Remembering Christmas (8 page)

Okay, she thought, at least he didn’t say yes.

“After reviewing the tests and consulting with some other doctors, I think we know better what we’re dealing with here, and where we need to go. But I want you to understand the situation, including the risks involved.” He picked up a clipboard, pulled some sheets back, and began to draw on a blank page.

Leanne waited patiently, trying to figure out what he was drawing. From her upside-down viewpoint it looked like a tree.

“Art had an aneurysm in his brain.” He turned the clipboard toward her, holding it to the light. “See these, these are like the main arteries in his brain. We all have them.” He pointed to a thick line that divided into two smaller ones. At the fork he had drawn a small round circle. “See this,” he said, pointing at the circle. “This is the aneurysm—well, it
was
the aneurysm, before it burst.”

“Did that happen yesterday?” she asked.

He nodded. “But the aneurysm could have been there much longer. Has Art been complaining of severe headaches lately?”

“No.”

“Any speech problems? Any problems with his balance?”

“No.”

“Has he been forgetting things?”

Leanne smiled. “Doc, we both have. But that’s been going on for years.”

Dr. Halper smiled. “I mean more serious things than that. The kind of forgetting that would really concern you.”

She shook her head.

“I guess, then, it’s possible it could have just formed yesterday. The point isn’t the bubble so much, but that the bubble burst.”

He went on to explain all the things that had happened in Art’s head after that. She was sure he was trying to make it simple, but it was just too much to comprehend. It all sounded so awful. When he finished, she asked, “Was it painful? Did Art suffer before he lost consciousness?”

Dr. Halper reached out and patted her hand. “Hard to say, Leanne. I don’t think so. I’d say he lost consciousness pretty quickly. The amazing thing is that it stopped bleeding. An aneurysm that size more often just bleeds out and the patient dies on the spot.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“In 15 percent of these cases, people die before ever reaching the hospital.”

“So that’s good, right? I mean, that Art’s made it this far?”

The doctor removed his hand and sat up straight. He inhaled deeply and looked at her as though much worse was to come.

“Leanne, I want so much to give you reason to hope, but my job right now is not to do that. I need to help you understand the situation as best as we understand it, so that you can give us an informed consent for what we think needs to happen from here.”

Leanne took a deep breath. “Okay, I’m sorry I keep interrupting you. I—”

“Don’t apologize. You just want Art to be okay. I want that too.” He glanced up at the machines surrounding Art, his eyes spending a moment at each one.

“Go on, Doctor. I’m listening.”

“See . . . there’s nothing to keep Art’s aneurysm from starting up again. For some reason, it just stopped.”

“So what do we do?”

“We have to go in and fix it.”

“Can you do that?”

“That’s part of what we need to talk about. Art’s aneurysm is in a very delicate place. After looking at the scans, I believe it’s in his best interest to have another surgeon do the operation. I’m good, but I’m not the best. At Shands they have the finest neurosurgeon in the southeast. I’ve called him and he’s willing to look at Art’s case.”

“Shands is in Gainesville, isn’t it? Is the surgeon coming here?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. If you approve of this plan, I will authorize a courier to drive Art’s file to Shands. The surgeon there will have all the information he needs by mid-morning.”

Leanne looked up at Art, did that quick routine with her eyes. Of course, there was no change. She wished she could talk to him. He always made the big decisions. “Then what, do you drive Art to Gainesville?”

“Not right away. We’ll need to keep him here until the swelling in his brain has gone down.”

“How long will that take?”

“Hard to say, a few days, a week.”

“But what if he has another bleed before then?”

Dr. Halper shook his head. It was obvious this was very difficult for him.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked that?”

“No . . . I’ve asked myself that question a dozen times. It’s . . . a risk. That’s why we’re keeping his room dark and quiet. Why I’m keeping him sedated.”

The whole thing felt like it should be overwhelming her. She was surprised at how well she was taking it. Dr. Halper had clearly thought about this very carefully. She’d been praying, asking God to heal Art miraculously, but, if not that, to give the doctor wisdom and direct his thoughts in the right direction. “What will happen once we take Art to Shands?”

“They will operate. The surgeon will go right to the aneurysm and tie it off with a clip. After that, the hope is that it won’t bleed ever again. And Art will heal up and make a full recovery.”

He didn’t sound convincing. “That’s . . . the
hope
?”

“I’ve got to be honest with you.” He looked away, toward the door. Then turned toward her again. “Hope is the strongest word I can use, in light of what we’re facing.”

“So after all this, Art could still die?”

“Leanne . . . you need to know. Yes, Art could still die. Earlier I said 15 percent of aneurysm cases die before they reach the hospital. But another 50 percent die within thirty days of reaching the hospital. Of those who survive past thirty days, half of them suffer permanent brain damage.”

Leanne closed her eyes. Tears began rolling down her face.

No sunrise beach walk today, either.

Best Rick could manage was crawling out of bed at 10:30 a.m. He blamed it on boredom and one too many rum and Cokes last night.

After he’d walked through the toy store, Rick had a hunch he should call his mother before heading back to HoJo’s, so he’d stopped at a pay phone. Good thing he did. She was a mess. Through nonstop tears, she’d filled him in on the latest update from the doctor. It sounded pretty bad for old Art.

Sounded pretty bad for him too.

Rick had only planned on staying through today, planned to drive home tomorrow. He was supposed to be back at work on Tuesday. Mom didn’t come right out and say it, but it was obvious she was hoping he’d stay on at the store for at least another week. He had plenty of vacation time left. He’d have to be a pretty lousy son not to give in. Didn’t see any other way around it.

That conclusion is what led to the “one too many” rum and Cokes last night. He couldn’t believe it. Here he was on a Saturday night, sitting in a rundown Howard Johnson’s, drinking by himself, watching television. He’d actually sat through an episode of
Trapper John, M.D
. He did learn one important thing: Magic Fingers felt a lot better on your back when you were drunk. Seemed to last longer too.

But that was behind him now. Before him lay the beach, the ocean, the blue sky, and the breeze, for which this town was named. It was hard to fathom it was almost December. He wore a short-sleeved shirt, cutoff jeans, and bare feet. The water was a bit nippy for his taste, but that didn’t stop a handful of tourists splashing around in the waves right in front of him. Their skin was vampire white. The ladies wore latex swimming caps and the men wore something way too close to bikini bottoms, their bellies like beach balls bouncing in the sea.

It was revolting. He had to look away.

Actually, thirty minutes into his walk and he just had to wonder why God ever made people in the first place. Everywhere he looked—with people out of the picture—were scenes that inspired wonder and awe. The colors in the sky, the reflections in the water, the rolling sand dunes, sea oats and palm trees. The seagulls and pelicans, sand crabs and periwinkles. It all fit together in harmonious symmetry. Gazing at such things, it was hard not to believe in a Supreme Being.

But if he turned his head just a tad, there were these human beings trampling through the beautiful scenes, looking ridiculous and entirely out of place.

Like the woman walking toward him just now, not twenty paces ahead. She had to be seventy, wearing a bright pink (and skimpy) two-piece bathing suit, her skin all leathery from a thousand hours baking in the sun. On her head she wore a matching pink towel like a turban.

No one should have to see this. Not on a beach handcrafted by Almighty God.

She smiled at him as she passed. He smiled back. Then realized that he must have been staring, sadly reinforcing her delusion.

Not far behind her was a middle-aged man walking at a furious pace. At least he was covered up. But with what? A plaid shirt and striped short pants. And he wore sneakers with dark colored socks—dark colored socks—pulled up to his knees. Who does that? He wore a baseball cap with a white cloth hanging down the back like a mullet. His arms flung way up and down with each step. Obviously for some cardiovascular benefit. But should Rick have to see it?

Should anyone have to see it?

Rick stopped and looked at his watch. He’d better turn around and head back to the motel. He needed to get showered, get something to eat before driving over the bridge to the store. He sat a moment to allow the last two walkers to get far out in front. For a few brief minutes, the beach was clear of human debris. He sat back, resting on his hands, and took in a deep breath of fresh air.

His thoughts drifted back to one of the conversations he’d had with Andrea yesterday. The one where she’d talked about how wonderful his mother was, how she always knew just the right thing to say and always gave out such perfect advice. What was that quote again, the one that really bugged him? Something about authority.

That’s right . . .
Authority doesn’t have to be loud, just firm
.

He shook his head at the absurdity of the remark. Their relationship, especially during his teen years, was filled with loud arguments. He got up and started walking. As he did, his mind began searching through the files, trying to remember some of the bigger fights. Not so much what the fights were about but the harsh things that were said . . . and the volume.

He kept walking and walking and thinking the whole while.

At one point, he stopped in his tracks. In every memory he conjured up, every loud conversation he could recall with his mother . . .
he
was the loud one, not her. He couldn’t remember a single instance when she had actually yelled or raised her voice at him. How was that possible? Until that moment, it had been a settled thing in his mind for years, what he’d always believed.

His mom had been a strict, overbearing parent.

But in every memory he could recall, she really had only ever been . . . firm.

That couldn’t be right. He had to be forgetting something.

Rick arrived at the Book Nook a few minutes before 1:00 p.m. There were several spots along the curb to park; he pulled his Celica into the one closest to the front door. That way he could watch through the glass doorway window, see if any of the bums hanging around here started messing with it. The lights were on inside. Andrea must have already opened things up.

As he stepped through the doorway, he was surprised to find the store mostly empty. Just a few teenagers looking at records, a gray-haired lady eyeing the knickknacks. Andrea was sitting on a stool behind the counter. Her hair was different somehow, pulled back farther behind her head maybe. It looked nice. She wore a light green sweater. Some Christmas music played through the speakers. Nobody he recognized.

She smiled as he walked toward her. “Didn’t bring a jacket?” she asked.

He’d put on a green velour pullover that morning and had wondered if it would be too warm. “Feels pretty nice out there.”

“Guess you didn’t catch the news. A cold front is blowing in this afternoon. Temperature is supposed to start dropping before dark.”

He shook his head. “Forgot about the roller-coaster weather you all get down here in the winter. Maybe it’ll be good for business. Make people feel like Christmas shopping.” He stood next to her, leaned close so the elderly woman didn’t hear him. “Why’s the store so empty?”

“I guess the regulars are used to us being closed on Sundays. I didn’t tell anyone yesterday that we’d be open, because I hadn’t talked with your mom yet. But it might be a good thing if it’s a little slow, give us some time to catch up.”

He wasn’t quite sure what that meant.

“I mean, I probably need to spend some time with you, going over the merchandise, since you’ll be on your own tomorrow.”

“What?”

“I guess we got so busy yesterday, I forgot to tell you. I can only work in the afternoon. I’m a waitress at a little restaurant over on Beach Street. Just breakfast and lunch, but I usually don’t get off till 2:30, sometimes 3:00. So you’ll have to open up, hold down the fort on your own till then.”

He couldn’t believe it. His face must have registered the shock.