Who Do I Talk To? (34 page)

I was glad these new friends were here . . . but for some reason I felt terribly alone. The responsibility for my mom, the decisions to be made, felt like too much. Where was my family? Why did my sisters and I live so far apart? Even if I got hold of them today—a big “if ”—there'd be no way they could get here quickly. Even if they could, what would we say to each other? It'd been years since we'd spent any time together. Since we'd really talked.

Family
. . . Philip and the boys were my family. That was the biggest hole of all. Fifteen years ago, almost sixteen now, Philip and I had made vows to be there for each other through thick and thin. Times like this. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to imagine my husband's arms around me, holding me, shielding me from the guilt and pain and what-ifs . . .

I couldn't. He'd cut me adrift. Left me alone. I didn't even know where he was.

And the boys!
They should be here! This is their grandmother!
Anger surged up through my gut and pushed hot tears down my cheeks. It was one thing for Philip to kick me out of his life. But to take my sons away—

“Mrs. Fairbanks?”

I looked up, startled. Dr. Palma stood in the doorway. For some odd reason I noticed the neat baby blue dress shirt and blue-and- black-striped tie he wore beneath his open white lab coat, a stethoscope stuffed in the coat pocket. The emergency room doctor must have called him. I quickly wiped the wetness off my cheeks and stood up. “Dr. Palma. I'm so glad to see you.”

The Filipino doctor glanced at the other women, then back at me. “Would you like some privacy? We can go to a conference room.” I was tempted to smile. Guess it didn't take rocket science to figure out that the other women in the room weren't exactly family members.

“We can talk here. They're with me.” I sat back down and groped for Mabel's hand.

The doctor sat on the edge of the padded chair next to me and leaned forward. “Mrs. Fairbanks, your mother has suffered a massive brain hemorrhage—bleeding between the brain and the skull. Truth is, I've never seen such a large bleed.”

“A hemorrhage? But why?”

“We can't be sure. Some patients have weak blood vessels that break and cause seepage into the brain. Or it can happen suddenly, without warning, as it appears to have done in your mother's case.” The doctor's voice seemed to fade in and out of my head, like TV sound bites coming from another room as he listed possible causes.
High blood pressure . . . taking an anticoagulant over a long period . . . brain trauma . . . brain tumor . . . an aneurysm that burst . . .

I forced myself to focus.

“—or possibly a combination of factors. Since I saw Mrs. Shepherd for the first time a few days ago, it's hard to tell.”

I stared at him, stunned. Finally I managed, “How . . . how is she? I mean, what can you do?”

Dr. Palma shook his head. “With a smaller bleed, we might be able to do surgery, suction off the blood and try to repair the artery. But you have to understand, Mrs. Fairbanks, the hemorrhage is so massive, I'm afraid the damage has already been done.”

My mouth went dry. “What does that mean?”

“It means you need to make a decision. She's in a coma now, not aware of any pain. If you want, we can put her on life support, keep her alive. Or we could make her comfortable and . . . let nature take its course.”

I stared at him. “Life support? If we do that, is there a chance she'd get better?”

He shook his head. “The damage is extensive. She'd most likely be hooked to machines for the rest of her life.”

“And if we don't?” My voice had dropped to a whisper.

His gray eyes were gentle, full of concern. “She might last anywhere from twelve to twenty-four hours.”

My head sank into my hands. I felt Mabel's arm go around my shoulders and hold on tight.
No . . . no . . . no! Oh God, I don't want to have to make this decision alone.
I sensed Precious, Lucy, and Carolyn gathering around, like protective mother hens.

I raised my head and looked at the doctor. “Dr. Palma . . .” My voice cracked. “If she was your mother, what would you do?”

The doctor shook his head again. “I can't make this decision for you, Mrs. Fairbanks. As her family, it's yours to make. But if my mother was in this situation . . . I'd let her go naturally.” He rose to his feet. “Please, think about it. Call other family if you need to. I'll come back within the hour.”

He started to leave, but I ran to the door and caught him.

“Dr. Palma . . .” I had to know. “The headaches. Did they have anything to do with it? If I'd brought her in sooner—?”

He shrugged slightly. “Possibly. But we're second-guessing now. As you said, the headaches only started less than two weeks ago. Not usually a cause for alarm without other symptoms. Please, don't blame yourself. You brought her in when they continued—no one could have done more.”

The moment the door closed behind him, Lucy was in my face. “He sayin' jus' let 'er
die
? Ya can't do that!”

“So ya think she oughta play God?” Precious snapped. “Step in an' keep Gramma Shep goin' after her body give out? What about you? If you was in a coma, wouldja want some machine ta be doin' your breathin'? Not knowin' anything?”

“That's diff 'rent.”

“Why?”

“'Cause—”

“Both of you, shut up!” Carolyn grabbed Lucy's arm. “Come on, let's go get some coffee, leave Mabel and Gabby.” Pushing both Lucy and Precious ahead of her, Carolyn cleared the room. The door wheezed shut after them.

I sank back into a chair, feeling as if blood was rushing through my ears.
Oh God, I should have brought Mom in sooner. But I didn't know! And everything's been so crazy. I'm trying, God, I really am. Doing the best I can, but I can't do this alone! I need You, God. I need help. Please—

“Gabby?” Mabel's voice finally penetrated my brain. “Do you want to call your family? Your sisters?”

I started to nod—then shook my head. “Aunt Mercy first.” I slowly dug out my cell phone, but just stared at it stupidly.

Mabel pried it out of my fingers, found my contact list, and a moment later she pushed the Call button, listened a brief moment, then handed the phone to me.

Aunt Mercy's voice reached across airwaves and wrapped around me like a hug. Yes, yes, she'd get on the phone right away and keep trying until she got Honor and Celeste. What hospital were we at? Did I have a medical power of attorney? Yes, it was a terrible decision to have to make. “If it was me, honey, I'd want you to let me go,” she said. “But I think I have your dad and mom's living will in my files. I'll get it and fax it to you. Give me half an hour. Hang in there, Gabby.”

While we waited, Mabel read the psalms to me. “‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want' . . .”

Shepherd.
Funny. I'd never made that connection before. Shepherd was my maiden name and was still my mother's married name. A shepherd takes care of his sheep—feeding, protecting, comforting—like my daddy used to take care of us girls growing up. But now Daddy was gone. My sisters were gone—or might as well be. My husband was gone . . .

But Psalm 23 says God takes care of me just like a shepherd.

Mabel was still reading. “‘Even though I walk through the valley of death, You are with me' . . .”

I was definitely walking through the valley of death. My marriage was dying . . . my mom was dying. But God was with me. That's what it said. Did I believe it?

As Mabel continued to read, the words of Dottie Rambo's gospel song danced alongside the psalm in my spirit.
“Where do I go when there's nobody else to turn to? . . . Who do I talk to, when nobody wants to listen? . . . Who do I lean on, when there's no foundation stable? . . . I go to the Rock, I know He's able, I go to the Rock!”

Tears rolled down my cheek. I wasn't alone. God was my family. After all, He had the same last name . . .
Shepherd.

chapter 35

Martha Shepherd lay small and slight under the taut hospital sheet, her eyes closed, an oxygen mask still covering her nose and mouth, her gray hair splayed out on the pillow as her breath rose and fell. I sat in a chair beside the hospital bed, holding her left hand. My fingers played with her wedding ring, a simple gold band she'd been wearing for over fifty years.
Over fifty years
. . . Was my marriage going to end after only fifteen?

I felt so sad. As if I was treading water in a huge pool of loss.

And yet . . . I
was
treading water. I hadn't gone under.
“The Lord is my Shepherd” . . . Hold on, strong woman of God, hold on.

Aunt Mercy had faxed my parents' living will to the hospital. No heroic measures that would simply prolong dying, it said. I felt a strange relief. My mother's decision, not mine. They moved my mother into a private room. No machines.

And now we wait . . .

Mabel had taken a distraught Lucy back to Manna House to take care of Dandy, leaving Carolyn and Precious to sit with me and my comatose mother. But the word must have gotten around, because Josh and Edesa Baxter showed up midafternoon, and the sweet young couple held me and we cried.

I left the room long enough to call my sons. They should know. It was Monday . . . what were the boys doing at four in the afternoon? To my huge relief, Mike Fairbanks answered the phone. He swore softly under his breath when I gave him the news. “Sure am sorry to hear this, Gabby. She was a sweet lady. But, uh, the boys aren't here at the moment. Marlene went to pick up P. J. at lacrosse camp, and Paul's out riding his bike—Oh, wait. I think I hear them now. Hold on . . .”

In the background I heard muffled voices, then running feet. Paul got on the phone first. “Mom! Mom! Is Grandma Martha okay? She isn't gonna die, is she?” I heard the click of an extension pick up.

I don't know where I found the words. “It's a very bad stroke. The doctor says she won't live long . . . P. J., are you there? Would you boys like to say good-bye to Grandma? She's in a coma, so she won't be able to respond, but you'll know . . .”

Both boys were crying now. Trying to reassure them, I walked the phone back into the room and held it to my mother's ear. “Mom, it's Paul and P. J. . . .” I don't know what they said. My mother's fixed expression did not change. But when I took the phone back out into the hall, both boys were still crying.

“Mom! I wanna be with you,” Paul wailed.

“Me too.” P. J. sounded ten again. “I wanna say good-bye to Grandma for real.”

I could barely contain the tears. “I know. I want to be with you too. I'll call you again real soon and let you know what's happening, okay? Now, let me talk to Granddad Mike again.”

Mike Fairbanks must have been right there. “Gabby, have you called Philip yet?”

Philip.
Was he even back in town? “No. I—I don't want him here right now.”

“Humph. Don't blame you. Look, let me work it out with Philip about getting the boys there when . . . you know, the funeral and everything.”

I closed the phone and leaned my forehead against the wall outside my mother's room. Odd. Philip's father was turning into my advocate—“Gabby!” Estelle swept down the hall, wearing a bright turquoise caftan, her loose kinky hair in an untidy topknot. “Oh, baby,” she murmured, folding me into a big hug. “I'm so sorry.” She turned. “Harry, give that basket here. This girl needs something to eat.”

Only then did I notice that a bare-domed Harry Bentley was behind her, carrying a basket that turned out to be stuffed with sandwiches and fruit. “Mr. Bentley!” I couldn't believe he'd come. I wrapped my arms around him. “Thank you for coming,” I whispered. “You . . . you know you were my very first Chicago friend.”

“And you, Firecracker, added some pizzazz to a very dull job.” The middle-aged black man chuckled. “Not to mention that you introduced me to my lady, here.”

“
Lady
is right.” Estelle gave him the eye. “And don't you forget it, mister. Now, where's Lady Shepherd? She's the one we came to see.” Once in the room, the large woman leaned over the bed and kissed my mother's wrinkled cheek, her glowing cinnamon face a warm contrast to my mother's pale skin against the stark-white pillow. “We're all here, Gramma Shep. Lot of people who love you. And Dandy sends his love.”

Estelle straightened and shook her head at me. “If Lucy had her way, she'd be bringing that dog up in here, but Mabel put her foot down. They'll be here soon. Now . . .” She sat on the end of the hospital bed. “Tell us some stories about your mama, Gabby. You don't mind, do you, Martha?” She patted my mother's foot under the covers.

The heavy spirit in the room seemed to lift. I racked my brain for memories of my mother—but once I started, it was hard to stop. “Sundays . . . Mom always got up early to put a pot roast or chicken casserole in the oven so it'd be hot and ready after church. She usually invited someone on the spur of the moment to come home with us too.”