by Terri Kraus
The ambulance would have headed to Greensburg Memorial Hospital, no more than seven minutes away, Oliver thought. As he navigated through traffic, driving much more aggressively than he had ever driven, he thumbed the hospital’s number on his cell phone.
Oliver almost threw the phone out the window when he first encountered the automated call menu. Swerving around a truck, he decided that selection number 5, patient information, might be his best choice.
The choice proved correct. His mother was in intensive care, the nurse said, but was resting comfortably. She was awake and not in pain.
“We put everyone in ICU who has had a heart attack. It’s more of a precaution than a necessity.”
“Can she have visitors?”
“Immediate family, and only for a few minutes. Unless she gets transferred out right away. That happens if the doctor says the attack was not severe.”
Taller was working with the kitchen contractor, so Oliver tried calling his cell phone and his home phone twice each, getting no response at either number, leaving a message to call him as soon as he received the voice mail. He didn’t want to make his brother unduly worried or nervous by telling him what happened in a taped message, then realized the news probably wouldn’t upset him. But Oliver decided it wasn’t worth calling him back a third time.
Oliver slammed on his brakes after sliding his truck into an empty parking place in the nearest lot to the hospital, almost causing Robert to tumble to the floor mat.
“Good grief. Robert. What was I thinking?”
Robert looked about, happy that the truck had stopped moving, sniffing the air with anticipation. Oliver had never once taken Robert by this hospital, or any hospital for that matter.
It’s a mild day. It’s not at all hot. I’ll just leave the windows open some. I … I’ll lock the doors … but the windows will be open wide enough to reach in and unlock them.
He stood there, trying to decide what to do; Robert the Dog complicating his thoughts further than he could manage unraveling.
“You’ll be okay, Robert,” Oliver said as he locked his door. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. My mother … she’s sick …”
He choked back tears and set off for the entrance at a fast jog, hoping Robert would bark furiously at anyone who thought of stealing him or the truck. The information desk was to the right.
“Rose Barnett. In ICU, I think. Do I need a pass, or what? And where is ICU?”
The elderly woman behind the desk appeared flustered. “A pass? No, I don’t think so. I … we don’t have passes here. ICU is on the fourth floor. You have to see the nurse at the monitoring station.”
Oliver heard the last sentence from over his shoulder as he jabbed at the elevator button. There seemed to be no response. The stairway stood next to the bank of elevators. Oliver grabbed at the stairwell door and ran up the first two flights, slowing just a bit on floors three and four. Before he opened the door on the fourth floor, he waited twenty seconds as he gulped in deep breaths, trying not to appear horribly winded and slightly deranged.
“Rose Barnett?”
A scattering of nurses were standing and sitting behind the long, sweeping, curved counter in the middle of the floor, none of them looking the least bit anxious or troubled by the scores of heart-attack patients clinging to life all around them. One of the least-bored-looking nurses stood and pulled out a clipboard.
“Rose Barnett,” she repeated as she ran her finger down a computer list of names, then flipped the page once, scanned that list, and flipped back to the first page.
“Oh, yes, here she is. I mean, she’s not on this floor anymore. The doctor said she’s fine and they moved her to … Room 214. Just for the night, I think.”
Again Oliver heard the last sentence over his shoulder as he raced to the stairway door and jogged down two floors, the trek downstairs much easier than the trek up.
At Room 214 he banged open the door, and the sound it made against the wall was much louder and more pronounced than he imagined it could be. He entered the room at a jog.
Rose Barnett was in a hospital gown, sitting up in bed, with a glass of orange juice on the nondescript fake wood nightstand next to the bed, holding a phone to her ear. She waved to Oliver as he entered.
“Yes, Taller,” she said, “it was a heart attack. But a small one. I’m in a private room right now. And Oliver just came in.”
She waited.
“I know. I understand. If I have to stay another day, then you can come visit me. Okay. Me too.”
She hung up the phone as Oliver took the metal chair next to the bed.
“Where were you?” she asked, not harshly but not gently either. “I’ve been trying to call you for the last thirty minutes.”
He grabbed his cell phone. It was dark. “I must have switched it off after I called the hospital, or after I called Taller.”
“Oh. I just couldn’t get a hold of you,” Rose said, almost sounding like it was intentional on Oliver’s part that his phone wasn’t on.
“So what did the doctor say? A little heart attack?” Oliver asked.
Rose shifted in her bed. “I just told Taller that so he wouldn’t worry. No, the doctor said nothing about it being minor. A heart attack, any heart attack, is very serious business, he said. He said I was lucky that I was close to here when it happened. Any longer … and who knows what would have happened. I guess I could be dead … just like that.”
“But you’ll be okay, won’t you, Ma? He said you would be okay, right?” Oliver’s words were filled with tension and worry.
“Doctors don’t like to make predictions like that. He said no one can tell. He’ll put me on some medicine—like any of that will really help.”
Oliver slid the chair closer. “It will help, Ma. Doctors nowadays know what they’re doing.”
Rose waved her hand and sneered. “They’re just mechanics. They poke around and charge you an arm and a leg, but they can only guess what the problem is.”
Oliver had heard this all before, hundreds of times, and wasn’t about to debate the same argument once more, not now in a hospital, with monitors and wires hooked up to his mother.
“You know what I thought about as they were loading me in the ambulance out there in the parking lot?”
Oliver knew what it was and dreaded hearing it, yet could not stop it. He knew from the slightest inclination in her voice the direction this would go. “What, Ma?” It was the response of a doomed man.
“I was thinking that I don’t want to die alone. If I had closed my eyes forever, well, I would be with God, and that would be a good thing, but I would be dying alone. You would be alone. I wouldn’t have any grandchildren to watch over from heaven. I would be all by myself up there. All alone.”
“Ma …”
“You know your father isn’t there. You know that, right, Oliver? You know why he can’t be there. And I’ll be all alone.”
“Ma, please …”
“I don’t want to die unhappy, Oliver. You can’t let me die unhappy.”
“Ma …”
“You know what you should do, Oliver. You know the right thing to do to make me happy. So I can die in peace … if it’s my time and all. You know what you can do.”
Oliver looked into his mother’s eyes, saw her fierce determination, and began to shrink right there in front of her.
“Is that so much to ask? You’ll be happy, Oliver, with her. I know you will. You’ll make me happy.”
“Ma …”
“Just say you’ll do it, Oliver. Taller is out of the picture. He’ll never make me happy. But you will, Oliver. You will, won’t you? You’ll make your dying mother happy, won’t you?”
“You’re not dying, Ma.”
“We don’t know that. Who knows when the big one
might hit, now that I have this heart condition?” Rose took Oliver’s hand and squeezed it, stroking the flesh on the back of his hand with her other hand, like you’d stroke a sleeping iguana. “You will, won’t you, Oliver?”
Oliver took a deep breath. “Yes, Ma. I’ll … I’ll make you happy. I promise.”
Rose brightened and released his hand. “Oh, Oliver, you have made me one very happy person today. And God will bless you because you are honoring your mother like this, like the Bible says. He will bless you. I’m sure of that.”
And then they sat, facing each other, until Rose dozed off, perhaps from the medication, perhaps from satisfaction, as Oliver listened to the steady beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor attached to the wall above her head.
CHAPTER TWENTY
FOR THE FIRST TIME in years, Oliver was late for work. He had stayed with his mother until visiting hours were over.
“You could spend the night, Oliver. The nurse said they allow that nowadays. Not like when I had you. Then everyone had to leave. I was alone then, too. But they could bring in a cot,” she had said.
Oliver had explained that he couldn’t stay. Robert the Dog was still in his truck, and even though he had taken him out several times that afternoon and evening, the dog couldn’t spend the night in the cab.
“Sure, go ahead, go home then,” Rose had said, resigned. “I’ll be fine. I’m sure the nurses will take wonderful care of me. You can see how often they’ve checked in on me so far.”
Oliver had explained to his mother that she was wired up to monitors, and those monitors were displayed at the nurses’ station. At the first inkling of a problem, they’d probably come running.
“Probably. But you’re not sure, either.”
“Ma …,” Oliver had replied, his defenses useless.
“Go ahead. Go. Go take your dog out. Go to work. I’ll be fine. I’ll get a taxi home.”
“Call me when you talk to the doctor,” Oliver had answered, trying to ignore or overlook her manipulations. And then he’d slipped out, had gone home, had caught a few furtive hours of restless sleep, had overslept, had called to check in with his mother, and was on the job nearly an hour later than normal.
The Pratt brothers knew how to keep busy, but they all stopped to ask somberly how his mother was. “We told Miss Samantha about it. She was here already. She said she would send flowers, but you have to tell her what hospital.”
Just what my mother needs. Flowers from the Jewish woman she thinks I’m involved with.
“I’ll … I’ll call Samantha later. My mother might be discharged this afternoon, so I may have to leave early again.”
Henry drew close and placed his arm around Oliver’s shoulder. It was an uncharacteristic gesture, an action that made both men a bit uncomfortable, yet showed Oliver that the brothers really cared for him.
“You take all the time you need,” Henry said. “We know the schedule and what needs to get done, and the way we figure it, we’re just about plumb on target now, timewise, so you can tend to your mother with a clear conscience—okay?”
Oliver puttered about the jobsite, both he and Robert the Dog wandering more than working. Henry was correct: the job was on schedule again. Taller would not be there for three more days since he was still working with the kitchen contractor, helping fit a long series of custom cabinets around the kitchen appliances. He was also crafting cabinetry for the waitstaff area—storage for napkins and glasses and condiments, and the computer screen—all to be done in a sleek, dark stain so as to disappear, rather than stand out.
At 2:00, his mother called, saying she would be released at 4:00 that afternoon and that her sister from Freeport was there and would see her home and spend the night. However, if Oliver could spare the time in his busy day, she would appreciate a few minutes with him.
Oliver knew he’d done no productive work that day.
But I am the boss. So slacking off a little is okay.
He told Henry he’d be back in a few minutes, told Robert the Dog to stay, and slipped outside. He walked with quick, deliberate steps to the one jewelry store, only a block from the church, with a growing sense of purpose and direction to his thoughts.
She might have died.
He looked in the window.
I can do this.
It was the first time in his life that he’d looked at the window display of a jewelry store with the intent and purpose of buying something inside. He had a watch. He didn’t wear jewelry, and he’d never bought jewelry for his mother. His relationships with women, other than with Paula, all those years ago, had never progressed to the serious-jewelry-buying level. He might have, he thought, as he peered in the window, purchased something nice for Paula back then, but he wasn’t wealthy and always considered jewelry to be a wealthy man’s purchase.
He peered through the door. Inside was a series of low glass counters. He thought one of them held rings. He took a deep breath.
It’s time … like she said.
The door opened with a jingle from the bell above the frame. He wondered if he was dressed well enough for the store, then told himself that his money—or his credit card—would be the only important factor. The salesclerk, a very pretty young woman with dark blonde hair and wearing a double strand of pearls around her neck, came over and greeted him. Softly she asked what he was looking for.
“A ring.”
“A ring? What sort of ring? For you?”
“No. I’m not much for rings. You can’t wear them when you work with your hands.”
“What sort of work?”
“I’m a … carpenter. A building contractor.”
She smiled. “My uncle built houses. He never wore a ring either. Not even a wedding band.”
“Smart man. Wedding rings can get caught on machinery and stuff.”
“Then the ring is for someone else.”
“It is.”
“What sort of ring?”
“Well … I …”
“It’s okay,” she said, then looked directly into his eyes. “What’s your name?”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver. I’m not the woman you’ll be giving this to, so you can relax. I’ve done this before. Take your time.”
“It’s a wedding ring. Or an engagement ring. I haven’t asked her … but I’m pretty sure what the answer will be.”
“Over here, Oliver.” She led him to a back counter and removed four blue velvet trays filled with rings—all with diamonds, some with blue stones added, some with green, all of them intimidating. “I’m going to walk you through this and show you a few styles. Maybe you’ll see one that you like. Most women have their own ideas of what a ring should be. So I tell the lucky man that they should think about the woman they love. If that doesn’t work, I tell them to pick something they like. If the woman likes it, you’ve done well. But sometimes the woman doesn’t like it.”
“Then what?”
“Then you bring it back. You exchange it for something different. Or if she says no, you get a full refund. It’s simple, painless—and guaranteed.”
Oliver looked gratefully at the salesclerk. “You’ve made this much easier. Thank you.”
In less than five minutes, Oliver picked out a ring—not flashy, but not plain, either. The ring was white-gold, with a center oval diamond surrounded by some small round ones. To Oliver, it looked feminine, classic, and pretty. He pulled out his wallet, handed the young woman a credit card, and stopped thinking—about his mother, heart attacks, Paula, her daughter … everything.
This will make them all happy. This will make them all very, very happy, he thought.
And then he stopped thinking again.
Samantha rarely made a habit of traveling through Shadyside during the day, even though she lived two blo
cks from its downtown.
Too crowded and busy, she told herself, and she found ways around the four square blocks of retail stores and restaurants. That is, until today, a beautiful late spring day. She must not have been paying attention, because somehow she ended up on Walnut, heading home in her sporty red Mercedes, the top down, French music from the soundtrack of the movie Amelie playing, hoping that Mally had made something delicious, like latkes. Mally usually made the potato pancakes at least once a week.
Samantha thought of stopping by the church, saying hello to Oliver, asking after his mother. She paused at the stop sign on the corner of Bellfonte and Walnut, looked at herself in the rearview mirror while waiting for a delivery van to clear the intersection, and as it did, she saw Oliver leaving a store—the jewelry store. He was carrying a small bag, and he looked … determined.
What’s he doing in the jewelry store?
Samantha waited at the corner until the large SUV behind her beeped and she moved forward. Instead of heading home, she circled the block and found an illegal parking place on Bellfonte. So maybe I’m unloading something.
She hurried inside the store.
“Hello, Samantha,” the clerk said as she entered.
“Hi, Ilana,” Samantha replied. “You’re looking wonderful … as always.”
Ilana’s father, who owned the store, and Samantha’s father, who owned the real estate the store sat on, were old friends from temple. The two women had known each other since childhood.
“You’re like your father, Sam. You always say the right thing.”
Samantha came closer to Ilana, glancing over her shoulder to make sure she was the only customer in the store. “The cute gentleman that was just in here …”
“Yes. Oliver … Barnett. He is chamud, isn’t he? Too bad he’s taken. All the good ones are—at least it seems that way working here.”
Samantha blinked several times. “Taken? What do you mean? What did he buy?”
Ilana motioned Samantha closer and whispered in her ear, “I’m never supposed to tell anyone what customers have purchased. My dad thinks it’s like a lawyer-client-privilege sort of thing. I don’t know why, unless it’s some old goat buying baubles for his mistress … but I don’t think Oliver has a mistress.”