MAGPIE (27 page)

All I could get from Katie and Mom was that Dad woke in the middle of the night, which had become a common occurrence lately; that they were staying with friends in an unfamiliar place didn’t help. This time, he ran a shower as if it were morning, and fell. Mom heard the
thump
and found him unconscious. She called 911 and they transported him to Denver. More frail than Mom and Dad, their friends stayed back, begging Katie to keep them posted.

“Dear, if I knew anything more, I would have told you. Please just come quickly.” And with that, our call ended.

Beware of growing into a cold-hearted, bitch, Maggie. It runs in your genes.

Katie and I rode in silence. Her face was red, blotchy and tear-stained. Strangely, I hadn’t cried at all. I was in work mode, gathering data and beginning to draft a project plan, albeit a mental one—it would make its way to paper at some point in the day.

“Katie, honey, we’ll find out what’s going on with Dad. Until then, please don’t make it worse for yourself. Here, hold my hand.”

I reached over and took her hand, which was cold and lifeless. My heart hurt for her as much as it did for Dad just then. Katie was the baby, and our father adored her. I knew he loved me, but it was different, a logical sort of love. She could do anything and Dad would be delighted. I learned to sit back at watch the fireworks,

Surprise!!
Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Katie, my sweet Katie! My goodness, look what you’ve done!

Yes, Daddy! I planned it, and Mommy and Maggie helped. We knew you’d love it—isn’t it funny? I love you Daddy.

You did a fine job, sweet pea. I love your decorations, sort of…who says I’m ‘over the hill?’ And would ya and look at that cake, I bet you and Mommy made that from scratch.

We did! We did! How did you know that, Daddy?

Mom was right, Dad didn’t like surprises. But the year he turned forty, I wanted to do something special. He’d been joking about becoming an “old fart,” and it seemed like the perfect time to plan something different. Still, dad never knew the surprise for his fortieth birthday was my idea. After Mom shot it down, I told Katie to carry it out; I did all the planning, while she took center stage. Some things never change.

We found Mom sitting on a bench in the ER waiting room, staring unaware.

“Mommy! Oh my God, why are you out here?” Katie ran over to our mother and hugged her, not letting go for an awkward amount of time.

“Dear, please. It’s okay. I came out here to meet you two.” She gently pushed Katie away and looked over at me.

“Hello Maggie, thank you for coming.” Said as if it were a distasteful chore.

“Mom, come on, of course. He’s our dad as much as he’s your husband. Christ.” Stuffing my irritation deep down, I reached over and gave her a one-arm hug. “So, what’s going on? Any news?”

“They say that he might have had a stroke. Some big shot doctor said so.”

“You should be glad he’s being cared for by a ‘big shot doc.’”

How had my mother grown into such a bitter woman? Looking at this stranger, I couldn’t recall when the shift took place.

Hours of waiting took its toll on all three of us. By the time the neurologist walked over to provide an update, we’d sunk into a state of vigilant silence. The last time I was in a hospital was last year, when Tony’s partner was hit by a car; before that, Jack’s cancer treatments. The palpable recoil to the sights, sounds and smells of my surroundings kept me sharp, and I took the lead after dad’s doctor introduced himself.

Objectively, I said, “Thank you for caring for our father, Dr. Simons. What can you tell us?”

“Yes, how is my
husband
, doctor?” Mom just couldn’t help herself.

“Well, ladies, Mr. O’Leary is doing much better. I am a neurologist and was called to examine him because he showed signs of a stroke. We ran lots of tests, most importantly an MRI, which showed negative for stroke. We ran labs, too, which showed Mr. O’Leary is hypoglycemic.” Dr. Simmons stopped and waited to see if we were following.

I wasn’t. Confused, I asked, “I’m sorry, did you say hypoglycemic?”

My father had never been diagnosed with that or any other major disease before. “Why didn’t the EMTs find that on the way?”

Attempting to clarify, Dr. Simons went on, “Yes, I said hypoglycemia. And a good question. It’s a common mimic to a stroke, and not all EMTs and their units are trained to test beyond the obvious symptoms, in this case, a stroke. Often, patients with hypoglycemia present with confusion, one-sided paralysis, even coma, all of which look like a stroke. Add to Mr. O’Leary’s symptoms his age and most first responders will diagnose stroke.”

“But why haven’t his doctors detected hypoglycemia before?” Mom and Katie listened attentively, noticeably relieved that I was managing the conversation.

“He probably didn’t have it until now. Mr. O’Leary isn’t diabetic, is he?”

“No, not at all.” Or at least that’s what Mom shared with me.

“Hypoglycemia can occur at any age, though more common in diabetics. Has he changed his diet recently? Increased drinking, alcohol I mean? When were his last labs, or his last physical?”

Dr. Simon and I were in sync, and I rattled off the information I knew of, looking to Mom for supplemental facts. In the end, it was good to know Dad would be fine and that just he needed to follow up with his doctor.

“Thank you, Doctor, may we go see him now?” Mom was becoming increasingly anxious, and she really did need to confirm that he was alright.

“Of course, Mrs. O’Leary, I’ll show you the way.”

It was more important for Dad to see Mom and Katie right now, so I held back and took a seat outside of his room. I also wasn’t ready to see my father as a hospital patient. He’d been a steady figure my whole life, one of strength and power, and I wasn’t willing to see him in such a weak state. Roles change as people age, but I wanted to postpone our about-face as long as possible. For now, he was still my larger-than-life father who stood vigil those first few days after my dual loss,

Maggie, honey, I’m right here. Your Mom and I are here with you. Come here, honey, I’m so, so sorry, my sweet Magpie. I won’t let you go…

I leaned on him a lot after they died. He and mom stayed with me for over a month. They handled every aspect of the services, kept the fridge full, tried to get me to eat and sleep, and took care of me as best as they could. Mom busied herself with house chores, while Dad just sat with me, reading me uninteresting stories from Reader’s Digest. It was Katie who finally insisted they head back home. She swore she’d look after me and keep them posted. Dad cried the day they left; I couldn’t bear to say goodbye.

Convinced Dad was going to be fine, we left the hospital. It was just after one o’clock, and Colorado’s winter sky was a brilliant blue, which lifted my mood considerably. Cold as it was, the high altitude sun made it feel warmer. As was the custom, Mom stayed at Katie’s house. Thankful for my privacy, I took a long hot bath and contemplated death; not from a gloomy place, but from an objective, who’s-going-to-die-next perspective. After counting all the people close to me who had died, I decided to make a U-turn and head down another rabbit hole. This time, I counted all the people close to me still living—a lengthier list, indeed.

One name stood out and I instantly felt pangs of guilt for not staying in touch. The last time I saw Tina was Christmas Eve, but the festivities prevented us from having a serious heart-to-heart. Before that, we’d had lunch on Memorial Day, during which I’d told a pretty big lie. Tina had sensed it, but I never followed up. Having lost track, I wasn’t even sure if she and Trish were married; I’d received no invitation.

“There’s no time like the present,” I uttered, hoping the silly cliché would sink in and convince me to adhere to it. I’d survived the past eight years cemented in the past, and it was time to quit armchair living and break out of my rigid cast.

Quickly drying off, I threw on some sweats and picked up my phone.

“Hello?” Tina answered in a curbed tone.

“Chica! Hi, it’s me, Mags.” I hoped my friend would warm to my enthusiastic greeting, but she didn’t.

In the same flat tone, she said, “Oh, hi Mags. Sorry you caught me at a bad time. We’re having a heck of a time with Rose.”

Barely audible, I asked, “Who is Rose?”

A few seconds ticked by before Tina spoke, her reply a complete shock, “Mags, Trish and I adopted a baby girl; her name is Rose.”

Waves of emotions flooded my body. Love for my friend and her partner, joy for their new baby, and sadness for now just finding out about it. I’d lived so selfishly lately that it never occurred to me to reach out to my dear friend.

A sob barely escaped and, quickly swallowing it, I said, “Oh Tina, I am incredibly thrilled to hear this news. Congratulations! My gosh, it’s so much to take in.”

In a shaky voice, Tina said, “Maggie, I’m sorry you had to find out this way, I feel really bad.”

“Please, please, don’t feel bad, Chica. It’s me who should and does feel bad. I’ve neglected our friendship for stupid, selfish reasons. I’m to blame. But enough, there’s a baby in the house, and you don’t want her sensing all this crap. Oops! No more cussing, either.” I was giddy with joy and couldn’t contain it. “Can I swing by sometime, please? I’d love to meet little Rose,” I whispered as if I were there, trying to keep the commotion to a minimum.

“Mags, I would love that, really. In fact, what are you doing now? Trish and I are exhausted and could use some help from an expert.”

It was as though no time had lapsed. Threads of love and respect connected the two of us and forgiveness sealed the bond.

“On my way!” But first, I needed to make a stop.

***

I had no idea what or if they needed anything for Rose; Besides, I’d dust off my sewing machine and make a beautiful quilt soon enough. Nevertheless, I had a very clear idea what these new parents needed, and pointed Beater toward the neighborhood wine store.

“I’m an auntie, Jerry!” I proclaimed to the owner, a short and squat bachelor who gave bears hugs to all his regulars.

“Congrats, Maggie. Time to celebrate then?” He said after squeezing all available air out of my lungs.

“Yes, it is…and time to stock my friends’ wine rack. What can you set me up with that won’t force me into foreclosure?” We walked to the back where he kept a few cases of really nice stuff. I smiled, and Jerry winked back. In ten minutes, I was back on the road, two cases of
Zenato Amarone della Valpolicella
in the back seat of Beater. I also grabbed one bottle of
Banfi Brunello di Montalcino Poggio all’Oro
so we could toast to—in the words of
Tevye—
life.

A new baby. I was ecstatic and went a few miles over the limit, anxious to hold their new bundle. Tina and Trish would be amazing parents, and Rose was one lucky baby. Admitting life was moving right along for everyone—hell, the world—but me, I punched the accelerator in an attempt to vaporize the subject of my rumination.

Nevertheless, questions still arose: Had I been idling at a subconscious rest stop, waiting for…what? A toll-free highway to happiness? Christ, the energy I’d spent over the past seven—wait, eight—years pleading for salvation, a place free from agony and despair. I’d duped myself into thinking the manufactured life I’d been living was fulfilling and safe; half true, it also kept me from the people I loved. Yes, Jack and Michael died, but I still had my beautiful grandchildren, spirited sister, faithful parents, devoted friends and my loyal, four-legged best buddy.

As my gratitude list grew, I silently affirmed more truths: I had my health; a peaceful home; a career that kept me sharp and engaged; and several more decades of life…I hoped, anyway.

What the fuck was I doing wasting time focusing on the past?

Tina and Trish were standing at their huge picture window as I pulled into their driveway. It must have been Trish’s house because Tina lived in a small flat in downtown Denver, last I knew. Heck, so much time had gone by, maybe they bought this place together. Either way, it was perfect. Two blue spruce trees framed the older, ranch-style home just outside of the Bonnie Brie neighborhood in southeast Denver. Many shrubs and garden beds lined the perimeter of their front yard, and I could see, even in its dormant state, that the backyard was even lovelier.

Jumping out of Beater, I headed for the front door when I completely forgot the wine. I turned around, opened the back and stacked one case on top of the other. As I made my way back up the walk, I saw Tina laughing and Trish just shaking her head, clearly amused. Once inside, Tina slid one case off the other and made a beeline for the kitchen, and I followed. Everyone was whispering when I noticed sweet little Rose sleeping soundly in the Baby Bjorn Trish wore so expertly.

Excitedly, I whispered, “You said Rosie was a difficult baby—she’s sound asleep!” I stroked her tiny head tucked inside the contraption and cooed instinctively.

“She fell asleep right as you pulled up. She must have sensed ‘Nana’ coming.” With a look of apology spreading across her face, Tina looked over at me and said, “Oh, Mags, I know you’re only Nana to your grandkids. I’m sorry.”

Playfully nudging her arm, I said, “Auntie, please. ‘Auntie Maggie.’ Is it possible to preserve whatever youthfulness I have left before committing me to an assisted living facility?” I’d successfully redirected the conversation, and bent to kiss their baby’s head. In truth, it wouldn’t feel right being Nana to anyone but Timmy and Lisbeth.

We moved into the living room, where Trish carefully sat in a rocker, a furniture tag still hanging from it. Tina and I plopped on the overstuffed sofa facing a slowly dying fire that had warmed the room comfortably.

Trish rocked slowly, singing, “All the Pretty Little Ponies,” a lullaby I used to sing to Michael,

Hush a bye

Don’t you cry

Go to sleep my little baby

When you wake

You shall have