by Gina Ardito
At eight a.m., I turned the E.R. over to the morning staff, took some time to catch up on unfinished paperwork, and finally dragged myself toward home around nine-thirty. Once I stepped inside my front door, I turned off my cell and the ringer to my house phone, pulled the blackout shades, and collapsed in my bed. Sleep, however, eluded me. After thirty minutes of tossing and turning, I grabbed the remote control. Maybe I could attempt to distract myself with mindless daytime television. With Election Day only a few weeks away, political pundits filled the news stations. Morning talk shows confirmed or denied paternity on a dozen children with less-than-stellar mothers, often with violent results. Cable channels offered a twenty-year-old slasher flick, the obligatory “battered wife takes the law into her own hands” movie for women, teenagers behaving horribly, and out-of-control pets that needed professional help. I clicked off and tossed the remote on my nightstand.
Again, I squeezed my eyes shut. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t erase the memory of poor little Lucia. Nothing could take my mind off the loss of that beautiful angel.
About an hour after I first landed on my mattress, Mrs. Spinelli’s scratchy voice crackled through my head. You need someone to make you smile.
Josh. I needed Josh. Not for a smile. I doubt I could muster up the energy for a smile at the moment. But Josh would listen, would understand why I felt so burdened by Lucia’s death. That alone might ease my torment enough for me to sleep for a while. Decision made, I tossed off the blankets and padded downstairs where I’d left my cell. Curling up on the sofa in my den, I dialed his number.
“Good morning, principessa,” he greeted me.
“Hey,” I said.
“Uh-oh.” He must have sensed the despair in my tone because he immediately dropped the silken song for his normal voice tinged with urgency. “What’s wrong?”
I sighed. “Bad night. I lost a little girl in the E.R.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Warmth spread through me at the sound of his concern. I’d made the right decision in calling him, but that didn’t mean I expected him to drop everything to race to my side. “No, Josh, you don’t have to come here.”
“Yeah, I do. I know you. You wouldn’t call me if you didn’t need me. I’m on a site in East Hampton today. Let me just tell the foreman that I need to leave—”
“Stop. Really, I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to get in trouble with your boss.”
His laughter bubbled through my earpiece. “Still don’t get it, do you? I’m the boss, Frannie. The foreman answers to me.”
Heat washed my cheeks, and I glanced down at my bare feet. “Oh.”
“I’ll swing by the McNeills’ place to check the progress on the dormer, be at your house in less than half an hour. I’ll bring soup from Ciro’s, and we’ll talk.”
Soup from Ciro’s Deli, the ideal comfort food. “It’s ten-thirty in the morning. Ciro’s is probably still serving breakfast.”
“For tourists, yes. But for those of us who work hard for a living, he’s always got a vat of some magic potion on the stove in the cold months. Trust me, one phone call from me, and he’ll have something special whipped up, designed just to make you feel better.”
The more he talked, the more ridiculous I felt. Jeez, some poor woman lost her child, and here I was making the situation all about me. “Forget it, Josh. I don’t expect you to drop everything and coddle me because I had a bad night. I’m a big girl.”
“Okay, then. Tell me what happened. Who was this girl? Anybody I know?”
Curled in a fetal position on the sofa, I broke down. “I didn’t know her until last night. She was in a house fire.” I told him all of it, reliving every minute of the time I spent with Lucia Espinosa from the moment we wheeled her in, right up to the agonizing scene when I informed her mother, who was being treated in the exam room next door, that the child didn’t make it. “She died before two this morning. She was only four years old, for God’s sake.” My voice cracked on the last word, and tears rushed to my eyes.
He said nothing for a long moment while I wept, and then on a long, shuddering breath, he remarked, “I don’t get it. Did you do something wrong? Screw up the CPR or forget to intubate her or something?”
“Of course not!” And I thought he’d support me? Boy, had I overestimated him. “I did everything I could for that child. The damage was just too extensive. She died once before she even reached me, and the EMTs brought her back. Nothing I did or didn’t do would have changed the outcome. She got to us too late.” I stopped, struck dumb by the words I’d spilled with so much passion.
“And at last, we have realization and acceptance. My psych professor would be so proud.” His satisfaction made his voice purr. “Feel better now?”
The weight of a thousand worlds fell off my shoulders. “Yeah. I do.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you tonight. Get some sleep, Frannie.”
I hung up, staring at the phone in wonder. As I climbed upstairs again, I realized the more time I spent with Josh Candolero, the more he surprised me. In a good way. I had one last conscious thought before sleep dragged me under.
There was a lot more to Josh than I ever realized, and I really wanted to discover every aspect of this man.
Chapter 13
Emily
The “divorce” word danced through my head the rest of the night, making sleep impossible. On Thursday morning, my mother-in-law returned for her daily torture fest, which only served to hammer home how much happier I could be if I seriously pursued the divorce idea. Since Roy’s mother already hated me, my leaving him would only give her another reason to justify her animosity. All the blue-haired ladies in her Florida community would tsk and shake their heads, convinced I was a hopeless, soulless case. Sylvia Handler would have her neighbors’ sympathy and enjoy a little celebrity at my expense. Win/win for her.
Once again, my imaginary checklist of pros and cons for continuing my marriage popped into my head. Eventually, I would have to actually put this list on paper and consider it. But not yet.
“Melissa snapped at me last night.” Sylvia’s tone could’ve been a dead ringer for six-year-old Gabriella’s when tattling on a schoolmate. “In my day, children were taught to respect their elders.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Handler. I’ll speak to her.”
“Oh, don’t bother.” She waved a hand. “It’s too late to teach that girl manners now.”
In other words, I’d failed Motherhood 101. Quick, get the pitchforks and torches…
“Of course, it’s not all her fault, just as it isn’t all yours,” she continued pouring venom into the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like you had a stellar example, either. How is your mother these days? Still working in that seedy bar in Nashville?”
“It’s a dinner theater,” I reminded her, for at least the thousandth time. “And she’s the manager.”
“Poor choices,” she retorted. “Everything in life is about poor choices. I just hope to God my son doesn’t wind up tending bar in some seedy backwoods gin mill when he’s sixty years old to keep you both afloat.”
I clamped my lips tight. No stress. My doctor had insisted I count to ten and not react to stress. But, oh, good Lord, this was a nearly impossible task.
After critiquing my parenting skills—or lack, thereof—and my mother’s poor choices in life, Sylvia took my television remote control and clicked on today’s round of daytime dramas, leaving me to simmer in my own juices.
Hoping to distract myself from my anger, I shot a glance at Margie, who looked toward the door, as if seeking someone to enter the fray. When no one appeared, she opened her newest puzzle magazine and buried herself in a Word Search game. I stared out the window at the rain slowly streaming down the grayish glass pane.
Shortly after lunchtime, Dr. Stewart popped into the room and asked my mother-in-law to step out for a while. Washing his hands at the sink, he said, “I need to spend a little time with my patient.”
After an inordinate amount of grousing, Sylvia stalked off.
Margie closed her puzzle book with a slap and muttered, “Thank God. I don’t understand why you haven’t decked that nasty woman yet.”
I offered an apologetic shrug. “Believe me, there’ve been plenty of times over the last twenty years I’ve wanted to.”
“Twenty years? Honey, I was talking about in the last twenty minutes. If you’ve put up with her for twenty years, you deserve some kind of medal. Maybe even sainthood.”
I didn’t know whether to smile or sigh. “I’m sorry she bothered you, Margie.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Nah. I’m sorry you’re stuck dealing with the old bat for a lifetime. I can put up with her for a few days.”
Now, why couldn’t she be my mother-in-law? Sure, she was old enough to be my grandmother-in-law, but I’d take her over Sylvia Handler any way I could get her.
“Thanks,” I told her as Dr. Stewart pulled the curtain to separate us.
“Save the chitchat for after I’m gone, ladies.” He performed a cursory exam: listening to my heart, checking the tickertape of the EKG machine, and a quick grope of the lymph nodes in my throat, before asking me, “So…how are we today?”
We. Like he and I were sharing my misery.
I folded my arms over my chest. Well, I tried to fold my arms over my chest. The blasted I.V. stunted my reach, so I had to settle for arms over my left hip. Awkward, but not as awkward as adjusting my posture and giving up the suggestion of annoyance on my part. “You tell me,” I said. “How are we?”
He didn’t miss a beat. “I’ve got a touch of heartburn from my lunch. The cafeteria’s food leaves a lot to be desired.”
“Tell me about it,” I grumbled.
Grinning, he flipped open a manila folder. “But as far as you’re concerned, most of your test results are back.”
“And?”
“And the results are very encouraging. Triglycerides are still a little high, but not unreasonably so. I’m thinking we’ll release you late Monday morning.”
“Really?” I probably should have been thrilled, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to go home. Not that the hospital’s room and board kept me enthralled. Between the low-sodium, low-carbohydrate, low-flavor diet regimen; the cardboard-mattress bed, the twenty-four-hour hallway lights, and the boots squeezing my feet all the time, this wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation. On the other hand, I didn’t want to find myself locked in the same house as Roy and his parents for more than ten minutes, either.
As if he could read my mind, Dr. Stewart wagged a finger at me. “You’ll have to learn how to effectively deal with life’s minor inconveniences. If the dishes aren’t washed immediately after dinner, don’t sweat it. Let the dust settle on your tabletops unless it becomes a health hazard. Don’t lose control when a driver cuts you off on the highway. Breathe, deeply and evenly, whenever tension rears its ugly head. Count to ten before reacting to anything. And always ask for help if you need it. Get your kids and your husband to pitch in more.”
I had to bite my tongue when I heard his last statement. Like that was going to happen in my lifetime. Seriously, to say something that insane, the man must have never met a teenager. Ask my kids to pitch in more. I might as well ask a hungry tiger not to eat me alive. And to pick up the meatless bones when he was done.
“This episode was a warning,” he continued, apparently unaware of my train of thought. “Treat it as such. As part of your follow-up care, we’re going to be starting you on a cardiac rehabilitation plan, and I’m scheduling you to see a nutritionist. In no time at all, you’re going to be leaner and healthier.”
Leaner and healthier. Beneath the scratchy hospital sheet, I ran a hand over my too-ample flank. So instead of chubby and miserable, I could be skinny and miserable. Wonderful.
Dr. Stewart cleared his throat, and I realized he was expecting an answer from me.
“Great,” I said flatly. “When do we start?”
“After you’ve seen Dr. Calderon for a few sessions.”
I didn’t recognize the name. “Is that the cardiac rehab guy?”
“No. Dr. Calderon is a family counselor. I think you and your husband will benefit from speaking to her.”
A family counselor. I almost rolled my eyes until I realized how closely Dr. Stewart watched my reaction. I could just see Roy sitting on some shrink’s couch, talking about his innermost feelings. Guaranteed, his primary feelings would center on nothing more than the counselor’s billable hours.
As Dr. Stewart continued staring at me, I squirmed, then opted for the non-committal, “Okay, if you think that’s best.”
“It’s not only best, it’s necessary.” The doctor’s finger bounced near my face again, and I swear, I considered taking a bite just to see how he’d react. “You’re both going to have to make some big adjustments, and you’ll need someone to keep you focused on creating a stress-free environment.”
“I’ll tell Roy when he comes by after work.” I tried to force a casual nod, but guilt steamed my cheeks and throat. Family counseling? Good God. I so did not want to broach the topic with my husband.
“No,” Dr. Stewart replied. “I’ll tell Roy. I want him to understand how serious this is.”
“As serious as a heart attack?” I quipped.
He reacted with a steely glare. “This is not a laughing matter. On the off-chance you’re joking because you’re afraid of your husband’s reaction to this requirement, don’t worry. Many of my patients’ spouses are reluctant at first, but after a few sessions, they realize how much their relationship can benefit from counseling.”
Gee, was my doubt that obvious? I didn’t get a chance to ask.
Dr. Stewart flipped through his manila folder, and pulled out a stack of papers. “Now, let’s talk about your aftercare. I’ve already warned you about stress and your blood pressure. I can’t repeat that information strongly enough. You were one very lucky young lady. If you had been in the car alone at the time…” With his lips compressing into a grim line, he shook his head and didn’t continue the sentence.
Yeah, I got that reality slap when Ambrose Chase reminded me of the same possibility. Fear clogged my throat, and I swallowed hard. I still had trouble believing I’d had a heart attack. I was thirty-four years old, for God’s sake. And yeah, sure, my dad had died of a massive coronary infarction, but he’d been fifty-eight at the time. And at least sixty pounds overweight. I’d put on some pounds since the kids came along, but I still managed to shop in the Misses department at stores—the higher end of the racks, but not in the Women’s area yet. And okay…I didn’t get much traditional exercise, but the kids kept me hopping. I hadn’t exactly spent the last sixteen years sitting on the couch eating bonbons and peanut butter out of the jar every day.
“I’ll be in touch with Dr. Calderon, so she can set some time aside to see you before you’re discharged,” he said. “I recommend Dr. Hellman as your cardiac rehab specialist, but of course, you’re free to choose someone else. Just remember, I need to be informed about every aspect of the medical team involved in your care. I’ll see you in my office in one week for a follow-up. Call my receptionist first thing Tuesday morning to set up an appointment.” He fanned out three or four squares of paper like a poker hand. “Prescriptions, which I’ll give to Roy. He should bring them to the pharmacy to be filled and picked up before you get home so you’ll have them at hand when you need them. If your insurance doesn’t allow you to use a local pharmacy, he can use the hospital’s. These cannot be filled through a mail-order company. He should also pick up baby aspirin, which you’ll take—one tablet, every day, from now on.”
He continued the lecture, but my mind wandered again, and my gaze focused on the view outside my window. The rain had stopped but a heavy mist from the Sound wrapped the multi-hued trees in cold, gray silk. I empathized. A similar eerie chill had crept into my life, into my marriage. Shivers racked me, and I slipped farther un
der the blanket, covering myself up to my neck.
“Do you have any questions for me?” Dr. Stewart’s voice thundered into my haze.
“Huh?” I jerked my attention from the fog and trees, back to my internist. “Oh, umm…” My brain scrambled to catch up. Only one question remained. “When can I go back to work?”
“That depends. What do you do?”
“I’m a 911 dispatcher.”
His forehead furrowed. “Any chance they’ll transfer you to a desk job? Something less stress-oriented?”
“For good?” Distress skyrocketed my tone into the stratosphere. Now I had to give up my job? I love my job. Seriously. I was damn good at what I did.
He sighed. “Tell me exactly what you do as a 911 dispatcher.”
I could’ve lied. I mean, he wasn’t going to accompany me there like a parent on a kindergartner’s first day of school. He would never know. I toyed with my options for several seconds. It was my mother-in-law who convinced me to be honest. Oh, she didn’t burst in with any sage advice for me. It was more the idea of her than anything pithy she might have said. Because I realized if I died, the dragon lady would become a permanent fixture in my household, taking care of my kids.
Much as I love my job, I love my kids a thousand times more.
Mentally waving goodbye to my career, I proceeded to tell Dr. Stewart the unvarnished truth.
****
The afternoon passed slowly. In the brightest spot of my day, my mother-in-law, unhappy with the exuberance of Margie’s gaggle of friends, departed five minutes after their noisy arrival. After the senior circuit left, Margie and I chatted for a while. At the end of his shift, Roy came up to spend a few minutes with me before heading home to our kids. As he sat back in the chair by my bed, the overhead lights magnified the dark circles bruising his eyes.