The Healing (30 page)

Karen couldn't even look at Mike while his mother sobbed over him. She could only guess what it was doing to him. He was barely conscious, yet the pained expression on his face was evidence enough. So Karen made herself scarce. She went down to the cafeteria and bought herself a cup of coffee. She ventured into the gift shop and picked up a few magazines. By the time she went back upstairs, Trish and Nora were discussing whether or not to get a hotel room nearby.

“Well, they're not going to let us stay here in the ICU,” Trish told her mother. “It's either a hotel room or Mike and Karen's.”

Karen could easily predict that Nora wasn't going to be amenable to either option. She sipped her coffee and listened.

True to form, Nora asked, “Why can't we just go home?”

“Because it's over an hour away,” Trish replied. “What if we have to come back at a moment's notice?”

Karen felt the impact of her sister-in-law's words. But Nora started sobbing again. She complained about adult children moving out to the suburbs and being far away from their elderly parents. “Then look what happens,” she said. “When they need you, you can't be there.”

“But you
are
here,” Trish reminded her patiently. “We can stay in a hotel room until we know he's is okay. I packed a change of clothes for us. At least we'll be close by.”

Nora apparently didn't like the choices. She insisted she needed to sleep in her own bed and come back in the morning. “I wouldn't get a wink of sleep in a hotel.”

Karen almost spewed the coffee in her mouth. Instead, she spewed a few long-suppressed resentments. “It must be nice to worry about sleeping at a time like this,” she said, barely recognizing her own voice.

Nora looked shocked and hurt. Under normal circumstances, Karen would have felt bad. But she was too focused on Mike to worry about making his mother comfortable. Maybe someone should have said something years ago instead of coddling her and enabling her to behave like a child.

The fact that Trish remained silent only confirmed it.

“Karen,” Nora said, her whole face trembling. “I'm seventy-nine years old.”

“I know how old you are,” Karen replied. She pointed to Mike in the bed. “Do you know how old your son is?”

Nora's tears spilled down her cheeks. “Of course I do. No mother should have to see this happen to her child. Don't you know I would give anything to trade places with him?”

“Then sit by his side and tell him that,” Karen said. “Hold his hand. Tell him he has to get better. Let him hear you pray for him. Blubbering about where you're going to sleep doesn't help anyone. Least of all Mike. For once think about what's best for
him
.”

Nora's jaw unhinged. Trish looked solemn.

“I'll be down the hall in the lounge,” Karen told them. “That's where I'm spending the night.”

She glanced apologetically at her sister-in-law and walked away.

The release of tension left Karen trembling. As she settled on a faux-leather chair in the lounge, a host of new anxieties quickly flooded her to replace what was purged. Had she been too harsh with Nora? Had she ruined a long-standing relationship that had never bred the slightest contention?

The only reason Karen's relationship with Nora never bred contention was because Karen had kept her mouth shut for three decades.

She couldn't worry about it now. It was too late, anyway. Karen had let so many instances go by because she never wanted to put Mike in the middle. She had tolerated so many of Nora's annoying traits and withstood so many insensitive comments, only to come across as the villain in the end. The sad reality was she chose to verbally assault her mother-in-law when Mike's very life hung in the balance.

Karen flipped the pages of a magazine, even though she wasn't really seeing them. She was too busy wondering if Mike had heard the brief but potent exchange between his wife and his mother. The last thing he needed was to worry about some stupid rift in his family.

Tears sprang to her eyes. She lowered the magazine to her lap. Even if she were reading it, her vision became too blurred to continue. She wasn't sure if the tears were a result of her emotional release on Nora or the trauma of accepting that Mike could really die.

Karen recalled with a wince of shame what she had said to Nora.
For once think about what's best for
him
.
And she felt like the biggest hypocrite on two feet.

It wasn't Nora who had deprived him of what he wanted most.

When Karen arrived at the psychiatric center to visit her daughter the following morning, she had forgotten they were supposed to meet with the family counselor. She had also forgotten she had told Lori her father was almost fully recuperated from his cold and might be well enough to make the trip.

“Dad couldn't come?” Lori asked, flopping on her dorm-style bed like a disappointed little girl.

Karen tried to dispel the mental image of Mike fighting for his life in the ICU. She had to keep her promise and find the strength from somewhere in her drained being to let Lori think everything was okay. “He wanted to, sweetheart, but he needs a few more days to recuperate. His resistance is low, and he can't afford to have a relapse. Better not to take a chance. I hope you understand.”

Lori, who appeared bright-eyed and well groomed—a far cry from the wretched young woman who had been admitted two weeks before—understood. But she was eyeing her mother studiously as she spoke. “Mom, are you all right?”

Karen tried to look baffled by the question as she sat on the bed beside Lori. “I'm fine,” she replied, hoping her daughter was convinced.

“You look awfully tired.”

Of course she did. She hadn't slept in over thirty hours. The only reason she had left the ICU was because it was within sprinting distance from the psychiatric wing and because Mike would have insisted she see to Lori's needs before his own.

Karen gave her daughter a hug and tried to smile. “Who's the mother here?”

Lori absorbed the affection with a purr of satisfaction. But then she drew back and took a close look at her mother's haggard appearance. “Mom, didn't you wear those clothes yesterday?”

“I didn't get to do the laundry,” she lied, and looked around the room for something to divert the conversation. That was when she saw the heart-shaped card on the night table next to the bed. All the other get-well cards were lined up on the windowsill. She moved toward it with a spark of interest, but Lori snatched it up and held it protectively against her chest with a knowing smirk. “And who is that from?” Karen asked.

“Jerry Doyle,” Lori replied, her cheeks flushing.

Karen felt a small stir of joy. “Jerry from Youngs Avenue?”

“Yup.”

“So, if you're not letting me read his card, and you're keeping it separate from all the others, then I'm going to have to assume you two are more than friends.”

Lori's eyes actually lit up. “You might have to assume that.”

Karen cupped her daughter's face in her hands and let her gaze communicate she was more than pleased. “He seems like a nice young man.”

Lori put the card back on the night table. “The best part is he likes me just the way I am.”

“You can't ask for more than that,” Karen said.

Lori smiled. A replica of Mike's. “So Daddy had better like him.”

An unbearable ache gripped Karen's throat. “He'd better,” she said. “Or we'll have to gang up on him.”

She saw her daughter soften. “Can we call him?” Lori asked.

“Who, Jerry?”

“No. Dad.”

Before Karen could react, the nurse poked her head in to remind them it was time to see the family counselor.

Thank God.

chapter thirty-six

Karen stood in her living room, feeling oddly unsettled. She was relieved that Vinny had driven her home and walked her inside. She was relieved to find the animals still alive but hungry. Most of all, she was relieved that the doctors urged her to go home for the night. Mike had survived the first twenty-four hours without getting any worse, and they considered that a hopeful sign.

But now Vinny was gone. The animals were fed. And Karen stared at Mike's rumpled, empty bed, his tray, his wheelchair. She felt his absence like a gaping void in her soul and missed him with the very blood of her heart. There was no reason to fight it anymore, so she cried until she gagged.

By the time she was done crying, Karen could barely move. She hadn't eaten since lunch, but she didn't have much of an appetite and was too tired to think about fixing herself anything. She didn't even have the strength to take a shower. So she decided to pour herself a glass of milk before going to bed, knowing she would fall blissfully asleep without dwelling on the fact that she was all alone in the house.

Karen was about to turn off the living room light when she thought she saw headlights turn off the road outside. Venturing onto the porch, where she had a better view of the driveway, she squinted into the darkness and saw a dark, unfamiliar pickup truck pull up behind the van. Even though Luka was barking at her side, the sight of a tall figure getting out of the driver's side made her a little apprehensive at first. Then she recognized the unexpected visitor as he strode toward the side entrance, and she took hold of Luka's collar while opening the screen door. “Hello, Greg.”

“Hey, Karen,” he said softly, letting the dog sniff his hand and then petting her head so that she would calm down. “I heard Mike was taken to the hospital.”

She nodded, her head dizzy from fatigue. “Yeah. Yesterday afternoon.”

“Is he all right?”

“We don't really know yet. He's in the ICU with double pneumonia.”

Greg shook his head. “Sorry to hear that.” He looked at her a little more directly, his eyes glimmering with concern. “You look beat.”

“I am.” She wanted to tell him he looked beat, too, but she assumed it was because he was coming home from a long workday in the hot summer sun. His ashy-colored hair, which had been neatly combed on the night he had taken Lori to the hospital, was flopping and mussed up, as if he kept trying to rake it back with his fingers but it wasn't staying in place. There were smudges of dirt mixed with sweat on his suntanned neck and forearms, and his hands smelled like the galvanized nails he had been driving into sheathing all day. He was wearing blue work pants and a blue pocket T-shirt that stretched across his square shoulders, and his work boots were well worn.

“I didn't mean to intrude,” he said, backing down one of the steps behind him. “I saw your light was on, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You're not intruding,” she told him in all sincerity. “I was disappointed that you didn't respond to the call yesterday. It was nice to see a familiar face in the midst of all that chaos two weeks ago.”

“I was glad to be of help. If there's anything I can do—”

“That's nice of you, Greg.”

“I mean it.”

His calm brown eyes held hers for a significant moment, and Karen felt like she was washed out to sea. She was floating helplessly in a bottomless infinity, with no horizon visible in the darkness and no moon and stars in the black firmament above. Before she could stop herself, she heard herself saying, “Do you want a glass of iced tea or something?”

“No, thanks,” Greg replied, backing down another step. “I'm still in my work clothes. I'd feel like I was polluting your house.”

Karen actually smiled. “Can I at least give you a can of soda for the road?”

“No, I'm good. I just wanted to, you know, check up on you.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I felt bad about . . .” He hesitated, shifting on his feet like an adolescent. “I kept thinking about how hard it must be for you. It isn't too often we get a call at the same address within a month. At least not for two different patients.”

Karen might have been on the verge of hallucinating, but she realized what Greg was saying. “Thanks. It's been a rough week.”

“Listen, if you have time in the morning before you go back to the hospital, I usually have breakfast at the diner in town. You know, the one on the corner by the supermarket. I'm always there around seven-thirty or eight. Stop by and have a cup of coffee.”

“Maybe I'll take you up on that.”

Greg grinned tightly. “I hope you do.”

Karen watched him turn and walk to his truck. She wasn't too sleep-deprived to notice that his long, lean body was a treat to behold, but she was delirious enough to imagine for a split second that it was Mike swaggering off to work. “Good night, Greg.”

He turned and waved, looking like a magazine ad that idealized the rugged sexuality of the visiting handyman. “Good night, Karen. Hope I see you around.”

Karen fell into such a dead sleep that the hours of the long night warped into a single blink. Her alarm clock went off at seven o'clock, and she woke up to daylight pouring into her quiet bedroom. If Karen's first waking thought wasn't that Mike was lying in the ICU, she would have felt well rested and eager to embark on a new day. Instead she felt like someone had drugged her.

She reached for the phone and called the hospital, knowing the night nurses were coming to the end of their shift and would be able to tell her how Mike was doing. But there was nothing to tell, for better or for worse. His condition hadn't changed.

After getting out of bed with a groan, Karen jumped into the shower and let the water beat on her head for a good ten minutes. The mirror was fogged up by the time she emerged, but she didn't need it. She quickly combed out her hair and brushed her teeth, worrying only about hygiene and not about vanity. When the mirror cleared, it only revealed the shadows under her eyes and the worry lines that seemed to have etched themselves into her face over the previous few days.

Fifteen minutes later, she was out the door, after putting Luka outside on her run and making sure she and Bitsy had enough food and water. She didn't take the time to make herself a cup of coffee or pour herself some cereal, figuring it would be easier to grab some breakfast on her way to Stony Brook. As she started up the van and pulled out of the driveway, she tried not to think about what the day held in store. Hopefully she would get to the hospital and find out the antibiotics were working and Mike was out of the woods. Everything after that would be gravy.

It was a quarter to eight when Karen passed the diner in town, and she spotted a navy-blue pickup truck parked across the street. She remembered what Greg had told her about stopping for coffee and found a parking space on Main Street. It seemed like a perfectly logical course of action. She needed to pick up something to eat anyway . . .

The Main Street Luncheonette was an old-fashioned storefront eatery that served a cheap but hearty breakfast, bottomless cups of coffee, and great burgers. Only a little wider than a train car, it had booths along one wall brandishing the standard red leather seating and Formica tabletops, and a counter with swiveling stools separating the customers from the short-order cooks along the opposite wall. On any given weekday morning, most of the booths and counter seats were filled with regulars. During the summer, when Southold was bustling with summer visitors, it was almost impossible to get near the place between the hours of eight and ten.

Karen arrived early enough to find a few counter stools were still free, and she spotted Greg sitting on one at the far end, an empty plate and a cup of coffee sitting beside the newspaper he was reading. He looked so attractive—a cleaned-up version of the sexy construction worker who had knocked on her door the previous night. His suntanned face lit up when he saw her making her way toward him. “Well, hello, beautiful,” he said, closing the newspaper to give her his full attention.

“Yeah, sure,” Karen returned the serve, knowing her tired face and half-wet head of hair had to make for a very drab appearance. “There's not enough coffee in the world for that,” she added.

“You'd never know it,” Greg said, complimenting her. “You look great.”

“Even in daylight, your eyes aren't so good,” Karen replied, feeling the stretch of her own smile as though it were an unusual contortion for her face.

“My eyes are just fine,” he said.

The man sitting next to Greg moved over to let Karen have the stool, and she thanked him. As she sat down, she noticed that Greg's gaze did a swift but discreet review of her person, which was clad in navy shorts and a sleeveless button-down blouse. There was nothing lecherous or predatory about the way he did it. It seemed quite natural, and for Karen it was flattering and reassuring to know that a mature, red-blooded male found her worthy of such furtive appraisal. Even then, she was too guileless to realize that by consorting with a man who happened to be unattached and incredibly good-looking, especially at a time when her vulnerability made her somewhat irrational, she was opening a can of worms. It didn't matter that it was under the guise of getting reacquainted with an old friend.

“I'll have a cup of coffee,” she told the waitress behind the counter, “and a buttered roll to go.”

“Are you sure you don't want something a little more substantial? Like eggs or waffles or something?” Greg offered. “My treat.”

Karen was tempted. She hadn't had a decent meal in days. “No, I have to get to the hospital. I just figured I'd pop in and thank you for checking up on me last night.”

“Any change?” Greg asked.

“Well, my daughter is doing a lot better,” Karen replied. “But Mike is still walking a fine line.” She caught herself and reddened. “I didn't mean to put it like that.”

Greg appeased her with a warm grin. “If I remember right, Mike would be the first person to appreciate a good pun.”

She nodded and dropped her gaze to avoid his eyes. “Yeah, Mike always loved a good laugh. Even if it was at his own expense.”

Did I just speak of him in the past tense
?

“My kinda guy,” Greg said.

Of course. Mike was everybody's kinda guy.

Greg leaned toward her on his stool, his expression brightening. “Speaking of laughs,” he said, “you know who I thought about the other day? Do you remember Johnny Baltich?”

Karen was aware that Greg had taken their conversation on a detour. Maybe he perceived the melancholy in her expression when she spoke about Mike. She welcomed the new train of thought and allowed her mind to go into fast rewind. “Johnny Baltich,” she said, retrieving the image of a skinny, nerdy-looking teenager. A more vivid memory of the same character clad in baggy swim trunks and size-twelve Converse sneakers started the laughter brewing beneath the surface. “Oh, my God. Johnny Baltich,” she said again, her smile broadening.

“Seeing you last week got me thinking about your cousin Danny and some of those guys I hung out with,” Greg said. “When I started remembering some of the crazy times we had with Johnny, and how damn funny he was, I swear to you I was howling out loud by myself in my apartment.”

Karen enjoyed the laughter that bubbled between them as they started tapping the memory bank. “I remember, when we used to play miniature golf,” Karen said, “Johnny would wear his father's checkered golf shorts. And that stupid hat!”

Greg rocked forward as he laughed, his head almost touching hers. Then his gaze, shiny with humor, found hers again. “I forgot about that hat,” he said. His grin in full-blown laughter was spectacular—a flash of white, almost perfect teeth in a carved bronze face. His light brown eyes, already warm and engaging, were even more appealing against a playful background of crow's-feet. “I kept thinking about his hundred and one uses for seaweed.”