Pascal's Wager

by Nancy Rue

  I smeared the annoyance off my face and looked up at him. “Okay,” I said. “If you think it’ll help, I’ll move some stuff over here and I’ll be here as often as I can. But Max, I have to keep up with my research or I don’t graduate. I have to teach or I don’t get paid.”

  “I know, I know, and I’ll be here to help you. You think I’m going to leave you alone to handle this by yourself?”

  I could sense the hug coming. Mercifully, the doorbell rang, and I leaped up like I was off to do the broad jump. When I threw open the front door, a silver head peeked at me over the top of two large cardboard boxes.

  “Brought her things by,” said a sandpaper voice.

  “Burl,” I said, because that was all I could remember of his name. “Come in, please.”

  Max presented himself, still stuffing his handkerchief into his pocket, and the two of them exchanged introductions and hauled the rest of the boxes into Mother’s study, which I had been keeping closed since her second day home when she’d gone in and pulled everything out of the drawers.

  “This was really nice of you,” I said to Burl.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  Max sighed heavily.

  “Not good, huh?” Burl said.

  “No, she’s not doing well,” I said.

  “Can I say hello to her?”

  This man never ceased to surprise me. “Uh, well, you could, but she’s already gone to bed.” I said lamely, “But some other time—maybe during the day when you’re not working. Of course, she sleeps a lot, but, you know, maybe between naps.”

  “I’ll call first,” he said.

  After I let Burl out, Max gave another weighty sigh.

  “That was a genuine human being,” Max said. “That was a beautiful thing he did.”

  “You know something?” I said. “He’s the first person who’s been here to see Mother since she came home from the hospital.”

  The next day, after my afternoon tutoring session with Tabitha, my plan was to hightail it over to Escondido and pack a small bag so at least I wouldn’t have to run back and forth so much. It was the closest I could actually bring myself to moving in.

  I couldn’t even handle Mother when she was in her right mind, I thought as I went up the stairs in Sloan Hall to pick up my mail and messages before I left. How am I supposed to deal with her now that she doesn’t even know what to do with a fork unless somebody puts it in her hand?

  “Jill.”

  It was Nigel. I hadn’t checked in with him all week, but I wasn’t due for a meeting with him until the following day. Still, I suddenly felt like the kindergartner with telltale chocolate all over her face.

  “Meeting tomorrow, right?” I said. “And I will be at the seminar. And I put fliers in everybody’s boxes about the teaching seminar November 10 and…I think that’s about it.”

  “How are things going at home?” he said.

  Did the man never give up?

  “They’re going as well as can be expected,” I said. “We’re all adjusting.”

  He patted my arm and moved on. I had the urge to resolve a chord again.

  I went on to my box and found a pink While You Were Out slip on top.

  Sam Bakalis called, it said. Please call him back at—There was a number, but I didn’t read it. I crumpled it up into a little pink ball and tossed it into the trash can on my way out.

  It was a particularly rough night at Mother’s. She was already asleep when Freda and Max left, and I propped myself up in the chair in her room with a stack of student homework papers and tried to concentrate on the polynomials that swam before me. No sooner had I actually maintained some kind of focus than Mother suddenly sprang up out of bed as if she’d had a nightmare—except that her eyes were expressionless. I would actually have loved to see some terror in them, or even some contempt. I’d have given a week’s worth of research if she’d just said, “What are you doing here, Jill? Do you think I’m an invalid?”

  But she just hauled her leg out of bed and started to stand up.

  “Mother!” I said, lunging for the crutches. “You need these. Where do you want to go?”

  As if she were going to tell me.

  She brushed the crutches aside, face still stony, and tried to dodder in the direction of the door. Two steps and she was headed for the floor, with me hanging on to her from behind, barely able to keep either one of us upright.

  “If you’d just tell me where you want to go, I’ll help you get there!” I said. “You have to work with me here!”

  Slowly, she turned her head to face me. Her eyes searched mine, and her lips moved. I hardly dared breathe.

  And then she opened her mouth, and she laughed. It wasn’t Liz McGavock’s low, throaty chuckle. It was some kind of giddy, childlike gurgle that clutched at me.

  “What?” I said. “What’s so funny?”

  The laugh disappeared as abruptly as it had come, and Mother held out her arms for me to prop the crutches under them. I followed her to the bathroom and waited outside the door. At least she could still do that by herself. Nobody had mentioned when we would be moving on to diapers, and I sure wasn’t going to bring it up. In fact, when it came to anything related to Mother, I wasn’t looking any further ahead than the next hour.

  I finally got her back into bed, and I turned out the light in hopes that she’d drift off again. But we went through the same routine about four more times. I vowed the fourth time I was putting her back into bed that if it happened again I was going to insist on knowing whether she had diarrhea. I couldn’t ever remember my mother and I discussing our bowel habits before. I was so groggy by then, I found myself wondering if she had ever deigned to change my Pampers when I was a baby or if I’d been forbidden to ever wet them.

  This time she appeared to be exhausted and finally fell into what seemed to be a deep sleep. I curled up in the chair and was out myself within seconds. The next thing I knew, the sun was streaming through the front window.

  I bolted up on the chair, knocking homework papers across the floor. Mother was still in her bed, but there was an eerie sound coming from her direction. It sounded like she was wheezing.

  I slipped across the strewn papers and leaned over her. She was wheezing, and her chest was heaving as if every breath was a struggle.

  “Nobody said anything about this,” I said. “Mother, wake up. Are you okay?”

  I shook her gently by the shoulder, but she didn’t stir. The next shake was harder, and the third was strong enough to have rattled her teeth. I grabbed her by both shoulders and tried to sit her up. When I did, something tumbled off the bed and rolled across the floor.

  I looked down at it in horror. It was a prescription container—empty.

  I already had one hand on the telephone when I snatched up the bottle. Lortab. The pain medication.

  My trembling hands probably would have registered on the Richter scale as I dialed 911.

  Freda II arrived about the same time the ambulance did, and I met her on the front lawn.

  “How many of these were left?” I said, waving the prescription container in her face.

  “We only used about half of those,” she said. “Ever since I started giving her ginger and turmeric and that pineapple enzyme, she hasn’t needed those.”

  “She took half a bottle of Lortab!” I said to the paramedic who was running toward me.

  He snatched it from me and followed his partner into the house with me on their heels.

  “Where were you keeping them?” I yelled over my shoulder at Freda II.

  “I put them in the medicine cabinet.”

  “Right where she could get to them.”

  “I didn’t think she’d want to get to them. You remember how she used to fight me when I’d try to give them to her.”

  “She doesn’t know what she wants!” I said, tearing up the stairs behind the paramedics. “Can’t you get that through your head?”

  “You know, your hostility doesn’t work f
or me, Jill,” Freda said.

  I stopped so abruptly on the steps that she ran into me.

  “And my mother taking an overdose doesn’t work for me,” I said. “You better start swinging your crystals and hoping she doesn’t die.”

  It was iffy for the next few hours. I paced a path in the floor of the ER until Dr. Fenwick came out to tell me Mother was finally stabilized.

  “Can I take her home?” I said.

  “After I convince psych that it wasn’t a suicide attempt. I think we ought to give it twenty-four hours anyway.” Fenwick was watching me. “Jill, do you think it’s wise for you to try to keep her at home? If she’s a danger to herself, you almost have no choice.”

  Don’t tell me I have no choice, pal, I thought. That’s the worst thing you can say to me.

  “You need a ride home?” he said.

  I glanced frantically at my wrist, but I hadn’t even put my watch on.

  “She’s going to sleep for a while,” he said. “Why don’t you go home, get cleaned up. I’ll have someone give you a lift.”

  “No, I’ll just catch the shuttle to campus,” I said. “I’ve got to get to work.”

  Mindless that I’d thrown on sweats over my pajamas and had shoved my feet into a pair of sandals, I thanked Dr. Fenwick and ran for the parking lot. I arrived just in time to see the shuttle pulling away.

  The idea of standing there waiting for the next one was unbearable, so I started to jog for the next stop. That lasted just long enough for me to realize that it was pointless to try to run in sandals, and I reluctantly slowed to a walk and tried to sort myself out.

  Okay, Mother’s fine. We’ll lock up all the medicine. We’ll put a padlock on the bathroom door. That’s all I can do for now.

  Think work. I can get some of my own work done this morning, then run home and shower before class at eleven. No, all my stuff’s over at Mother’s. Okay, I’ll drive there.

  In what? The Miata’s already over there—

  “Need a ride?”

  My head jerked up, mouth ready to snap out a refusal. It was Sam Bakalis, peering out of the window of some foreign-made Jeep wannabe.

  “Are you okay?” he said.

  I wanted to say, I will be when you move on, but I just didn’t have the energy.

  “I’ve been better,” I said. “I’m trying to catch the shuttle.”

  “Why don’t you let me give you a lift? It’s the least I can do.”

  I don’t know whether it was because I was stunned or because I already had a large blister forming on my instep, but I nodded. He pushed the passenger door open for me and dumped a stack of folders into the backseat so I could sit down.

  “Car trouble?” he said.

  “No.”

  As he eased back into traffic, his glance went from the rearview mirror to me. “Look,” he said, “I don’t know if you got my message. I tried to call you at the math department because I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “I wanted to apologize.”

  I had to stare at him. He did look slightly droopy—shoulders curved, eyes not quite so bright behind his glasses.

  “For what?” I said. “You have a right to your opinion.”

  “But I don’t have the right to insult you with it.”

  “I wasn’t insulted,” I said.

  “You don’t do this often, do you?” he said, laughing through the words in that way he had.

  “Do what?”

  “Lie.”

  I “wasn’t—”

  He was grinning.

  “Okay, I was insulted,” I said.

  “So was I.”

  “Why? What did I do?”

  The sparkle was back in his eyes. “Actually, you started the whole thing,” he said, grinning. “But that didn’t prevent me from being the bigger person and calling to apologize first.”

  I wanted to put him in his place. I really did. But I was just too tired. All I could do was halfheartedly tousle my hair and sink back into the seat.

  “You’re not okay, are you?” he said.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. I pasted on a smile. “I will be as soon as I can get organized, but right now, I’m in a bit of a muddle.”

  He didn’t say anything, which I appreciated. At least, until he had to ask me where I wanted to be dropped off.

  “I’m going to the math department,” I said. “Sloan Hall.”

  “Sure you don’t want to go somewhere and have a cup of coffee first, before you get organized?” he said.

  I shook my head, and for some reason that I still can’t figure, I started to talk, my voice wooden. “My mother was recently diagnosed with Pick’s Disease. It’s a rare dementia—it’ll take away her mind and everything else with it,” I continued, voice toneless. “In the wee hours this morning, when I was supposed to be watching her, she got into her pain medication and overdosed on codeine and had to be rushed to Stanford Hospital, where they pumped her stomach. Now I practically have to have a court order to get her out of there. Meanwhile, I have just enough time to decide whether to continue this fiasco of taking care of her at home. Just drop me off at the corner there—” Because I feel like a complete idiot. Why did I just dump all of that on him?

  Sam pulled the car up to the curb and turned to look at me. There wasn’t a trace of pity in his eyes. He merely looked sad.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “You must be in a ton of pain.”

  “I wouldn’t call it pain—” I started to say.

  He put up his hand. “Look, I see why you came to me with questions. Now that I have more information, I get it.” He reached inside the tweed blazer he was wearing over a knit shirt and pulled out a card and a pen.

  “I want to give you my home phone number,” he said. “So in case you want to start that conversation over again, you know where to reach me, day or night.”

  I didn’t have the urge to toss it back in his face when he handed it to me, so I took it. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Just call me if you want to talk.”

  For lack of anything better to say, I muttered another thanks and climbed out of the car. As he drove off, I crumpled up the card. After all, what was the point? We had tried to carry on a discussion twice, and we’d ended up at the same place both times—in the pulpit.

  I looked around for a trash can, but I didn’t see one, so I stuffed the crumpled card into my purse.

  The first person I saw when I got to my office—avoiding the front desk altogether and going in the back door—was Tabitha. There was no eluding her. She was leaning against my office door.

  “Uh, hi,” I said.

  I barely looked at her as I drove the key into the lock. She was very definitely looking at me, however.

  “Hi,” she said. “I know I don’t have an appointment, but I thought if I caught you early enough—”

  “Tell you what,” I said, “we’ll go over the homework in class today before you turn it in so you don’t have to worry.”

  “It’s not about that,” she said. She tilted her head sideways, hair spilling over her cheek. “I just wanted a chance to thank you for everything you’ve done for me. I told my parents all about you, and my mom sent this for you.”

  I was so preoccupied that I hadn’t noticed she’d been holding something behind her back. She presented it to me with a flourish, face beaming. I half expected a bouquet of dandelions or a drawing for my refrigerator door. But it was a box, and whatever was inside emitted an incredible aroma.

  “Oatmeal raisin,” Tabitha said. “They’re the best. You like raisins, don’t you? I mean, some people don’t, but I thought since you came from California you probably did. But if you don’t like them you can pick them out—”

  “I have no intention of doing anything of the kind,” I said. To prove it, I stuffed half a cookie into my mouth and closed my eyes as I chewed. It was so moist and flavorful that I knew it had to be made from scratch. I had expe
rienced enough of Max’s cooking to know homemade when I tasted it.

  “You like?” Tabitha said, her big eyes shining.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  I reached for another one, and her face broke open into a wide smile.

  “Come on,” I said, motioning toward the box. “Take one. I hate to eat alone.”

  “No, these are for you.”

  “Take one. I’m your teacher. I’m ordering you to. Your grade depends on it.”

  She snatched one up and sank into the chair I pointed to. I sat on my desk and munched.

  “Ms. McGavock, could I ask you a question?” Tabitha said. She was nibbling daintily—in sharp contrast to my gluttonous consumption.

  “Yes,” I said. “That’s why they pay me the big bucks.”

  “This isn’t a math question. It’s a personal question.”

  “Oh,” I said. “You can ask it, but I can’t guarantee I’ll answer it.”

  “Well…are you okay?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Particularly since I’m on my third one of these. Doesn’t your mother just want to come here and live?”

  “I just thought…you look way tired.”

  “It’s the outfit,” I said. “I haven’t showered yet. That’ll teach you to come in here without an appointment.”

  “I just thought the last couple times I’ve been in here—”

  “That I’ve been a witch. Sorry.”

  “No, it isn’t that,” she said.

  Okay, time to nip this little bleeding-heart session in the bud.

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is, then?” I said.

  “It seems like you’re upset—only you don’t want anybody to know it. I don’t think that many people around here care what their teachers are going through, just as long as they get the grades, but, like, I can’t help seeing stuff, you know?”

  “You know what, Tabitha?” I said. “You really ought to reconsider your major. I have just the department for you. Why don’t you check out philosophy?”

  The concerned expression she always wore transformed into bewilderment.

  “Forget it,” I said. “Bad joke. Thanks for the cookies and for the concern. But I’m fine. A little stressed out, but nothing a hot shower won’t cure.”