“Not exactly,” she said in a masterpiece of understatement. “My husband never talked that way in his life. Ever. No matter what, he was a gentleman.”
“Lizzie,” Howe said, his arm extended weakly her way. “Please. I need you.” Then he went limp, along with the rising under the sheet.
Breathing hard, all of them watched Howe and waited for what came next, but when minutes passed with no further activity, they all relaxed a bit.
“He’s sleeping now,” the doctor said, indicating the EEG. “When he wakes up, we’ll want to do a brain scan so we can compare it to the one we did last week.”
Elizabeth straightened her clothes and tried to recover her decorum, which wasn’t easy under the wry scrutiny of the watching medical corps.
Was there a male equivalent for the term nymphomaniac? “Is he going to be the way he just was when he wakes up again?” she asked. “Because if he is, I’d like to see some restraints. And a prescription for saltpeter.”
The underdoctors exchanged amused glances.
What if he tried to jump her when nobody was around? As always, she projected the worst and tried to compensate for it. Howe had never liked condoms—birth control had always been her responsibility—so there was no telling what his whores had exposed him to.
“Is he out of the coma for good?” she asked the doctor.
“We can’t be certain,” he qualified, “but there’s a high probability that he is. This is all so new. We’re only talking forty-five patients over the past eight months who’ve responded to the drug so dramatically. But so far, those who have woken up with such high function haven’t relapsed.” He offered her a consoling nod. “There’s an adjustment period for them, and for their families, that varies from patient to patient, but the results have been good.”
Adjustment. That was putting it mildly.
Elizabeth smoothed her hair, compelled to explain, yet wishing she didn’t feel the need. “My husband was a very dignified and private person. I’d hate to see him embarrass himself again.” Or her.
Lizzie, for God’s sakes.
My dick’s going to explode. Really! Crass, crass, crass!
Howe Whittington had never, ever talked dirty. Never talked about sex at all. Recalling his outburst, Elizabeth felt a tiny, unexpected stab of lust awaken the part of her she’d long since put to sleep, which only upset her further.
No way was she having sex with him. Not till she knew he was safe.
This was the twenty-first century, and promiscuity like Howe’s could kill.
Thank God the children hadn’t been there.
Or his mother.
On second thought, it might have been fun to see the look on Augusta’s face . . .
“Mrs. Whittington?” the doctor asked. “Are you all right?”
“I was just . . .” She bent close to the neurologist, feeling her face go hot. “Could you please do a complete STD test on my husband?” she murmured. “We haven’t . . .”
“Oh.” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up, but he kept his response low. “Of course.” He glanced at her in sympathy. “Of course. I’ll let you both know when the results come in.”
“Thank you,” she said, doing her best to keep the others from overhearing, “but considering what my husband’s been through, and the . . . unusual condition of his current mental state, would it be possible to discuss the results with me, instead?” Her cheeks prickled with heat. “I need to know if he’s . . . safe.”
There it was again. That pesky stab of ancient desire, Lord help her.
The doctor considered briefly, frowning, then nodded. “It’s bending things a bit, but under the circumstances, since he’s clearly impaired, I think we could do that. As long as I tell him afterward, when he’s more rational.” He patted Elizabeth on the shoulder, a gesture she read as patronizing. “Your husband’s stroke occurred in the area of his brain that controls emotions and personality. His filters may have been damaged by the stroke. Many patients with injuries in that area of the brain experience similar problems, but they usually respond well to therapy and practice, over time.”
That was some comfort, at least, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to risk being ravaged in the meantime. “I just need to be safe. We can’t exactly keep him in a condom, and you said sedatives weren’t a good idea.”
“We’ll do another scan. If he continues to be so sexually agitated, I’ll consult with an endocrinologist and see if we can regulate that,” he offered. “Meanwhile, I’ll order some restraints for the staff to use, if necessary.”
“Thank you.” Howe Whittington, chained to his bed because he lusted after his wife? Elizabeth sensed laughter from the cosmos, but she wasn’t sure if it was coming from heaven or hell. Or if the joke was on her or Howe.
The doctor motioned for the Greek chorus to leave. “Your husband will probably sleep for several hours before waking up again,” he said as the others filed out. “If he continues to improve, we may not need another treatment. Most patients start with shorter waking periods that gradually increase in length as they grow stronger.” He sounded scripted, detached. “Physically, your husband’s going to need lots of good nutrition and PT before he’s strong enough to go home. Mentally, he’ll need long-term behavioral therapy to help him retrain his responses to the world around him. Do you have anyone you’d prefer to use?”
“No,” she said. As if any of his family would ever consent to “air their dirty linen,” even to a therapist. “Whoever you recommend. We can come to Atlanta for that.” She didn’t trust anybody in Whittington, HIPAA or no.
“I’ve been really impressed with the work Glen McAfee’s done with our coma patients. Good man. We’ll contact him and start that right away.”
She wondered if she’d be included in any of those sessions or kept on the outside, the way she’d been kept on the outside of Howe’s thoughts and feelings since they’d argued over the way he spoiled Patricia when she was just a toddler.
“If Mr. Whittington is hungry when he wakes up,” the doctor concluded, “we’ll remove the feeding tube and start him on some broth and Jell-O.” He left her standing there to wonder who Howe would be when he next came to.
But thank God, he had woken up and didn’t seem impaired. Just horny.
She needed to call the family.
Charles. She needed to tell Charles. Elizabeth retrieved her cell phone and speed-dialed his, even though he was probably still at work, clerking for one of Howe’s favorite judges downtown.
“Mom?” he answered, concerned. She never called him at work. “What’s happened?”
“Your father woke up.” She wasn’t going to be a perpetual caregiver to a coma patient. She wasn’t going to be sentenced to widowhood under her mother-in-law’s disapproving scrutiny. “I let them try the treatment, and he’s out of the coma. It’s amazing. He just woke up. He seems to have all his faculties.” And then some.
No need to mention his temporary aberrations. Surely, those would pass.
“Mom, that’s fabulous!” their son said with genuine relief. “Great. When can I see him?”
“Not right away,” she hastened to say. “He’s still not quite himself.” That was an understatement and a half. “But you can see him soon.”
Howe moaned again. “Lizzie?” He stirred. “Where’s my Lizzie?” he murmured without opening his eyes. “I need my Lizzie.”
Lord. Again with the Lizzie. Elizabeth lowered her voice. “I have to go. He’s calling for me. The doctors said he’d be napping a lot, at first, but it’s only sleep. I just wanted you to know. I love you, sweetie.”
“You, too, Mama-lama.” The line went dead.
“Lizzie,” Howe pleaded louder, swiping at the IVs in his left arm with his right hand.
Temporary, she told herself. Once he was fully awake, he’d quit using that wretched nickname. It was almost as bad as the “Bessie Mae” she’d been before moving to Whittington at fourteen.
Nearing his bedside, Elizab
eth glanced at the covers over his abdomen to make sure the coast was clear before getting within grabbing distance. Fortunately, he’d settled back into even breathing, his covers smooth.
She’d prayed for him to wake up, and God had granted her petition. But what was with the Lizzie? And his horniness?
“Lizzie, where are you?” Howe’s brows drew together over an anxious frown, eyes still closed.
“I’m here,” she murmured, bending over him, but still wary in case he grabbed her again. “I’m here, Howe.”
He opened his eyes, blinking as if things were out of focus, his expression confused. Then he touched the tube running up his nostril and scowled, then coughed. “What happened?” he rasped. “My throat hurts, and I feel like my blood’s molasses.” He groped for her hand. “Everything’s so bright. And the smells . . .”
It had been so long since they’d exchanged even simple touches that she felt dishonest taking his hand, but he grabbed hold for dear life and curled hers to his chest. “Lizzie,” he croaked. “Lizard-breath. I need you.”
Elizabeth couldn’t have said which shocked her more: the fact that he’d said he needed her, or his calling her “Lizard-breath,” a nickname from her favorite comic strip.
Howell had never, ever said he needed her. And if anybody had told her he read the funny papers, she’d have sworn it was a lie. The financial section, yes. But not the funnies. He’d long since become the most humorless man she knew.
“You had a stroke,” she soothed, “but you’re going to be fine.”
How much should she tell him? She should have asked the doctor. “It will take some time. Just rest. You’re weak.”
Features clearing as his lids closed, he nodded but held on as if she were his one lifeline to consciousness.
Elizabeth stood there for several minutes before she tried to extract herself, but when she did, he roused again enough to resist. Maybe if she distracted him. “Are you hungry?” she asked, pulling free. “The doctor said if you’re hungry, they could take out the tube and start giving you some clear liquids.”
His blue eyes flew open. “God, yes. Get this tube out of me,” he said, suddenly alert. “But forget the fluids.” He grabbed the NG tube and started pulling it out, gagging in the process.
“Howell, stop that!” Elizabeth buzzed frantically for the nurse, then tried to stop him, but he swatted her away.
“Yes, Mrs. Whittington?” came over the intercom.
“He’s pulling out his NG tube!” By the time she’d said it, he’d gotten the thing out completely and lapsed into a fit of coughing.
Fortunately, the tube seemed to have come out clean. There wasn’t any blood. Elizabeth held his water close enough to sip. “Drink. Sip it slow.”
Howe gasped, then did as she instructed. “Ah.” He took another sip, followed by a hoarse, “Better.”
His two swing-shift nurses appeared—Rachel and Mavis. “Mr. Whittington,” the shorter, older Mavis challenged rhetorically, “what do you think you’re doin’? Do not, and I mean do not, remove anything else from your body. Do I make myself clear?” She snatched the NG tube and shook it at him. “This could have gone very badly. Your family and your insurance company are paying through the nose for us to do those things for you.” Pun intended? Mavis scowled. “If you want something, call us. Understand? Or do we need to put you into restraints?” She glared at him with her fists planted on her ample hips.
Howe had the good grace to look sheepish. “Sorry. I just couldn’t stand having that tube in there anymore. It felt like a fire hose in my throat.”
Not impressed, Nurse Mavis pointed to him in warning. “No more do-it-yourself, mister. Those IVs and that catheter stay till your doctor says they come out. And we do the takin’ out, not you.”
Howell let loose another brief spate of coughing, nodding and waving her away.
“All right, then.” Silent Nurse Rachel in tow, Mavis hitched her uniformed booty back to the nurse’s station.
Howe subsided into his pillow, clearly exhausted. “Remind me never to cross her again.”
He closed his eyes for a few minutes, then roused, focusing on his surroundings for the first time. “Where am I, anyway?”
“At the new stroke center near Emory. You had a stroke. But you’re fine now.”
“Stroke,” he murmured, drifting away. “My father had a stroke . . . He died.”
“You’re not going to die, Howell,” Elizabeth told him. “You’re going to be fine.” She willed it for him. What they would do then, she didn’t know. P.J. . . .
Howe didn’t say anything else for another ten minutes, then woke with a start. “Man. I’m starving.” He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw. “I want a chili dog from the Varsity.” Hunger claimed his features, brightened by the prospect of junk food. “No, two. And a Glorified. And an order of rings. And fries. And a brownie. And a Big Orange.” His stomach growled so loudly, it all but echoed. Then he let out another huge fart—and laughed!
Prim and proper Charles Howell Whittington II had not only farted but found it amusing. The world had turned upside down.
“Who are you,” Elizabeth blurted out, “and what have you done with my husband?”
“It’s me,” he said with a boyish half-smile. “At least, I think it is. And God, am I hungry.” He shot her a salacious glance. “I sure am glad to see you.” He reached out with both hands, arms open. “C’mere, Lillibet. I’m as horny as I am hungry. The Varsity can wait. How ’bout a quickie?”
That tore it. “Not till you pass your AIDS test, and another one, six months later,” she snapped just as the curtain swished open to reveal their son.
Charles froze, blinking in surprise while he took in the sight of his father’s arms open wide to his mother, then stammered, “Uh, hey. I know you said to wait, but I couldn’t. The judge gave me the rest of the day off when I told him.” Charles hesitated. “Do you two need some privacy, because I could—”
“Charles!” Howe’s attention shifted abruptly to his son, his eyes welling with tears as he sat up. “Son! By damn, come here. Give your dad a hug. God, it’s good to see you.”
Cussing and hugging? Charles shot Elizabeth a look of surprise, but she was so grateful for the distraction that she cocked her head for him to do as his father asked.
Howe enveloped the boy in a bear hug, all but pulling him off his feet. Tears streaming, Howe clapped Charles on the back. “How’s my boy? You’ll make a fine lawyer. Much better than I ever would have been. I’m so proud of you for getting into Emory law. So proud.”
Unable to believe what she was hearing, Elizabeth felt her own eyes well. All his life, Charles had struggled to win his father’s approval, but the most Howe had given him was an occasional attaboy. Like Augusta’s, Howe’s affections had been reserved for their daughter Patricia.
Howe thrust Charles to arm’s length. “Look at this . . . man of ours, Lizzie. So handsome. So good. Can you believe he’s ours?” Abruptly, Howe looked stricken. “I haven’t been the father I should be. I have so much to make up to you, son.” He searched Charles’s shocked expression. “So much. But God’s given me another chance. I know He’s real, now. He spoke to me.”
God spoke to him? Elizabeth must have fallen down the rabbit hole, for real! Howe had always said people who thought God talked to them were crazy—including Jimmy Carter and George Bush.
“Can you forgive me, Charles?” Howe pleaded roughly. “Can I ever make it up to you?”
“Sure, Dad,” Charles said gingerly. “Sure. We’re okay.” He shot Elizabeth a questioning glance. “Maybe you ought to lie back for a while and rest.”
Howe nodded, releasing Charles. “I love you, son. I’ve loved you from the day you were born. You’ve never given me or your mother a minute of trouble. I love you.”
To Elizabeth’s knowledge, Howe hadn’t said he loved their son since Charles was little.
Charles swallowed heavily, turning away.
Elizab
eth didn’t have to be clairvoyant to read his mind. Whatever had happened to his father, he was grateful.
Abruptly, Howe sat up again. “God, I’ve never been so hungry in my life. Charles, do you think you could go to the Varsity for me? I’m starving, and my tongue is set for some real food. Could you get me two chili dogs and a Glorified and some rings and fries and a Big Orange?”
Charles was skeptical. “Dad, don’t you think you ought to start off a little easier? You haven’t eaten any real food for more than six months.”
Howe halted abruptly. “Six months?” He turned to Elizabeth in dismay. “What’s the date? How long have I been here?”
“It’s June,” she told him. “You were in the hospital for almost a month, then they transferred you here.” She could see it was a lot to take in. “You’ve been here since January.”
Stunned, Howe lay back down, then stared at his hand, flexing his fingers. “Whoa. Major sinking spell.” Suddenly pale, he tried to lift his knees, but gave up after raising them only a few inches. “No wonder my legs don’t work so well.”
“You were pretty strong when you first woke up,” she said dryly. “But the adrenaline’s probably worn off.” She just hoped the testosterone had.
“It won’t take long to get back up and going,” Charles reassured him. “You’ve had physical therapy every day here. Lots of it.”
Howe shook his head. “Well, shit!”
Charles and Elizabeth stared at him in shock. “What did you just say?” Elizabeth heard herself ask.
Wide-eyed, Howe shook his head again in denial even as he said, “Fuck me!”
“Howell,” Elizabeth scolded. Her father and brothers had worn the word out, but Howe had never, ever succumbed to such common talk, even in private. He’d always said cursing debased the one who did it even more than the ones who heard it, and she agreed.
“Sorry.” Howe seemed perplexed. “I can’t believe I just said that. I never even thought that before, much less said it. Shit.”
Elizabeth stiffened. “What’s going on here?” Should she call the doctors?
“Damned if I know,” Howe said, then clapped his hand over his mouth.
Waking Up in Dixie Page 7
