by Donna Fasano
Chapter 16
Health nuts are going to feel stupid some day,
lying in hospitals, dying of nothing.
~Red Foxx
Lauren opened her eyes, instantly wide awake. Moonlight cast a silvery glimmer across her bedroom, pulling long shadows from the dresser, chest of drawers and chair. She sat up and looked around the room, alert and listening for whatever it was that had snatched her from sleep.
A barely audible hum droned from somewhere in the darkness. After listening closer, she was able to make out what sounded like a murmuring voice.
She tossed back the blanket and sheet, glancing at the bedside clock to see the green glow of 3:04. Her robe and slippers were nearby, and she slipped into both before heading to the bedroom door.
Once she'd stepped out into the upstairs hallway, she realized that the low mumbling was the sound of a television infomercial. Her dad must still be awake, or he'd fallen asleep and left the TV on.
When she had arrived home from the barn, she'd found a note from him saying that he and Norma Jean were going out to dinner and that she shouldn't wait up for him. He'd been like a changed man since Norma had entered his life. Less grumpy. And there'd been fewer complaints. It had almost become a pleasure to share the house with him. Almost.
The small smile whisking across Lauren's mouth faded when she remembered feeling relieved that he'd been out. The incident at the barn had left her feeling guilty and upset, and she knew her father would have picked up on her unsettled state.
She'd showered and changed, had tried to eat. Finally, she'd taken a few briefs to her room and climbed into bed with them and a cup of steaming chamomile tea. Her dad still hadn't come home by the time she'd started yawing and snapped off her light.
The oak banister was cool against her fingers as she descended the stairs.
Do you ever cut your gums on that sharp tongue of yours?
Greg's angry question reverberated in her head, and as it did, guilt gathered like a fist in the pit of her belly. Arrogance was such an ugly, offensive trait. She had always thought of herself as a confident person, but she never in her life would have believed she could be labeled as egotistical or presumptuous or contemptuous. Yet, she'd been all of those things and more when she'd talked to Greg this afternoon—no, when she'd talked at him. Yammered at him, really.
When she thought back on the high-handed, holier-than-thou lecture she'd given him, a lecture she'd actually identified in her own mind as good advice. She shook her head, utterly nauseated by her behavior. She'd taken one snippet from her conversation with Jo Leigh and twisted it into a tangled mess. Her eagerness to see Greg as irresponsible and careless and, yes, even foolish, had completely blinded her to the fact that she just might be misconstruing Jo Leigh's comment.
From the base of the stairs, Lauren could see her father's sock-covered feet propped up on the raised base of his recliner. The television announcer urged his viewers to call the eight hundred number within the next ten minutes or risk losing the opportunity to own The Incredible Shed Stopper for the family dog or cat.
She entered the living room, and one look at her father's anguished expression had her rushing to his side.
"Dad? What's wrong? Where are you hurting?" The fact that he was in pain was clear. Sweat beaded his upper lip and forehead. His face and neck were pasty, his chest heaving with short, labored breaths.
"Heart's pounding," he finally ground out. He grimaced then, pressing a palm to his chest as if trying to scrub away the pain. "Hurts like the dickens."
"Don't move," she ordered. "I'll call for help."
Lauren raced to the kitchen, only to find the base of the remote telephone empty. She scanned the countertops and table, and then rushed into the dining room to check there. Snatching the phone off the table, she punched in the emergency number with trembling fingers. The operator's composed voice did nothing to calm her.
"Yes, this is an emergency; I need an ambulance," she barked, stringing the sentences together. "My father's having a heart attack."
She reeled off her address as she made her way back toward the living room. A second, more powerful, dose of adrenalin shot through her when she saw her dad's eyes were closed.
"Dad?"
His skin felt clammy to the touch when she curled her fingers around his wrist to search for a pulse. The beat was thready and swift. His eyelids fluttered open, and fear clouded his hazel eyes. Lew Hunkavic had never been afraid of anything; the tension on his stark face made her feel helpless, and more frightened than she'd ever felt in her life.
"Ma'am? Hello?"
The voice in Lauren's ear startled her. She'd forgotten the telephone receiver she clutched in her hand like a lifeline.
"Is your father conscious?" the woman asked.
"Yes, yes." Lauren took hold of her dad's hand.
"Is he breathing?"
"Yes. But he's breathing really fast. Panting almost."
"Try to get him to calm down. Assure him that paramedics are on the way," the woman instructed. "I estimate their arrival time to be less than three minutes. I want you to stay on the line with me until they arrive."
Those three minutes turned out to be the longest of Lauren's life.
* * *
"You'll have to wait here," the nurse told her. "The doctor will come out and talk to you as soon as he can."
The nurse turned on one of her clunky, white Crocs and stalked back into the recesses of the ER, the heavy, double doors closing firmly behind her.
Sterling Memorial's waiting room was lit up as if it were noonday rather than the wee hours of the morning. Several people were scattered throughout the area, a couple of them obviously waiting to see a doctor. A television, mounted high on the wall, blared out international news, jarring her already frayed nerves. She found a seat as far from the noise as possible.
However, she was on her feet within seconds, pacing to the far end of the room and then back again.
The EMTs had bustled into the house, their prompt, efficient action lending Lauren a smidgen of relief that she and her father were no longer all alone in the crisis. One of the young men had taken the phone from her, informed the dispatcher of their presence on the scene and then disconnected the call. The other had snapped an oxygen mask over her father's face and began taking his vital signs. They were friendly and calm and did all they could to temper the situation.
The man who had taken the phone from her asked if she planned to accompany them to the hospital. Nerves nearly made her laugh at the idea that he thought she might remain at home while her father was being treated for a heart attack in the ER, but she guessed he may have seen stranger things while doing his job. When she didn't seem to catch on, he finally came right out and gently suggested she change into street clothes. Lauren had apologized and thanked him on the same breath, and then she'd run upstairs.
The soft blue paint on the waiting room walls was meant to instill tranquility, she was sure. But nothing short of news—and good news at that—would calm her anxiety. She strode to the window, crossing her arms over her chest, grasping her forearms tightly in some vain attempt to hold herself together.
"Are you Mr. Hunkavic's daughter?"
Lauren whirled around. "Yes. That's me. How is he?"
"About the same." The man in the green scrubs looked too young to be a doctor. "We think it's his heart, but it's too soon to tell. I've ordered tests. I just wanted to let you know we've notified the on-call heart specialist. And Mr. Hunkavic requested we call Dr. Amos. I tried to explain that he isn't on-call tonight and that he may not come, but your father insisted. Several times."
Good for you, Dad, she thought, happy to hear that he was feeling well enough to be a pain in the backside. She wished she hadn't been so upset that calling Doc hadn't even entered her head. She faced down muggers and thieves and wife beaters in court on a regular basis. She'd have thought she'd have more of her wits about her during an emergency.
But th
is was different. This was personal. This was her father.
"Thank you," she murmured, watching the young doctor until he disappeared behind the metal doors. Then she turned back to look out into the night. The yellowy light from the streetlamp threw a sickly glow over the street. Dead leaves tumbled and fluttered on the autumn breeze.
Her dad had always been such a strong, healthy man. What if this heart attack stole his strength? His health?
His life?
Her inhalation grew jerky and her eyes burned, but she willed herself not to cry. Come on, Lauren, she silently ordered. Don't you dare fall apart.
Her father needed her to be strong.
She perched on the edge of a blue plastic chair, gazing across the room but not seeing a thing. All she had to do was wait until the doctors work their magic. Then they'd bring her good news.
But what if the news wasn't good?
The question had her scrambling for her purse. If bad news came. . .the worst news. . .she didn't want to be alone. The cell opened with a well-practiced flick of her thumb. There was only one person who loved her dad as much as she did. She punched in the number by rote, not giving herself a chance to think about what she'd say or how he might respond.
After two short rings, he answered with a sleepy, "'Lo?"
"Greg—" his name raked from her throat painfully "—I know you're angry with me, and I have no right to ask. But I'm in the ER with Dad. Will you come?"
* * *
Simply knowing he was on his way had been enough to sustain Lauren through the fifteen minutes or so that it took him to arrive. She kept her eyes trained on the glass entryway, and when the automatic doors opened and Greg walked in, she decided she'd never seen a more welcome sight.
He was wearing the same clothes she'd seen him in at the barn earlier this afternoon, but that was okay because she'd tossed on the same pants and top she'd been wearing, too. His hair was wet, and she imagined he'd splashed water on his face to wake up. Whiskers shadowed his strong jaw.
She stood and waited for him to reach her.
"What happened?" Greg asked.
"Heart attack, they think." She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. The fact that he was here, even after she'd treated him so badly today was enough to send her emotions into chaos. "Someone came out to say his condition is about the same. That they've called a heart specialist. And Doc." She smoothed an agitated hand over her cheek. "Dad must be scared, Greg. He asked them to call Doc."
Privy to the argument between the two men, Greg's dark brows rose, but he obviously tried to keep his alarm under control.
"Doc'll calm him down. Sit down. You look beat." He sat, and she settled in the chair beside him.
"The television woke me," she said. "I went downstairs and found him." The memory of her dad's appearance had her shaking her head. "He looked awful. White as a sheet, sweaty and he couldn't seem to breathe. Said he was in pain, and he was clutching at his chest." She closed her eyes. "God, Greg, I was scared to death."
"It's going to be okay." He reached out and placed his hand on her shoulder for a long moment then shifted to rest his arm on the back of her plastic chair. "He's right where he needs to be."
"I probably shouldn't have called you, but—"
"I'm glad you called, Lauren," he cut her off. "Lew is like a father to me. I want to be here."
She was too shaken to smile, but what he said eased some of the guilt she felt about waking him in the middle of the night.
"I feel so bad." She rubbed her palms together just to have something to do with her hands. "I should have been watching him closer. I can't remember the last time he went in for a check up. He had that silly argument with Doc, and he refused to call him or go see him. And you know how he's always complaining about some strange ailment or another."
Greg's mouth flattened and he nodded.
"I blame that computer of his," she said. "It's made him so preoccupied with every ache and pain. He surfs the internet just looking for illnesses to—"
"It's not the computer."
She shot him a look of disbelief. "Sure, it is. Have you seen his list of bookmarks? He must have a dozen different medical sites that he visits."
A smile curled the corners of Greg's mouth, and Lauren's gaze darted from his eyes to his lips.
"You don't remember that book he used to keep at his elbow?" Greg's grin widened. "The three-inch-thick tome that listed every illness and disease known to man?"
A hazy memory hovered and then clearly formed. "I'd forgotten."
Greg shifted so he could more easily look at her. "I could be wrong, but I always thought your dad's preoccupation with his health was a bid for attention."
"Of course, isn't that what every hypochondriac is hoping for? Attention from his friends and—"
"From you, Lauren. Specifically. Attention from you."
She straightened her spine. "I always paid him plenty of attention." Her voice went soft and her words formed slowly as she asked, "Didn't I?" The question was more for herself than for Greg.
During a good part of her adolescence, it had just been her and her dad. Why would her father think he needed to vie for her attention by conjuring medical maladies?
You're too independent, he'd told her.
Then she remembered something else he'd said. He'd complained about having to be creative to get her attention.
"I'm sure you have," Greg told her.
"Something's telling me you don't really believe that."
He lifted a shoulder and then let it drop. "You have been known to blow him off when he complains."
"But he's so silly most of the time, Greg. 'My hair hurts,' or 'my fingernails are splitting.' Like a hangnail is going to kill him." She immediately blanched at her choice of words.
"What you don't seem to understand," Greg said, "is that the ailment isn't the point. He just wants you to show a little concern. It's your time he's looking for."
She studied him for a moment, letting the words sink in. Then her gaze meandered over to the metal doors and she wondered what was going on behind them. "I hope I get a chance to give him some."
"Come on, now," Greg said. "Don't talk like that."
They sat silent for several minutes. CNN blared from the television across the room. Although worry continued to gnaw at her, she did feel calmer. She felt enormously grateful that she wasn't alone.
She got up and paced to the window, then back again. She paused, taking a moment to look at her ex-husband. Then she sat down again, this time on the coffee table, facing him, so close to him that their knees touched.
"Greg," she began, "I owe you a huge apology. I'm really sorry about the things I said out at the barn. I was an ass. And I hope you'll forgive me."
He looked at her for a moment, his dark eyes unreadable, then his gaze slid from hers and he looked at the floor.
If he chose not to forgive her, she couldn't blame him. She'd been rude and judgmental and arrogant.
"All the pieces were there," she admitted softly, reaching out and putting her hand on his knee. "And I didn't put it together. I was holding a large sum of money. Your money. Money that you had to have earned since the store folded, because I know that cost you everything. Yet I accused you of working for free. I don't know why I didn't see—"
"Lauren, do you think I wanted to lose my father's hardware store?" He reared his head and gazed steadily into her eyes. "He put his whole life into that business. Seeing the store go under would have disappointed him so much, I can't even find words to describe it."
Sadness seeped into his features, softening his jaw and the muscles around his mouth. He laced his fingers together, one thumb rubbing back and forth across the other.
"Do you think I didn't do everything in my power to save my business? My livelihood?" He shook his head. "The only thing that seemed to concern you was the fact that I didn't tell you what was happening. And what if I had, Lauren? What then? The big, smart lawyer could have sav
ed the day when the idiot carpenter couldn't?"
"I never thought that." But even as the words tumbled from her mouth she knew her behavior over the past year or more totally belied them. She clearly saw on his face, in his eyes, that he realized it, too.
She looked away. Greg was the man she'd chosen to spend her life with, yet the moment he'd stumbled into trouble, she hadn't found it in her to be helpful. Or the least bit kind. No, the only things she'd found—and latched onto—had been blame and bitterness and anger.
The truth was hard to swallow. She hadn't divorced Greg because she'd stopped loving him. She'd divorced him because he'd failed.
What did that say about her?
The question was too big to wrap her mind around right here, right now. All she could think to do was drag her gaze to his and whisper, "I'm sorry. I truly am."
But it sounded feeble and insufficient.
Not knowing what else to say, Lauren went quiet and moved to the chair beside him. She slid as far back into it as the hard plastic would allow. She huddled there, nursing her misery and angst, her worry and fear, barely cognizant of the news anchor spouting off a story of death and destruction in some war-torn country, and then delivering a dire report about the world economy.
The double doors leading into the bowels of the ER swung open and every head, every eye, in the waiting room turned.
The sight of Doc Amos had Lauren on her feet in an instant.
"Doc?" Every ounce of trepidation she felt was expressed in her quaky voice, she knew it, could hear it, but couldn't do a thing to control it.
Greg, too, must have heard what she was feeling because he did the most extraordinary thing. He rose from his chair, stood beside her, and took her hand in both of his.
His grip was firm and steady, and the strength he exuded seemed to leach through her chilled skin, bolstering muscle and tendon. The urge to thank him for being there for her hovered at the periphery of her brain, but her need for information about her father kept her focus riveted to Doc.
