She made precisely two cups, thinking their conversation would last that long and no more. The wall clock had ticked off fifteen minutes when Carol was finished eating and most of the coffee was gone. There had not been much conversation. Carol touched her lips with a napkin. “You said there were two things you wanted to say to me?” she reminded him.
He sat a little straighter and cleared his throat. Carol watched, fascinated as the doctor changed into the teacher beginning a lecture.
“A doctor in practice for any length of time sees this one thing over and over. When a person suffers a deep emotional shock, and I know this sounds sexist but this happens to women far more than to men . . . the one sure thing we can expect is the likelihood of a major illness or health problem within six months or so. It might be cancer or some other serious health catastrophe. I can’t tell you the number of times over the years I’ve seen this. One of my patients becomes a widow, then bam! Six to ten months later all hell breaks loose with her body.” His look was meaningful.
Clearly she was missing the point. “I wasn’t widowed.” She shrugged.
He cleared his throat. “The point is that it’s pretty easy so see you’re carrying around a truckload of anger. That and the stress of a divorce, especially one that’s had so much publicity—it’s not healthy. I know I’m not your doctor, but your mother has been telling my mother about you for years. You’re a legend in my family, so I, uh, simply want you to take care of yourself.” He produced a card from his pocket. “This is a psychologist I would recommend. She is, I think, a gifted doctor. She really helped me when I needed help to sort things out emotionally.”
Carol looked at him intently. “You mean needed help to get over your wife’s death?”
He nodded and then there was that crooked smile again. “That, and help to get past the idea of trying to join her.”
Carol’s fingers tapped the card thoughtfully. If her impression of him was correct, he had the most uncomplicated face she had ever seen. She made a snap decision.
“I’ll put on some more coffee.”
Later that night, Elizabeth rested against the white-laced pillows, watching Michael get ready for bed.
“Do you think Carol is going to be all right?” she asked.
He shrugged. “What do you mean? She’s the same as she’s always been. Only a whole lot richer.”
“No, that’s not what I mean. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t even eat with us today. I don’t know where this is coming from; she’s so suspicious. I mean, we all could have had a nice time, chatting about things. Talking about that wonderful sermon Father Wells gave today.”
Michael walked into their bathroom without saying a word. She sighed. Carol was of no interest to him, she knew, but still . . . She glanced at the clock. It was after ten, but she was tempted to call her just to see what she was doing. They used to call each other any time of the day or night; they had been so close.
Elizabeth jumped as the phone rang.
“Hello?”
Carol’s breathless voice rushed over the line like a strong breeze. “Elizabeth, sorry I’m calling so late but Gordon just left. I wanted to apologize for being so snotty today. I had my reasons, but, oh well, I wanted to thank you for sending him over with the food. It was wonderful! I had no idea I was so famished until he showed up on my doorstep with that heavenly Greek omelet and the bread. It was the best I’ve had anywhere . . . or maybe everything tasted so great because I was hungry. Oh well, what? You didn’t send him over with any food? Well, even better. No, never mind, I’ll call you later this week and we’ll get together. Bye.”
Michael walked back into the bedroom and saw her surprise. “Who was that calling so late?”
“Carol.”
“Oh.” He slid into bed.
“Gordon went to see her, took her some food I guess from the restaurant and . . . he just left. He was there for hours. What do you make of that?”
“Nothing. He’s a nice guy. Nice guys do nice things for people, deserving or not,” Michael said, turning off the lights. “Come here.” He kissed her. “I’m much more interested in doing nice things for you,” he murmured, letting his hands slide over her, and she responded in kind.
All thoughts of Carol and Gordon evaporated as the heat began building between them. Their lovemaking was slow and measured and as fulfilling as ever; it took a conscious effort, but Elizabeth ignored the bruises that had started to darken on her leg from the fall earlier that day, concentrating only on giving and receiving pleasure. Consequently, both of them slept very well that night.
Chapter Six
Adrienne and Ian Moore sat in the hospital room, not quite understanding how they had got there. Just like Michael and Elizabeth, they were trying to understand something that had just swept their old life away like yesterday’s news. The changes facing them were more intense and immediate. And completely out of their control.
Ian and Adrienne held hands and listened, trying to understand what the doctors—these experts in a field that had little information—were saying.
The diagnosis? Spinal muscular atrophy. On the list that belongs to the muscular dystrophies, one of forty different neuromuscular diseases made famous by the annual Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon. Adrienne was now one of Jerry’s kids.
Dazed at the label, she couldn’t focus. How on earth could this be happening to her? There had been no loud explosions, no gritty smoke, and yet the world as she knew it had just been destroyed.
The quiet intensified, as if gravity had expanded itself to push on their shoulders. The doctors made their announcements efficiently and would have answered any questions if the couple had been able to think. Within a very few moments, the men in white lab coats left. Not one of them had looked him or his wife in the eye, Ian noticed. Their clinical explanation, he thought, was basically worthless, because nothing could explain this.
SMA was an inherited genetic disorder they had never heard of. The doctors explained that if both her parents were carriers of this defective gene, then she would have a one in four chance of developing it between the ages of eighteen and fifty. She was fifty-five.
She had never known her birth parents because she had been adopted. It was assumed she was from hardy stock because Adrienne had enjoyed wonderful health all her life. Indeed, she was the picture of what doing all the right things will bring you. Tall and sturdy, exercise was as much a part of her as breathing. There had been no notice, no whisper of a clue that something like this could happen.
Adrienne’s personality would never allow her to be anonymous. She was gregarious, spontaneous, and extremely direct. For years she had been a lobbyist for noble causes, racing up and down the halls and offices of Congress, bartering, battering, cajoling, and trading to get legislation through that would benefit women, children, and mothers.
That she had effected change made her highly respected, which mattered more than the relatively modest salary she earned. Unlike the other powerhouse lobbyists with Goliath bankrolls behind them from tobacco, alcohol, and pharmaceuticals, her salary was strictly funded through nonprofit organizations that were high on cause and low on cash.
The booming economy still left the lower, unskilled labor market far behind while making everything cost more, a dichotomy that continued to fuel her passion for justice. It was infuriating that the chasm kept widening, always stretching out of the reach of honest, hardworking citizens who had no voice in government other than a single vote.
Adrienne had been married before to a lawyer. Graduating with degrees within weeks of each other, they were married, embarking on careers at the same time. They were driven workaholics, which was an easy reason why years slipped by before they noticed their lives had been racing in two different directions. The relationship had ceased existing over that time. Twelve years ago it had been a midlife crisis—his—that had freed her.
Adrienne was mildly sorry about the divorce, but once single again, she made up her mind
to try some new things. She signed up for a college evening class with a literature professor named Dr. Ian Moore.
His amused baritone voice made her laugh, and she very much enjoyed discussing the works of American poets, past and present. Dr. Moore immediately noticed her because of her quick mind and what she brought to the class in the way of insightful questions and comments. She wasn’t there to fulfill a requirement; she was there because she wanted to be. He found her as refreshing as a brisk shower on a hot summer day.
It was inevitable they would meet for coffee. She had been amazed when he told her he had never married. “No one ever interested me as much as the stories that have already been written,” he explained with disarming frankness, “until now.”
His ways were courtly, that of a gentleman seeking to endear himself to his lady. Somehow they created something bigger than themselves. Adrienne had never dreamed such a relationship was possible. Ian had read of lives being interwoven so magically with love and was incredibly grateful it had finally happened to him.
Because work schedules were chaotic, this couple found their time together precious. He might have a night lecture when she was at home, or he might have a free afternoon while she had to work late. After a year, they married. “Soul mates, united for eternity,” was Ian’s toast at the wedding reception.
During those early days, work remained within the frantic world of the interstates and highways snaking around the college and the District. They stayed married and devoted inside the confines of the Beltway, an area surrounding the most powerful government on earth, a geographical area that held mores and values distinctly and narcissistically its own. It was not an atmosphere conducive to exclusive monogamy and commitment. There was too much power, too much wealth, far too many egos, and the basic rhythm was one of constant change.
Spinal muscular atrophy. Rare. It was rare for children to develop it and even more rare for adults. But it happened. They had listened to the diagnosis intently as the doctors told them everything they knew, which was precious little. The voices had droned on without emotion, clinical in detail, but devoid of humanity or hope. For adults, the onset was usually slow. It was the motor neurons, in charge of voluntary movement, that would eventually atrophy, disintegrate. No, there was no medication, although they should look into clinical trials taking place. But research was racing toward more and new information. Treatment, if not a cure, would be a matter of time, they assured the silent couple.
“How long a matter of time?” a hoarse Ian asked.
The doctors shook collective heads. “We can’t say,” one said, “but it’s also a matter of money for research, as well as time.”
Left alone, the couple did not speak. Moments passed as scattered thoughts fell silently like discarded dreams. Finally, Ian, breathing heavily and licking dry lips, faintly quipped, “Well, love, I always knew you were an original. I just had no idea how unique.” The smile never got past his lips, and he realized he was trembling from the effort it took to remain calm. He heard her draw in a quick breath, followed by a slight chuckle rolled into a sob.
Then they were holding each other, crying hard, and easing their hurt by sharing it. Tears mingled until there was nothing left. They still held each other as a calmness settled over then.
“You look like hell,” Adrienne murmured, snatching up a tissue and blowing her nose.
Ian grinned, his eyes still red, but steadier. He took the Kleenex that was offered. “Then we are a pair, Dree. We are a pair.”
He looked around the tightly efficient room and suddenly felt claustrophobic. His hand grazed her arm. “Let’s blow this joint. Want to go down to the coffee shop?”
“Sounds divine.” He helped her out of bed, as best he could, and settled her awkwardly in the wheelchair. “Bring the crutches. I’ll use them once we get there,” she told him. She settled herself into the chair, rearranged her robe, and then put her hand on his resting on the back of the chair. “No speeding. Promise?” Her smile was wavering, and he tried to keep his own from trembling.
He cleared his throat. “I’ll try to hold it down to the limit, ma’am,” he promised and then gripping the handles; the wheels started moving slowly.
She insisted on using the crutches to get inside the crowded shop. Ian bit his lip, forcing himself not to help her, knowing that was the last thing his strong, independent wife wanted. Or needed. A harsh sigh of relief was the only sound he made when they sat down. “Let me go to the counter. What would you like?”
She looked at him, feeling very worn from this little bit of exertion. “You can do it this time. Next time I’ll be the one to get our coffee,” she said, a stoic certainty in her voice and face.
“Of course.” He shrugged. “One of the things I’ve always liked about you is the way you insist on waiting on me, eager to fulfill my every whim.”
He grinned, hearing her giggle. It was as ludicrous a statement as he’d ever made.
In moments, he placed on the table Styrofoam cups of hot black coffee for both. Adrienne warmed her hands over it before she took a sip. She looked her husband in the eye. “I’m going to get better. I’ll beat this thing.”
“Of course you will.” He nodded.
Her confidence faltered. “What if I can’t?”
He stretched out a strong hand to cover hers. “Then you don’t. And we will adjust. They said . . . this disease, it’s slow when it happens to adults. You—we—will be just fine.” It was left unsaid that if it were slow, why was she having so much trouble walking? They were handling all they could right now.
Her mouth crinkled, and even though there were tears behind the smile, she asked, “How do you always know just the right thing to say?”
He considered this seriously and then gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I’m an English teacher. After reading all the best literature in the world, I hope I’d be able to come up with some humble words of my own.”
Her foolish, foolish man. She laughed and said with a catch in her voice, “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” He smiled back at her, wishing he could snap his fingers and give her back everything she had lost. And might still lose. Then again, he wished he could snap his fingers for a million dollars, too. Ah, if wishes were horses . . .
He cleared his throat to rid himself of such trite thoughts. “I can only say I hope I’ll always say the right things to you, for you,” he said sincerely, adding with dry humor, “because if I don’t, I have no doubt you’ll use those crutches on me.”
The people sitting at other tables and in booths suddenly turned to watch the man in a sweater and tan pants laughing with a woman slapping the table, knocking over her crutches with a thunderous clang. That made the couple laugh even louder, and then when the man bent low to pick up the crutches he banged heads with the woman, who was also trying to help. The slapstick humor, spontaneous and innocent, ignited the whole restaurant into laughter, and then applause. Several people jumped up to set things right, still laughing and creating an easy atmosphere that had not existed before.
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth, would you like to go out with me Friday night?”
Carol sounded a little too bright. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, and Elizabeth wondered if she’d been imbibing already. Her cousin was often more mellow than she should be, at least on the days Elizabeth called her or they got together. There was always an open bottle of wine or something stronger around Carol’s house or in the refrigerator. Sometimes several opened bottles.
“What do you want to do?” Elizabeth asked cautiously, glancing at the calendar on her wall. That night was clear.
“It’s time to give this town a kick. Remember that night I came to see you in the hospital? That’s been over a month ago, and we agreed to go out and raise some hell. I’ll treat everything—the ride, the food and the booze, all of it. Just say you’ll be my date.”
Elizabeth laughed. “That sounds like a mighty ambitious night
for a divorcée and a married woman. Where, exactly, are these bars you’re planning to take over?” Elizabeth’s voice lightened. It could be fun. Her only complaint was being tired, but she could rest up for this, of course she could.
“Hey!” Carol ignored the question, having had an excellent idea. “What about Kellan? Do you think she’d like to come along?”
Elizabeth was indignant. “You want to take my daughter out barhopping? You’ve got to be kidding. This is her mother you’re talking to, remember?”
Carol’s sigh was exaggerated. “Uh-huh. And what were you doing at her age?” She already knew but wondered if Elizabeth could remember that far back.
“What has that to do with anything? What time Friday?” She walked over to pencil in the date as Michael walked in. “Fine. I’ll be ready. Cocktail clothes?”
“Glamorous, glittery, and so sexy you’ll give your old man a heart attack,” Carol instructed.
“Gotcha.” Elizabeth laughed and hung up. She looked at Michael, who was fixing himself tea to drink. “I’ve got a date for tomorrow night.”
“Oh, yeah?” He smiled back, liking how relaxed she looked in blue jeans and tennis shoes. “Do I know him?”
She grinned. “He prefers to remain anonymous. But my date will pick me up tomorrow.”
Michael acted impressed as he smiled back at her, catching her enthusiasm. He decided to be mysterious as well, since he knew all about this plan. And knowing allowed him to let her go with a smile and a hug. It wasn’t something he had to worry about.
In a way he couldn’t understand, Gordon and Carol had become friends. He always seemed to be over at her house for some reason or another. The lightbulbs in the ceiling fans needed replacing, and since Gordon could change them without a stepladder, he was in great demand. Michael knew Gordon had invited Carol to some medical social gatherings. He was glad they had found each other, but he couldn’t understand what the attraction was.
A Sundog Moment Page 8