by Mary Hogan
“Fay.” John spoke quietly into his phone. On occasion, a whiff of superiority seeped into his voice. The same odor I sometimes smelled in his mother’s treatment of me. “I’ve been wondering, Fay, how’s your small business coming?” With an emphasis on the word “small.”
John said, “Ever since I’ve known you, you’ve been worried about my dad. Am I right?”
The aroma of his condescension wafted through the phone. Nonetheless, it was true. The curse of marriage to an older man. Every pause in the trombone blare of his sleep is cardiac arrest, every cough is lung cancer, every bout of bad heartburn warrants a trip to the ER.
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” I lied.
“I talk to him on the phone nearly every week. He sounds fine to me.”
“That’s just it,” I soldiered on. “He’s fine sometimes, and not fine other times. On occasion, he goes blank. Not forgetful, blank.”
John chuckled. “Yesterday, I blanked on Edie’s teacher’s name. There was a meeting at school—nothing negative. In fact, they want her to take one college class next year. Isn’t that awesome? I sat in one of those student desks, all puffed up with pride over my brilliant daughter and I completely blanked on her teacher’s name. I’m talking air blowing through my brain.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Has Isaac said anything?”
I stopped. How could I tell what I’d seen in Paul’s courtroom? Isaac’s disturbed expression. His weighty pauses. Paul’s bizarre behavior. A judge without sound judgment would have to be reported.
“Well, no. But—”
“There you go. Don’t you think Isaac would notice if anything was wrong with Dad? You’ve said so yourself, they spend more time together than a married couple does. Isaac sees everything. He’d know.”
“Well, yeah. But—”
“Fay.” There it was again. The whiff. “Just because Dad isn’t as sharp as he once was doesn’t mean anything is wrong. Do you think it may be—I’m guessing here—your fears surfacing again? You know, like they have your whole marriage?”
“Do you think—I’m guessing here—that you’re obsessed with work, to the detriment of your family? You know, like your daughter can see even though you try to hide it?”
That’s what I wanted to say. But, of course, I didn’t. I drew in another yoga breath and listened to John overdirect the Uber driver: “Or you could circle around the lake on Commonwealth.”
“Please tell Kate how sorry we are that Paul forgot.” I let the f word settle in John’s ear. Forgetting to tell me about the award dinner is more than marital insecurity. Way more. John.
“Will do.”
With that, he ended the call. John Agarra was never one to waste time with goodbyes.
Chapter Twenty-two
IT’S THE “IFS” THAT HAUNT YOU. IF IT HADN’T RAINED THAT night. If I’d trusted myself more, trusted white coats less. If I’d said, “Okay,” when Paul said, “I’m not walking Lola tonight.” If I’d done more research, been more forceful with what I knew to be true. If I’d spent less time in fear and denial.
If, if, if. If only.
It had rained that night. For hours. After dinner, after my heavy pour of wine, after I was in our bedroom and in my pajamas, ready to burrow into the crime novel I’d just bought, Paul stomped down the stairs and announced, “I’m not walking Lola tonight. She can shit in the backyard.”
“Not fair.” My voice sliced the air with its jagged edges. “You wanted an athlete. I wanted a corgi.”
“One day. Big deal.”
“And if it rains tomorrow. Two days. Or it’s cold. Three days. Or your knee hurts,” I added, meanly. I’d become my nagging father. I should drive right over those bikes. That’ll teach you!
Lola sat perfectly still, facing the exit door. My yoga teacher would be proud. Our dog’s entire being melded into the moment. No barking, no panting, no whining. Lola’s silent expectation produced enough guilt to get what she wanted. Usually.
“I’ll give her a bone,” Paul said.
My face turned to stone. In silence, I exited our bedroom and walked up the stairs. In the reprimand of my taut back, I wanted my husband to feel the shame of denying Lola her nightly exercise, the disgrace of assuaging his guilt with food, as any bad parent would. At the top of the stairs, I stopped. I turned and stomped back down.
“I held up my end of the bargain.” I revved up the argument. “I walked her this morning, in the rain. You think I wanted to get wet? You think I didn’t want to give her a bone this morning? But I didn’t. I did my job for this family. Grow up and do yours.”
Sometimes, I couldn’t stand to look at his face. The way his glasses slid down his nose. The greasy smell of his hair when he didn’t shower. The leathery aroma of his work clothes. Disgusting.
Once again, I turned my back on my husband and marched up the stairs. I left him to prove to me that he was a man.
From my perch in the kitchen, arms crossed, staring out the window into the shiny darkness, I watched heavy raindrops hit the pavement like blobs of honey. I heard the opening and closing of the coat closet downstairs, the swoosh of the Patagonia parka I’d bought Paul back when he deserved such a loving gesture. Paul called out, “Come.” Lola’s toenails clicked across the wood floor to the door. She knew better than to test Paul’s patience at that moment. I could picture her dipping her head to insert it into the harness, lifting her paw to slip it into the chest strap. My girl was so smart she knew how to get herself ready.
With a creak, the door opened. I heard them walk into the hall. Paul banged the door shut. I waited for the locking sound. Instead, the heavy whomp of the building’s exterior door made its way to my ears. He forgot his keys again, I thought. Idiot. He probably forgot his phone, too.
I was glad he was gone. Happy he was getting wet.
If only.
IT WAFTED THROUGH my mind that Paul and Lola had been gone a long time, but I discarded it like a used Kleenex. The longer they stayed out, the more time I had to myself. Pandora blared from the TV. I danced while I tidied up. When the intercom buzzed, I felt annoyed. Did Paul even try to remember his keys?
“Yes?”
“Fay.”
His voice was tiny. Like a child’s. Instantly, fear kicked my stomach. As I buzzed Paul in, I opened the ground-floor door of our apartment. Down the hall, through the glass window in the building’s entrance, I saw my husband’s bloodied face. He tried to push open the heavy oak door, but couldn’t. I ran to let him in. Lola slithered in first, her muddy leash snaking behind her. With a whimper, Paul said, “I’m sorry.”
“My God, what happened?”
“Raccoon.” His eyes glistened with fright. A rivulet of burgundy blood ran down his cheek.
“A raccoon attacked you?”
He shook his head no. I reached out to help him through the door and he yelped. That’s when I noticed his shoulder. The right one, the same side as his bloody and swollen face, hung unnaturally low. And it jutted forward in a sickening sort of way. His hand, visible below the cuff on his parka, fell nearly to his knee.
“I’m calling 911.”
“I’m okay.” His teeth were stained with blood.
As if handling a tarantula, I gently guided Paul down the hall to our apartment, careful not to pressure any part of his body. His temple was split open; coagulated blood oozed beneath his chin. He shuffled through the door ahead of me. I ushered him into our bedroom and sat him on the bench at the foot of our bed. Lola was already inside with her head bowed and her ears flat. I didn’t need to ask. It was obviously her fault.
“There’s been an accident.” The phone wobbled in my hand. My voice quivered. “My husband is hurt. His shoulder. His forehead. I’m not sure how bad. He’s wearing a parka.”
The 911 dispatcher’s voice was calm. “Was it a car accident?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Is he conscious?”
“Yes.”
She asked, “Can you tell me what happened?”
“We need an ambulance.”
“Paramedics are on the way.”
“Okay, thank you,” I said.
“Don’t hang up. Stay with me until they get there.”
Perhaps he was in shock. Paul sat immobile. Fresh blood suddenly surged through the cut in his forehead and drip, dripped onto the floor. He had that vacant stare I’d seen before. My heart tumbled to my knees.
“It’s all my fault. I was mad at him. I made him walk her.”
“Walk who?” The dispatcher had the soothing tone of a kindergarten teacher. Did you go boom-boom on the playground?
“Our dog. I made him. In the rain.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lola.”
“Take a deep breath, Lola. In and out.”
“Fay.” The harshness in my voice surprised me. “Sorry. My name is Fay. My dog is Lola.”
“Okay, Fay. Take a deep breath. In and out. Can you do that for me?”
I vacuumed in a lungful of air. The dispatcher said, “Good, good. Now exhale.” I blew it out with an audible “Ha.”
“What’s your husband’s name, Fay?”
“Paul.”
“Paul was walking the dog?” she prompted me.
“Yes. And something happened with a raccoon. That’s all he said.”
“Do you see a bite?”
I scanned Paul’s bloody forehead for teeth marks. Or the linear scratches of a raccoon’s fingernails. “Did a raccoon bite you?” Shakily, I mimicked the 911 dispatcher’s tone. You have a boo-boo? Paul stared up at me as if he didn’t understand the question.
“I don’t see a bite,” I told the woman on the phone. I sucked in another breath. “Lola, our dog, probably lunged for it. Her face is all guilty. She had something to do with this, I know.”
The dispatcher softly chuckled. A soothing sound. “My dog gets that look when she steals food from the kitchen counter.”
Outside, a siren blared. “I think the paramedics are here,” I said.
“Wait one more minute with me, Fay. Until they’re inside with Paul.”
“Should I go outside and meet them?”
“Stay with your husband, okay? You’re in the garden apartment, right?”
“Right.” Thank God for our landline.
At that moment, the buzzer rang. Momentarily, I was confused. “They’re here,” I said, uncertain of my next move.
“Is Paul steady enough to be left alone while you open the door?”
“Yes. He’s just sitting there.”
“Good. Stay on the line while you let the paramedics in. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Dark blue uniforms were visible through the exterior door’s window. Two paramedics. One woman, one man. Both younger than me. The flashing red of the ambulance light cast a hellish glow. We must be alone in the building, I thought. Otherwise, my neighbors would be gawking over the stair railing. When I buzzed the paramedics in, the woman entered first, her body leaning away from the weight of a rectangular box in her grip. Uncontrollably, I erupted in sobs.
“He’s in here,” I said, too loudly. To the dispatcher I begged, “Please let me go. They’re here. I promise.”
“Go,” she said. “Good luck with everything, Fay.”
I tried to thank her, but words were choked down my throat. I’m not even sure I hung up. Somehow, the phone left my palm as I followed the paramedics into our apartment and watched them flash a light in Paul’s eyes.
“What happened tonight, sir?”
“I fell.” Paul seemed to come to.
“Did you faint? Lose consciousness?”
“Lola. Raccoon.”
“Lola?”
“Our dog,” I blurted, behind them, wiping my nose on the sleeve of my pajamas. “She goes nuts when she sees raccoons. Normally, she’s sedate. Squirrels, rats, raccoons. They ignite something in her. She—” I bit the inside of my lip. Who was this babbling idiot? Sedate? Ignite? How did those words even enter my head?
“It looks like your shoulder is dislocated, sir. I’m going to try and remove your jacket.”
Paul shrieked when they attempted to release his arm.
“We’ll leave it on, then. Can you stand up?”
Shakily, Paul tried to stand. On his uninjured side, the male paramedic gripped his armpit and helped him to his feet. “Do I have time to get dressed?” An inappropriate laugh flew though my lips.
“We’re taking your husband to East General. He’ll be in the ER.”
“No!” The force of my voice shocked me. “Wait.” No way was I going to let Paul get in that ambulance without me. Not when he looked like a lost little boy. While the paramedics gingerly helped my husband onto a stretcher, I grabbed a pair of pants and a sweater. In the bathroom, I yanked them on. Then I snatched sneakers from the closet and tugged a brush through my hair. Paul was already rolled down the hall by the time I was dressed; the paramedics were opening the outside door. On my way out, I pulled my raincoat off its hanger in the entryway closet and lifted my keys off the hook. To Lola, still penitent in the corner, still strapped to her leash, I commanded, “Stay.” Not that it was necessary. I knew she wouldn’t move.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“YOU HAVE NO RIGHT!” A SHIRTLESS MAN SCREECHED AT A police officer as the gurney pushed through the ambulance bay doors into the emergency room. Blood smears bisected his chest. His beltless pants hung perilously low. “That’s my property!” With bored looks on their faces, two NYPD officers restrained him with gloved hands. In a far corner, a toddler wailed snot down his face. Beside him, a woman with wild hair keened, “I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not supposed to be here.”
I remembered the bleachy, barfy smell of a hospital, but not the madhouse sounds. The drumbeat of rain outside and the bug-zapper hiss of the flickering fluorescent lighting added a haunted-house vibe. Police radios crackled and phones trilled and people yelled and a distant siren sent a shrill cry into the night. Over the crazy din, a millennial doctor in brow-line glasses hollered, “On my count. One, two, three.”
I took it all in with the odd sensation of standing next to myself. Paul yowled as he was transferred from the gurney to an examining table. A huge round lamp was positioned over his head. The doctor bent over his bloody forehead. She asked loudly, “Did you lose consciousness, sir?” Her mahogany hair, twisted into a claw clip, was as shiny as polished topaz.
“Raccoon.” Paul’s voice was tight.
The doctor turned to me. “Did he lose consciousness?”
“I don’t know. He fell in the park. Our dog lunged at a raccoon. His shoulder is hurt. And his head.”
It suddenly struck me that losing consciousness was the bad thing, since everyone asked about it. A wave of anger washed over me. “He’s conscious now,” I wanted to shout. “Fix him!” Couldn’t they see the gash on his bloody forehead? His dangling arm? The crowd of nurses seemed excessive. All those moving hands and no one thought to clean the blood off his face? One nurse extricated Paul’s good arm from his parka and cut the sleeve of his shirt with snub-nosed scissors; another swabbed the area and inserted a needle in his inner elbow. While the doctor listened to Paul’s heartbeat through her stethoscope, someone in purple scrubs removed his shoes and socks and threw them on the floor. He pressed his gloved hands up and down Paul’s legs. No one addressed the real problem. “It’s his arm,” I whimpered. “It hurts him.”
“Can you tell me your name, sir?”
When Paul didn’t answer, I said, “Judge Paul Agarra.” His job title felt like an important addition. I wanted her to know he wasn’t some guy off the street. He’d never stand shirtless in an ER and shout about unfairness. Judge Paul Agarra put people in prison for life. Stupidly, I added, “You’re not going to cut off his jacket, are you? It’s his favorite.”
With a flat-line smile, the nurse at Paul’s legs corralled me out of the examining area. He s
aid, “It’s best to wait over there,” wherever “over there” was. He may have pointed, but it didn’t register. I decided not to move. Who was he to know what was best for me? I was stunned when he promptly shut the curtain in my face.
With my raincoat still on and my purse pressed to my chest, I crept up to the crack in the curtain and watched. They must have given Paul a massive painkiller because he was silent and spongy when two males sat him up from behind while the doctor and another woman lowered his jacket. It was stained with blood. Would they drop that on the floor, too? Could I throw a Patagonia parka in the wash with OxiClean?
“Stay with us, Judge.” The doctor rubbed her knuckles on Paul’s chest. “Open your eyes,” she commanded.
Stay with us? Fresh tears stung my eyes. Was Paul leaving us?
“There you go,” she said to him. “Look at me.” Paul obeyed, his eyes unfocused. His lower lip glistened with saliva. He looked the way Lola looked when we drugged her with acepromazine for a long car ride.
“Before we pop it back in, we need to rule out fracture.” The doctor spoke quietly to a nurse, or maybe an intern. All were freakishly young. Or was I old? The last time I’d been in an emergency room was years ago with my mom. Dad found her passed out on the bathroom floor. She, too, had hit her head and was bleeding down her face. But the doctor who’d stitched her up was grandfatherly. Or did it seem that way because I was a kid? My body swayed. Mom was dead a few months after her day in the ER and she hadn’t had anything popped back in.
Suddenly, the curtain swooshed open. I stood stricken, as though I’d been caught peering through the keyhole in a bathroom door. “I didn’t mean to spy.” The shiny-haired physician smiled gently and said, “I’m Dr. Mishra. The attending.” Surprising me, she held out a bare hand. I shook it, though I didn’t want to. Weren’t emergency rooms petri dishes of drug-resistant superbugs?
“You are?” she asked.
“Fay. Paul’s wife. Fay Agarra.”
“Ah, good.” She seemed relieved that I had marital authority, even though I had no business being a wife at all. Not when I’d pushed my husband into the rain and caused the whole damn mess. Dr. Mishra asked, “Can you tell me more about what happened?”
