Pink Slips

by Beth Aldrich

  “Mrs. Ryan, this is Shirley Bowen from the ICU. Steven’s doctor asked that I call you.”

  “Yes, of course. How is my husband?”

  “Please, Mrs. Ryan, come to the hospital right away. Steven’s condition has changed.”

  I fast walk over to my car and quickly tap in Dad’s cell number—straight to voicemail.

  “Dad, it’s me. Listen, I’m getting ready to over to the hospital right now. They called me and said I had to come over quickly. Can you and Mom go grab the kids at school and bring them home? I’ll call you after I know more.” My breath fades as I push to get out as many words as possible.

  When Dad was rushed to the hospital last year for his heart attack, we were in shock because he was in such great physical condition. The doctor told us that years of stress and the regular consumption of alcohol had led to heart disease. We were lucky… thanks to his regular walks on the beach with Mom, the episode didn’t end tragically. Now he’s healthier than he’s been in years.

  My mom was very calm and seemingly in control on the outside, but I could tell the undercurrent of sadness and worry had enveloped her soul. She is his rock, and he is hers; it almost seems that when one of them feels pain, the other one feels it, too. They are one and the same. After many years of marriage, they have found their groove and are sailing through retirement—happy and adventurous.

  Luckily, Dad’s medical event ended without devastation. But, with every passing moment, I’m becoming less sure we’ll have the same outcome with Steven.

  The hospital is busier than usual today, so I wait in line before showing my ID to enter the ICU wing. I can see inside the impersonal rooms filled with medical machines, that every bed is filled, occupied by patients—either comatose or close to it—and sympathetic family members by their bedsides. I head for Steven’s room at the end of the hall.

  It’s empty. Tears burn my eyes and a lump in my throat has me gasping for air. Frantically, I dart over to the nurse’s station to find out where my husband is.

  The same blonde nurse comes over to me, a too-cheery smile across her face. “Oh, Mrs. Ryan, I’m glad you were able to make it in. Your husband is in surgery. Once the doctor is finished, he will come to the waiting room and give you a full report.”

  “Surgery? What surgery? No one has told me anything!” I push her arm away as she tries to console me. “What happened?” I feel as though my questions are falling into the abyss, unanswered. I don’t want to be consoled. I want to know what’s going on.

  “From my understanding, we did call you as soon as possible,” she says soothingly. “That is why you are here now. I do know that Steven was stable and then had a sudden medical issue with his heart. So, please head over to surgery and wait for him there.”

  Feeling like a cog in the medical machine, I follow orders, turning on my heel and walking away. Anger propels my steps faster as I push the double doors open to attend to my post in the waiting room—a forlorn wife, floating in despair as her husband’s life lies in the balance. His doctor holds his existence in his hands, and the future is unsure.

  Watching reruns of The Golden Girls on a small-screen television in a very stark waiting room is not my idea of an afternoon delight; it’s nothing like The Andy Griffith Show. I’m not in the mood to look at the flimsy, previously flipped-through Good Housekeeping and People magazines on the wooden rack over by the wall either. Half of the pages have been ripped out or earmarked by a previous occupier of these seats, and quite honestly, I don’t really care what Kim Kardashian is up to these days, or how to decorate my living room on a shoestring budget. What I want are answers. How did Steven end up having a heart issue, and more importantly, why the heck is all of this happening?

  Inhaling deeply and clearing my mind while thinking of butterflies isn’t calming me down either. Agitation is boiling inside my gut, and I’m ready to blow my top. I look for a distraction. Glancing out the window, I see the blue sky is painted with strands of nondescript white clouds. Farther off in the distance, I can see the wide, unbalanced trunk of an oak tree, holding onto an infinite number of hand-shaped autumn leaves, together forming a canopy for the families of birds that pepper its branches. Swaying along with the windblown limbs and stems, I soothe my consciousness back into a meditative state.

  Air escapes my lungs. With a yearning moan, I beckon my husband.

  I know you are in surgery right now, honey, but please, if you can, let me know you are okay.

  Silence, then I hear him. I’m here.

  Warm relief floods over me. He can still communicate with me! I’m so worried about you.

  Don’t be, babe. I’ll be okay.

  What happened to you?

  Go figure—a heart attack. Thankfully Dr. Abbott happened to be in the room when the alarms went off. They rushed me into surgery, but they’re almost done. I can see them down below, working to close me up. They performed a bypass grafting… can you believe it? I never realized that I had severe coronary heart disease, Betsy. Who would think that a guy in my condition and at my age would have that condition?

  My stomach plunges as he speaks. I can’t believe this! Please tell me you’re not going to leave this Earth. I can’t bear the thought of losing you, Steven.

  I trust I will be okay. Don’t worry. Soon our baby will be born.

  Silence again.

  Wondering when the doctor is going to come in and tell me what I already know, I get up to stretch. It feels good to push my shoulders up and back while stretching out my lower back. Twisting my bent arms from left to right finds the crack I am searching for in my mid-back as Emmy Grace readjusts in my belly. Feeling rejuvenated from my lengthy meditative time in the waiting room, I decide to check back in with the nurse’s station. I already know I’ll have to come with my tail between my legs and offer regret for my past snotty behavior, so I step forward to present my justification.

  Then I see the doctor approaching. “Mrs. Ryan,” Dr. Abbot says. “I was just coming to find you to give you an update on Steven. He’s experienced a—”

  “Heart attack. I know.”

  He lowers his head and peers at me with his blue slits for eyes over his glasses. “We performed a coronary artery—”

  “Bypass grafting, I know.” Why am I being passive aggressive? This doctor is just doing his job. I blame it on the stress.

  Confused, Dr. Abbott butts in. “How did you know that? Did our nurses tell you? They couldn’t have known that. It was a last-minute procedure.” He shifts his weight as his left hip pushes out slightly. His small yet muscular build commands respect.

  “Well, I just assumed,” I offer, as I inconspicuously rub my lying nostrils. “My father had a similar incident last year.” Stop it, Betsy. This guy is here to help!

  “Whatever the case, he’s resting in recovery right now, but you won’t be able to talk to him because he still isn’t conscious.”

  “I understand. Can I please just peek in on him?”

  He checks his watch. “You can go in now, and we’ll talk later when we know more.”

  “Okay. Thank you very much, doctor.” I look over at the nurse who had been the subject of my earlier attitude and give her a nod and look that says, I’m sorry. She nods back and smiles.

  “Mrs. Ryan. You have my phone number, but we’ll call you if anything should come up,” Dr. Abbot says as he walks away. I’ve heard that before. I hope I can believe him this time. Stop it, Betsy. Direct your anger at the stalker, not the person who is taking care of your husband.

  Entering my house with a smile on my face has never been so hard to do. I’ll continue to wear this mask of lies in front of my sons until Steven is stable enough where I can bring them to the hospital to see him—if at all. I’m not sure I want them to see Steven like this. Barney probably thinks I’ve abandoned him, except for the quick micro-walks I’ve been giving him lately.

  After hugs, kisses, and updates on their day at school, the boys run off to their rooms to pla
y and do homework. Kindergarten homework is primarily coloring or matching pictures with letters, but to Morgan, it’s still “big boy” homework, and he takes it very seriously. Kyle, on the other hand, has assumed the position at my office desk for the past couple of months so he can “focus and work hard.”

  “Dear, thank you for your message. Now that the boys are out of the room, fill us in,” Dad starts, holding a tall glass of lemonade, his favorite.

  Mom is standing at the sink, rinsing her cup. “Yes, and by the way, I can’t believe it takes this long to get fingerprint results back. I’m sure they’re taking your case seriously, but I wish there were more aggressive action they could take on your behalf.”

  Shaking my head, I reply, “I’m not sure, Mom, that’s just how things are done—red tape. That’s why I’ve decided to keep focusing on solutions and try to figure out who is doing this on my own. Maybe then I can convince the authorities to speed things up.” I clear my throat. “Meanwhile, I have an update on Steven’s condition.”

  “Okay, so fill us in. Ever since your message earlier, we’ve been waiting on pins and needles.” Dad places his drink down and joins me at the table.

  “Steven has had a heart attack.”

  “Oh, my God!” Dad pauses and looks down at the table for a brief second then continues, “But he’s so young! What’s happening now?”

  I know they’re feeling the stress of Steven’s medical condition and the stalker as much as I am, but I need to explain the out-of-the-ordinary occurrence I had with Steven today so they’ll believe me. “I understand it sounds weird, but Steven intuitively spoke to me while he was in surgery.”

  I see my Dad’s signature furrowed brow. I know he’s taking this seriously. Mom is fixed on every word I’m saying.

  “Now, hear me out. He told me that he had experienced a heart attack and that they were performing coronary artery bypass grafting surgery on him. Then when the doctor spoke to me after Steven was out of surgery, he told me the exact same thing.”

  “Well, I’ll be darned. You are a psychic!” Dad laughs, a combination of disbelief and desperation. “I had my doubts, but that’s incredible… but so, so sad for Steven. You must be worried.”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “I’m still trying to take it all in.”

  “Well, don’t worry, honey, I’ll talk to him about the walking and healthy eating program your father has been doing since his surgery last year. He will be okay. I just know it. In the meantime, let’s find out who is torturing you with these letters and that call, and do something about it.”

  “Correction: calls, with an ‘s.’ I got a second call earlier today after I left the Village Hall to check out the video footage. The footage should have been emailed to me by now, come to think of it…” I shut my eyes and try to remember exactly what the voice said to me on the phone. “Anyway, on the phone he told me, I know you’ve gone to the cops. I’m watching you. I already added information about this call to the police record.”

  Dad jumps in. “Are you kidding me? How does he know this? He must be following you everywhere, at various times of the day.”

  Barney runs over next to my chair, where I nestle in with my big cup of hot caramel tea. He’s making odd sounds, as if he’s trying to get my attention. Reaching over to place my steaming mug on a coaster, I squat down to scratch him under his chin. He wiggles under my touch and then rolls over to get a belly rub. Giving in, I use both hands and stroke his soft, pink belly.

  “There isn’t anything I can do,” I reply, as I stand up and grab my mug, and meet my parents over at the kitchen table. The late day sun glares in Dad’s eyes as he shifts in his seat.

  Taking another drink of lemonade, he offers, “Betsy, there is something we could do. We could call someone, like a security guard, to watch over the house, maybe even follow you around town.”

  I let out a weak laugh and look away, catching a glimpse of the bright sunshine flooding through my first-floor windows—grasping at snippets of joy wherever I can find them. I turn back to my father. “Do you know how crazy that sounds, and how expensive that would be? I do think the police are taking it seriously, but we also have to be on our toes.”

  Barney rolls over and paws at my arm.

  “What is it, boy?”

  Garrrooof.

  A strong intuition zeros in on my mind, the bad man was with Steven. Before the heart attack and when the doctor came to fix him.

  The realization numbs me. I slowly stand up, grab my father’s arm, and squeeze my nails into his skin through his Oxford shirt. I look out the windows, turning my head left, right. No one is watching, at least as far as I can see. I let go of Dad’s arm and run to check the door locks, one by one. My parents are now standing, watching me scurry through the house, stunned.

  “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” Dad calls out.

  “A thought came to me that the stalker was in Steven’s room before he had his heart attack. Perhaps the mystery ‘brother,’ who the nurses told me about. Guys, I must go back to the hospital and find out if Steven’s thoughts can identify the man. Dad, let’s go back over there. Mom, can you stay here and feed the boys and Barney?”

  Mom replies with an exhaustive exhale, “Consider it done. Be careful.” I’m sure she doesn’t know what to believe about my intuition with Steven and the stalker.

  While driving along the twisting road back to the hospital, Dad doesn’t speak. My mind is set on autopilot; I could drive this route with my eyes closed at this point. The twilight haunts me with thoughts of the night and the unknown. Where is he lurking and why is he doing this to me? There should be some explanation. Could it be a stranger? He knows so much about me, though, so it must be someone I know… but who is it?

  After pulling into the same parking spot I occupied earlier today, I grab my black patent leather purse, making sure it’s zipped, and start walk-running toward the hospital entrance with my father right behind me. Baby gives a sharp little kick, pulling my attention down to my belly, and I gently rub the tiny foot through my skin to let her know I feel her. When I look up again as we near the hospital entrance, I find myself face to face with Dr. Deller.

  “Oh, Dr. Deller,” I say, surprised. “What are you doing here? I mean—hi. This is my father, Cary Anderson.”

  “Betsy, Mr. Anderson! Hello. I was just in a meeting with my partner, Dr. Hildebrandt, and a couple of other doctors, on the fourth floor. How is Steven doing?”

  “Well, truth be told, not so good. He actually had a heart attack earlier, and has already had surgery.”

  My father is standing close behind me, almost as if he’s holding me up and protecting me from any possible threat.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Dr. Deller says, with a look of concern on his face. “You must be so upset!”

  “Yeah, it’s just… a lot to handle. The doctors told me earlier to go home and let him rest.”

  I decide to share with him what’s going on with Steven. At some point, I need to pick a side and trust him or not. After all he disclosed to me about his wife communicating with him when she was dying, it’s clear: he’s the only one who completely understands what I’m experiencing with Barney and Steven.

  “While I was at home talking with my parents, I got a strong feeling that something terrible happened to Steven, urging me to come back. Call it intuition or ESP, I don’t know. Anyway, I’d like to hurry inside.”

  My dad is still standing behind me, nodding in agreement as the twilight starts to creep up behind us, painting a gloomy backdrop. I’m shocked and amazed that this is my life right now.

  “Oh, my gosh! Given what you’ve shared with me about your recent intuition, it’s a good idea to get back up to the ICU and check on him. Do you want me to come in with you and confirm this and see if we can get some answers? Sometimes hospital staff will be more cooperative with other doctors.”

  “Betsy, we should get in there.” My dad gentle guides my arm as we move towards the door
.

  “You’re right. Let’s go. Dr. Deller, I think visiting hours are only for another hour.”

  “It’ll be okay,” he says as he leads the way. Dad and I file in behind him. “You’re with a doctor, so hopefully we’ll get answers fast.”

  Feeling more confident and secure with my doctor, Dad and I follow the curve of the sidewalk into the brightly lit entrance of the hospital.

  “Hello, I’m Dr. Deller,” my doctor offers as he steps up to the reception desk. “I’m here with my patient, Betsy Ryan, and her father, Cary Anderson, to see her husband, Steven.” He hands over our IDs and his hospital badge.

  “Thank you, doctor. His room is just down the hall.” It’s a receptionist I’ve seen before. “Mrs. Ryan, you remember where his room is, yes?”

  “I do, thanks.” I nod as Dad gently places his hand behind my back to continue moving me along. His shaking hand mirrors my worry.

  The ICU is so eerie at night, with the blinking lights, hum of the life support machines, and the lack of audible conversation in the rooms. You could hear a pin drop, which fills me with thoughts of the many arguments I’ve had with my husband. I can hear the screams and doors slamming. We have a chance to make things right. He needs to make it through this operation.

  We head into Steven’s room. He looks so tranquil lying in his bed. I know he must be out of it, because I’ve slept in hospital beds before, and they are not comfortable at all. His usually golden skin is starting to look ashen as the hours and days pass with him still in this unconscious state.

  Dr. Deller picks up Steven’s chart, handily clipped to the end of the bed, and reads it to himself. With a look of deep thought on his face, he studies it, holding his chin in his hand. The warmth from Dad’s body permeates me as we wait, glancing between my doctor and my husband, hoping for news from one and a sign from the other.