Gaining Visibility (23 page)

C
HAPTER
21

A
man in a white coat held the elevator door for Julia. His eyes swept over her briefly, no doubt taking in her disarray. “Floor?” He punched the button for the fifth.

“Four,” she answered.

He punched that one also, then directed his eyes toward the closing doors. They rode in silence without any further eye contact.

After a three-hour train ride, an eight-hour flight followed by a two-hour layover, another two-hour flight, then a three-hour drive, she couldn't care less that she looked a mess. She'd purchased a snack box on the plane, but her stomach began to lurch after a couple of bites of cheese and crackers, so she'd given the rest to the young woman who shared her row.

Sleep had proven to be a good escape, though it only came in short spurts. Her brain numbed out somewhere over the Atlantic. She needed to go home and rest—her body ached for it.

But more than anything, she needed to see Hettie, who, according to Frank's last phone call, was still alive, unconscious but breathing on her own.

The elevator doors opened and somehow Julia managed to propel her weight toward the double doors that marked the ICU. She was leaning more on the cane Vitale made, not because her toe hurt—it was hardly noticeable—but because it made her feel she was leaning on him, that a part of him was there with her, holding her. Just as he'd promised.

The visitation times were posted on the door. 8 to 9 a.m. Noon to 2 p.m. 4 to 6 p.m. 8 to 9 p.m. She'd made it in time for the second afternoon visit. She gripped the cane tighter and pushed her way through the door.

The temperature dropped dramatically on the other side. Or perhaps the sterile, medicinal scent that perfumed the air made it seem colder.

The ICU was dully lit. An assortment of clicks and swishes filled in as the only background noise, music to loved ones' ears, no doubt. A quiet serenity pervaded the area in juxtaposition to the monumental battles taking place within those walls. A nurses' station sat in the middle, surrounded by rooms with glass fronts.

As Julia approached the station, one of the nurses looked up. The quiet in her eyes echoed in her voice. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Hettie Berkwith.” She paused to clear her throat of the fear clogging it. “I'm Julia Berkwith, her daughter-in-law.”

“She's in this room.” The nurse came from behind the desk to show the way.

“Her son, Franklin, has he gotten here yet?” Frank was hopscotching his way home, taking any available flights that got him closer. At last account, he was held up in Dallas by weather and the battery on his phone was almost gone.

The woman's eyebrows drew together in concern. “No, you're the only one who's been here besides the doctor.”

Julia took the nurse's body language as a warning and tried to prepare for what she was about to encounter. She envisioned Hettie hooked up to various sinister-looking machines by miles of tubing, face and limbs drawn or hideously distorted.

The scene that greeted her was nothing like that.

Hettie lay sleeping, breathing peacefully with only an IV in one arm and a tube protruding from her nose.

Julia walked over to the bed and rubbed her arm, expecting her to wake up and smile.

She didn't.

The nurse checked the laptop on the stand at the end of the bed before she spoke. “She's been unconscious since they brought her in yesterday. The tests show that she suffered a severe hemorrhagic stroke, which means that a blood vessel ruptured and bled into her brain.” The nurse seemed to be anticipating Julia's questions, answering them before she asked. “She's breathing on her own, but that's a feeding tube that runs directly into her small intestine.”

Julia cringed. “A feeding tube?” And then a flare of hope sparked. “Does that mean she might be able to recover?”

The nurse's eyes softened.
C'mon, Julia. You know the answer to that one,
they seemed to say. She shook her head. “Recovery isn't likely with the extent of brain damage she suffered, but she can't swallow on her own, so a feeding tube is the only way of keeping her body nourished.”

“She wouldn't want that keeping her alive.”

“Maybe not.” The woman raised her eyebrows and gave a resigned sigh. “But whoever has the health care power of attorney made the decision. Her son, I suppose.”

Guilt thumped at Julia's heart. How many times had she and Hettie talked about getting a living will drawn up? Changing the health care power of attorney to Julia? They always thought they'd have more time.

That song seemed to be stuck on replay from the playlist of her life.

An alarm went off somewhere, and the nurse made for the door. “Talk to her,” she said over her shoulder. “It'll comfort you both.”

Julia scooted the lone chair close to the bed so she could hold Hettie's hand while she talked. The cool skin was very white, as if the heart had decided the hand was too great a distance for the blood to travel. Julia grasped it, willing her own body heat to stir the hand awake. It lay limply in her grip but effectively tore at her heart nonetheless.

“I'm sorry, Hettie.” Julia brushed back a wisp of her mother-in-law's hair from the smooth, serene forehead. “I'm sorry you had to go through this alone, but I'm here now.” She took a deep breath, relaxing her blocked throat, allowing her to cry. Her sorrow no longer required deep, bone-shaking sobs. Now there were only tears, and she let them flow freely as she talked her way through the shattering upheaval.

She was convinced that, at some level, Hettie heard her and understood what she was saying. She started her one-sided conversation with details of her arrival in Italy. That's where Hettie would've insisted she start even though they'd spoken often and had already talked about those things before.

In her mind, Julia heard the questions and comments Hettie should be making if life had any fairness to it. They should've had one more chance to say the things that held true meaning. She should've had one more chance to tell Hettie of the fun she'd shared with Vitale . . . and how he'd
seen
her.

She was in mid-sentence, about to confide her topless beach escapade, when the soft chime sounded the end to visiting hours.

“I'll be back at eight o'clock and tell you the rest then.” She kissed Hettie's cheek, catching a faint whiff of the Blue Grass perfume that had always been her signature scent. Julia closed her eyes and breathed it in, finding peace in Hettie's slow and steady breath.

* * *

The serenity lasted only through the ten-minute drive from the hospital to her house. As soon as she walked through the door of her home, Julia began to doubt if she could make the 8:00 p.m. visit. Her body felt triple its weight, rebelling against the lack of food and sleep, crumbling beneath the emotional and physical strain. She couldn't even consider dragging her luggage up the stairs to the bedroom.

Three more hours,
she promised herself.
Then you can collapse.

The house didn't produce the soothing effect she expected either. It seemed big and empty and lonely, and she wondered again if she'd made the right choice keeping it after the divorce. So many things needed repair—the screen door in the back, the leak in the basement, the rain gutters that seemed perpetually clogged. Finding a reliable handyman was harder than finding a plastic surgeon. A small house, one like Vitale's, would fit her current lifestyle much better.

But times of crisis weren't the best times to make life-changing decisions, and the last two years had been one long, continuous crisis.

The week in Italy made those problems seem so remote. But she was home again now, and her real life had run to greet her with open arms.

She would get through the ordeal of Hettie's death—a shudder ran through her as she realized she'd faced the inevitable and now was only waiting for the final good-bye—give herself time to grieve, and then make a decision about what to do with this place. She dragged her tired feet up the staircase, noticing how loose the banister was now that she needed it to lean on.

A warm shower revived her somewhat, her blood stirring as she remembered the details of her last shower with Vitale. His fingers massaging her scalp. His lips nibbling her ear. Her chest heaved with loneliness, and she hurried through blowing her hair dry and changing clothes, in a near frenzy to check her e-mail.

Her fingernails drummed on the desk impatiently as she waited for the computer to boot up and download the 682 messages accumulated since she'd last checked.

She scanned the list, only interested in one, and her heart leaped when she found it. With a shaky finger against the mouse pad, she tapped it to life.

She hit the reply button.

Typing the last word pinged her heart, bringing her back to the space she occupied in the real world.

Her name was Julia, not Julietta. She was Julietta only during her time in Italy. Julietta was a fantasy. But as long as she didn't get carried away by this little diversion from the real world—and she wouldn't . . . she was much too pragmatic to allow that to happen—what was the harm of hanging on to it just a little while longer?

Several other e-mails now drew her attention, and before she knew the time had passed, it was after 8:00. She kicked herself mentally for not being at the hospital already.

During the drive and then the long walk from the parking lot to Hettie's room, she had to shake out of the threatening zombie state several times.

But at Hettie's door, every muscle tightened to full awareness. A man hovered over Hettie with her hand pulled to his chest, his body jerking under the pressure of silent sobs.

“Frank.”

He straightened and turned toward her, his face contorting in a look that moved from recognition to doubt, then back to recognition before settling into surprise. “Jules?” He wiped his red, swollen eyes before stuffing his handkerchief into his back pocket. “You, uh, you look different.”

“Well, it's been a while.” She wondered at the lack of sarcasm in her voice, which would've been so easy to apply to that comment. Not only was it absent, but there wasn't the slightest regret for not using it. Whether the result of jet lag or emotional healing, she couldn't be sure. Time would tell.

Frank seized her hand when she moved to stand by the bed. Her first reaction was to pull it away, but he started to cry, so she accepted that he could use a friend at the moment, and she was the nearest thing to that available.

“She looks so beautiful, doesn't she?” He laid his hand on his mother's head, his grasp on Julia's hand tightening. “Like she could wake up any minute and ask for some chocolate truffles.”

“Yeah, she does.” The unspoken
but
hung in the air around them, making it heavy, making their breathing difficult and loud. “How long have you been here?”

“I came straight from the airport. Got here a little before eight. In time to talk to the doctor.” His chin quivered, and Julia felt the weight of his sorrow merging with what was already pressing on her heart. “He says she's in a vegetative state. No hope.” His voice broke into a moan as he crumbled in a miserable heap against the bedrail.

“I'm so sorry, Frank.”

His hand pulled hers around him as he shifted his stance and clasped her hard against him. He wept uncontrollably, his face buried against the side of her head, his body shuddering with convulsive sobs.

Julia held him, trying to find the right words of comfort. “It's okay. Let it all out,” she urged. And he did.

The nurse came to the door and shot Julia a look that asked if there was anything she could do to help.

Julia waved her away. He just needed time.

Everyone always needed more time.

Eventually the sobs started to ebb away, and his breathing became more rhythmic, almost, but not quite, matching Hettie's. He continued to hold Julia and she determined to stay rooted until he decided he could let go and stand on his own. She refused to acknowledge the irony of that thought when it started forming in her mind.

He squeezed her tightly and then let her go with a sigh. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled, turning back toward Hettie.

“It's okay. A normal reaction.”

They stood for a long time, not saying anything, the sound of Hettie's breathing acting as the timepiece.

Julia watched him, trying to carefully time her next indelicate question so it wouldn't send him off. She had to do it for Hettie. “Frank.” She took a deep breath. “She wouldn't want to be kept alive like this. You know that, don't you?”

His face jerked toward her, his eyes wide and lit by agony. Fear flickered in the background. “I can't, Jules. I can't do it yet. Not tonight.” He shook his head, his gaze darting between her and his mother. “I'm too tired to make the right decision, to know what's right for her. Tomorrow. After I've rested. Not tonight.”