Unbreathed Memories (21 page)

All day Monday I tried to contact Ruth in Bali. The only thing I remembered about the resort was that it had “Ubud” in the name, but I recalled that she had found it on the Internet, so it wasn’t long before I came up with a list of possibilities. When I finally found the hotel where “Missy Gannon” was staying, she had already left on a bus trip to Mount Batur and Uluwatu Temple, but a woman with a voice like temple bells promised to deliver my message as soon as the tour group returned.

Needless to say, I didn’t make it to All Hallows on
Wednesday. I telephoned Mindy and told her why. She made sympathetic noises and hoped I’d be back the following week. I said I didn’t know. I was supposed to be having surgery myself.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Oh, no,” I lied. “Just routine.” I hadn’t mentioned the breast cancer before, so I thought it’d seem a little strange to bring it up now.

Frankly, I didn’t know what to do about the reconstruction. With Mother so sick, no one could fault me for canceling. But after they moved her to Baltimore, her condition stabilized and it looked like she might be coming home before long.

Paul encouraged me to go ahead, effectively erasing his prior claim of impartiality. Maybe he’d been looking at the photo of me in the yellow bikini, too. “Your mother couldn’t be in better hands,” he said reasonably. “There’s absolutely nothing you can do for her that isn’t already being done.”

“But I won’t be able to visit her in the hospital,” I complained.

“Why don’t you ask her what she thinks,” he suggested.

So I did. Mother let me know in no uncertain terms that she’d be seriously annoyed if I didn’t go through with my surgery. “It’s the next step in the healing process, Hannah,” she said.

The nurse had propped Mother up in bed so that I could comb her hair. I took the brush, eased the tangles out of the back where the hair had become matted from rubbing against the pillow, and fluffed up the flyaway wisps that framed her face. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” She touched my cheek. “You’ve been looking forward to this for so long. You
must
go ahead with it now.”

“You won’t miss me?”

“Of course I’ll miss you, sweetheart. But, trust me, you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t follow through with your plans. And neither will I if you let my little”—she raised the arm that was connected to the IV—“my little inconvenient illness stand in your way.”

So on Thursday I returned to Anne Arundel Medical Center, where they x-rayed my chest, drew my blood, had me pee into a plastic cup, and pronounced me fit for surgery the following Monday.

That night, Ruth called collect. Through a poor connection that echoed everything I said into my ear two seconds after I had said it, I explained the situation. When she heard the news, she panicked. She’d book a flight right away; but who would arrange it? Her ticket was nonrefundable; what would she do? She had paid for everything in advance; how would she get her money back? The waiting list for the workshop was two years long; when could she ever come again? I had to put Paul on the phone to calm her down. Eventually we decided that since Mother’s condition had stabilized, Ruth would stay in Bali for the time being. She gave us the number of the hotel’s fax machine and we promised to send her daily progress reports.

I spent that weekend in Baltimore, reading to Mother from
Queens’ Play
. Escaping to sixteenth-century France with Dorothy Dunnett’s dashing Scotsman, Crawford of Lymond, was just the diversion we both needed. On Sunday afternoon I laid aside the book, smoothed back her hair, and kissed her forehead, leaving her sleeping peacefully.
Take care of her
, I prayed.
Please take care of her until I get back
.

And I checked myself into the hospital, as planned.

chapter
16

It must have been the clattering of the breakfast
carts and a gnawing hunger that awoke me. Gradually I became aware of my surroundings. First the sheets and lightweight blanket in which I was cocooned; the pillow, just one, so my head was lower than I was accustomed to; the walls, illuminated by the light slanting in from the hallway; a TV mounted high on the wall. Katie Couric was interviewing a dark-haired woman, her mouth working silently.

I looked toward the window and saw that it was still dark. They’d taken my watch, so I didn’t know what time it was, but if
The Today Show
was on, it must be at least seven. They’d taken my jewelry, too, but I wouldn’t let them touch my wedding rings, so they’d taped them to my finger with adhesive tape.

In a chair in the corner, a shadow stirred. “Honey?” Paul must have stayed with me all night. I turned my head on the pillow to face him.

Paul unfolded from the chair and crossed to my bed.
He took my hand where it lay on top of the cover and covered it with both of his.

I started to shiver. “I’m cold.”

“It’s just something in the medication they gave you.” He leaned over and covered me with his body, his arms parallel to mine, his lips against my neck. Paul’s face was hot and his ear was cold, as if he’d just come in from outdoors.

“Morning.” The word stuck in my throat. “God, I’m thirsty!” I pointed toward a cup on the windowsill. “That coffee?”

Paul smiled. “Was. I finished it last night.”

“Damn.” I grumped.

He reached out and drew a finger across my forehead. “You couldn’t have it anyway, sweets. You’re NPO today. Nothing by mouth.”

Speaking of mouth, it was dry as a desert. I felt as if my last meal had consisted entirely of sand. “That’s cruel and unusual,” I muttered. I listened forlornly as the food cart rumbled past my door without stopping. Pancakes this morning, from the smell of it. And bacon. I nearly wept.

A nurse appeared, a relentlessly cheerful grandmotherly type I hadn’t seen before carrying a blue foam plastic tray. “Good morning, Mrs. Ives!” Paul straightened and stood by the side of the bed, but didn’t let go of my hand.

“Time for a shave!” She set the tray on my bedside table, waved Paul back into his chair, and pulled the privacy curtain around my bed, all in one smooth motion. She helped me out of my nightgown, then tucked a disposable plastic sheet under my side to protect the mattress before lathering up my chest and abdomen with a warm, soap-filled sponge, applied in vigorous circles
across my skin. As she worked, she kept up a steady stream of conversation about her daughter, an amazing woman who had dedicated her life to the eradication of yellow fever. The razor slid smoothly over my chest, the excess water trickling down my side in a cooling stream. After both areas were clean as a whistle, she helped me into a hospital gown and Paul was allowed back into my chamber. “As if you hadn’t seen me naked before,” I scoffed.

“I’m sure they have their procedures, Hannah. Wouldn’t want to upset the apple cart.”

A few minutes later, a young man in white appeared to insert an IV in my arm. As skilled as he was, my stomach revolted at the procedure. I had to swallow repeatedly and think happier thoughts to keep from barfing … as if there was anything in my stomach to throw up anyway. Soon the needle was taped into position on top of my hand. I didn’t know what was in the IV, but it crept coolly up the veins in my arm. I thought about all the convicts on death row. This is how executions start.

I began to shiver, and Paul rang the nurse for another blanket. As he tucked it around me, I said, “I’m frightened, Paul. I keep thinking about them cutting me open. I imagine how I’ll look, spread out and naked. I picture them making the incision, the blood welling up, the surgeons pawing through my insides.”

Paul rubbed my arm, the one without the IV in it. “You’ve been watching too much TV, not to mention being cursed with a vivid imagination.” Paul seemed to sense the source of my fear. “Don’t worry, Hannah, you’ll be fine. Think of it this way—in a few minutes you’ll drift off to sleep and when you wake up, it will all be done.”

Something good was in the IV. I was barely able to keep my eyes open. I laid my palm flat against my chest,
feeling with my fingertips the familiar ridged scar under the thin cotton gown the hospital had provided. “I hope it will be worth it.”

The nurse peeked around the curtain. “Why don’t you go get some breakfast, Mr. Ives?”

“I’d rather stay, if you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.” She grinned. “The cafeteria’s no great shakes anyway.”

An hour later, when they wheeled me and my bed to the elevator, Paul walked alongside, still holding my hand. They allowed him to stay for the short time I was parked in the corridor outside the operating room suite. Before they pushed me through the swinging doors, he laid a gentle kiss on my lips. I was barely awake, still savoring that kiss, when they transferred me, limp as a rag, to the gurney in the operating room. I remember someone strapping a blood pressure cuff to my arm, and then the sweet taste of garlic in my mouth. A clock on the wall was stuck at nine, and I drowned in waves of darkness.

I first awoke in the recovery room, but it’s hard to be sure. Conversation whirled around me like autumn leaves in the wind. It registered in snatches. A date someone had for the movies that night. The creep some soft-voiced person was married to. The bargains to be had at somebody’s close-out sale. Somewhere among the babble, I recognized my doctor’s voice and struggled to open my eyes. Something puzzling about a purse. I did need a new purse, but what had Dr. Bergstrom to do with it? “The surgery went well,” her voice told me, as reassuring as a mother, and then it, too, swirled away.

Then, I don’t know how much later, I was back in my room. I recognized the flowers Emily had sent. A dozen
red roses, with one yellow one from baby Chloe. My daughter was getting sentimental in her old age. I didn’t see Paul.

When I woke again, the TV seemed stuck on the Discovery Channel. I watched a turtle lay eggs on the beach and cover them up with sand, then my eyelids slammed shut.

When I awoke, that same damn turtle was lumbering toward the water and God-knows-what was making a hideous noise like a vacuum cleaner under my bed. Something squeezed my legs, and I wondered,
What the hell?
but my mouth was so dry it came out
Whada ha?

Paul’s face appeared in my field of vision wearing what could be interpreted as a reassuring smile. Relief shone from his eyes. “Hi, love.” He smoothed the hair from my forehead and kissed the spot he had cleared. I managed a lopsided grin. Then the vacuum cleaner cranked up again and something squeezed my legs.

I tried to raise my head, but it felt as if it weighed fifty pounds and belonged to someone else. “Whah?” I nodded toward my feet.

Paul lifted a corner of the blanket, revealing plastic sleeves resembling water wings encasing my legs. “It massages your legs,” he explained. “Keeps blood clots from forming.”

“Oh,” I mumbled. “That’s good.” The compressor cycled off and the cuffs deflated.

“The operation went well,” Paul told me. “Very well.”

I was afraid to look. With difficulty I raised my head until my chin touched my chest. A lovely mound of bandages gave shape to my hospital gown. I reached up to touch the mound on the right but was caught up short. My arm was attached by a tube to another machine with dials, buttons, and a bright digital display. “What’s this?”

Paul lightly touched the tube leading into my arm. “I don’t exactly know, honey.”

A new nurse materialized in the dark at the foot of the bed. “It’s an I-Med pump, hon. It delivers your pain medication.” She fiddled with the dial, then handed me a button on the end of a long cord. “Just press this with your thumb when you start feeling pain.”

Since my abdomen had been burning for the past ten minutes, I pumped the button. In seconds, the pain was reduced to a dull throb.

“It’s morphine,” she said.

I twisted my face into a maniacal grin that might have been mistaken for a look of pain. She patted my leg sympathetically and laid another gadget that looked like a TV controller next to my hand. “Push this if you need anything. It’ll ring for me.” I wondered what would happen if, in my confused state, I started ringing for the nurse and pumped myself full of morphine instead. I held up the morphine button. “What if I keep pumping?”

“Sorry, hon. We thought of that. It delivers a measured dose and it’s on a timer.” She tucked the covers around my hips. “Wouldn’t want anyone to overdose.”

“What a party pooper! Just when I thought there might be a silver lining in all this.”

The nurse fussed with my ice water pitcher, set it on my bedside table, then breezed out of the room.

After she left, Paul dragged his chair closer to my bed. The legs made a screeching sound on the linoleum. The dinner cart rattled by, leaving an aroma of overcooked broccoli and fried chicken in its wake. My stomach revolted. “Oh God, I’m going to throw up.” Saliva filled my mouth and I swallowed repeatedly, fighting the sensation, trying to keep everything down, although what there
could be to throw up after not having eaten for a whole day I couldn’t guess.

A plastic, kidney-shaped basin appeared under my chin, but I only heaved wretchedly, spitting up a trickle of yellow bile until I fell back on my pillow, exhausted. My nose was stopped up so I could hardly breathe. Tears slid sideways down my cheeks and into my ears. “Oh, Paul, I’m so tired.”

Paul laid a damp washcloth on my forehead, momentarily making me forget the cuffs pumping up and down relentlessly on my legs.

“Here, dearie.” The nurse reappeared and pressed a small pillow into my hands. “Press this against your stomach if you have to throw up, cough, or sneeze. It’ll support the incision and help lessen the pain.”

I placed the pillow against my stomach and held it there with both hands while I retched miserably and fruitlessly into the basin. Chemo redux. I remembered proclaiming to Joy’s therapy group that I was bulimic, and decided that anybody who’d purposely stick a finger down her throat to make herself feel this way had to be crazy.

The nurse wiped my chin with a tissue. “This is another reason we don’t want you to eat anything before surgery, dear.”