The House at Royal Oak (16 page)

A 52-YEAR-OLD GENTLEMAN WAS DRIVING TO HIS BED
-
and-breakfast on the Eastern Shore...
I didn't want there to be more and the words kept rerunning when I tried to read the report later.
A gentleman was driving to his bed-and-breakfast . . . and everyone lived happily ever after.

Four o'clock, a weekday, rush hour. The roads would be jammed for three more hours. I started locking doors and windows, switching off lights. Call the cat sitter, a small methodical part of myself directed, say you don't know when you'll be back. Pack. Don't forget the muffin recipe. I slipped
the index card with my grandmother's faded script in my shirt pocket.

What else? Linens for the third guest room, also a lamp and a crocheted tablecloth that would do for a bedskirt. Bed-skirt? How could I even be thinking about a bedskirt at a time like this? What time this was I couldn't say. There was fear in my throat and eyes. Something was horribly wrong.

What next? Call the hospital in Easton where they would be likely to take someone who was injured on the highway—unless it was a helicopter evacuation to a big medical center. But where would that be? I had no idea. I called the hospital and identified Hugo, his truck, the time of the rescue.

They connected me right away to the emergency room and a cardiologist came on the line. One of the upper chambers of Hugo's heart started beating uncontrollably, he explained. Not a heart attack. They were giving him medicine.

He's stable, the cardiologist said. “But we haven't got the fibrillation stopped so he's going to be here a while.” The cardiologist was clearly smart and experienced. He answered my questions before I could ask.

“There are other things we'll try,” he said. “This by itself isn't life-threatening but it can cause blood clots, so we're giving him medicines to prevent that. His vital signs are good.”

Vital signs? My young, strong husband was between life and death with doctors watching his vital signs. If it did not seem so unlikely I would have been much more upset. I dialed Hugo's dad.

As the phone rang, I realized it would be important to go easy. A medical man or not, he was almost ninety. My casual greeting didn't work.

“What's up, Carol?”

There's a problem, I said, but everything's going to be fine. I wanted to let him know that Hugo wasn't feeling well and he was, just for now, in the hospital.

“What's he got?”

Atrial fibrillation.

“Jesus!”

I had never heard him invoke a deity, and asked if it was bad.

It can be or not, he said. He would get some information and call back.

By the time I sped across the Bay Bridge it was dark. Slowing down at Hess Road, I spotted Hugo's silver-gray pickup parked just off the highway in tall grass. This will turn out to be nothing, I decided, seeing that his truck was neatly parallel to the guardrail. He couldn't be very sick or he would have crashed into the rail. When I get to the hospital he'll be gone, he will have checked out. I will go to the B&B and he'll be there waiting for me.

I didn't exactly know where the hospital was, even though I had been in the pin-neat, picturesque county seat of Easton, a dozen miles from our village, before. There was no one out on the streets walking or driving, an unfamiliar sight to a city dweller. I stopped at a gas station for directions.

When the attendant said, “Straight ahead on your right, ma'am,” I wanted to hug him. The
ma'am
meant more than he would know. It meant that you and where you are going deserve courtesy, you are not a lost soul driving through the dark, alone without family or friends, to an unknown situation in a strange town.

The hospital looked dark and closed up. Two doors I tried were locked. I walked around to the emergency entrance, where a guard let me in. I signed the log and followed directions up to the second floor.

Three intravenous lines extended from each of Hugo's arms and bleeping monitors were attached all over his chest. A wall of machines behind him blinked green, blue, and white. His eyes were closed.

I said his name and touched his arm.

Hey, he said without opening his eyes.

I couldn't think of what to do except hold his hand. He didn't need or want anything. I topped off his water pitcher and refolded the blanket on his bed. The nurse said they would keep a close eye on him overnight and the doctors would come by early in the morning. Hugo could hardly speak, but agreed when I brought up the idea of leaving to get ready for the guests. In a small town if we disappointed the guests, word would spread and no one could be expected to refer any more business our way.

It was after midnight and very dark without streetlights or a moon as I headed out Route 33, the only car on the road. Past the Three Sisters Café, closed, I turned onto Ditch Road, so-called because of the deep drainage ditches on both sides, and drove slowly, carefully past Big Woods, past the Woman Tree so named for its suggestive branching. It wouldn't do to get stuck in a ditch right now.

In the driveway it was even darker. By the car headlights, I made my way up the path and unlocked the kitchen door. Swarming mosquitoes trailed me into the house.

Switching on the light in the “office,” the twelve-by-four
teen-foot owners' quarters, I saw white mountains of towels, sheets, table mats, and napkins piled on the sofa bed and desk and spilling onto the floor, blocking my way.
No crying over laundry, please,
I could hear Zia Lillia say, and smiled in spite of myself. What a surprise to find her here.

There was no choice. I started on the laundry. The laundry room was still jammed with ladders, paint cans, and lumber, some too heavy for me to move. I stacked the ladders to one side, clearing a narrow path, and put in the first load before I fell asleep on the sofa.

Check-in time was clearly stated on our reservation confirmations as four to six o'clock, but Hugo had told me that while I was away, the guests showed up at eleven in the morning. Sometimes they just do what they want to do, he said, just like us when we're traveling. The early guests arrived off a red-eye flight from California and he felt he had to let them in, offer tea and a bite to eat, even though lunch and dinner aren't part of the bed-and-breakfast deal. He concluded that you have to be ready early.

I remembered my grandmother's expression, “Work backward,” meaning in this situation shop and ready the rooms before doing anything else. Seeing Hugo and talking with the doctors would have to wait . . .

Your desperately ill husband will have to wait?
I wondered if I was thinking straight. Hospitalized patients often need an advocate to look after them, speak up, and generally help out. But if I canceled the rooms out from under the guests, ruining the new business on account of him, his spirit might be crushed. There was a lot riding on this project.

As I was considering what to do that morning, Hugo's dad called. He had talked with the cardiologist, who said Hugo was going to be fine and would probably be discharged today or tomorrow. My spirits lifted. With that news, I decided to go ahead with the arriving guests.

On top of everything else, the grass was ankle-high along the driveway, overdue for mowing. Hugo's approach to the lawn was Zen-like. With his push-mower, it took most of a day to cut the lawn and he liked it that way. I called up the Kilmons to ask if they knew anyone who could help.

Scott answered the phone and I told him what had happened the day before to Hugo. Barely had I formed the question about the grass when he said, “It's taken care of.” I wanted to cry. He went on to say that Susie would come over and give me a hand. She could cook, make beds, anything at all I needed. I knew she had a bad back and couldn't bring myself to ask her to do beds or wait on tables. “We're here if you change your mind,” he said. I should have accepted, but being new, I felt awkward asking favors of them.

It was one of those times when everyone who might have helped was not around. Rick, away on a business trip. My two best friends, out of town for the weekend. Linda, in Florida to check on our ninety-two-year-old mother. Ethan, Lucy, and Amanda, thousands of miles away at work and school. I knew I could turn out breakfast under the circumstances, but I also knew I couldn't serve it graciously or even calmly.

I called up a server at our favorite eating place in Easton, where we allowed ourselves to go once a week when we didn't have a kitchen. Amy Haines, the restaurant's owner who was by now a friend, had told me we could raid her staff if necessary,
but only for weekend mornings. The server said she would be glad to come over. By phone my sister suggested keeping the menu simple.

I called the hospital. Hugo answered and told me not to worry, he felt a little better and there were a lot of doctors around. He wanted to know if his truck was okay.

Fine, I assured him. He said something else then, so softly it took time for his words to register. “In the fast lane . . . doing seventy . . . and the yellow line . . .”

What yellow line?

The one in the middle of the highway, he explained. “Upside down . . . it seemed to be in the sky . . . and I was driving with the truck . . . on its side.”

New panic washed over me. I rushed through the work to get more or less ready for the incoming guests and drove as fast as I dared back along Ditch Road, heading for the hospital.

When I arrived, Hugo was still lying in bed, too dizzy to sit up or open his eyes.

FRIDAY NOON. WHEN I ANSWERED THE PHONE, A WOMAN
asked for Hugo. He isn't here, I told her.

“Oh. This is Kayla and I just wanted to let Hugo know we've landed so we'll be at his place by three.”

His place? This was a courteous guest, even if she seemed quite focused on Hugo. I thanked her for calling and remembered to say something welcoming.

A few minutes after three, a couple parked and walked up the brick path, presumably Kayla and her husband. But who knew? You can't be sure who the guests are until they identify themselves. For this reason I quickly got in the habit of introducing myself to encourage them to do the same.

“Hi, I'm me,” the man responded. Kayla stepped forward and introduced herself and Bob, her husband. I offered to help carry their bags but, having learned from before, asked if they had something light because of a knee.

“Looks to me like you've got two knees,” Bob said, handing me a bag of cookies and soda. “It's in case you don't have much to eat around here.”

He's more comfortable with hotels, Kayla said, but he agreed to try a bed-and-breakfast. I showed them to their room and Kayla asked if Hugo was around.

“What's all this about Hugo?” Bob said. “She's called him three times in the last three days. I asked her why she had to call Hugo again from the airport. Is she in love with him or something?”

He tends to have that effect, I said.

“Then we'll look forward to meeting him,” Bob said with a wink.

Coming downstairs for tea, Kayla and Bob carried a bottle of wine they had brought from California. I thanked them for the completely unexpected gift and said I'd save it for when Hugo could enjoy it.

Teatime passed quickly. I felt a rush of delight at meeting such a pleasant couple, people I just knew Hugo would take to. Alone back in the kitchen to refill the teapot, the bleak reality hit me. Hugo was lying in a hospital bed and couldn't get up. No one knew what was wrong with him. Maybe he would never be able to taste the wine. He loved wine and would talk about the grapes, the regions, the variations from one vineyard to another. I would rather not drink the wine at all than drink it without him, even with the annoying slurping noises of his first sips. This is necessary to aerate wine properly, he said, and the only way to experience the full taste. I blinked back tears and pushed through to the dining room. Luckily, Kayla kept up the conversation, complimenting details of the house restoration and decoration I didn't think anyone would notice while Bob interrupted
with jokes. Pride kept me going, too. No one wants to see a crying hostess.

“Bob doesn't usually like inns, but he likes this,” Kayla was saying. “However, we will need more pillows, I can tell you that right now, at least two more.”

Certainly, I said, knowing there wasn't an extra pillow in the house and the closest store was a sixteen-mile trip.

The doorbell rang and I went to greet the guests for the second room, a stately gray-haired couple. I ran through information about the house, already easier the second time in a day. Here's the parlor for your use, the dining room where we serve breakfast at nine and tea in the afternoon, or you can have tea on the porch. Here are the keys, and up these stairs straight ahead is your room.

One tea, one coffee for the Linden room, I repeated, coming back downstairs. I had forgotten to ask Kayla and Bob about coffee and tea, but found them on their way out for the evening. As I was writing down the requests, a third car pulled into the driveway and parked. I went out to greet a woman alone.

She had encountered Bob outside.

“What's with the ‘I'm-me' jokester?” she asked sharply.

Mediating between guests, it crossed my mind for the first time, might be part of the job and it might not be easy. I followed this guest into the house and showed her around.

My head was spinning as I anxiously jotted down “coffee, Acorn,” afraid of forgetting even this simple detail. She reappeared half an hour later, ready to join a wedding rehearsal party, and paused at the kitchen door.

“May I make a suggestion?”

“Yes, of course.” But if you don't like this place, please don't say so now, I thought, because my husband might be dying and I am about to start screaming.

“Lights. I've stayed in a lot of B&Bs. I'm something of an authority on them, by the way, and I don't know why everyone thinks no one reads in bed! I have moved the reading light from the table to the bedside. Will you please be sure that no one moves it back when they do my room?”