Sweet Salt Air

by Barbara Delinsky

  She repeated the circle once, twice, three times, by which time her fingers had warmed. He was hotter than ever.

  Hugging his hand to her neck, she put her elbows on the bed rail and watched him. He didn’t actually sleep but seemed to hover in a twilight one step above, opening his eyes to smile at her every so often before drifting again. Nicole didn’t move, not when the nurse checked him, not when Hammon checked him. She counted his breaths, reassured by their steadiness. She wasn’t reassured by the color on his cheeks, though, which was flaming compared to the pallor elsewhere. When her legs tired, she pulled the chair close and, clasping his hand now between the rails, put her forehead to the cool metal and closed her eyes.

  “Tired?” he mumbled.

  “Mmm.”

  “Go for coffee.”

  She looked up. “For you?”

  “You,” he said, clearly wanting to sleep himself.

  Still she stayed. She might have even dozed, vaguely knew that others came and went, but she was tired enough not to move and encouraged enough by the curl of Julian’s hand around hers not to bother with anything else.

  She was starting to stir, needing to stretch and use the bathroom, when Charlotte texted. How’s he doing?

  He has a fever.

  As in a reaction? Call me when you can.

  Rising then, she leaned over the bed. “Jules?” she whispered. When, with visible effort, he opened his eyes, she asked, “How do you feel?”

  “Okay,” he mouthed and returned to wherever he’d been, but he didn’t look as peaceful as he had earlier. His skin was moist, his brow furrowed; he seemed to be concentrating. Trying to control the fever through sheer force of will? She touched his cheek. He was burning up.

  “I’m going for that coffee now,” she said softly. “Can I bring you anything?” His headshake was small. She kissed his forehead. “Be right back,” she whispered and slipped out of the room.

  * * *

  “I only have a sec,” she said the instant Charlotte picked up. “The fever was 102 when I got here at six and it’s 103.5 now. They can’t control it. I want to bathe him with cool cloths, but they say no.” She had just checked, frantic to do something.

  “Is Hammon worried?”

  “He doesn’t say it in as many words, but he’s not a word man to begin with, and when I talked with him a minute ago, he was down to two per response. This isn’t trending the right way, I say. He says, I know. Isn’t there anything you can do? I ask. Not yet, he says. So I’m thinking,” she told Charlotte, “that a reaction means his body is aware of the treatment, but when I ask Mark if this is good or bad, he says, We’ll know soon. Three words. Yay.”

  “You have a right to be upset—”

  “Scared.”

  “Scared, but if this is the worst it gets, it isn’t so bad. I’m sure Hammon’s doing what he can,” Charlotte reasoned and, coming from anyone else, Nicole would have shot back with a dozen arguments to the effect that Mark knew this might happen and should have had a plan, that it was a fever, for pity’s sake, and if a teaching hospital couldn’t deal with a fever, it had a serious problem, and that maybe Mark’s best wasn’t good enough.

  But this was Charlotte, whose voice brought comfort.

  “I wish you could come,” she pleaded. “Any chance?”

  After a pause came a soft, “I can’t, Nicki.”

  “Because of Leo?” There. She’d had to ask.

  Charlotte didn’t deny it. “I only have five days left here,” she said, sounding like she was agonizing. “I need this time. Besides,” she hurried on, “given the circumstances, it isn’t really appropriate. I still regret what happened that night. I’ll always regret it.”

  “I don’t,” Nicole said, unable to hold anything against Charlotte just then. “He would have had MS with or without you. Same with this treatment. He was itching for it, and if it wasn’t these cells, he’d have used donor ones. These ones feel better to me. I just want it to work, Charlotte. I keep wondering what I’ll do if it ends badly. Julian has his heart set on a cure. If there’s no hope, what’s left?”

  “If he’s alive—”

  “He’ll be devastated. I want to criticize him for putting all his eggs in one basket, but there just isn’t any other basket.”

  “There will be,” Charlotte reasoned. “Research is ongoing. If this doesn’t work, something else will. You have to keep telling yourself that.”

  “That’s fine for me, but what do I tell Julian?”

  * * *

  Discouraged, she bought coffee and a muffin, and carried them back upstairs. Hammon was just leaving the room. The stark lines of his face said there was no improvement.

  Setting her food on the tray table, she sat on the side of the bed where the rail was down and held Julian’s hot hand in one of hers while she nibbled and sipped with the other. When she’d had enough, she pressed his fingers to her mouth, willing the scent of coffee and blueberries there. They smelled antiseptic, but his hands often did, given his work. Everything else was strange, though, from the heat of his skin to his utter stillness. She told herself that he was conserving energy, focusing on fighting rejection of strange cells in his body, but it was small solace.

  His temperature continued to rise. It had hit 104 by noon and 104.5 by three.

  “How high can it go?” she asked in a panic.

  “Higher,” the nurse said calmly, clearly used to fevers.

  They gave him more acetaminophen. Hammon came and went, came and went, assuring her that Julian was strong enough to fight this, but she could see that he was concerned.

  “Is there nothing more you can do?” she begged. “Nothing else to lower the fever?”

  “Not yet,” he replied but seemed disinclined to say more.

  What are you waiting for? she thought frantically when he left her alone again with Julian, who continued to float, tethered to the bed by a tangle of sensors and wires and the hum of the mother machines.

  Then she knew what they were waiting for—or, at least, what they feared. The humming went on, but there was something else. At first, she thought Julian was snoring and gently shook his arm. When he opened his eyes, though, she could hear each breath he took.

  “Call Hammon,” he managed.

  Racing to the hall, she was looking around in bewilderment when a nurse, having seen the problem from her station, rushed past. Minutes later, Hammon and his team came at a clip from the computer room behind the desk.

  Nicole followed them in, but stayed clear of the bedside while they listened and examined and discussed what to do. In addition to the wheezing, Julian’s blood pressure had dropped, both of which raised mention of anaphylactic shock. From time to time, she heard Julian speak in a low, whistly voice, and even in spite of the sound, he was forceful. He clearly had an opinion. Nicole guessed what it was.

  Separating himself from the others, Hammon joined her. “We could use steroids. They’d control the reaction. But they might kill the T-regulatory cells.”

  “Julian wants to wait.”

  “Yes. He knows the risk.”

  Of killing the cure. But the risk went beyond that, and in a moment of panic she could only see the other. “At what point do you opt to save his life?” she asked in a high voice.

  “When we feel it’s in danger. Let’s see how long this lasts.”

  She held her tongue. Raw with emotion in a world of science, she was out of her depth.

  Hammon returned to Julian’s side. Feeling weak, she backed up to the wall by the door and listened as they went back and forth, weighing pros against cons with none of the emphasis she would apply. After a time, she didn’t hear the words, only the awful sound of Julian’s laboring breath.

  It went on and on and on. She must have begun to look sick, because a nurse gently took her arm and guided her out to the hall for air. No, she didn’t want water. No, she didn’t want tea. She stood there feeling frightened and alone, arms wrapped around her middle in an att
empt to self-soothe. And when the nurse asked if there was anyone she could call to be with her through the evening, she gave a jerky shake of her head.

  Oh yes, she had friends. And family. And a following that clung to her every word.

  But the friends were back in Philadelphia, thinking that Julian was on vacation in Maine. They didn’t have a clue about this.

  Same with Kaylin and John, both of whom should be there if their father was failing. They knew he was in Chicago consulting on a new treatment, but he had refused to tell them the rest.

  And the following? They knew Nickitotable, not Nicki Carlysle.

  Had her father been alive, she would have called him. He would have boosted her spirits.

  Or … or maybe not. She didn’t want to hear Aim high, hit high right now, and as for What doesn’t kill us, blah blah blah, that was so not what she needed. She had adored Bob, but he was optimism to the point of denial. It struck her now that if he had been more proactive about his family history of heart problems, he might still be alive.

  Realism was her mom’s domain. Just then, she wanted Angie. They had parted badly, with ill will and ugly words. But she wanted Angie. She looked down the hall toward the elevator, willing her to emerge, aching for it.

  And then suddenly there she was, a blurred image through Nicole’s tears, surely a mirage. But the closer she got, the more real she was.

  They hadn’t talked in the four weeks since Angie had left Quinnipeague, but four weeks couldn’t negate thirty-four years.

  “Mom,” Nicole breathed. Just Mom, and the estrangement was done.

  Angie’s face held only concern. When her arms opened, Nicole went there and began to weep, and those arms tightened around her, which was what she needed most. She had been strong for Julian, supporting his decision, steadying his limbs, filling in the blanks when they had time on their hands. And she had vented to Charlotte. But it wasn’t the same.

  Angie was her mother. Mothers were for those times when only a total meltdown would do. And tears were only the first part. After that came talk. As they sat side by side in the family lounge, Nicole poured out every bit of her fear—the rising fever, the falling blood pressure, the wheezing that could escalate to anaphylactic shock, the ominous hand tremor, the steroid dilemma.

  Angie was sympathetic and concerned—but yes, realistic. She didn’t pretend to have answers, simply listened and asked questions. Her presence alone was calming. It was also well-timed. Nicole was about to take her to Julian’s room when Mark appeared in the lounge. “We’re transferring him to the ICU,” he said quietly.

  She was on her feet in a flash. “He’s worse?”

  “No, but we can watch him more closely there.”

  “He’s still refusing steroids, isn’t he?” Julian wasn’t flashy in manner or dress, but when it came to medicine, he was definitely out there. Granted, he was careful. He studied every angle. But once committed, he didn’t turn back.

  “He’s still hoping to preserve the T-regs.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  “I see his point. I also see the other side. Right now, I’m torn. That’s why we want to watch him more closely. If he gets much worse, we won’t have a choice.”

  “Should I try talking with him myself?” Nicole asked and answered, “No, no point. If he wouldn’t listen to you, he won’t listen to me.”

  Mark gave her a brief smile. “You’re probably right. I admire him, though. He’d rather die trying.”

  Die trying, Nicole thought and turned frantic eyes to her mother.

  Angie stood then and put a restraining hand on her arm. After introducing herself to the doctor, she said, “Can we do anything while you move him?”

  “You can take Nicole somewhere for dinner.”

  * * *

  Since Nicole refused to leave the hospital, they went to the cafeteria, but she couldn’t think of a thing she wanted to eat. She sat at a table, fingers knotting, while Angie filled a tray, paid the cashier, and set the tray neatly before her, but all she could hear-see-feel was ICU ICU ICU.

  “It sounds worse than it is,” Angie offered gently as she divvied up napkins, forks, knives, and food. “It’s just a precaution.”

  “What if he does die?” she asked as she could only with Angie.

  “Don’t go there, honey. He’s a long way from that.”

  But Nicole couldn’t stop. If the doctors were worried enough to want intensive care, they were thinking he might die. She had known this was a possibility. But a future without Julian? Unthinkable. She should’ve told him that back in Philadelphia, should’ve said it on the island and again last Friday morning at the hotel, before all of this had begun. She could’ve made him fight harder. She would’ve done it, if she hadn’t been determined to be strong for him herself. And now, intensive care?

  “An ICU is just another room with more machines,” Angie mused, taking a forkful of chicken salad. “Dr. Hammon simply wants to get as much information as he can. He’s covering his bases, and I don’t say that in criticism. He doesn’t strike me as the type who’ll let his patient die trying unless he’s pulled out every stop. He’ll overrule Julian when he feels the time is right.” She eyed an unappetizing piece of fish before pushing the chicken salad toward Nicole. “Please eat.”

  Nicole picked up a roll. Setting it down again, she eyed Angie in despair. “I’m trying to be realistic. That’s what this whole summer’s been about. It’s what this whole year has been about. Talk about wake-up calls. Talk about growing up.”

  “Oh sweetheart, you’ve been grown up for a while. Look at the last four years. Keeping all that to yourself, accepting Julian’s limitations, dealing with flare-ups? And your blog? And the book? You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

  Charlotte had said the same. But Nicole couldn’t take credit for anything when Julian was en route to the ICU. “How does one prepare for something like this?”

  “One doesn’t. It’s all about how you react when it happens.”

  “This isn’t what I wanted.”

  “No.” Her mother smiled. “But look at it this way. If you’d died at twenty-five, you wouldn’t have had to deal with it.”

  “What an awful thing to say!”

  But Angie didn’t take it back. She simply straightened the straw in her diet Coke and sipped—and of course, in the silence, Nicole realized she was right. This was what always happened. Mother-daughter disagreements were, in hindsight, basically mother stating the truth and daughter taking her own sweet time coming around. That had been the case with boys and sports. It was certainly the case with Tom.

  “I was not nice to you when you were on Quinnipeague,” Nicole said softly.

  “No, you weren’t.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Nicole paused. “Just like that? No discussion.”

  “No. Not now, at least. I understand what you’re feeling, sweetheart. Trust me, I’ve felt a lot of it myself. I also know how frightened you are right now. You’re thinking that you can’t lose Julian, that your life would be totally empty without him, that there has to be something you can do; only you don’t know what it is. Your mind is filled with coulda shoulda wouldas.”

  Nicole was amazed. Hadn’t she thought those same words five minutes before? “How did you know?”

  “Because I loved your father like you love Julian. He was in the ICU, too—the difference being that he was basically gone when he got there. Julian is not. You will have your life with him, sweetheart. I have to believe that. You will.”

  Nicole breathed more deeply. Angie couldn’t know for sure that Julian would survive. Plus, there were different levels of survival, any one of which might be worse than what they’d had before now and, in so being, impact their lives forever more.

  But she did trust her mother. And she did want to believe.

  Reaching for Angie’s hand, she linked their fingers as she used to do when she was little an
d whispered, “How long can you stay?”

  “As long as you want, honey. I’m here for you.”

  * * *

  Moments later, when Angie went to dump the uneaten food and buy cheese to nibble on upstairs, Nicole pulled out her phone.

  Thank you, she typed very simply and pressed SEND.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  CHARLOTTE WAS ROWING. THE BOAT was an old wooden thing that she had spotted in Leo’s shed, but since, unlike the sailboat, it was something she could drive herself, she had made him take it out. Leo, being Leo and a handyman, had sanded, painted, and sealed it before he would launch it, and then, though he let her row, he insisted on going along.

  The sun hadn’t set, but it was heading that way, spattering gold across the waves under a brooding sky. As mild as the waves were, the boat bobbed more than it actually moved. Pulling on the oars with her back to the bow, Charlotte was fully absorbed for the first time that day.

  When her phone vibrated against her hip, though, Chicago came back in a rush. Dropping the oars in their oarlocks, she pulled it out, saw Nicole’s text, and smiled in relief.

  “Her mother got there,” Leo guessed. Facing her in the stern with his bare feet braced wide, he was uncorking a bottle of wine and, with remarkable steadiness given the rock of the boat, half-filled two plastic cups.

  An OK exec decision? she typed.

  Very OK, Nicole replied.

  Satisfied, Charlotte took the cup he offered. After tapping it to his—they always did this—she sipped.

  “How is he?” Leo asked.

  Charlotte glanced at the phone again before sliding it into her pocket. “Must be the same, if she didn’t say.”

  “She should have called her mother herself.” As sympathetic as Leo was for the situation, he hadn’t warmed much to Nicole.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, sipping the wine. “We know all about that.” He still refused to call his father.

  With a you-know-what-I-mean look, he reached into a plastic baggie, pairing cheese with pear slices for her and with crackers for himself.

  She took a bite, then said, “If it were me, I’d call Kaylin and John, too. They ought to be there. She needs all the support she can get.” She pushed the rest of the snack in her mouth.