“Thank you, Mother, but it’s not. Harry’s in school most of the time and we’re coping adequately, thanks to Ella’s friend and one of our neighbors. Besides, I’m afraid there would be nowhere for you to sleep since I have decamped to the spare room.”
“Did you say a neighbor?” His mother’s tone was loaded with accusation.
“Eudora, yes. You’ll approve—she’s a retired horticulturalist. She also happens to be a gourmet cook.” He emphasized the word cook. “We’re eating extremely well.”
“A neighbor is feeding you? Most unorthodox, indeed. I would like to point out that I am also retired. And I have the added benefit of nursing skills.”
Retired from what? Mother had never worked—even inside the home. And volunteering in the cancer ward had hardly classified as nursing. One morning a week, she’d served tea and biscuits to family members and shuffled magazines around the waiting room.
“Mother, I appreciate your concern, but we’re managing.” Somehow.
“And just how poorly is Ella?”
“She’s in heart failure and waiting for a transplant, which makes her pretty sick.”
“Oh, dear me.”
He had told his mother this several times. Maybe she’d been drunk. “Mother, I really have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow when we can talk properly.”
“Don’t forget to post the melatonin. I need two bottles.”
Felix said good night, hit “Call End,” and sat. Just sat. He needed to get back in his car and drive to work—the deal must go on—but his legs no longer functioned. Maybe he could stay in a hospital corridor for the rest of his life. That would really push Robert over the edge.
“May I join you?”
Felix looked up and frowned at Dr. Beaubridge. “I had you pegged for a nine-to-five man.”
“Hardly.” Dr. Beaubridge sat next to him. His white coat made a rustling sound that took Felix back to Sunday matins at All Saints Church and the starched white surplices of the choirboys. The hell of sitting still, sandwiched between Pater and Mother; the pretense of being the family that deserved the front pew. “I’m glad you requested the ambulance bring her here.”
“I’m sure our insurance will make us pay heavily for the privilege.”
“It was a good decision,” the cardiologist said. “How are you holding up?”
“I no longer know.” Felix spread out his hands and looked at the hairs, the creases of skin, his wedding ring. “Stress can really do that to someone with a heart condition?”
“When your heart is weakened, anything can be the enemy: too much salt; an infection; emotional stress leading to a panic-attack type setting, as appears to have been the case with Ella . . .”
“Now what?”
“I know this is not the answer you want, but we continue to wait for a donor.”
“But for how long?”
“I can’t answer that. It could be months; it could be longer. In the meantime, I’d like to keep her in for a few days’ observation, start her on an antidepressant, and then send her home again. Here.” He handed Felix a card. “Waiting can be a difficult, frustrating time. There are support groups for families such as yours.”
Felix wanted to rip the card into tiny pieces and scatter them like ashes. Support groups—the touchy-feely stuff of nightmares. Felix handed the card back. “We don’t need outside help.”
Dr. Beaubridge refused to take it. “You might change your mind.”
“I’m not a fan of dissecting my feelings in front of strangers.”
“I was that way.” Dr. Beaubridge paused to greet a nurse. “Until my wife died.”
A phone rang behind them at the nurses’ station, and a patient’s call alarm went off.
“How?” Felix said.
“Car wreck. Five years ago.”
“Do you have children?”
“No.” Dr. Beaubridge tried to smile. “My greatest regret.”
Felix collapsed his arms onto his legs and hung his head. “How do you do this day in, day out?”
“I make sure I’m the best.”
“Level with me. One husband to another.” Felix rolled his head sideways and stared at Dr. Beaubridge. “How bad is this?”
“It’s not a situation I would have hoped for, given how tenuous her heart failure is.”