The heart was designed to be broken, yes, but broken by others—by girlfriends and spouses, even children. What to make of this self-betrayal? This bright red organ, so elegantly efficient in its simple task of pumping blood, suddenly dribbles blood instead, its electric circuitry gone haywire. Ventricular fibrillation. The heart quivers, and just like that, you go from being the most powerful man in the state to an elderly man being kept alive by machines.
One good thing about being in the ICU—it took away Anton’s fear. And replaced it with a clean, oxygenated anger. Get up, he wanted to shout at his father. Is that stubble on your cheek? Drool on your chin? You want people to see you like this, lying butt-naked beneath that stupid hospital robe with these tubes attached to your chest? Dad. Dad. Remember when we hiked the Appalachian Trail for two weeks for my twenty-third birthday? When you took me parasailing in Florida? When the storm blew in from the Atlantic that evening on Pappy’s boat and you sang old Irish folksongs as you fearlessly steered us home? Or the night in Madrid when all our money was in your wallet and we got held up? You didn’t panic even then, just calmly figured out the way back to the hotel. That’s the father I know and respect. That’s how high you’ve set the bar. So don’t expect sympathy from me as you loll around playing dead in this hospital bed. Come on. Get up. Get up. Don’t you pull a Pappy on me. Don’t you die on me, Dad, I’ll be so pissed, I swear I’ll haunt you in your grave.
Now that Anton was with his mom, now that he’d held her close to him longer than he perhaps ever had, he was angry with her, too. Look how easily she appeared to have accepted the situation, sitting in the waiting room with the relatives of the other patients, some of them knitting sweaters, for cryin’ out loud, as if this goddamn hospital was their damn living room. He watched Delores get up to fetch an elderly man two sugar cookies and the coffee that the hospital provided; saw her put a consoling hand on another relative’s shoulder. He stood as she introduced him to the young cardiology resident, noticed the breathless quality in her voice as she spoke. He hated how resigned she seemed, how docile her demeanor was, how she nodded acceptingly when the resident explained the risks involved in the heart catheterization, how willingly she signed the forms that they put before her. The resident seemed singularly unimpressed with the fact that his patient happened to be Governor David Coleman, the man to whom Anton owed everything. If the doctor had been obsequious, Anton would’ve hated him for that, but he was also irked by this matter-of-fact normalcy.
He was being absurd. He knew this. Everybody was behaving wonderfully well. Mom was her usual thoughtful self, and he could see the wonder and appreciation on the faces of the other people in the waiting room. The doctors were professional, keeping the family in the loop every step of the way. The nurses were competent, cheerful, with the right combination of sympathy and efficiency. No, the only person he had a beef with was the man lying in that hospital bed who would most likely need bypass surgery and may not come out of it. Someone who, the doctors said, probably had destroyed over sixty-five percent of his heart muscle wall. Someone who was getting ready to break Anton’s heart. This he could not forgive.
They were all staring at him; they were asking him to sit down, for God’s sake, he was driving them all crazy with his constant pacing. The nurses were beginning to get that “God, what a dickhead” look each time he walked past their station. Bradley had tried putting a hand on his shoulder; he had shaken it off. Katherine had tried to console him; he had told her that it was late and she should go home and he’d call her if there was any news. He ignored the hurt look on her face, and if he was gratified by the fact that she disregarded his advice, he wouldn’t know it. Nothing registered except the purity of his anger. It was his saving grace, this anger, because without it, he would’ve lost it. Would’ve sat down like the rest of the dazed and confused sheep in this waiting room, or howled in sorrow. But until his father got up from that hospital bed instead of lying there with his eyes closed like some goddamn Christian martyr, he would not sit down.
David groaned as if he’d read his thoughts, and Anton felt knocked down to his knees. Dear God, was his father in pain? He looked around the room for a nurse, but David had fallen back into his shallow breathing, and there was nothing to do but watch, transfixed, as the machines did their work.
Anton loosened his collar, feeling hot and faint, even with the air conditioner on. Why weren’t there any windows in this room? He leaned on the mattress with his fingertips to steady himself. He felt trapped, unwilling to stay in the oppressive room for another second, but dreading the crowded waiting room, too. A wave of nausea hit him—the martinis and wine, the heavy food, the sudden plane ride—and he felt a sense of déjà vu. And then it came upon him, an image that he couldn’t have called up in his conscious mind even if he’d tried: the helpless, trapped feeling of trying to open the sealed window in that small, hot apartment and being unable to do so. The sheer animal desperation that had made him swing that chair.
“Anton,” somebody whispered behind him. It was Uncle Connor. The older man’s face looked lined, and his eyes were tired. “Let’s go sit someplace quiet, you and I. I just received a call from Johnny. We need to talk.”
Anton knew immediately what Connor meant. Of course. It was a sign of how he was not thinking correctly, that the issue of succession had not occurred to him. Johnny was John Newman, the lieutenant governor. If Dad had to undergo a procedure, Newman would take over as governor. Anton swallowed. “So Newman becomes acting governor until Dad recovers.”
The two men stared at each other. Connor’s eyes grew teary. “When we pushed the general assembly to clarify the succession laws last year, did I ever think we’d be using it to replace David? Not in a million years.” Connor’s voice was hoarse, his expression bewildered. “I just don’t get it. He’s in such great shape. The guy can do a five-mile run without breaking a sweat. He beats men half his age at tennis.” Connor pointed with his thumb. “So how the heck did he end up here?”
Anton pulled the older man toward him. Uncle Connor had given up his own legal career to become Dad’s right-hand man from the time he decided to run for governor. David had said a thousand times that it was Connor who’d gotten him elected and Connor who had made him a successful governor. “It’s just temporary,” Anton said. “You know how tough Dad is. He’ll be out of here in no time.”
Connor nodded. “I just wish we had changed the laws so that it was the attorney general who could succeed an ailing governor.”
Anton raised his eyebrow. “Yeah, right. As if the charges of nepotism that dogged me throughout my campaign weren’t enough.”