By then, Charles was having a hard time keeping a straight face, so he wasn’t any help.
Ruffled, Elizabeth explained to Howe, “The doctor said there might be some emotional side effects, either from the stroke or from the experimental drugs they used to wake you up. Or maybe from the tumor.” Oh, dear. She hadn’t meant to say that last.
Howe’s eyes widened. “Tumor? What tumor?”
So much for breaking it to him gently. “A small one, in your frontal cortex,” she hastened to qualify. “Very slow-growing. Not malignant. They operated the day you were admitted, and got it all.”
Howe reached up to feel his scalp and encountered the scar. He paled. “Shit! I had brain surgery?” His voice shook with alarm. “Shit!”
Elizabeth pressed the nurse’s call button as she tried to reassure him with, “The tumor’s blood supply ruptured, which caused the stroke. They took care of that, too. You’re fine now. You’re fine.”
“I don’t think so,” her husband argued. “I can’t control my language—or my appetites.” She followed his glance to the tented sheet above his groin. “I am not fine.”
Nurse Mavis’s voice crackled over the intercom. “What can we do for you, Mr. Whittington?”
“Roll back the clock six months,” Howe snapped toward the microphone in the side rail of his bed.
“My husband wants some chili dogs from the Varsity,” Elizabeth tattled. “And rings. And fries. And a Glorified and a brownie and a Big Orange.” And never mind what else. Stroke or no stroke, no chance was he getting that.
“Men. I tell you,” Mavis opined. “We cain’t give him anything but liquids, but if y’all want to make a Varsity run, I cain’t stop you,” she said. “I’ll be here to hold his head when he throws it all back up.” She crackled off.
Some help. Elizabeth vowed to hold the woman to her word.
Charles moved close and took his father’s hand. “It’s okay, Dad. You’re gonna be okay. Like you said: God gave you another chance. Try to focus on that.”
Howe inhaled deeply, a range of emotions from fear to frustration to despair rippling across the face that had once been so impassive. He exhaled deeply. “You’re right. You’re right.” The ravenous look reappeared. “But I really am starving. I’d kill for that Varsity order.”
Charles and Elizabeth both froze at his choice of words. Under the circumstances, they weren’t sure whether to take him literally or not.
“Jeez, I didn’t mean I could really kill somebody,” Howe grumbled. “Lighten up.” Something he hadn’t done in a quarter of a century. “But I really want that food. Could you just get me the food, Charles? I may only be able to have a bite or two, but I want it.”
Charles exchanged a pregnant glance with Elizabeth, then shrugged. “Okay. The Varsity it is. Be back within the hour.”
Elizabeth shook her head as the door closed behind their son.
“Don’t give me that look,” Howe told her. “That’s my mother’s look. I hate that look.”
Confrontation, from Howe? Elizabeth regarded him with a mixture of amazement and insult. “Kindly do not compare me to your mother.”
“It just came out,” he said. “I’m sorry.” The words reflected more annoyance than repentance. He extended his hand. “Can I have the phone, please? I need to tell my mother I’m not in a coma anymore.”
“Are you sure? I could call her for you.” Lord only knew what he was liable to say. Then she’d be the one who had to deal with the aftermath.
“Yes, I’m sure.” He was getting cranky. “I wouldn’t want to inflict her on you. God knows, she’s been nasty enough to you up till now.” He waggled his hand for the phone.
Stunned, Elizabeth handed it over. In all their years of marriage, Howe had never said a word against his mother, much less taken Elizabeth’s side on anything. He’d simply avoided conflict, telling Elizabeth she had to work things out with his mother on her own.
“Just punch star eleven, then the send button,” she instructed.
He did so, then waited. “Mama? This is Howe. I’m awake.” Elizabeth heard a very un-Augusta-like shriek of joy from the phone as Howe pulled it a safer distance from his eardrum. “But don’t come see me yet,” he all but yelled. “I’ll call when I feel up to visitors. Not just yet.”
A torrent of cultured Southern protest followed. “Mama,” he said, “if you act like that, I’m going to hang up. I mean it. Do not come up here. And don’t call Elizabeth. This is my decision, not hers.” Pause, with more agitated mama-leakage. “Dammit, Mama. I’m going to hang up.” Augusta’s voice shifted lower and slower. “I don’t know when I’m getting out,” he said, shooting Elizabeth a questioning look.
She shook her head, mouthing weeks.
“Weeks. Maybe longer. I can’t even walk, yet.” He frowned when his mother resumed her tirade. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m hanging up now, so I can call Patricia.”
Oh, Lord. Elizabeth had completely forgotten Patricia. How Freudian was that?
Howe pulled the phone away from his ear again, and his mother’s adamant instructions reached Elizabeth, clear as a bell.
“I’m hanging up now, Mama,” he said. “ ’Bye.” Howe flipped the phone shut with a wince. “Shit. Is that how she talks to you?”
“When she talks to me. And you’re not around.”
“Damn. No wonder you can’t stand her. If she wasn’t my mother, I think I’d hate her, too.” He peered at the phone, pressing the directory button, then punching the p key to summon Patricia’s listing. “Ah. It all comes back.” He pressed send. “And now for our darling daughter.” He waited, then started to speak, only to pause abruptly, wait again, then finally say, “Patti-pie, it’s Daddy. I’m awake now. Call me back on Mama’s phone.”
Since frankness seemed to be the new order, Elizabeth told him, “She never answers when it’s me. I’m the mean mama.”
Howe frowned. “That’s not your fault. It’s mine. But if I get a chance, I’ll try to make it up to both of you.”
If only Elizabeth could believe that. When had this change of heart happened, anyway? The man had just woken up.
The phone rang in his hand, causing both of them to jump. “Hello?” Howe opened it and paused. “Hello? Can you hear me?” Another pause. “Patti?” He checked the screen. “Caller rejected. No ID.”
Oh, God. P.J. She’d blocked his number before the treatment, just in case.
A flush of adrenaline sent Elizabeth deadly still, her features blank.
Howe shrugged. “Whoever it was, they hung up.” Suddenly fragile, he handed her the phone. “Whoa. Whiz-head.” He closed his eyes, lips slightly parted. “Need a little nap.”
And Elizabeth needed a new cell phone, pronto, with another number that she’d give only to P.J.
She almost dropped the thing when it rang again, but this time, Patricia’s name and number flashed on the readout. Relief flooded her. “Hello? Patricia?”
“Where’s Daddy?” her daughter demanded, clearly beside herself. “I want to talk to Daddy!”
“He’s resting now, but he’s out of the coma. I decided to try the treatment and it worked.” Elizabeth would discuss the side effects later, before Patricia saw him. “I know he’d love to see you, sweetie.”
“I’m on my way. Tell him I’m coming.”
Elizabeth heard a horn blow in the background, and a screech of brakes. “Where are you?”
“I’m in Athens. I spent the night with Janie at her apartment. But I’m on my way to Daddy now.”
“Slow down, honey. Take your time. It would break your daddy’s heart if you got in a wreck. He’ll be here when you get here.”
“Where are the cops when you need them?” Patricia complained. “This is an emergency. I need a police escort.”
“This is not an emergency,” Elizabeth scolded. She might as well be talking to the wall, and she knew it. “Patricia, you can’t see your father if you’re arrested for speeding. Remember, this wo
uld be your third offense. They’d pull your license on the spot and jail you.”
“I sure will be glad when I can talk to Daddy again,” Patricia grumbled, then hung up.
Consigning her to the care of heaven, Elizabeth did something she never had before: turned off the phone and removed the battery. Patricia was in for a surprise. And so was Augusta.
Half an hour later, the curtain swished open, and the smell of onion rings and chili blew in with Charles, his hands laden with three red-printed boxes and a loaded drink caddy.
Howe’s eyes flew open. “Food. Thank God.” He levitated to a sitting position. “Bring it on.”
It took him a while, but he blissfully polished off a whole chili dog, half a Glorified burger, and half the fries and rings, washed down by the entire Big Orange.
And fifteen minutes later when he went green and bent double, Elizabeth summoned Mavis to hold his head when it all came up.
Patricia made her entrance an hour after that to find her father sleeping and Elizabeth dozing in the chair. “Whoa.” She grimaced, pinching off her nose. “Who hurled Varsity?”
Howe smiled and opened his eyes. “I did, but it was worth every bite. C’mere, Patti-pie.”
“Oh, Daddy!” She hurled herself into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re back.”
Crying, Howe stroked her hair. “Damn straight. Me, too. I love ya, Patti-pie.”
Whether Patti would still be glad remained to be seen.
Chapter 7
The past. May 21, 1991. Whittington, Georgia.
The minute Howe closed the door on the last guest from Patricia’s second birthday party, Elizabeth sank into a club chair and threw her head back, eyes closed. “Thank God, it’s over.” What an ordeal.
All she’d wanted was to invite Patricia’s Sunday school class for cake and ice cream, but Howe had turned the event into a three-ring circus, inviting half the town and hiring clowns and a pony ride, then having a caterer from Atlanta provide two separate buffets for both kids and parents—with at least a dozen servers—plus two bartenders.
To top it off, two-year-old Patricia ate so much cake and candy that she self-destructed amid an avalanche of wrapping paper, with a temper tantrum that would remain in the annals of Whittington history for generations. After Elizabeth finally got the child to sleep, she spent the rest of the afternoon trying to keep the children from hurting themselves or each other, while their parents got loaded inside.
Not her idea of a birthday party for a two-year-old.
“Howe, we cannot do this again,” she groaned. “I can barely move.”
Howe didn’t answer. He hadn’t wanted to talk to her since they’d argued over how he spoiled Patricia, leaving Elizabeth to be the heavy.
She sat up and looked toward the front door. “Howe?”
“I’m here,” he said from the bar.
Servers came in and out of the kitchen, filling trays with dirty dishes and plastic bags with torn wrapping paper and festive birthday napkins.
“You didn’t answer me,” she said with annoyance.
Howe faced her squarely with a hefty scotch in hand. “You didn’t ask me a question,” he said in that maddeningly cool tone he used. “You made a statement. Statements don’t require a response.”
Here they went again. “I just . . . Howe, this wasn’t a kids’ birthday party,” Elizabeth said, hearing it come out like a whine, which she hated. “Kids’ birthdays are like the one we had for Charles: a few good friends, cake and ice cream, and some yard games.” She sat forward, forcing her spine erect. “Please. Come sit down and talk to me. I want to understand what you’re feeling.”
Howe visibly recoiled. “What good would it do? You think one thing, I think another. We’ve been over all this half a dozen times already. Elizabeth, we have a position to uphold in this town, and social obligations. And those include our daughter.”
“But not Charles, apparently,” Elizabeth shot back before she could stop herself.
Howe took a slug of scotch, his features hard. “Why are you complaining, anyway?” he accused. “You haven’t had to lift a finger. The maid service cleaned the house for the party. The caterers will stay till everything’s back in order. And the lawn crew is almost finished with the backyard.”
“That’s not the point,” she repeated from their previous arguments. “Patricia isn’t a princess. She’s a child. She needs appropriate things in her life, appropriate boundaries. And she needs two parents who keep a unified front when it comes to discipline.”
Howe rolled his eyes. “Here we go again.” Another slug of scotch. “She’s just a baby, and this is a home, not boot camp. Lighten up, Elizabeth.” He set his drink on the table, then waited till the server left them alone. “I feel a cold coming on, so I’ll be staying in Dad’s suite for a while.”
Elizabeth stilled. The opposite sides of their king-sized bed might as well have been in separate counties, for all the interaction they’d had lately, but she read something deeper in her husband’s explanation for moving out, and it chilled her blood. “It’s okay to stay. I can look after you.” She hated to beg, but she didn’t want to lose what little they still had together.
She knew about the hookers in town. She’d found some of the charge receipts, and traced down their origins. But they were merely sex objects. She refused to let them break up their marriage. Her children needed a father, a respectable home.
“We’ll both sleep better this way,” Howe said. “I know how my watching The Tonight Show bothers you. And I have to confess, your snoring bothers me.”
That wasn’t what this was about, and they both knew it! “Howe, please don’t do this,” she pleaded quietly. “We can work it out. Get help. Counseling . . .”
His expression steeled. “Elizabeth, you’re always overreacting. My parents had separate rooms for as long as I can remember, but they were still close.”
As opposite goalposts on a football field! “I was hoping our marriage would be better than theirs. Howe, I do love you.” She stared into his eyes. “Do you love me anymore, at all?” There. After all the months of getting the cold shoulder, she’d come out and asked.
He regarded her as if she were one of the children. “Of course. You’re making entirely too much of this, and you’re tired. Go to bed, Elizabeth. You’ll feel better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. We both will.”
Elizabeth just sat there, wanting to hold on to their marriage the way it had been before Patricia was born. Howe had loved Charles, then. He’d laughed and played with him. He’d even laughed and made love to Elizabeth occasionally. But now he looked at her as only the mother of his children, and it broke her heart.
Separate bedrooms. Was that how it always ended up with people like the Whittingtons?
She’d known from the beginning that she shouldn’t have fallen in love with him. Now she was paying the price. Elizabeth held her tears, determined to maintain some shred of dignity.
“Then I’ll say good night.” Slowly, she rose and went upstairs to her empty bed.
She cried a lot into her pillow that night. And in the nights to come. But eventually, she reconciled herself to the loss. And as the years passed, she came to see her room as her own private sanctuary. But she never lost the longing for the man she’d loved—a man who no longer existed.
Chapter 8
The present
Patricia burst into tears and threw herself into her father’s arms. “Oh, Daddy. I was afraid it wasn’t real, that you weren’t really awake, but it’s you. It’s really you. I’ve missed you so much. I was so afraid.”
Tears streaming, Howe stroked her long, expensively blonded hair. “It’s me, baby girl,” he choked out. “It’s me. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Patricia reared back to regard him with a mixture of surprise and dismay. “Daddy. You’re crying.”
Swiping at his reddened eyes, Howe exhaled a shuddering breath. “I seem to be doing a lot of that,” he observe
d, wry. “And other things. But I’m still your dad, and I sure am glad to see you.”
She laid her head gingerly back against his chest. “Not half as glad as I am to see you. I couldn’t live without you and Gamma.”
“Yes you could,” he told her, “but you won’t have to.”
“No I couldn’t.” Now that Patricia knew things were going to be all right, she put on the pouty face Elizabeth recognized all too well. “I’ve been so worried about you, I failed half my classes.”
Ah, yes. Despite this miracle, Patricia was still Patricia. Elizabeth tucked her chin.
“You’re not going to let Mama take my car away for that, are you?” the little opportunist wheedled.
Elizabeth braced herself for being undermined one more time, but Howe’s response wasn’t what she expected.
“Let’s don’t talk about any of that now,” he said. “Let’s just thank God that I’m here, and you’re here, and Gamma and your mama are here.” His face went sly as a little boy’s. “And Charles brought me food from the Varsity.”
“Which obviously you tossed,” Patricia retorted with a dimpled smile that never failed to win him over.
“Without regret,” Howe insisted. But the mere speaking of the word regret sent his features falling. “I have a lot of regrets, Patti-pie, but I plan to make them up, mostly to your mother and your brother. Things look . . .”—he struggled visibly to hold on to his composure—“very different to me now. I don’t know how to—” He choked off, eyes welling as he looked to Elizabeth with profound apology. “God. How do people stand it, the guilt? I never felt this before. Ever.” He looked away.
Howe? Guilty?
“It’s horrible,” he went on, more to himself than to them. “Goddamn.” He turned to Elizabeth. “How can you even look at me? Shit.”
Patricia’s eyes widened with fear at his use of profanity. “Daddy?”
He covered his face with his hands. “Oh, God. How did I look myself in the mirror?”
Elizabeth couldn’t have him blurting out some torrid confession, not in front of Patricia. She firmly drew her daughter away from the bed. “Daddy’s had a rough day, honey. Let’s go get a Coke and let him get some rest, now. He’s not really himself just yet.” Patricia looked back at the spectacle of her poker-faced father now in tears, but Elizabeth propelled her toward the door. “We’ll look in on you later,” she told the Alan Alda masquerading as her husband.
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