Waking Up in Dixie (6 page)

Now he was the same age his father had been when he died, and suffering the same catastrophe.

The cell phone rang in Elizabeth’s stylishly huge leather purse, sending her half out of her skin as it jarred her back to the present. Assuming it was Howe’s mother, she reluctantly rummaged past her day planner, checkbooks, makeup, coupons,
lipsticks, and combs, finally locating it by the pale glow of the screen.
Insufficient information
showed there. “Hello?”

P.J.’s familiar voice answered with unexpected intensity. “How is he? Tell me. I need to know.”

How had
he
found out?

His emphatic tone grated on her. “He’s alive. For now. That’s all I know.” She caught herself casting a guilty glance around to make sure Howe’s mother was nowhere in sight. Why was P.J. calling her there?

When he’d pressed her to leave Howe the week before, she’d made it clear that there could never be more than a casual friendship between them—she would never do anything to embarrass her children—but obviously, P.J. hadn’t accepted that, despite his promise to honor her wishes. “I can’t really talk now,” she told him.

“I’m sorry,” he soothed. “I know you must be upset. I just couldn’t stand thinking of your being there, all by yourself, in the middle of this. How are you?”

He always said just the right thing, but this time, his shift in demeanor triggered unexpected suspicion. “How did you find out?”

“Howard Mason was with me at the club shooting a few holes, and his sister called and told him,” he explained. “She got it on the Baptist prayer chain.”

And so it was in Whittington. Nobody could stub a toe without the whole town’s finding out. If hospitalization was required, the prayer chains cranked up, which, in Elizabeth’s opinion, were a lot more about gossip than prayer.

Still, the good Lord knew Howe could use all the prayers he could get, but considering her husband’s coldhearted business dealings, Elizabeth couldn’t help wondering how many of those people might be hoping he’d die instead of live. She’d have thought P.J. would be one of them, but the concern in his voice had sounded genuine.

“Let me come sit with you,” he urged.

“No!” That was all she needed. The grapevine would go wild. “I thought I made it clear at lunch, I will not embarrass my children or tolerate anyone who does, including you. Caesar’s wife, P.J. I mean it.”

“Sorry,” he said without conviction. “I was only trying to help. I’ll call later to—”

“No,” she told him. “Please don’t. Howe’s mother is on her way. Everything’s crazy here. I’ll call you when the dust settles and I’m alone. Do not call. I can’t handle any more complications right now.”

There was a pregnant pause on the other end of the line before he said, “Is that what I am, now, a complication? Last Tuesday, you said you wanted to be friends. Friends help each other when there’s trouble. I was only trying to help.”

Please, God. Of all times for him to get territorial. To push things. He knew perfectly well what would happen if he showed up there.

Elizabeth refused to address the issue. “I’ll call. It may be tomorrow. I don’t know. But I’ll call.” Or not.

As she closed the phone and dropped it back into her bag, a tap on her shoulder sent a shard of guilty alarm through her. She
whirled to find a tall, handsome man with prematurely gray temples and wearing scrubs and jogging shoes beside her.

“Mrs. Whittington?” he said.

“Yes.”

“I’m Christopher Clare, your husband’s neurosurgeon.” His kind young face studied hers with concern. “Are you all right?”

Her worst fear tumbled from her. “Howe—he’s not . . .”

“He’s stable,” he was quick to reassure her. “I won’t minimize the situation. Our scans indicate that your husband has a tumor in his frontal cortex. The good news is, it’s small and appears to be regular and contained. But the blood supply to the tumor ruptured, causing a stroke. We need to operate. They’ve taken him up and are prepping him now.”

A brain tumor.
And
a stroke.

Elizabeth’s heart turned inside out.

Was it hereditary? Charles! Her son. Would it—?

Dr. Clare proffered a clipboard holding a permission form with Howe’s name printed at the top. “I know this is a lot to assimilate, but we’re doing everything we can to pull him through with as little damage as possible.”

Damage. Brain damage? Oh, God.

Dr. Clare handed her the clipboard. “This is the authorization form for the surgery. The procedure will be delicate because of the area that’s involved, but so far, all his reflexes are normal, which is good. We won’t be able to assess the full extent of any damage till he wakes up. If everything goes well, that could be in just a few days.”

Elizabeth’s pulse pounded in her ears, and everything around
her suddenly seemed muted, far away. She stared at the permission form, two legal pages crammed with mouse-print spelling out reams of dire complications.

Minimize
the damage.

God, no.

Elizabeth thought in black-and-white—Howe would be okay, or he would die. The thought that he might survive impaired hadn’t occurred to her.

She wished with all her being for her strong, steady son Charles to lean on, but Charlottesville, Virginia, was a day away, by air or by car. Would it be selfish to call him in? He was scheduled to take his bar exams soon.

Patricia was closer in Athens, but all she would bring with her was drama, the last thing Elizabeth needed.

Elizabeth felt the doctor take gentle hold of her arm. “Perhaps you ought to sit down,” he said, guiding her to an open seat. Then he sat with her, leaving an empty chair between them, and nodded toward the permission form. “Just sign at the
X
. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have.”

Questions? She stared, uncomprehending, at the blocks of tiny print, and a bubble of ironic hysteria rose inside her. Was he kidding? Who could think of questions at a time like this, much less give informed consent?

When “the best neurosurgeon in the state” said somebody needed brain surgery, who in their right mind would say no?

Dr. Clare was being very patient, very kind. She had no right to take out her frustration on him, but really.

Brain damage. Brain damage. Brain damage.

Elizabeth had a searing vision of Howe restrained in a wheelchair, gaunt and drooling, his eyes vacant and a huge, livid scar across his shaved head.

Her breaths came in rapid pants, and she had to clamp her lips to keep from falling apart. She used to pray that he’d be kinder to her, notice her more, care for her, but all that paled to insignificance.
Please, God, don’t let him have brain damage.
Howe would rather die than suffer such an indignity. Anything but that.

She gripped the clipboard and did her best to sign, but her usually perfect script came out a barely legible scrawl. The clipboard wobbled as she returned it, and the pen fell off.

“Don’t worry,” the doctor said, bending to retrieve it. “I’ll get it.”

Brain tumor. Brain tumor. Brain tumor.

Cancer? Was it cancer?

“Can I get you anything?” kind Dr. Clare asked.

“Just help my husband,” she heard herself say.

“Someone will come take you to the intensive care waiting room, where you can use the phone and wait. I’ll call you there as soon as we know anything.” He scanned the crowded room. “Is anyone with you?”

“No.” She needed to call Charles. Hands shaking, she groped for her cell phone. “I have to call my children. They’ll want to know. My son Charles . . .” She took comfort in just saying his name. “I need my son.” Where
was
the damned phone? “He’s a senior at UVA law school,” she rattled out. “Such a lovely campus. Howe went to Emory, but never got to take the bar because his father . . .”
Died.
Don’t say
died.
“Howe had to take over the
bank, instead. But Charles will practice. He’ll make a wonderful lawyer.”

She was babbling, but couldn’t help it. Where
was
that phone? “My daughter’s at Georgia, majoring in sorority. A freshman. She never answers when it’s me. I’ll have to leave a message.” She finally felt the elusive phone and snatched it out. “There!”

“I have to go now, so I’ll leave you to your calls.” As the doctor rose, Sheriff Eddie Spruill’s patrol car barreled around the corner from the front of the hospital, sirens blaring in violation of every municipal noise ordinance. Dr. Clare raised his voice to be heard. “I’ll call when we know anything. This could take a while, so don’t get nervous if you don’t hear from me. I promise to let you know as soon as there’s anything to tell.”

Right behind him, Augusta Whittington made a beeline through the automatic doors. “Christopher Clare!” She pointed at him as if he were an escaping felon. “Why aren’t you taking care of my son?”

He acknowledged her with a nod, but didn’t stop. “Hello, Mrs. Whittington. I’m on my way to do just that.” He swiped an ID, then escaped into the emergency department, leaving Elizabeth to explain the situation to her mother-in-law.

Elizabeth faced Mrs. Whittington and motioned to the seat the doctor had vacated. “Sit down, Augusta.” It was the first time she’d ever addressed Howe’s mother with such familiarity, but since she was about to tell the woman her only child had a brain tumor, Elizabeth decided they should be on a first-name basis at last.

Surprisingly docile, Mrs. Whittington subsided, her back
erect to brace herself for what she was about to hear. “It’s a stroke, isn’t it? I’m sure of it. That’s what killed his father.”

How could she be so sure? She hadn’t allowed an autopsy. But Elizabeth was past such petty concerns. She had a dreadful bond to share. “Yes, it was a stroke. Caused by the blood supply to a small tumor in his frontal cortex.” She pointed to the area the doctor had indicated above her eyebrow. “They’re prepping Howe for surgery right now.”

Augusta blanched, shooting to her feet with bald panic in her expression. “I have to see him.” Her blue-veined, manicured hands clenched. “They can’t take him till I see him. I didn’t get to say good-bye to his father. Dear God, let me have that, at least.”

Elizabeth surprised herself by rising and putting her arms around the woman who had never thought her good enough for precious Howe. To her surprise, Augusta’s stiff posture relented, but only a little. “He’s probably in the operating room already,” Elizabeth explained. “Dr. Clare just came out to tell me what was happening and have me sign the authorization.”

Augusta glared at her with fierce determination, as if willing Howe to get well could make it so. “Chris Clare is the best, bar none. Howe will have the best.”

“Thank you for calling Dr. Clare. And the others,” Elizabeth said, surprised at how deeply she meant it. “And for the helicopter. The paramedics said it probably saved his life.”

Before breaking free to straighten her already perfect silk shirtwaist, Augusta patted Elizabeth’s arm—a sole gesture of affection in all the years they’d known each other. “My Howe deserves the best.”

Under other circumstances, Elizabeth would have taken that as a subtle dig at her own undesirable origins, but in that place, in that dreadful hour, they were equals, and she rose above it. If Charles were the one in the operating room, she’d feel the same way Augusta felt about Howe.

A uniformed volunteer approached them from the hallway to the main hospital. “Mrs. Whittington?”

Both of them answered at once. “Yes?”

The woman looked from one to the other. “If you ladies will please follow me, I’ll take you to the intensive care waiting room. Dr. Clare will call down from surgery as soon as he has anything to report, but his procedures can take a long time, so don’t let that worry you. He’s very meticulous, which is a good thing, when it’s neurosurgery.”

They followed through a series of spaces and hallways till the volunteer led them to a small room with cushioned chairs, a TV, and a desk that held a telephone. To Elizabeth’s relief, there were no other people there.

At least their drama wouldn’t play out in front of strangers.

After the volunteer left them alone, Augusta sank to a chair, her spine still unrelenting. “Thank God there’s no one else in here.”

“My thoughts, exactly.” Elizabeth went to the TV and changed the program from
Judge Judy
to a nature show on PBS, then took a chair several seats away from her mother-in-law.

Silence stretched brittle between them till she remembered aloud, “Oh, God. The children.” She started hunting for the phone again, which had been swallowed back into the bowels of her purse.

“You can call Charles,” Augusta announced, opening her slim crocodile clutch. “I’ll break the news to Patricia. She’ll be heartbroken. You know how she adores her daddy.”
Far more than she adores her mother,
Elizabeth silently finished for her, then let it go.

“Good idea.” Frankly, Elizabeth dreaded telling Patricia. Unfortunately, her daughter took after Elizabeth’s father—the life of the party, all impulse and emotions, and devil take the effect it had on anybody else. Elizabeth loved her, but despaired of her manipulative ways and lack of focus.

Augusta drew her cell phone from her purse and stared at it as if it were a snake.