“It is Saturday night, you know,” the nurse on duty said. “Normally, the doctors aren’t in the hospital at this time.” I told her we had to find out the results of the MRI immediately. She checked the files. There was no record of the afternoon’s test results. I was hyperventilating again. She agreed to call the neurologist.
Ten minutes later she handed the phone to me. For the first time I broke down. He waited patiently until I stopped crying, identified myself, and said Hugo’s dad, a retired neurosurgeon, thought Hugo had a stroke and we thought he was bleeding into his head and didn’t know what to do.
Fifteen minutes after that, the area’s only neurologist, in blue jeans, flannel shirt, and cowboy hat, came in and sat down. Resting one booted foot on the hospital bed, he tipped back his hat and looked at me. “He’s not bleeding into his head, so you don’t have to worry about that.” He turned to Hugo then, lying down, eyes closed.
“How old are you?”
Fifty-two, Hugo told him. He flipped through Hugo’s chart.
“Well, you fucked up big time, my friend.”
At that Hugo opened his eyes and stared at the doctor with interest.
“What are we going to do with you?” the doctor went on. “You’ve had a stroke, a BIG one.”
He let that sink in. I held my breath.
“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Your life is going to change, buddy. Diet—low fat, low salt—and medications, lots of them, for the rest of your life. But you’re going to be okay. You’re going to get better and walk out of here. You’re damn lucky the stroke was on the left side.”
He turned back to me. “Tell his dad to relax. Hugo is not bleeding into his brain. There is no dangerous swelling. There are signs that he had a stroke. Tell his dad that from now on Hugo will need an internist and a cardiologist, but he isn’t going to need any neurosurgeon.”
Hugo was wide awake, observing the doctor intently, and I saw light in his eyes again.
Your problem, the doctor continued, was undiagnosed high blood pressure and high cholesterol. No, I confessed, Hugo did not have an internist. His internist had retired about ten years back and we’d been too busy to find a new one.
The neurologist raised an eyebrow and listed the eleven medications Hugo would take. As soon as he felt better and could walk as far as the nurses’ station, he could go home. He closed the chart.
“You’re Western Shore?”
Hugo nodded.
“Like it here?”
“Yes, until now,” Hugo said.
“Western Shore . . .” He shook his head. “Except for a medical meeting, I haven’t crossed over in twenty years.” He stood up, tipped his hat and was gone.
Hugo reminded me that someone had to take care of the guests and I ought to get going too. He told me how to fix the spotlight that was keeping the airline pilot awake. Take a Phillips screwdriver, loosen a screw hidden below the base of the light, rotate the light, and retighten the screw.
Overjoyed with the good news, I hugged Hugo, headed off to the superstore five miles farther away to buy pillows and pillowcases and from there to the market. For Sunday morning I planned apple-sour cherry crisp with whipped cream, flavored with Rebel Yell for an Eastern Shore touch, along with sausage and toast.
It was late again by the time I got back with the food and nine fluffy, oversized pillows, because I never wanted to hear about pillows again, and distributed three to each room. With a flashlight I went out front and fixed the spotlight.
By now some of the guests were back from the wedding, I saw by lights in the upstairs windows. In the kitchen when I started whisking the cream in a metal bowl, in the silent house in the silent countryside without any cars or planes passing by, it crashed and echoed around like timpani. I carried the mixing bowl, whisk, and bourbon into the office, but now I was directly below the Acorn guest’s bed. Gathering everything up, I went into the bathroom, set the bowl on a dish towel in the tub, and knelt down to whip the cream. The sound of metal against metal bouncing off the porcelain echoed even louder than before. When I tried draping a towel over the bowl, the whisk got tangled in the towel.
I gave up, put the cream back in the fridge, brought the Rebel Yell into the office, lay down on the unmade bed and took a drink. I started laughing, then crying.
The phone rang. Jesus, I don’t even get to cry. It might be the hospital. I sat up and blew my nose. I took a breath and tried to answer evenly. There might be important news about Hugo, a decision to be made.
You don’t sound like yourself, my sister said. “I’m fine,” I lied before giving in completely. “I’m too upset to run the business.”
“Of course you can and you are,” Linda said calmly. She asked about Hugo and about what was planned for Sunday breakfast. Then over the phone her voice dropped to the one I remembered from childhood when we lay next to each other in our double bed sharing secrets and reassurances. “Just think,” she said now in that long-ago voice, “after this, nothing about this business will ever be hard again.”
CHAPTER
17
Sunday Morning
IN THE KITCHEN MELANIE POURED TWO MUGS OF COFFEE while we waited for the guests to show up. Breakfast was all ready, the warm apple-cherry crisp with bourbon whipped cream and country sausages browned to a turn. A tap on the kitchen door startled me and through the screen I saw Julie. I opened the door and she gave me a hug. “Was the grass cut all right?” she asked. Jerry, her husband, had done it in a rush because it was a peak season for his landscaping business. More than perfect, I assured her.
On Sundays her antiques shops didn’t open until eleven, so she came over to help serve breakfast. I hugged her back and pointed to Melanie in the kitchen, promising to call if I needed anything. As Julie left, I shook my head. The busiest people always made time for others.
Back in the house, I put on baroque guitar music softly and opened the dining room doors. Immediately I sensed something different.
As the guests sat down, I poured coffee and tea.
“Everything is just wonderful, we slept so well!” Kayla greeted me.
“Yes, excellent!” Bob added.
The lady from the Linden room spoke up. “It was perfectly warm and comfortable. We didn’t need any blanket.”
“Neither did we,” Kayla said and the two couples launched into conversation. If the Acorn guest had a complaint, she couldn’t have gotten in a word. Although Acorn had requested just coffee because of a wedding brunch, I set out fruit and toast for her and she thanked me, twice.
Bob wanted me to sit down at their table to visit.
How much should a host socialize? Socializing is a big part of why people love or hate the bed-and-breakfast experience. My concept was to let the guests decide. The house party approach, with the guests all sitting together at a big table and being expected to carry on bright, sociable conversation early in the day with each other, and usually with the host as well, was once more or less standard. I never liked it and was relieved to find that, according to recent market research, most guests don’t either.
Now guests were inviting me to join them, but I couldn’t be sure if they were just being polite, doing the expected thing. I had met an ideal bed-and-breakfast host years before, a retired college president who had mastered the role. He made two efficient, scintillating appearances of about ten minutes each, at breakfast and teatime. In the morning he answered questions about guests’ plans for the day and offered ideas about activities, sightseeing, and local politics and culture. “Did you happen to notice all those billboards along the causeway to the island—hundreds of them?” I remembered him saying. “You probably wonder how they got there.” Everyone did and he told the story, which provided a revealing glimpse of this small Virginia town’s power politics.
At teatime, when dinner menus from local restaurants came out, he really shone, delivering witty, informed critiques that all began with, “The best thing they do—” As in, “The best
thing they do is an extraordinary bouillabaisse with fresh local oysters, if you don’t mind a décor of fishnets and plastic lampshades.” And: “The best thing the place across the street does is a pear-endive salad, if you want to pay $17 for it. Of course you can get that very same salad down the way for a quarter the price.”
He helped you understand a place from the inside out and then he was gone. Perfect, I noted at the time, because you always learned something worthwhile from him that you wouldn’t find in a guidebook and he always left you looking forward to his next appearance. The rest of the time you were free to imagine that his house was yours, a romantic fantasy that is supposed to be a central part of bed-and-breakfast charm. This is all yours without any work!
Now I, who scorned the intrusive host, often the only flaw in a perfect bed-and-breakfast stay, was considering sitting down with the guests. If they brought it up again, I decided to make it short. Melanie garnished the plates and I carried them out, explaining that the Rebel Yell was a local custom. Kayla insisted that I sit down and Bob pulled another chair up to their table. I poured myself a cup of coffee and joined them.
Kayla asked how Hugo was and I told her a little better. She squeezed my hand, intuiting that more was wrong than I’d said. Bob reiterated praise for the house, the ambience, and the comfort. Then Bob, Kayla, and the Linden guests took turns asking me about the history of the house and the business itself. Like my ideal host, I tried to give short, insightful answers and looked for a way to turn the conversation in their direction.
At the first opportunity I asked Bob if I might ask him a question. He seemed amused.
What would you like to know?
Had he been in the military, like many airline pilots, and in Vietnam?
Yes.
Did he fly the hundred missions over the North?
“Yes. How do you know about that?”
The only pilot I knew who had been in Vietnam flew the required hundred missions to qualify to go home. After he did it, they changed the rules and he had to fly more exceedingly dangerous missions. He became so upset about the rule change that he developed a heart murmur and lost a promised airline job. Instead, he went to medical school.
“I got mad, but not that mad,” Bob said. “Other things make me madder.”
Such as?
“The new rules.” He was holding back.
Security issues? the Acorn guest asked.
That’s only part of it, he said. “It’s guns. Everyone’s allowed to carry guns when they come on my airplane except me. I am not allowed to carry a gun. In the old days we were like ship captains. Many of us carried a gun just in case something came up.” Everyone stopped eating now to listen.
“My gun’s locked up—well, that’s great. If someone tries to hijack my plane, what am I supposed to say? ‘Excuse me while I go unlock my gun’? Why even have a gun on the plane if it isn’t available?”
“So who can bring a gun on a plane?” Acorn, who had been about to leave for her brunch, asked, sitting back down.
“Who? I’ll tell you who.” She had asked the right question and he was warming up.
“Marshals can bring guns on my plane. So can the FBI. So can the Secret Service, the Forest Service, and postal inspectors. Any of them can walk onto my airplane carrying a loaded .357 magnum and they aren’t even trained how to shoot it in flight. I’m the only one who’s trained to shoot a gun on an airplane but, remember, my gun’s locked up.”
Bob pushed back his chair, standing up. “Worse than that, someone legally carrying a gun on my airplane may not know that someone else legally carrying a gun is on board.”
“I work for the federal government,” Acorn said, “and I doubt they wouldn’t know.”
“So, what if one of them decides to get something out of a travel bag?” Bob leaned over to demonstrate. “As this person reaches down for his bag, which is under the seat in front of him, he leans way over, his jacket falls open and now anyone can see his gun!” Bob patted his pocket where the gun might be.
“What if someone else on the plane who sees this has a gun, too? Then I could have a gunfight on my hands and, don’t forget, my gun is locked up.”
Soon everyone was discussing planes, safety, whether we’re a country that travels too much, the effects on family life, and so on. Eventually I remembered my duties and excused myself while the guests continued the conversation. It was time to get their bills ready. I had almost forgotten that these people were supposed to pay me.
CHAPTER
18
Coyote Dreams
SUSIE PHONED EVERY DAY UNTIL HUGO CAME HOME and then she and Scott walked over with her homemade rolls and he carried lettuces from his garden so perfectly formed they looked like a bouquet of russet-edged green roses. Hugo seemed to gather strength from telling them about his scrape, although as soon as they left he lay down exhausted, and slept the rest of the day.
There were no bookings for the next weeks, so I set up office work on the dining room table while Hugo watched TV and napped. He woke up from these naps confused and I had to remind him where we were and why. He had trouble keeping track of time and became convinced that I changed all the clocks when he wasn’t looking. He couldn’t take his pills, the eleven pills a day that would save his life, our life together, and our dreams.
“Look at your watch,” I suggested when it was time to take the pills. I set the bottles on a tray with a glass of water. He looked at the bottles, but didn’t open them. I sat down beside him, opened each bottle, checked the dosage and handed him the pills one by one. We got through three before he needed more water. He swallowed slowly. I avoided looking at my watch.
The next time I went out I picked up two plastic pill cases at the drugstore, each with seven compartments clearly marked M T W T F S S. Problem solved.
“I’m not using those things,” Hugo said the minute he saw them. “They’re for old people.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Do you want to die?”
He answered by clicking on the TV.
Even with the pillboxes, which I refilled every Sunday night, I watched over him taking the medicines. Too much blood thinner and he would bleed to death, too little and he might form more blood clots and have another stroke. The scariest of these high-powered medicines was the one that regulates heart rhythm. Too much of that one and his heart would stop, too little and he would have more arrhythmia, which could also trigger another stroke.
My own heart started fluttering, an unnerving sensation like a tiny bird trying to escape from inside my chest. Hugo sensed the toll his bad luck was taking and started trying to refill the pill cases himself. Pills spilled on the desk and floor, rolling under dusty furniture, and as I crawled around on my hands and knees trying to find them all so the cat wouldn’t eat them, I tried hard not to cry. This phase seemed to go on forever and to extend forever back in time. There had never been anything but this. We were frozen in one awful moment.
One morning I sat down impatiently when it was time for him to take the medicine, and forced my eyes away from the clock.
“You can relax now,” Hugo said. “I can take the pills myself.” I watched him closely. He got it half-right. When I pointed out the mistake, the second box of pills unopened, his pride was hurt and he tossed the box in the air.
After that I waited until he was in bed for the night to check if the right boxes were empty. Two months later, when he called up and ordered his own refills from the pharmacy, I checked every other day. I still didn’t trust the recovery. Whenever he went out, even to the garage, I insisted he take along his cell phone. When he tried to nap, I woke him up every fifteen minutes to see if he was all right. The shadow of his almost-death filtered into every corner of my mind. Life, I dimly perceived, will never be the same. Toughen up, I tried lecturing myself. Kiss life before the undertoad good-bye.
He had trouble separating dreams from reality and woke up shouting
that the house was collapsing on Buck as he tried to jack it up. He dreamed that a hawk got Annabelle, our little black-and-white cat. Fully grown, she was the size of a large kitten and Hugo worried about her more than anything else. At least he’s alive, I reminded myself, struggling to keep calm as I tried to think how I could juggle my day job and the bed-and-breakfast and look after Hugo. Because the doctors said he would recover completely, I went ahead and booked reservations, including a wedding party a year off, and sent out confirmations. Closing down the business, an obvious solution, could be bad for his psyche and his health. Most evenings Hugo sat down at the table where I worked and watched. He looked at the reservation book and the unopened bills and rearranged the envelopes. Weak and tired, he was alternately euphoric about being alive and depressed.
“Do you know what warfarin is?” he asked me almost daily, referring to the blood-thinning medicine. “It’s rat poison. I’m a fifty-two-year-old white male being kept alive on rat poison.”
As time passed, he said it more lightly and gradually I realized he meant it as humor. I laughed. At that he tried it out on the kids when they called. “I gather he’s feeling better,” Ethan observed with relief in his voice.
A few weeks after that I went back to my day job. Returning home from the office, I discovered that Hugo had booked a room and noted it in the reservation book, albeit in barely legible writing. His bills, now opened, were organized by due date and he even paid a few. Casually looking over his shoulder at his checkbook, I saw that he had forgotten to record the checks, so I opened the envelopes, he recorded the amounts, and we taped the envelopes closed. His handwriting slanted up across the checkbook page far outside the lines, but it marked a change.
The House at Royal Oak Page 13
