A Mile in My Flip-Flops (8 page)

“Well, I can see you’re busy,” he says stiffly. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Thanks for stopping by, though. I’ll tell Dad you were here.”

“Good luck on your house flip.” He heads for the front door now with Riley at his heels as if he’s planning on going with him.

“Riley,” I call out, “stay!”

Naturally, Riley ignores my command, making it awkward for Noah to slip out the door gracefully. He uses one foot to gently push Riley backward, then makes a quick escape. Standing in the shadows of the living room, I watch out the big front window, past the cracked glass and fly-specked grime, as Noah walks down the driveway toward a nicely restored turquoise pickup, complete with wooden side rails. I’m guessing it’s from the sixties—and probably a classic.

But it’s Noah I’m watching. Observing the way his long legs amble along in faded jeans and sturdy work boots, the fit of his white T-shirt over his broad shoulders, the casual cut of his sandy brown hair. And I’m thinking, okay this guy may be divorced and carrying some baggage, but he is one hot guy.

Then it’s like I want to slap myself. What am I thinking? So to purge these crazy thoughts from my mind, I plunge back into cleaning with a vengeance. Nothing like a filthy wall to take your mind off a man.

I’m just finishing up in the kitchen when I hear Riley barking happily at the back door and my dad greeting him and asking, “How’s Demo Dog doing?”

“Thankfully, not too much damage. Did you get the permit?” I ask as I drop a sponge back into the bucket.

“It should be ready by next week.”

“Great.”

He glances around the room. “No sign of Noah yet?”

“He was here.”

“What’d he think?”

I shrug. No way will I tell him how I shooed Noah away. “I don’t know.”

“Didn’t he say anything?”

“Not much.”

“Gretchen?” Dad looks perplexed now. “Did he look around?”

“A little. I sort of told him that it was premature to hire him.”

“Premature?” Dad looks upset. “Have you even seen this place, Gretchen?”

“I told him that I have one more week until schools out and that I plan to really jump into it then.”

Dad almost smiles now. “That’s fine, and I’d like you to jump into it. But there are certain things you can’t—”

“You don’t know what I can or can’t do yet, Dad. You haven’t even given me a chance.” I realize I’m being stubborn, but I’m a little tired of being condescended to. “Like I told you in the first place, I’ve been watching these home-improvement shows. And for years I’ve watched you. I really do think I can do this. I want to do this.”

“But you might need some help.”

“Why don’t you let me figure that out, Dad?”

He lets out an exasperated sigh and just shakes his head.

“And if and when I need help, I’ll ask.”

“What if Noah has taken on another project by then?”

“Noah’s not the only carpenter in the world.”

“Maybe not, but he’s affordable and one of the best. And he’s a good man, Gretchen.”

I point my finger at Dad now. “So
that’s
it.”

“What?” He gives me his best innocent look.

“You’re trying to set me up with him again, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.” He waves his hand at me in dismissal.

“Sure
you’re not…”

“So what if I am, Gretchen? You could certainly do a lot worse than Noah Campbell.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means.”

“Collin?”

Dad shrugs. “I never really trusted that guy, Gretchen. I think you were lucky to get out of that relationship when you did.”

“Lucky?”

He nods firmly. “More than lucky. I think God was watching out for you. I think there’s someone far better for you.”

“Someone like Noah?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, Dad, I’ve already told you that I don’t like that Noah’s divorced. I will never marry a guy who’s been divorced. And he has a kid.” And he’s way too good looking, I’m thinking, but I don’t say this.

“Betty’s divorced,” Dad points out. “Do you think it’s wrong for me to marry her?”

“I can’t say what’s right or wrong for you, Dad. I can only speak for myself. I just cannot imagine marrying a guy who is divorced—a guy who didn’t take his wedding vows seriously.” Okay, I realize that I don’t know Noah’s whole story, but besides the fact that I do feel strongly against divorce, this is my best shot at getting Dad to
leave me alone. “After the whole Collin fiasco,” I remind him, “I know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of a broken promise.”

Dad looks like he’s about to spout steam through his nostrils. “Well, I’m sure glad that you aren’t God, Gretchen.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I’m glad God is much more gracious and forgiving than you.”

I blink. I’m not used to Dad talking to me like this. Maybe it’s because of this house—maybe he’s just frustrated.

“And if you’ll excuse me, I’m tired and hungry, and I’m going home.” Then without saying another word, Dad leaves through the back door, and I’m still standing in the kitchen, wondering how I offended him like that. Maybe it has to do with Betty. Or maybe it’s something more. I guess we’ll just have to sort it out later.

T
he weekend passes quietly. I continue cleaning the house, but Dad does not come by On one hand, I’m relieved. It’s sort of nice to have the place to myself. I bring Riley, a CD player, and a small cube refrigerator that I stock with sodas, and I just plug along with the cleaning. But by Sunday night I’m feeling a little irritated. Is this Dad’s way of punishing me? Is he trying to teach me a lesson? So before I go home, I give him a call and ask him what’s up.

“I played eighteen holes with Gary Gordon on Saturday,” he tells me in an offhanded way. “And after church this morning, I came home and read the newspaper, and then I watched an NBA play-off game, and after that I took a nap.”

“Oh…”

“Have you been working on your house?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

“How’s it coming?”

“Okay … but kind of slow.”

“I thought you wanted to slow things down.”

I consider this. “Yeah. It was actually kind of nice. I got a lot of cleaning done, and it smells a lot better now.”

“Good for you.”

So I make a little more small talk, then admit I’m tired and about to head home.

“Take care, sweetie,” he says in a kind voice.

“You too.”

“And I think you’re right to slow things down some,” he adds. “Maybe you should wait until schools out to get going on the actual renovations.”

“I think you might be right,” I admit. “The last week of school is usually pretty wild anyway. I should probably make sure I give the kids my best. Maybe we should both just take the week off. Then come back at it fresh and new as soon as school ends.”

“That sounds wise.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

I feel like things are pretty much okay between Dad and me as I drive home. I know from watching HGTV that remodels can stress even the best of relationships, and I sure don’t want to see my house flip undoing my relationship with Dad. In the future I’ll have to be on guard against that.

Packed with all those end-of-the-year activities, the week passes relatively quickly, and finally it’s the last day of school, which is also the day of the kindergarten picnic. With the help of my room mothers and teacher’s aide, Claire, I merge both classes for a day of fun and games at a nearby park. Fortunately, I remembered to bring my camera and am getting lots of good shots.

“Miss Hanover?” calls a voice from behind me, and I turn to see Marion, the school secretary, hurrying toward me and waving her hand.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“We tried your cell phone,” she says breathlessly.

“It’s turned off. Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s your dad.”

“Dad?” I feel my throat tighten.

“He’s at Saint Josephs.”

“The hospital?”

“Someone just called from ER and said you need to come right away.”

“Go ahead, Gretchen,” says Claire. “We can take care of things here.”

“And explain to the kids?”

“Yes,” says a room mother as she gives me a gentle push. “Just get yourself over to the hospital and hurry!”

“I know you rode over on the bus with the kids,” says Marion. “But I’ve got my car, and I can take you straight to Saint Josephs if you like, Gretchen.”

“Thanks,” I tell her as I grab my bag and start jogging toward the street. As Marion drives, I try calling the hospital to check on Dad but end up on hold.

“Here you go,” she says as she pulls up in front of ER. “You call and let us know how he’s doing, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you!”

I run inside and go directly to the desk, asking where my dad is
and if I can see him. After what seems like an hour but is probably only minutes, a middle-aged doctor introduces himself as Dr. Fontaine and tells me that he’s been treating my dad.

“Your father was brought into ER a little before noon with acute MI,” he explains.

“What does that mean?” I demand.

“MI stands for myocardial infraction, more commonly called a heart attack.”

I want to ask why he didn’t just say that in the first place but decide I’ll make more progress by being polite. “How is he now?”

“He’s stabilized enough that we can run a few tests, and then he’ll be moved to ICU, maybe within the hour.”

“Can I see him?”

“Not until we get him settled into ICU.”

“Is he going to be okay?” My voice is shaking now.

“The first few hours are the most critical.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning he’s getting the best care possible.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “He’s lucky he got here when he did. Things could’ve gone much differently.” Then he excuses himself. By “differently” I assume he means that my dad could be dead.

I go to the waiting room and sit down. I am thrown off and scared, so I pray. I ask God to watch over Dad, to make sure he gets the best treatment, and to help him get well. I take out my phone and consider calling someone. But who? Betty is off on a ship, cruising through the Mediterranean, and I doubt she’s using her cell phone. And what would I say at this stage anyway? Wouldn’t it be better to have more information before I get her all worried? Dad has an older
sister in Detroit, but other than an occasional greeting card, they don’t really keep in touch. I’d call Holly just for moral support, but she’s still at work, and her boss hates it when she gets personal calls.

That’s when it hits me—and it hits me hard. When it comes to family, Dad and I are almost all we have. And that’s when I start to cry. I don’t want to lose him. I need my dad.

It’s after three by the time I’m allowed into ICU. But even then, I’m not ready for what I see. Dad is pale, and he looks much older than he did last week. And even when I quietly say, “Hi, Dad,” he doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t flinch or move a muscle. He’s hooked up to several things. One tube, that I assume is for oxygen, goes into his nose. And then there’s an IV, which is connected to his arm. And finally there’s a heart monitor with irregular beeping noises that make me uneasy.

“Visits in here are limited to five minutes,” a nurse informs me as she checks on the heart monitor.

“Bye, Dad.” I gently squeeze his hand, which seems abnormally cool. “I love you.” I wait for some response, but there is none. “See you later,” I say quietly.

I find Dr. Fontaine looking at a laptop computer by the nurses’ station, and I ask if he can fill me in a bit regarding my dad.

“From what I can see, your father is going to need bypass surgery, or a CABG, otherwise known as coronary artery bypass surgery. I thought we might attempt an angioplasty at first, but after going over his medical records more carefully and looking at the test results, I no longer think that’s the best treatment.”

“What exactly happens with bypass surgery?” I ask. “I mean, what does it entail?”

“It’s major surgery. To put it simply, we open his chest and replace the diseased artery to the heart with a healthy blood vessel from somewhere else.”

“Is it dangerous?” I ask, knowing this is probably a stupid question. “I mean, what if his heart stopped while you were doing this?”

“Actually, his heart will stop. We use a heart-lung machine to take over the blood circulation during the surgery.”

“Oh…” The image of Dad on an operating table with his heart stopped makes me feel weak.

“Coronary bypasses are becoming a fairly common procedure,” he continues, and I can tell he’s trying to reassure me.

“So it’s not really that risky?”

“All surgeries involve some risks.”

“Right … so when do you plan to do it?”

“We’re prepared to do an emergency bypass today, but we’re hoping that your father will respond favorably to the medication and that we can delay the surgery.”

“Why do you want to delay it?”

“For the optimum outcome, we want him to be in the best possible shape. I’d really like to keep him here a few days before we do the surgery.”

“When will he wake up?” I ask weakly.

“When he’s ready. The pain meds are probably helping him rest. But don’t let it worry you. He needs a good rest right now.”

“He felt so cold,” I say. “Is that normal?”

“It’s a new treatment for heart patients who are unconscious. We use cold packs to lower the body temperature a few degrees.”

“Is that safe?”

“Absolutely. The cooling allows the body’s metabolism to slow down, to preserve and protect cells that might otherwise be damaged. And, of course, all this is carefully monitored. But the outcome with this cooling treatment is nothing short of amazing.”

Then he tells me that the nurse is preparing a release form for me to sign, and I thank him for his time. He excuses himself, and I just stand there like a dummy next to the nurses’ station, wondering what I should do next. I’m so used to asking my dad this kind of question. Whenever I have a problem or a crisis, I turn to him. He’s the one who always has the answers. Of course, this reminds me about my house flip, which suddenly seems like the lamest thing I’ve ever attempted, and I wonder if there’s any chance I can sell the ranch house as is. Would I even be able to find a buyer who’d want a run-down old house with a gutted kitchen, a bad roof, and bathrooms with dry rot? What have I gotten myself into?

It’s after five, and I’ve been in to see Dad several times, each time for only five minutes, but he’s still unconscious so no response. And he still feels cold when I touch him—and I suppose that worries me even though the doctor said it shouldn’t. Finally I know it’s time to call Holly. I catch her in a parking garage on the way to her car, and choking back sobs, I explain to her what’s happened today, and she promises to come straight to the hospital.

“Th-thank you!” I blurt out with tears now streaming down both cheeks.

People in the waiting area look up when Holly enters the room. She’s dressed for work, but she’s so stylish she looks like she could be heading to fashion week in New York. Oblivious to the attention she’s getting, probably because she’s used to it, she comes straight for me and wraps her arms around me, holding me as the dam breaks and I let it all out. After a couple of minutes I feel bad for getting the shoulder of her pale pink button-down soggy. And finally, feeling self conscious, I step back. “Sorry for falling apart…”

She shakes her head. “Don’t be sorry. This is what best friends are for, honey. Now tell me everything…like how is he, when did this happen, and what’s next?”

So I go into all that I know, and after I’ve exhausted my information and most of my brain cells, I pause to take a deep, choppy breath.

“Where did it happen?” she asks.

“The heart attack?”

“Yes. Was he home? Did he call an ambulance?”

“I don’t really know.”

She nods. “I guess I just wonder … what would you do if you were alone and felt chest pains? Would you call 911 or just wait to see? Or what if you were driving in traffic? Would you get out and ask for help?”

These sound like Holly questions. Which is probably one reason she makes a good legal assistant—and why she might make an even better attorney if she ever gets the confidence to go back and finish her law degree.

“Dad doesn’t even use his cell phone anymore,” I tell her. “So maybe he was home and simply called for an ambulance from there. However he did it, the doctor said he made it here just in the nick of time.”

“Good for him.” Holly’s big brown eyes get misty now. “I know he’s going to be okay. He has to.”

“I just wish I could talk to him,” I say.

“Does the doctor have any idea when he’ll regain consciousness?”

“When he’s ready. The doctor said he needs this rest…to help prepare him for surgery.”

Holly takes both my hands and squeezes them now. “It’s going to be okay, Gretch.”

“How can you know that for sure?”

“I just feel it.” She nods firmly. “I prayed for him all the way over here. I know he’s going to be fine.”

I want to question this, because I’m not so sure about God today. After all, he took my mom when I was thirteen, and there was Collin and the wedding that never happened. It seems my life is full of losses. Where was God then? But I don’t have the energy to argue just now.

“What about your house?”

“What about it?” I ask flatly.

“With your dad, well, kind of incapacitated, won’t it be a challenge to get the renovations done in time?”