That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  Nobody answers as they transfer Gladys to the gurney and reattach the oxygen mask. I stand there, frozen. Finally, one of the women—I don’t even know if they’re doctors or nurses—turns toward me. “An allergic reaction to the meds. She’s in anaphylaxis. We have to get her to a resuscitation room. Someone will get you as soon as she’s stable.”

  With that, they push past me and hurry down the hallway with Gladys between them, the metal wheels of the gurney squeaking out their own alarm. One of the hospital workers shouts something about possible cardiac arrest, and my blood runs cold.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I have my cell phone in my hand and I’m calling Aaron. The phone rings three times, and I’m frantic that he’s not going to answer.

  “Oh, thank God it’s you,” he says.

  “Aaron!” I shout his name.

  “Listen, it’s Wesley,” he says.

  “What?” I ask, confused.

  “He fell. I’m with him at the hospital. His leg looks to be broken in multiple places, possibly his pelvis, too. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

  “Aaron, listen to me.” I feel myself taking charge. “I’m at NYU, at the hospital. Your mom is having a severe allergic reaction. You need to come here, now.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  It feels like neither of us can make sense of the other’s words.

  “I don’t know. The doctors have her. She was unconscious, Aaron.”

  “Oh my God,” he says again. “Okay, I’m on my way. But Wesley . . .” He hesitates.

  “It’s fine.” I can’t get my words out fast enough. “Just get here. And call your dad from the cab while you’re on your way, okay? I’ll take care of Wesley.”

  “Right, okay,” he answers, his voice clipped, his tone equal parts worry and confusion.

  We hang up, and I start making other calls.

  FINALLY, I SEE Aaron exit the elevator and beeline toward the nurses’ station. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt and looks more like a frat boy than a neurosurgeon at the moment. I get up from my chair in the waiting area and dash over to him. In my frantic state, I really don’t know whether it’s been fifteen minutes or two hours since I hung up with him. I call his name as I approach, and he looks away from the nurse he was talking to, surprise registering on his face.

  “Mer? But what about Wesley?” His voice sounds thick to me, muddled by agitation and alarm. “Why aren’t you on your way?”

  I want to move closer, to embrace him like I would have a month ago, but everything is different now. I keep my feet planted where they are, my hands to myself. “Don’t worry. I took care of it.” Before I can explain further, the nurse interrupts us to answer whatever Aaron said before I reached them.

  “The doctors are still in with her. Someone will come update you as soon as they can.”

  “Aaron!” someone shouts.

  We turn in unison to see Mitch stepping out of the elevator bank, heading toward us.

  “What the hell happened?” He looks at the nurse, who has just risen from behind her station. “How does someone make a mistake like that?” he demands.

  “Dad, calm down,” Aaron tries. “There was no way for them to know she’d have an allergy to the medication. What was she even here for in the first place?” He looks from his dad to me and then back to his dad again.

  Mitch freezes and then lets out a large sigh, all his venom suddenly replaced by a posture of defeat.

  “It was chemo,” he answers flatly. “And it was a mistake, because it was her second round. We discovered the allergy last time we were here, before this place caused her any major trauma.” He shoots a pointed look at the nurse, and the lawyer in me is already thinking about liability and the lawsuit that is waiting to happen—negligent mistakes that were made.

  “Chemo?” Aaron repeats.

  “Mom has lymphoma,” Mitch says gently.

  “She . . . lymphoma? Since when? What are you even talking about?” Aaron’s neck is getting red, the way it does when he’s angry, and I wish I could do something to ease this blow. I move a little closer to him, surrendering to my instincts, and slip my hand through his. He allows it, but I’m not sure he even realizes I’ve done it.

  “She didn’t want to tell you,” his father explains. “She had her reasons. We argued with her, but it was her decision.”

  “Who’s we? You told Cole and not me?” he spits back.

  “No, Meredith and I.”

  “You knew?” His eyes dart to mine, accusation written across his features.

  “Only since we broke up.”

  He yanks his hand from my grasp and backs away a step. He looks from me to his father and back again.

  “Why are you even here?” he demands, his eyes harsh.

  I open my mouth to answer and then close it again.

  “Meredith has been amazing.” Mitch steps in for me and puts a warm hand on my shoulder. “Whatever your story is as a couple, you should be appreciative of the care and compassion she has shown your mother.” He looks back at the nurse, who has been following the whole conversation. “Now, when are we going to get an update?” he asks.

  The nurse taps a few times on the screen of a tablet computer and then lifts a manila folder from her desk. “I’ll go check,” she says, her voice neutral, accommodating, and she turns to walk down the hall.

  The three of us watch her go until she turns a corner and disappears from view. Then Aaron turns back toward me, and when I see the emotion settling into his features, I recognize the precise sense of uselessness that Gladys was trying to prevent when she made the decision to keep her cancer a secret. He glances from the waiting room to the nurses’ desk and then down the hallway.

  “I guess we should go sit?” I ask cautiously, seeing the tension in the way both Aaron and his father are regarding their surroundings.

  Mitch puts an arm around Aaron’s broad shoulders, as if he’s trying to corral him. I wish for a second that Mitch were taller than Aaron instead of two inches shorter—that for once, Aaron could feel contained and protected by someone else.

  “Yes, c’mon,” Mitch says, as he leads us back toward the orange plastic chairs.

  I sit first, and Mitch takes the seat opposite me. Aaron sits down beside him. There is an older couple sitting together at the end of our row and only a smattering of other adults biding their time in the mostly empty waiting area. We’re silent for a minute, and then Aaron looks at me.

  “You don’t need to stay,” he says, but not unkindly.

  “Stop it,” I command, with more assurance than I feel. “I’m staying.”

  Mitch puts a hand on Aaron’s knee, and I can see his fingers squeezing a little. “Well,” Mitch says, “we appreciate having you here. And I know Gladys does, too.”

  After a few more minutes of staring silently at the walls, at our fingers, our shoes, the blond nurse reappears and Aaron shoots to his feet.

  “She’s stable,” the pretty young woman starts, and I see Aaron’s entire posture change, relief rising off him like steam. “The doctors are still with her, but you’ll be able to go in and see her soon.”

  The nurse is unable to tell us more than that, so we wait longer. Finally, Mitch and Aaron are given permission to see Gladys. I stay in the waiting room, knowing I don’t belong with them during this ameliorative moment meant for family. My thoughts begin to spiral about how I was almost a part of that family, about all that I’ve lost, but I shove at them, pushing them away so I don’t start weeping in the waiting room.

  While I wait, I make a few calls to check on Wesley. He is still in surgery. No news yet. I lay my head back against the wall behind me and wonder how I ended up in the middle of this shit storm of catastrophes.

  The next thing I know, I’m being awoken by repetitive nudging of my shoulder. I open my eyes to see Aaron standing over me. My eyes are sticky, like I’ve been asleep for at least an hour, maybe longer. I don’t know how I fell asleep when I was
so amped from the panic I felt for Gladys earlier, and for Aaron.

  Aaron has a look on his face that I can’t decipher.

  “Is she okay?” I ask through my groggy disorientation, the panic coming back.

  He nods, his dark eyes opaque. “For now. They’re going to keep her overnight, but . . .” He looks toward the windows and I notice that the lighting has changed outside, that it appears to be late afternoon, nearly evening. “I think you should go see how Wesley is doing.”

  “No, I—”

  “It’s okay.” He holds up a hand to stop my protests. “I mean, everything here.” He motions in the general direction of the room where his mom is. There’s a softness that I haven’t heard in his voice since before we fell apart. “But just come see my mom before you go.”

  I follow him down the hallway, past the rooms of many other patients. I catch glimpses of tubes and machines of every stripe, everyone with their own personal mountain to climb. When we cross the entry to Gladys’s room, she puts her arms out wide to hug me. “Meredith.” she beckons.

  I collapse into her embrace and instantaneously erupt into ugly sobs. Seeing her alive, hearing her voice, I realize how frightened I was that we would lose her, that I had somehow failed her.

  “I’m okay now.” She strokes my hair for a moment, and I begin to collect myself. My tears have already left a wet mark on the shoulder of her hospital gown.

  “I’m sorry.” I try to laugh through my tears.

  “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m going to be fine. Just ask your friend here.” She jerks her head in Aaron’s direction.

  Aaron is leaning against the air vent by the window, watching us. He shrugs. “Positive thinking is important,” he says, and I’m not sure whether he’s addressing Gladys or me. “There are so many studies.”

  We visit for a few minutes longer, the conversation restrained and stilted as my eyes repeatedly stray toward Aaron. Finally, I begin to excuse myself, thinking I should give them their space after the day they’ve had.

  “I’ll walk you out,” Aaron says, straightening off the back wall.

  I’m surprised when the elevator arrives that he doesn’t say good-bye but follows me into the box. I push the button for the ground floor and then we stand, silent and stiff, as nurses and hospital patrons enter and exit on the various floors.

  As we emerge into the lobby, I can tell Aaron wants to say something. I stop walking beside the door to the gift shop and turn toward him. “What is it?” I blurt, unable to tolerate the charged silence any longer.

  He sighs, like he’s not sure he wants to divulge whatever is on his mind. I stand and wait while Aaron looks from me to the bustling hallway beside us and then back to me again.

  “Why did you stay?” he finally asks. “Why didn’t you go to Wesley?”

  I chew on my lip and decide I don’t have the energy to play it cool. I’m just going to lay it all out there. “I care about your mom, genuinely. And, you know, you.” I offer a matter-of-fact shrug, fully cognizant that I have little left to lose by being frank. “You may be finished with me, but my heart is still yours, and I would do anything to protect you. Which includes protecting the people you love.” I’m almost defiant as I admit my feelings, my so-sue-me attitude functioning as a shield.

  He nods thoughtfully while I regard him. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and he studies the floor as though he expects to locate a response to my statements somewhere within the linoleum tiles. I find myself feeling hopeful that something I’ve said may resonate with him, may produce a change of heart about our relationship. Maybe my loyalty has become apparent to him through my actions today and he might be willing to give me another chance. I take a step closer to him, but when he looks up, his eyes are rigid, impermeable.

  “Well, I appreciate it.” There’s a finality to his voice. “Please let Wesley know I’m thinking of him.” He offers me a curt nod before he turns back toward the elevator, toward his family, away from me. I watch him go, sure that he is going to turn around, that he is going to come back, but the elevator doors open and he steps in without glancing in my direction. And then he is gone.

  I hold it together until I reach the street, but as soon as I’m outside, I let the tears flow down my face, obscuring my vision while I search for a taxi. I don’t know why I let myself get my hopes up, why I thought that Aaron was softening his stance toward me. I curse myself for the umpteenth time, so angry that I let romanticized memories derail my future with Aaron. I picture what he must be doing now at his mother’s bedside, holding her hand and telling corny jokes to make her laugh while Mitch looks on from across the room with mild amusement. I should be there, holding Aaron’s hand, busting his chops for the bad jokes, lightening the mood. Instead, I’m trudging up First Avenue in the humid evening heat while strangers glance at my tear-stained face and then look away.

  I finally snag a cab that’s coming down First Avenue, going south, and tell the driver I want to go to Mount Sinai. He points out that I am heading in the wrong direction. As if I didn’t already know.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  July 2017

  I’m sitting in a hospital room for the fifth day in a row, poking around on my laptop while Wesley naps. The doctors put a plate in his leg when they reattached all the pieces of his body that broke apart, that shattered and splintered when he fell. No one really has a sense yet how long it will take him to heal, though obviously healing is a relative term. If he were a more typical patient, not already condemned to die, they would be trying to plan physical therapy, pushing him to start moving and rotating, but ALS complicates the recovery plan, just like it complicates everything else in its path.

  I’m not entirely privy to the arrangements he has been making, nor the prognoses he’s received from the three different doctors currently overseeing his care. Wesley has made clear that he prefers privacy when the doctors provide updates on his condition, so I hang back and listen only when he wants to share information, which is not frequently. Beyond that, I’m just trying to keep him company, offer him some emotional comfort or a little entertainment until he can get out of here. Once they are ready to discharge him, he says he wants to go directly to that ALS care facility in Massachusetts. I understand his decision—the fall seems to have exacerbated many of his symptoms. He will be safer there with more help, more specialized care. Maybe if he had gone sooner, he never would have been in a position to lift himself out of a motorized chair on his own, never would have fallen and hurt himself so badly in the first place. His cousin Lulu told him yesterday that she is relocating from Nepal to be with him near the Bernard Mildred Center. She long ago ended her relationship with the man she followed to Nepal, and with her impressive résumé, she should have an easy time finding employment elsewhere. It’s a relief to know he will have family near him, that he won’t be utterly alone up there. From the way his facial muscles seem to relax every time Lulu’s name comes up, I get the sense he feels the same way.

  I hear a light knock on the door, and I’m surprised to see Nicola, as in, my former office mate, in the doorway. I glance toward Wesley, who is still asleep, and hold a finger to my lips, hoping she won’t wake him. Scurrying out of my chair, I set my laptop down in my place and usher Nicola back into the hallway.

  “Hi.” I nudge her a little farther down the corridor so we aren’t right outside his door, and we end up in a petite alcove next to an ice machine and a supply closet. “What are you doing here?” I try not to sound as shocked as I am. Her blond hair is stark and straight as it falls around her face, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen it loose.

  “I came to see how Wesley was doing. Ian told me he was still laid up.”

  “You . . . Why? You know Wesley? Since when?” I’m instantly running all these crazy scenarios in my head about the different ways they might have met. Her trip to London last summer, an event at his restaurant? Did they put it together, realize they both knew me? I’ve definitely compla
ined to Wesley about her on more than one occasion in recent months. Did he realize it was the very same Nicola whom he already knew?

  “Well, I don’t—or I didn’t—know him, but I came with Ian.”

  I cock my head to the side, still trying to make sense of what she’s telling me.

  “The other day,” she says. “Before the surgery.”

  Well, that’s a shocker. Ian definitely did not mention that tidbit to me when he gave me the recap on all that had happened with Wesley at Mount Sinai while I was at NYU with Gladys and Aaron.

  “I don’t understand. Why?” I’m squinting at her, and I don’t even attempt to hide my skepticism.

  “Look, you got to me, okay?” She starts fishing around in her leather tote bag and pulls out a ChapStick. “You, with all your pro bono work and your ideals.” She waves a hand in the air, dismissing something, the Chap-Stick suspended between two fingers like a chunky cigarette flopping along for the ride. Then she drops the ChapStick back into the abyss of her bag without having used it and pulls the satchel closer to her body. “I heard Ian at the office, talking about how you called him because Wesley had fallen, how he was alone because you couldn’t get here, and, I don’t know . . .” She sounds exasperated. “So I came, too. I’m just trying to be a little more”—her eyes dart back and forth while she searches for a word—“good.” She shrugs and then adds, “Like you.”

  We’re both silent for a couple of seconds, perhaps equally surprised by what she has said to me.

  “Look, I just thought, you know, that visiting Wesley after everything he’s gone through was the right thing to do. Something you would do. And clearly . . .” She motions toward me with both hands and doesn’t finish her statement. I suppose she’s trying to indicate that yes, I am indeed visiting Wesley.

  “Oh. Well, great.” I guess. “I think he’ll be happy for the visitor when he wakes up.” What else can I say?

  “He probably won’t remember me. We were only with him a few minutes, and he was in pretty awful shape. We left as soon as Katie Sue got here. Still.” She shrugs again, everything about her falling like a whim.