“Can you be more specific?”
“Given all that has happened in the past four weeks and today, Ella is now in the highest category of heart failure.”
“Class four?”
Dr. Beaubridge nodded. “There’s no way to predict whether she’ll have another episode of heart failure or an irregular heart rhythm, either of which could prove fatal, or not. She doesn’t meet standard indications for implantation of a device to predict irregular rhythms—an internal defibrillator—in part because she’s not far enough out from her heart attack for us to know if the heart muscle will recover or not. And since she’s stabilized, she doesn’t yet meet indications for an LVAD, the implanted pump we talked about earlier. Bottom line? We’re in limbo. And we could stay this way for months while we wait for a transplant. I’m sorry.”
Felix put the card in his pocket and stood. “Thank you,” he said, and walked away.
Finally, Dr. Beaubridge had been honest, and he had nothing worth saying.
THIRTY-ONE
Felix used to brag to Saint John that spring in North Carolina began on February 1. Not this year. February 8, and record lows had kept the furnace rattling all night. The weather was moving backward into the grip of full-blown winter. The house was definitely not constructed for such temperatures. Since the panic attack, Ella had complained endlessly of being cold, and Felix had bought several space heaters. The master bedroom was now stuffier than a National Health Service waiting room in a heat wave, and still, she couldn’t get warm.
The humidifier made some strange gurgling noise and struggled to disperse moisture into the brittle atmosphere of the house. Felix snapped the new elastic band around his wrist and returned to his Dear Robert letter.
A week had passed since the Life Plan deal had gone through. It was time to step down from the partnership and offer to train Curt, and Felix wanted everything in writing. After ten years of partnership, he didn’t trust his soon-to-be-ex partner. Nor did he trust Curt. Quitting in the summer was still plan A, part B, but that was a secret shared only with Katherine.
Ella coughed and appeared in the hall wearing her fuzzy gray slippers, yoga pants, and a ratty old cardigan he didn’t recognize. She tucked the cardigan under one arm, then the other; it resembled a huge chest bandage.
“What are you doing out of bed?” Felix closed his laptop and jumped down from the kitchen stool. The wood floor was cold under his bare feet.
Ella smiled. Her face was gray; the roots of her hair were gray; she matched the gray Saturday morning sky beyond the sliding doors. “I thought I’d try moving around.” She caught her breath. “Prove to Harry I’m not a sloth.” She reached for the doorjamb.
“Ella, please, you’re doing too much.” Taking her elbow, he guided her back to bed. “Did you use the sleeping pill last night?”
“Yes, Papa Bear.” She paused, her breathing still whistling as if she had asthma. “I am now the good patient who takes every pill known to womankind.”
Felix was firmly of the belief that sleep deprivation had been a contributing factor in the panic attack. After she came home the first time, Ella had catnapped during the day and slept poorly at night. Dr. Beaubridge had prescribed sleeping pills, which she’d refused to take: “Because I wake up with my heart pounding, Felix. I wake up terrified and have to relive it all.”
But sleep deprivation could be dealt with, could be fixed. Could be cured. This was a positive step involving forward motion. And now they were tackling the depression. It was early days for the antidepressant, and yet Ella seemed less adrift.
“Morning, Mom! Morning, Dad!” Harry skidded into their bedroom doorway. “Shall I make everyone french toast?”
“Lovely. Thank you.” Ella’s smile wavered.
“Dad?” Harry looked hopeful.