by Mary Hogan
The moment I opened my mouth, tears exploded from my eyes. “It’s my fault. He didn’t want to go out. I made him. Our dog. She needs exercise. I think they were gone a long time. But I’m not sure. I had Pandora on. When Paul came home, his face was bloody and his arm was weird. Is his shoulder dislocated?”
“Yes. Though there may be a fracture, too. How old is he?”
“Sixty-eight.”
“Is he on any medications?”
“Cholesterol pills.”
“Any history of heart disease or stroke?”
“Is high cholesterol heart disease?”
“Not necessarily. Is Paul allergic to any medications?”
“I don’t think so.”
My nose ran mucus into the divot above my lip. Without thinking, I swiped my germy hand over it. “Is something else cut?” I asked, sniffing. “The blood.”
“A head contusion produces copious amounts of blood.” She stepped over to the nurse’s station and plucked two tissues from a box on the desk. As she handed them to me, she asked, “Does he take baby aspirin daily?”
“Yes.”
“That would also explain the high bleed.”
“Even his teeth were bloody.”
“His teeth? He had blood in his mouth?”
“Yes. I think so. On his teeth.”
“I’ll take a closer look. He may have bitten his tongue.”
“It’s completely my fault.” My voice quivered as I wept.
She reached up and squeezed my upper arm. That small gesture filled me with gratitude. I knew Paul was in good hands.
“I’ll let you know more as soon as we look at the X-rays. Hopefully, he won’t need surgery.”
“Okay.” I sniffed hard. “Thank you so much.” The word “surgery” didn’t sink in. I threw my arms around Dr. Mishra. She patted my back and extricated herself quickly. “There’s a café in the basement,” she said. “If you want coffee or anything.”
“Roger that.”
Roger that? I winced. Ever since I’d seen Paul’s bloodied face through the window in our building’s door, my mouth had a mind of its own.
AN HOUR PASSED. Maybe two. Or maybe the whole night. Like a casino, there were no windows in the waiting room, no clock to inform a person if it was night or day. I ate pretzels from a vending machine. I’d brought my phone, but forgotten the charger. I used my last bar to text Isaac Lewis, Paul’s court clerk. “Paul took a tumble in the park.” My tone was breezy. I didn’t want Isaac to worry. “Won’t be in. More deets later. Xo.”
At least, I think that’s what I texted. I’d left my glasses on the bedside table at home. Magazine articles were a blur of celebrity faces and smudged headlines. Who was dancing with the stars?
I should have called Anita first. Or my brother Nathan, in California. Nate would have calmly told me what to do. Anita would have rushed down to sit with me. She would have remembered her charger and stopped by Starbucks to buy me a skim latte and protein box. She would call Paul’s son for me, reassure him that all was in hand. Anita would know how to manage this. But I hadn’t been able to think straight since Paul came home with his floppy arm. My brain was a jumble of self-recrimination and fear. If Paul had lost consciousness, what did that mean? Had he lain facedown on the wet walkway in the park while I’d danced around our apartment to Disco Inferno?
A slender man in turquoise scrubs had entered and exited the waiting area several times. He carried manila folders and walked with the clipped gait of authority. I leaped up from my seat before he had a chance to stride off once more. “Could you please find out what’s taking so long with my husband’s X-ray?”
“There was an accident on the FDR Drive,” he said. “That may be it.”
“Can I bring him a snack? Something from the café in the basement?”
Smiling blandly, he said, “I’m sure the doctor will be right out.”
In a military turn, he rotated on his sneakers and left me. I sat back down. All I could think of were Paul’s bare feet. His bent toes, the spider veins on his ankles, the yellowed skin on his heels. Lying there, shoeless, he’d looked so vulnerable. A nurse had given me a plastic bag with his clothes. The muddy shoes and bloody jacket weighed down the bottom of it, a heavy reminder that I’d made Paul walk Lola in the rain. Would they give him clean socks to wear home? Would I have to dress him in his dirty clothes? The shirt with the cutoff arm?
“Mrs. Agarra?”
At last, Dr. Mishra appeared. She stood next to another female doctor. Older, rounder. More doctorly looking. Her ebony hair had streaks of bluish gray. Her dark eyes crinkled at the corners. I made a move to stand, but Dr. Mishra rested her hand on my shoulder and sat in the chair on my right. The other doctor sat to my left.
“This is the orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Kanton.”
Orthopedic? I thought. Had something happened to Paul’s bare feet?
“I know this has been a long night for you,” Dr. Kanton said. I nodded even though I had no idea how many hours I’d been there. I entwined my arms in front of my chest. Suddenly, I noticed I’d forgotten to wear a bra. My breasts hung heavily beneath my sweater. Mortified, I quickly closed the flaps of my raincoat.
“Your husband has a serious proximal humerus fracture,” the surgeon continued. “He’s broken his shoulder.”
I sucked in air.
“A surgical repair is definitely needed. It’s a fairly straightforward procedure. We open the shoulder here.” She ran the edge of her hand down to her armpit. “First, we realign the fracture. Then we attach a metal plate to the arm bone to hold it in place while it heals.”
I nodded as if I understood. As if I weren’t feeling the weight of my bare breasts. I fastened an intelligent look on my face and let the doctor’s words bounce off me.
“. . . stands for open reduction internal fixation . . . titanium screws . . . sutures or surgical staples. . . .”
Nod, nod. Thoughtful look. I wished Paul were there with me, holding my hand and cooing, “Everything is going to be okay.” I wanted the humming in my ears to stop.
“. . . a full three months to heal . . . physical therapy after surgery. . . .”
Nod. Nod.
“His forehead?” I waited until Dr. Kanton’s lips stopped moving. “Is it still bleeding?”
On my other side, Dr. Mishra leaned forward. “We were able to stitch it up,” she said. “Skin is thin there. He won’t have much of a scar.”
“Ah. Good.” When had they done that? Wasn’t he in X-ray?
“I know this is a lot to take in, Mrs. Agarra,” she said. “But Dr. Kanton is one of the best orthopedic surgeons in the city.”
“Good. Good. Good.”
“I’d like to operate first thing tomorrow morning.” When Dr. Kanton leaned toward me, two white coats brushed against my knees. Two stethoscopes dangled from two highly educated necks. The best in the city. She added, “Your husband is sedated right now. This type of fracture is extremely painful. I wouldn’t want to put him through another day without fixing it.”
“Fix it. Yes, definitely.”
“So, why don’t I take you in to see him? Then you can fill out some paperwork and I’ll reserve the OR for tomorrow morning.”
“Good, good. Yes. Please let me see him. I’ve been worried.”
Dr. Mishra squeezed my hand. “This is a tough break. Literally. But we’ll take good care of him.”
Gratitude flushed my cheeks. Paul was going to be okay. He was in the hands of the best. After his surgery, when he was on the mend, I’d tell him how sorry I was. I’d make it up to him. During his months of recovery, I’d walk Lola for him, even in the snow. I’d never again goad him into taking her out when the weather was foul. I’d feed him fish tacos and roasted chicken thighs and rigatoni with garlic and oil. Baby arugula salad without the stems. All his favorites. I’d show him how good a wife could be.
“Take care,” Dr. Mishra said, standing.
“You, too,” I replied
automatically. Then I stood and followed Dr. Kanton to see my husband.
Not once, not even for a second, did it occur to me to tell either doctor about Paul’s cognitive weirdness, his shuffling gait, his personality change. All thoughts of difficulties understanding a menu, following the thread of a conversation, remembering his daughter-in-law’s name, focusing in court, tumbling our lives into a carnival fun house, were elsewhere. The memory of Spain, and being left, never wormed its way into my consciousness. Only one thing mattered: my Paul, my man, my there kind of guy, was going to be repaired. He wasn’t leaving me. He would come home. We would be anded again. Paul and Fay. Forever and ever. In sickness and in health.
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE ROOM WAS DARK. A HAZY GREEN AURA FROM BLIPPING lights cast slanted shadows across Paul’s bed. He breathed heavily, sedated into a cavern of sleep, his mouth slack. A thick white bandage immobilized his arm and shoulder. A square of gauze was taped over the sutured cut on his forehead.
“Don’t stay too long.” Dr. Kanton rested a comforting hand on my back. “Paul’s paperwork will be waiting for you downstairs at the admissions desk. After you sign everything, go home and get some rest. Paul won’t be out of recovery before noon tomorrow.”
“Okay.” Pretty much all I said that night. Okay, nod, yes, good. I never thought to question anything. Certainly not anyone in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck.
If only.
Following a soft squeeze of my shoulder, Dr. Kanton pivoted and left. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flip of her modest hem and the boxy heel of her sensible shoe. Trustworthy clothes.
“My love?”
Careful not to lean on anything that would shift his shoulder, I bent down to whisper in Paul’s ear, “I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay. One of the best surgeons in the city is going to fix your shoulder first thing in the morning.”
If I could have, I would have crawled into bed with Paul and nestled into the downy warmth of his chest. I would have planted myself where I belonged. Instead, my hand drifted to the top of his head. I smoothed my husband’s hair, inhaled his Paul smell.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Like the chugging of steel wheels on a rail, I repeated those two words over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Then, these three: “I love you, I love you, I love you.”
Paul’s eyebrows pressed together. I took it as a sign that he recognized my voice. He knew he wasn’t alone. “I’m right here. Everything is going to be okay.”
That night, I absolutely believed it.
Worried that I might wake him up, I obeyed the doctor’s orders and left. I summoned my last shred of energy to trudge down the dim hallway, still wearing my raincoat. My purse was still clutched to my braless breasts. The hospital quiet was unnerving. Dead silent. Even the nurses sat soundlessly beneath spills of soft light, notating files. Dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. I pushed the elevator button with my knuckle. Had I ever washed my hands? My brain was packed in cotton. Alone in the elevator car, I leaned against the wall and felt the slow descent. On the first floor, I stepped out onto the shiny marble floor and followed the signs pointing to the admissions desk. Dr. Kanton was right. Paul’s paperwork was waiting for me.
“I left my glasses at home,” I laughed wearily.
“It’s pretty standard stuff.” The woman behind the desk had a kind face. Her cheeks were round and pink. She’d draped a pastel cardigan over her shoulders the way my mother always had. Fleetingly, I wondered if she was an insomniac. Who else would choose to work in the middle of the night? “Consent to surgery,” she said, pointing to signature spaces on the form, “permission to bill your insurance, a listing of risks.”
“Risks?”
She read: “All operations and procedures carry the risk of unsuccessful results, complications, injur—”
“Got it.” Okay, nod, yes.
I signed on the blurry dotted line.
BY THE TIME I got home, night was close to day. Our apartment looked like we’d been abducted by aliens. Pandora’s dance station still played on the TV, lights illuminated every room, the corner of my side of the bedding was triangled down. I set down my purse, peeled off my raincoat.
“Lola?”
The click of her toenails was tentative. She peered around the edge of our bed’s footboard, her ears flat.
“Oh, baby,” I said, softly. “It’s okay. Come here.”
For once, she came to me when I asked her to. Her leash—still attached—dragged behind her. That haughty tail of hers was curled into a comma between her legs. I sank onto the rug beside our bed and took her face in my hands. I kissed her nose. “Damn raccoon.” Unlocking the harness across her chest, I slid it over her head and released her. I ran my hand over the velvety fur on her ears. I took her into my arms. Lola melted her muscular body into me, safe now.
From my position on the floor, I couldn’t see the clock. But I knew it was late. Or early. Too late to text John in Boston. Too early to call Anita and tell her what had happened. Only one person I knew was sure to be up. On hands and knees, I crawled over to the bedside table, grabbed the landline, and scrolled though the contacts.
“Nathan?”
“Are you okay?” My brother’s voice was raspy. Though it was three hours earlier in California, it was still late. He was smoking a cigarette, I could tell, and had been reading a novel about warlords or epic medieval intrigues or parallel universes populated by gynoids.
“Paul broke his shoulder.” Crawling back to the rug, I sat with Lola. I ran my open palm down her back to soothe us both.
“Shit.”
“He’s in the hospital.”
“Ach.”
“I feel so . . . hospitals, you know.”
“I know.”
He did know. Hospitals were where our family members went to die. First, Mom. Then, while I was in college, our dad died after a car wreck, and later our brother, Joey, died after a heroin overdose. Both left us in a hospital that could do nothing but pronounce their official times of death. It had all been so embarrassingly clichéd. Dad was driving home from a bar and Joey was celebrating his release from rehab. More than once, Nathan had stabbed Joey’s thigh with a naloxone pen, carted him to the emergency room, held the barf bowl while he detoxed, administered the antivirals he needed to control his hepatitis C. With our dad, Nathan was the next of kin called when our father’s blackouts or bar brawls resulted in a broken nose or busted lip or split forehead. He knew all about the crazed yelling in a trauma center and the vomity scent of a hospital floor. He understood feeling utterly alone.
“So, what, surgery?”
“Yeah.” I sighed.
“Crap.”
As adults who’d lived through the loss of our family, Nathan and I spoke in shorthand. My brother didn’t need to ask how I was doing. I didn’t need to pretend I wasn’t flattened by guilt and fear. We knew and loved each other in a way that was deeper than the ocean and wider than the sky.
“You’re stronger than you think,” he said, sucking in the first drag of a fresh cigarette. I’d long ago stopped begging him to quit. His scars, I knew, were excruciating. It’s a myth that time heals everything.
“Promise?”
Nathan laughed. He blew the poison through his lips in a long whooo.
“I love you,” I said.
“I know.” I could hear the smile in his voice when I hung up.
Curled into each other, Lola and I fell asleep on the rug.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“SHOULD I COME OUT?” JOHN CALLED ME SECONDS AFTER reading my morning text. “I mean, is it bad?”
“A broken shoulder is definitely bad,” I said. “But there’s nothing to do but wait until he’s out of surgery.”
“Who’s the surgeon? I’ll Google him.”
“He’s a she. Dr. Kanton.”
I heard his fingers fly across the keyboard. “First name?”
Had she
told me? “I don’t know. She’s the best in the city.”
“They all say that,” he said. “Which hospital?”
“East General.”
“East General? Christ, Fay. Wouldn’t Columbia Pres be a better choice? Mount Sinai?”
“I didn’t have a choice. The paramedics took him there.”
His sigh was loud and long. “Unless Dad was dying, you should have called Columbia directly. Or arranged for him to be moved as soon as he was stable.”
“I called 911.”
“Your first mistake.”
I almost told John he was dead wrong. My first mistake was badgering his father to go out in the rain. So there.
“Look, John, it was an emergency. He’d hit his head, too. He was bleeding. I’m sure Dr. Kanton knows what she’s doing. She explained the whole procedure to me.”
He read, “‘A stellar surgeon and person.’” In a pompous tone, he added, “She got four stars. A total of seven reviews.”
What, he was looking her up on Yelp?
“In New York City, you can get a five-star surgeon. Who cares what type of person they are?”
My body was a tangle of aches from sleeping on the floor. Isaac had already left two messages. At sunrise, Lola had returned to her old self. More asleep than awake, I’d felt her get up and leave me. I’d heard her plop down in the safety of her crate. Her room. By the time I unfolded myself into the day, she was back to regarding me disdainfully.
“I have to get going,” I told John. “To the hospital.”
“You’ll call, then.”
“I’ll call.”
Anita Pritchard had an altogether different reaction: “I’m on my way.”
UNABLE TO MOVE, I stood naked beneath the down rush of steaming water in the shower, my hair pasted to my forehead, my arms limp. The day had barely begun and I was already exhausted.
Anita buzzed from the vestibule while my hair was still damp. Lola barked her way up the stairs.
“Not today,” I said, with a period. My genius dog understood. Clipping short her loud alert that someone was at the door, she made her way to the upstairs dog bed and nestled into its soft fleece.
