From Butt to Booty (31 page)

I think Denmark probably has better waiting room furniture, too. What is that painting? Watercolor exploration of vomit?

“I’m sure the care here is excellent.” Heather pats Mom’s hand.

“A doctor.” Mom leaps up and rushes at a guy I’m sad to say is neither attractive nor competent-looking. And yes, he looks like he saw his pillow about a week ago. Joy.

“Mrs. Garibaldi?” he says.

Mom nods like a bobble head on meth.

“We’ve taken your husband to the cardiac floor. The nurses are prepping him for surgery. He needs an immediate bypass. Perhaps as many as four.”

“You’re operating?” Heather does a terrible job of masking her disbelief that this man could perform an oil change, let alone a quadruple bypass.

He at least doesn’t have the nerve to look shocked by the comment. He must get it a lot since he isn’t an A-list Hollywood actor. “No. I will be assisting Dr. Matthews. He is the top cardiothoracic surgeon in the region.”

“Really?” I ask. I guess I’m not predisposed to believing that the top anything would choose to live here.

He doesn’t even blink in my direction, just ignores my comment. Makes me want to do a drunken naked dance on top of the crappy tables and the magazines from 1997 just to see if I can get
his attention. I choose the better part of valor and refrain from dancing, or getting naked.

“A nurse will be out shortly to take you up to the waiting room on floor seven.”

Gee, another waiting room. Wonder if this one has a water-color depiction of poop hanging on the wall.

“Can I see him?” Mom asks.

“I’m sorry, but he was moved straight into prep for surgery. Time is critical.” He doesn’t look sorry.

Mike wraps an arm around Mom almost as if he is literally holding her up.

“I’ll check back with you as we have news.” He turns and walks back down the hallway as if the hounds of hell are biting at his heels. I’d like to do a little nipping. Guy’s a robot.

We go back to our row to wait for the nurse to move us. Only I can’t sit because another family has stolen our seats and there aren’t four seats together anywhere in the enormous room. There are a thousand terrible chairs in here and most of them are full.

Heather hands me her cell phone. “Do you want to let any of your friends know? Adam, maybe?”

I shrug but take the phone. Not exactly the best news to share over the phone. Not that Adam cares about my dad, but my throat is so tight I have to swallow three times to clear it. I’m scared. I don’t know how to be brave about this. Bravery isn’t my strong suit. Coward. Woo-hoo, that’s me. There’s something to add to my list of shameful characteristics when this is over.

I dial Adam’s cell number. He answers without a full ring. “Where are you? I’m stuck waiting for Tim’s practice to be over. It would be so much quicker if you were here.”

That’s not even an appealing offer when all I’m thinking about is painting my bedroom with nail polish. “I can’t. I’m busy.” Good, I sound normal. Pretty normal.

“Where are you?” he repeats.

“The hospital.”

“What?” Adam yells into the phone.

I can hear voices in the background asking Adam what is going on.

Adam says, “Gert’s in the hospital.” He says something I don’t catch. “Hang on. Tim wants me to put it on speaker so we can all hear.”

Holy-Mother-of-Technological-Advances, this isn’t a conversation that needs to be broadcast. “No, Adam, don’t you dare.”

“Hey, Gert. How are you? Your face find more airborne eggs to get in front of?” Tim croons. I can hear a crowd of guys laughing. Perfect.

I slump down against the wall and lean my head on my knees. “My dad had a heart attack. He’s in surgery.”

“Oh, shit,” Tim says. Adam takes me off speaker.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” As if I’m more important than my father.

“Sorry. I didn’t know. I thought maybe you’d been beaned with a soccer ball again.” He’s all apology.

“No.” I start crying. I can’t help it.

“I’ll round up the gang as soon as I can and we’ll come.”

I snivel. There’s just us breathing on the phone together.

“Where are you? What hospital?”

I mumble the name of the hospital and the info about the new waiting room. I can’t talk much. I’m not worth anything at the moment.

“Okay, hang on.” Adam’s already yelling for people to meet him at the car.

I flip the phone closed as a nurse walks to the gaping mouth of the waiting room and yells out, “Garibaldi? Mrs. Garibaldi?”

We all stand like someone’s stuck a needle in a butt cheek. “Here.” Mom jumps up and down like we’ve won a game show.

We follow the nurse to a smaller, crowded, overly warm room with glass walls on three sides. There’s an old television set broadcasting daytime soaps. I have no idea which ones.

“There’s a run on heart problems today,” I say to no one, but my mother shoots me the shut-up look I’m so fond of.

It’s hours. I won’t lie and say time somehow flew by. It’s hours and it’s excruciating and we’re stuck in a tiny room with a whole UN contingent playing musical chairs. Leave your seat at your own risk. Don’t pee. Don’t go get coffee. Don’t move or you’ll be stuck on the floor, and who the hell knows what’s crawling on that floor.

Aren’t hospitals the dirtiest places in the world? Don’t more people get sick in hospitals than anywhere else? Cheerful. I’m utterly hearts and flowers at the moment.

Tangent: sorry.

Mike’s snoring. Heather’s reading a book she bought at the gift shop with a half-naked Viking on the cover. I wonder if it would keep my attention. I’m thinking it’s possible. Mom is doing her third Sudoku, also purchased by Heather in the gift shop. I should have let her buy me one each of the latest magazines.

Finally, when I think I can’t keep my Kegel Kegeling any
longer, I look up and see Adam and Maggie sneaking into the waiting room. They’re wearing scrubs, face masks and those bootie things. They look like extras from a
Grey’s Anatomy
set.

“Sorry. Sorry. Hi, Mrs. Garibaldi.” Adam hugs Mom quick, then embraces me.

Maggie sits on the coffee table between our chairs. “It took us forever to sneak in here. How’s your dad?”

“We haven’t heard.” I look at the clock for the umpteenth time when I compute her words. “What do you mean, sneak?”

Adam rolls his eyes. “They wouldn’t let us up. This room is for family only.”

Huh. That’s why it took so long for them to get here. “So what’d you do?”

“We had to sit down there for a while under the watchful gaze of a volunteer gatesperson, who I swear I’ve seen in history books about Nazi Germany.”

Maggie shakes her head. “Startling resemblance, but not old enough. We had to listen and figure out which rooms they had visiting hours in. It took a while. Then Adam faked a phone call from you. He’s a very good actor.” She nods approvingly.

“So you gave me the room number and said come on up.”

“Right, but we’re not in a room.”

“I know. We followed a janitor to the laundry supply. Grabbed the correct attire, then we’ve just been getting off and on elevators until we found the right floor.”

“You’re good friends.” Mom pats Adam’s hand and goes back to her puzzle. She’s got the glazed-donut look.

Mike’s still snoring. Heather’s smiling. She doesn’t appear quite as tense.

“Do you need anything? We can get pretty much anywhere. It’s
pretty amazing what the uniform will get you. Victor and Greg are both on trips, but they texted sad faces. Clarice is willing to hop the next plane back from Vegas if you want her to,” Maggie says.

“Can you get me an update on my dad?”

“I don’t think they’ll let us in the OR. But we can try.” Maggie’s game to do whatever I need.

I shake my head. I can see my friends going to prison trying to help me.

“Garibaldi? Garibaldi?” A little man is wiping his face with a blue towel. He doesn’t have a face thingy and his scrubs have sweaty armpits. It looks like he’s just finished a triathlon.

We all jump to attention. Adam and Maggie squeeze to the back of the group, but I really don’t think the guy even notices they’re wearing identical doctorly outfits. Minus the sweat.

“It went well. I’m pleased. He’s in recovery and then he’ll be moved to a room. He probably won’t wake up tonight, so I suggest you get food, get some sleep and come back in the morning.”

“I don’t think so. I want to be with him as soon as possible.”

“Ma’am—”

“Thank you.” Mom’s chin thrusts up. I’ve never seen her so full of steel.

“I’ll let the nurse know.” Dr. Sweaty nods and heads back toward the nurses’ station.

“Adam, will you be a dear and take Gertrude home, please?” Mom grips Adam’s arm.

“Of course.”

I don’t like this plan. “But—”

“Gertrude, honey, this isn’t the hard part. He’s going to be in the hospital and then he’s coming home and I’ll need your help. You remember Jerry had this same thing happen last year?”

I nod.

She cups my cheeks. “It’s a long road and we’re just getting started. I need you to go home and eat a good dinner and get some sleep. Are you working this week?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s good. Mike and Heather will help me here.”

“We’re gonna stay, Gert.” Mike touches my shoulder.

“We’ll stop and get ice cream, okay?” Maggie pipes up.

Adam nods. “Absolutely.”

I’m too tired to argue. I’m torn. I really just want to go home and crawl into bed and wait for the world to make sense again, but I also think I should be here, stiff-upper-necked like Mom.

I hug Mom. I feel tears building behind my eyes.

She kisses my cheek. “He’s going to be fine.”

Here’s the deal about growing up: you begin to recognize the times when parentals can’t necessarily keep the promises they make. “I hope so.”

Okay, here’s the deal: I’d like to kick Einstein’s phenomenally annoying butt. Time should not be relative. Time should not, depending on whether I’m having a good or a bad time, change the speed at which it ticks by. Time should be the one freakin’ constant in an otherwise inconsistent and inconstant world. I’m not talking about getting old. I’m not all fountain-of-youthy or anything, maybe because my neck looks fine and my boobs are growing out not down. I get it. I understand, but that’s not the kind of time I’m talking about.

I’m talking about the tick, tick, tick of the second hand. The second hand stutters, it pauses, it’s the Eeyore of the scientific world. It loves misery. It pauses slightly each time it notices a horrible moment and keeps pausing until it’s sucked the life out of the people experiencing said torment.

Okay, maybe not literally, because we’d all be dead, but six hours of surgery should not feel like sixty. And good ol’ Al brought it to our attention and he’s a hero. What’s with that? Why didn’t he do something great and figure out how to get the second hand to take happy pills and get over it? That’s what I’m saying.…