. They swallow shit and move on. Trust me. If I could find a way to wash you out of his life, I would.”
She stepped into the elevator as the doors closed, trying to absorb everything that had been said. Her life had turned into a B movie, so absurd normal people wouldn’t believe it. She was still trying to make sense of it all when she walked out of the hospital lobby.
She brought the children on Christmas Day, bearing perfectly wrapped gifts, but it was an ordeal they were happy to be done with.
She was about as far from the hol
iday spirit as it was possible to get. Fortunately, Miranda took care of all the holiday things at home, to keep the twins distracted. She even put up the tree and had Andy and Beth help decorate it. She took them to see Santa Claus and chauffeured them to children’s holiday parties. It kept them occupied and gave Julia breathing room.
Her balance, however, tipped over the morning she found Rombauer waiting for her at the nurses’ station.
“Mr. Patterson is napping right now,” he began, “so I thought this would be a good time for us to chat.”
“About?”
He walked her to an alcove where a couple of chairs and a table had been placed.
“Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“No, thank you.” She tightened her grip on her purse. “I’d prefer it if you just said what’s on your mind.”
“All right.” He dropped into the chair across from her. “It won’t be much longer before we’ve done everything for your husband we can do at a hospital. His status will change to long term care and he’ll need to be discharged.”
“Discharged?” Where was this going? “But… I mean, his condition…”
The doctor nodded. “Yes. His condition. He needs to be in a place where his medications can be monitored and he can get the kind of daily care we don’t provide here. I can recommend excellent home health care services that can help you.”
Panic surged through her, nearly choking her. “Dr. Rombauer, despite what’s happened, Charles and I have been separated for months. Our divorce is nearly final. What about his parents?”
God knew they had plenty of room and money to care for their precious son.
“I’ve spoken with them, but Mr. Patterson explained to me how delicate his wife is and what an emotional strain this would be for her.”
Delicate? Elise? Julia wanted to laugh hysterically.
“His condition will continue to deteriorate,” Rombauer continued. “His organs will fail. He will be bedridden for whatever time he has left. They feel even with help it would be more than they could deal with.”
