Striking Out (4 page)

The doors to the operating rooms swung open twice in the first hour we sat there. Ghastly-looking people were wheeled past, eyes at half-mast, by a whistling orderly with dreadlocks wrapped up in an enormous snood. He handled the stretcher with the smooth flair of a pro, crooning a little song to tell his patient that everything was going to be all right. Obviously a man who enjoys his work, he made me smile, for which I was grateful.

After an hour or so, Jim came back, along with Carol, his wife. We’re not close, but, inevitably, we’ve spent time together over the years Jim and Andy have been partners, and she’s the woman I’ve talked most with about the fears. She’s another one who shuts her eyes, covers her ears, and hopes for the best.

When she came off the elevator, she simply hugged me and held on tight. It didn’t, for a surprise, send me over the edge again. I think I was cried out. Having let my emotions ride me for a while, I was back in control.

“I talked to Andy’s mum,” Jim said. “I had to convince her not to drive down tonight, but she’ll be here in the morning. And I told Meredith I’d call as soon as there was any news.”

It was comforting, having them there. They’d brought coffee and sandwiches, which I couldn’t touch. We talked a bit, but mainly we sneaked glances at our watches.

When they finally brought Andy out, after he’d been in there almost three hours, there were several attendants with him, hanging on to various bottles and tubes running in and out of his body. He was as pale and still as a mannequin. He was also quite bloody. That took me by surprise. I gripped Jim’s hand hard enough to make him exclaim, and watched the stretcher being wheeled through doors marked “Surgical Intensive Care Unit.”

The operating-room doors opened again, and two men came out, looking weary, dressed in those green pyjama things they wear on all the TV shows. One of them was Dr. Usman. The other might have come from one of those shows, a doctor so reassuring to look at that I almost volunteered to have surgery myself just so he’d take care of me.

He was in his late fifties, early sixties, with greying hair, slightly tousled, and a face that was just on the trustworthy side of handsome. As he walked towards us, with a slight limp, the wild thought crossed my mind that this was just a prop doctor from central casting, brought out after all operations to reassure loved ones. The real surgeons were all grotesque and shifty-eyed, with green teeth and shaky hands. I pushed the thought away as he introduced himself as Dr. Griffith.

“The surgery went well,” he said. “He’s strong, and there were no complications we couldn’t handle. We’ll just keep him in Surgical ICU overnight, to be sure, but I don’t anticipate any problems.”

“Can I see him?”

“Any time you want. He probably won’t make much sense until at least tomorrow, but if you want to sit with him, that’s fine.”

I had this ridiculous urge to kiss his hands.

“Do you have any more questions?”

“About a million, but I can’t think of them now,” I said.

“Well, I’ll be by in the morning, and Dr. Usman is on duty tonight.”

“There was some question about brain function,” Jim said. I hadn’t dared.

“We won’t know for sure until he’s fully conscious,” Griffith said. “It’s not a worry for me. There are no guarantees, but I would say the chances are slim that he’s been affected.”

He smiled that infinitely reassuring smile again.

“If that’s it, I’d better be off. My wife’s waiting dinner.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, absurdly.

He patted me on the shoulder and smiled.

“Don’t be.”

He went back through the doors. I hugged Carol and Jim, then went to find a phone to call Sally. I was giddy with relief. After I hung up, I went to start my vigil at Andy’s bed.

The first thing I did was insist that Flanagan wait outside the door to the tiny intensive-care room, which was almost filled by the bed and various mysterious bits of equipment. He objected, but I wouldn’t give in.

“Just following the rules,” he shrugged.

“Screw the rules,” I said, and turned my back on him.

Once I was alone with him, there was nothing to do but watch the tubes going in and out of Andy’s body. Seven of them. I counted. I sat in one of those high-backed vinyl hospital armchairs, far too low for visiting with people in hospital beds. This one put me on the right level to contemplate his catheter tube and urine bag, a sight to try the most ardent of affections. The nurse had bathed him, so he wasn’t as gory as he had been coming out of the operating room, but it was still awful to see him so vulnerable.

He had a frown on his face, and made an occasional sound, a moan or a slight gagging, as if he was trying to get rid of the tube down his throat. His hands were restless, and from time to time I got up and held them, around the tubes and needles. I felt pretty useless, to tell the truth.

The room was surprisingly noisy. His heart monitor beeped regularly, and there was a pump the size of a small canister vacuum cleaner on the floor next to the bed, attached to a thin hose that came out from under the big bandage on his chest. It wheezed and gurgled with every breath.

The room was also well air-conditioned. Still dressed in the shorts and T-shirt I’d been wearing in the heat of the afternoon, I was curled up in the chair, shivering, when Aletta, the nurse in charge of Andy, poked her head around the door.

“Kate,” she whispered, “can you come with me a second?”

I nodded, and joined her in the corridor.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. “There’s a call for you at the nursing station. He says it’s urgent.”

I looked at my watch—it was just before midnight—and then back through the door at Andy’s bed.

“I’ll stay with him,” Aletta said, seeing my concern.

I thanked her and hurried down the corridor towards the nursing station, sneakers squeaking on the linoleum. The nurse on duty, a prune-faced and self-important blonde, handed me the receiver with a frown.

“Make it quick,” she said, in a loud whisper. “This phone isn’t for personal calls.”

I took it from her with an apologetic smile. It was the overnight sports editor, Ambrose Callaghan.

“Hi, Kate, how’s Andy?”

“He’s going to be all right, they think. Thanks.”

“I’m sorry to bother you,” he said, sounding extremely uncomfortable, “but I have to pass on a request.”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to hate this?”

“Front page wants a first-person column about Andy and the shooting,” he said. “Request directly from the managing editor.”

“Who didn’t have the balls to make the phone call himself.”

“I didn’t want to make the call either, Kate.”

“Not your fault. Would you mind relaying a message for me?”

“Shoot,” Ambrose said. “Pencil’s poised.”

“Tell him the answer is no. Then tell him from me to take his perverted, sick, sensationalist yellow journalist’s curiosity and shove it up his ass.”

I heard the editor chuckling.

“With pleasure,” he said.

I slammed down the phone. Prune-face looked at me, astonished, then laughed. I joined her.

“When will I learn to speak my mind?” I asked.

I went back down the ICU hallway to Andy’s room, catching heart-wrenching glimpses of suffering through doors that were ajar: a red-eyed elderly man stroking his wife’s forehead; a woman weeping in her husband’s arms while a priest in full clerical fig stood over a child on a stretcher, praying softly.

When I got to the room, nothing had changed. Stuff was still draining in and out of him and the machines were still beeping, humming, and gurgling. Flanagan was asleep in his chair in the hall. Drooling, with his hands folded between his fat thighs.

“You haven’t missed a thing.” Aletta said, reassurance in her broad brown face. “All his signs are strong. And I brought you a blanket. You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m freezing.”

I took the thin blanket and wrapped it around me like a shawl.

“I hate that gagging noise he’s making,” I said. “Can’t you take that thing out of his throat?”

“Honey, his lungs are in no shape to do it on their own right now,” she explained. “Maybe by morning.”

“Will he be able to talk?”

“Not with that in. But believe me, he’s not going to be in the mood for any conversation when he wakes up.”

“When do you think that will be?”

“Could be any time now.”

She looked at her watch.

“Speaking of time, I’m on break. Can I bring you back a coffee?”

“I guess another one can’t hurt.”

“How do you take it?”

I told her, then settled into the awful chair again. Warmed by the blanket, I had almost dozed off when Aletta came back with my coffee. I thanked her, and pulled off the lid. Taking my first experimental sip, I glanced at Andy. His eyes were open. Half the coffee ended up on my arm. I put the cup down and went to him.

I stood next to the bed and took his hand. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a dry rasping.

“Don’t try to talk,” I whispered. “You’ve got a tube in your throat to help you breathe.”

I squeezed his hand.

“You’re in the hospital. You remember getting shot?”

He shook his head and grimaced.

“Do you know who I am?” I asked.

He blinked.

“One means yes?”

He blinked twice, which confused me, until I saw the twinkle in his eye.

“Lame jokes are probably a good sign,” I said, fighting tears.

His eyes looked questions at me.

“You were interviewing a suspect, and he shot you. They operated on you this afternoon. You’re going to be fine.”

He rolled his eyes at all the equipment.

“You’re in Intensive Care, but it’s just a precaution. Go back to sleep. I’m glad to have you back.”

I squeezed his hand again. He tried to sit up, then winced, whimpered, and settled back. I kissed him on the forehead, avoiding the tubes.

“Rest now,” I said. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He blinked his eyes. Yes. Then closed them for a few more seconds. When they opened again, a crack, there was no one home.

I spent the night, in the end. Aletta brought me a couple of pillows to cushion the wooden armrests. Andy woke up a few times. Sometimes he recognized me, sometimes not. He looked terrible, shrunken and confused. I didn’t know how to turn him back into the real Andy.

His mother arrived at 8:30, with her husband, full of bustle and concern. They had left home at dawn. I filled them in on Andy and on Bob Flanagan, who was snoring in an empty room, then handed off to them gratefully, and went home for some sleep.

I knocked on Sally’s door to report. She and T.C. were having their traditional Sunday morning pancakes, but I pleaded exhaustion and promised to come back for supper. Picking up the
Planet
in the hall, I stumbled up the stairs.

Andy’s shooting and the death of his attacker were front page news, with photos of the house in which he’d been shot, a school photo in colour of the dead teenager, head-and-shoulder shots of Andy and Jim in uniform.

A sidebar quoted Reverend Josiah Brand, head of the Coalition Against Racist Policing. According to him, guess what? Jim West is a brutal racist. The chief of police declined comment until after the investigation was complete. The demonstration was scheduled for two o’clock at police headquarters.

“I don’t know, Elwy,” I said to the cat, who was trying to sit on the newspaper. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

I took him into the bedroom, closed the blinds, stripped off yesterday’s clothes, and crawled into bed. Elwy curled up on Andy’s pillow and purred me to sleep.

I woke up four hours later, barely refreshed. Hunger got me out of bed. I had a bowl of cereal, took a quick shower, and headed back to the hospital.

I walked out to Broadview and caught the Dundas streetcar by the park full of playing children. I wanted to avoid the hospital parking lot. You can get a private room for a cheaper hourly rate. Besides, I like streetcars. They’re more like amusement rides than public transport. People look lively and happy riding them. In the subway, they look like they’re on the way to their own funerals. I felt happy, too. It was a beautiful day in my favourite city, and Andy was going to be fine.

I got off at University Avenue, a wide boulevard lined with pretension, the grand stone buildings housing insurance companies and private clubs wrestling for space with the glass and granite skyscrapers of modern architectural folly.

The Toronto Hospital is in the middle of medical row: across the avenue from Mount Sinai, and next to the Hospital for Sick Children. It fronts the avenue for a block of ivy-covered brick. The modern wings are tucked in behind. I bought flowers from a sidewalk vendor and went in.

They told me at the front desk that Andy had been moved from Intensive Care up to the seventh floor of the newest wing. I found him in something called the step-down room, the intermediate stage for post-operative chest cases. It was a big improvement, a large and sunny ward with six beds and a nurse’s desk. He was also down to one intravenous tube and two drains, the catheter and the one from his chest to the pump on the floor. His mother sat by the bad, chatting cheerfully with the nurse.

Mrs. Renwick is a tiny woman in her seventies, with striking features, her grey hair pulled into a high bun. She wears makeup, and dresses in bright, stylish clothes. I like her, even though she’s nothing like anything I ever want to be, but I don’t really know her. Usually, when Andy and I go see them on holidays and so on, we play euchre, which takes the place of conversation. She and her husband, Phil, are always warm, but treat me as if I was some sort of exotic bird that’s just flown in.

She got up when I arrived and kissed the air by my right cheek. Andy was asleep.

“He was awake earlier and very chipper,” she said. “He’s going to be fine. Thank the Lord.”

“Where’s Phil?”

“Oh, I sent him home. He doesn’t want to be hanging around the hospital. He’ll come back and get me in a few days.”

“You’re welcome to stay at our place.”

“That’s kind, dear, but I’ve made other arrangements. I’m staying with my old neighbour Mrs. Katz. I haven’t seen her for a year now, since she lost her husband, and we’ve got some catching up to do.”

She picked up her purse.

“I think perhaps now that you’re here, I’ll just go get settled in, and put my feet up for a bit. I’ll come back later on and spell you off.”

Before she could leave, Dr. Griffith came in, trailed by a platoon of residents, interns, students, and nurses. I introduced him to Andy’s mum.

“We’ll have him up tomorrow,” he told her, “and he can probably move into a regular room the next day.”

“Will that awful tube come out then, so he can walk around?” asked his mother.

“No, he’ll take it walking with him. That’s why it comes with a leash,” he said, rolling it in demonstration.

“Are you sure it’s not too soon?” I asked.

“He’s in a lot of pain,” said his mother.

“Stop fussing, both of you,” Andy said.

I turned to catch his smile, and felt my heart give a little leap.

“About time you got here,” he said.

“Stop teasing her,” his mother said. “She was by your side all night, in case you don’t know.”

Dr. Griffith stepped to the bed.

“We haven’t formally met,” he said, holding out his hand. “But I know you inside out, as it were.”

“I guess I owe you my life.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t call upon you to reciprocate. How are you feeling?”

“I’m ready to get up right now. Except for the spiders.”

“They’ll be gone soon,” smiled the doctor. “We’ll take you off morphine tomorrow night.”

“No fair,” I said. “He’s so much fun stoned.”

“Oh, he’s a real life of the party,” said his mum. I turned to see Andy’s response. He was losing a battle with his eyelids. He grinned at me, weakly.

“Go to sleep,” I said. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”