Waking Up in Dixie (8 page)

Elizabeth flashed on a vision of long halls peopled by figures slumped in wheelchairs, surrounded by the stifling reek of stale urine and unwashed bodies and bad food.

“Mrs. Whittington?” the social worker said. “How can I help you best right now?”

Elizabeth knew it wasn’t the woman’s fault. She was just doing her job. But still, she wanted to slap her. Wanted to throw a screaming hissy fit, right then and there. But she didn’t, because it might embarrass her children, and she’d vowed on the day they were born never to do so.

“I . . . Could you please just come back tomorrow? I want to check on some things before I make a decision.” She would take him home. They had money for round-the-clock care. She could rent the equipment. Surely she could find someone to help out, some way to spare Howe the indignity of a nursing home.

The social worker hesitated, then relented. “Very well. I’ll notify the financial office that you’re assuming the cost of his care for now. I’ll come back in the morning.”

After she left, Elizabeth called Dr. Clare’s PA immediately, but both he and the doctor were in surgery, so she left a message. It wasn’t really an emergency.

But how could she possibly make all the arrangements to transfer Howe to the new facility in a day?

Overwhelmed, she sat beside her comatose husband and put her face in her hands and started to cry, from exhaustion as much as outrage.

If he wasn’t going to wake up, maybe it would have been better if Howe had died.

The social worker reappeared at the door and knocked. “Mrs. Whittington?”

What now? Elizabeth looked up, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Yes?”

“I just checked and found out a brand-new neurological hospital just opened near Emory, and it offers specialized long-term coma care. Cutting-edge. They’re doing lots of studies using all the latest techniques, and word is, they’re already getting some dramatic results.”

Elizabeth latched on to that like a falling climber grabs a limb. “What’s the name? Who do I call?” She groped for her cell phone.

The social worker read the phone number from a small piece of scratch paper, and Elizabeth stored it in her phone.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Elizabeth let herself hope again, despite the shadow of permanent damage that still edged everything.

Then she heard a sound from the bed.

“Nnngh!”

She looked over and saw her husband shift his hand. “Howe!” His eyes were open. Just a little, but they were open, and the pupils were moving. “Dear God, he’s waking up.” She rang for the nurse, punching the button again and again, for the first time since they’d moved into the room.

“Yes, Mrs. Whittington?” blared over the speaker.

“Come quick. My husband’s waking up.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The social worker motioned to the corridor. “I saw your family at the end of the hallway. Would you like me to go tell them?”

“Please. And get the nurse.” Elizabeth grasped Howe’s hand. “Howe, can you hear me? It’s Elizabeth. Wake up, Howe! Wake up.”

His eyes remained slitted, but there was no further movement. His hand remained slack in hers.

“Squeeze my hand, Howe. Come on. You can do it. Squeeze my hand.”

She thought she felt a faint pressure. Or was it just her imagination, willing her to believe it?

The nurse came in and checked the leads to his head and the monitors. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“He spoke,” Elizabeth told her, her heart racing.

The nurse looked skeptical. “What did he say?”

“Well, it wasn’t a word, or anything, but he made a sound and moved his hand. He hasn’t done that before.”

The nurse checked the tape from the EKG, and when she
looked back up, Elizabeth saw pity in her eyes. “Patients who’ve been in Mr. Whittington’s condition for this length of time rarely just wake up. Depending on the effects of their injuries, coming out of coma can be a long, gradual process, and sometimes a difficult one. Many move and make sounds, even open their eyes while they’re still comatose. Some even respond to simple commands. But that doesn’t necessarily indicate they’re conscious.”

Seeing Elizabeth’s disappointment, she added, “We can take it as a hopeful sign that he might be beginning the process. Please call me if he shows any other signs. We’re all rooting for him. And for you.”

The door swished open, and the children preceded Augusta into the room.

“Daddy?” Patricia was flushed with excitement as she flew to take his hand. “Daddy, it’s your Patti-girl. Open your eyes. Please, Daddy. We’ve all been so worried about you. Please open your eyes.”

The nurse shot Elizabeth a sidelong glance, then repeated what she’d just said, verbatim, making it sound canned to Elizabeth’s ears.

She wondered how many times the woman had said the same thing to desperate families.

Elizabeth told the others that she’d decided to send Howe to the new hospital.

It came as no surprise when her mother-in-law balked. “Latest advances? What latest advances? Do you mean to make a guinea pig of my son? Well, I won’t let you. We’ll take him home, where he belongs. I can move in and help care for him.”

Over Elizabeth’s dead body! She managed to remain calm, but it wasn’t easy. “I know you’re worried about him, Augusta, but I’m his wife, and I think this is the best course for now.”

Livid, her mother-in-law shot daggers in Elizabeth’s direction. “Come, Patricia. The strain of all this has obviously affected your mother’s ability to make rational decisions. I’ll have a talk with Dr. Clare. I’m sure he’ll agree with me that Howell will get the best care at home.”

For once, Elizabeth didn’t back down. “It doesn’t matter what Dr. Clare thinks,” she said with deadly calm. “I know you’re frantic for Howe. We all are. But I’m his next of kin, and this decision is mine to make, not yours.” She met Augusta’s anger with quiet conviction. “I want him to go to the new hospital. If Dr. Clare won’t refer him, I’ll find someone who will.” She knew Dr. Clare would cooperate, but wanted to make sure Augusta understood what was what. “There will be no more discussion about the matter. It’s for the best. I’m sure of it.”

“Oh, you’re sure, are you?” Augusta glared at Elizabeth. “Some
stranger
tells you about this new place, and suddenly you’re sure it’s best for Howell?”

Charles stepped in to defend Elizabeth with, “I love you, Gamma, but if Mama wants to take Daddy there, we all need to respect her decision.”

Augusta grabbed Patricia’s elbow. “We’ll just see about that. Come, Patricia.”

Patricia cast her mother, then Howe, a troubled glance, then did as her grandmother commanded. “I’ll call you later, Mama.”

Charles regarded Elizabeth with concern. “Why don’t you let
me drop you off for dinner somewhere nearby? I’ll come back and stay with Dad. It’ll do you good to get away from here for a while.”

She could use a nice, big salad, and getting out sounded great. “Good idea, but I think I’d rather walk. Clear my head.” The exercise would do her good.

Charles’s face clouded. “I don’t know. This isn’t Whittington, Mom. It’s Atlanta, and it’s starting to get dark. I don’t think you should—”

Though she appreciated his concern, she’d have none of that. “I promise to stay out of dark alleys, but Houston’s is just a couple of blocks away, and there are always plenty of people around. I’ll be fine.”

He frowned. “Call a cab for the ride back, at least. Please. To quote you, ‘I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you, too.’ ”

“I’ll think about it.” Which meant no. She needed to walk, to stretch her legs, to make a break for it, no matter how brief. She gave her son a hug. “I won’t be long. Call if you need me . . . for anything.” She paused in the doorway. “Want me to bring you something back?”

A law book in his hand, Charles settled beside his father to study. “Nope. I’ll catch a buffalo burger later at Ted’s Montana.”

Downstairs, Elizabeth stepped out into the cold, clean air and exhaled the pall of the hospital, then breathed deep of the scent of pine and fresh-mown rye grass. It smelled like hope. Maybe the new hospital could help Howe and end the state of suspended animation they’d all been in.

At the end of the hospital’s north wing, she crossed the driveway to the cut-through to Peachtree Street, then took the sidewalk toward Houston’s, the Shepherd Center on her left. It felt good to stretch her legs.

As she neared the sign for the center, she became aware of pounding strides approaching from behind her. Before she could turn to register the jogger, she was crowded hard against the sign by a tall, hooded male figure.

Frozen with fear, she couldn’t even scream.

“Didn’t anybody ever tell you it isn’t safe for a beautiful woman to walk alone in this town?” a gruff, familiar voice demanded.

“P.J.!” Elizabeth reared back in fury and flailed away at him. “You jerk! Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s inexcusable to scare somebody half to death?”

“Whoa,” he said, deftly evading the majority of her blows. “I didn’t intend to scare you, just surprise you. I swear.”

“You know what’s paved with good intentions,” she shouted. He tried to put his arm around her, but she didn’t let him, stomping toward Houston’s. “Leave me alone. I mean it! Scram.”

“I’m sorry, Elizabeth. Really.” He came up beside her, maintaining a respectful distance. “At least let me buy you dinner to make up for it. I promise, I’ll behave.”

After that juvenile stunt, Elizabeth wasn’t in the mood for male company, period. “Just go home, P.J. I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I didn’t need this. Go home.”

P.J. reached over and drew her close to his side, his touch gentle but insistent, and his tone convincing when he said, “Really, Elizabeth, I’m sorry. I was stupid. Insensitive. I never,
ever want to scare or hurt you. Please, can you forgive me?” Her posture relented before she could. Taking it as a sign, he cradled her in his arms. “I don’t know what I’d do if you didn’t forgive me.”

Her anger let down, leaving her almost too exhausted to stand on her own. So she put her arm around his waist and leaned on his strength, giving him one last little poke in the stomach. “Okay. But you’ll have to buy me an appetizer and dessert.”

He stroked her back, his pace matching hers. “Okay. And it’s a small price to pay for your company.”

It felt so good to be with someone who valued her, even though he’d pulled that stupid stunt. But he was a guy, and guys did things like that. Except Howe. Howe never did anything rash. Maybe things would have been better if he had. “Believe it or not, P.J.,” she said, “it’s really good to see you. I get so lonely sitting by Howe’s bed day after day.”

P.J. gave her a squeeze. “I’ll always be here for you. Always.”

To her surprise, Elizabeth took great comfort in that. “Thanks. Let’s eat.”

Though the new facility worked diligently on Howe’s body to keep his muscles from atrophying, after five months there, Elizabeth finally saw that he was losing ground. Charles, who had managed to graduate with flying colors and pass the bar in spite of everything, helped her summon up the courage to let the doctors try the experimental procedure they’d recommended.

P.J. had argued for it all along, saying she had to free herself from limbo so she could consider a new life with him. As the months had dragged by with nothing to do but sit beside Howe’s bed and mull over the wreckage of their marriage, the prospect of freedom and a fresh start looked better and better.

But that wasn’t why she decided to let the doctors experiment on her husband. Deep inside, something still bound her to Howe in a way he hadn’t been bound to her for years. She made the decision for his sake, and the children’s. If there was any hope they could have their father back, she had to take the chance.

So she was there by her husband’s side the morning of June fifth when the first treatment was administered. She hadn’t told the children, not wanting to disappoint them if the treatment failed. And she certainly hadn’t told Augusta.

The doctors, residents and interns in tow, set up a camera to record what happened—or didn’t—then warned her for the jillionth time that it often took several treatments to see results, and even then, reactions varied from minor to manic.

“Just do it,” she said, worn out with second-guessing herself.

After the injections, Elizabeth took Howe’s hand and settled in to wait and pray.

The doctors left a resident to monitor Howe’s reaction. Quiet minutes ticked away, then stretched to hours, and nurses came in to change the videotapes, but nothing happened.

By the time two o’clock rolled by, both the resident and Elizabeth had begun to doze. Leaning forward, she laid her head on Howe’s bed. She was just on the verge of tumbling down the rabbit hole to her usual, frustrating, busy dreams, when pain and motion brought her upright.

“Lillibuh,” Howe gasped, gripping her arm so hard she almost cried out.

Thank God! He was awake! He could speak. He recognized her.

The resident summoned the others, who came running.

“Yes, it’s me, Lillibet. I’m here.” Howe had a future.
She
had a future, with him or without him. She leaned close and studied his face. His eyes communicated happy recognition mixed with fear and confusion.