As she suspected, Cal’s somewhat positive mood vanished shortly after they left the doctor’s office. He hardly said a word during the ride home and she knew the weight of the visit had settled in. Had become more real than ever.
“I don’t want to do it,” he said at dinner. “I don’t want to be a cripple.”
“Who said you’re going to be a cripple?” his grandmother asked, putting her soup spoon down.
“Nonsense,” his grandfather said. “You’ll be just as you are now, only with a robot-part, like in the movies. You’ll be special, an enhanced person, that’s all. You’ll be able to stick knives in your foot and wow your friends. I had a buddy in ‘Nam who did the coolest things with his prosthetic arm.”
Jackie looked at him and he shrugged.
“Everyone at school will make fun of me,” Cal said, his voice cracking as tears cascaded down his cheeks.
“Baby,” Cal’s mother said, placing a reassuring hand on his thigh. It was true, she thought. There would be some kids who would make fun of him. It was bound to happen. But he was a strong kid. He’d proven that after his father had died. “Everything will be okay. I love you. We’ll get you the best foot possible and no one will even know the difference.”
“I’ll know,” he shouted, suddenly angry. “And the kids at school will too. They’ll say, ‘see that kid over there, he’s got a fake foot.’ I’ll be known for that and nothing else. I’ll be fake-foot-boy. Brian Hardy and Tim Botch will try to take it and make me hop around. I know it. All the kids will laugh. I’ll never be normal.” He slammed his fist against the table, his face a mask of anger. But then his lips trembled and sadness befell him.
Jackie slid off her chair and knelt next to him as he cried. She wrapped him up in a hug. She squeezed, trying to comfort him as best she could, needing to bawl herself. She hated seeing him like this. But she had to be strong for him. She was his rock. “It’ll be all right, sweetie. We’ll get through this. You’ll see. I promise.”
Chapter Four
During Cal’s surgery, Jackie sat nervously in the waiting room. She brought a paperback novel with her, but after reading a few pages, she realized she hadn’t remembered a thing. She went back and reread them, but received the same result. Her mind kept wandering back to her son and how his foot was, at that moment, being removed. She pictured the tourniquet clamped around his leg to stem the flow of blood. The metallic bone saw, clean one moment, then mottled with bits of flesh and blood as its teeth chewed through tendon, muscle and bone. The surgeon’s gloved hands would be speckled with pieces of her son, simply to be washed down the drain later for beetles, roaches and rats to devour.
She shivered and felt nauseous. She stood, ready to run to the ladies’ room, when the room swayed. She plopped back down. Closed her eyes and cleared her mind of the horrific images she’d so stupidly allowed herself to conjure.
A minute later, her breathing was shallow and she felt faint. The nausea was gone. She knew she was having an anxiety attack, the sensations purely phantom but nonetheless feeling real. She reached in her purse and riffled around in it until she found her bottle of Xanax.
She hadn’t needed the pills in some time—since two years after Dan’s death—but she always asked her doctor for a new prescription when the old one expired just in case she would need them one day. She knew that after a person’s anxiety doorway was opened, that it was impossible to fully close again. The taxing condition could rear its ugly head at any time, and Jackie wanted to be prepared.
She was thankful she had the pills, because the just in case time had arrived. Not when she’d first found out that Cal had a tumor. She’d been okay, hoping for the best, but when she found out it was deadly, she’d lost it. Her anxiety level had spiked and she needed to remain active and be there for Cal.
After twisting off the bottle’s cap, she pulled out one of the babyblue-colored pills and put it in her mouth. She swallowed it without water and waited for the drug to take effect. A few minutes later, she was able to relax, telling herself that her son was in good hands.
The surgeon performing the operation, at least from what she had been told by Cal’s pediatrician, was renowned in his field. She had looked up the man on the internet and found that he was a graduate of Harvard Medical and received a number of awards and accolades for his advances in the field of child surgeries. She wondered why an esteemed surgeon would perform something as simplistic as an amputation, but guessed it wasn’t so simple.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. Time was crawling. She put the paperback in her purse and decided to watch television. The screen was held by a mechanical arm that was bolted to the wall. From her current position, she had to awkwardly crane her neck to see the picture. Before long, she cramped up and felt as if someone were jabbing her with a dull knife.
She rotated her neck and rolled her shoulders. She thought about getting up, but didn’t want to move from her seat. Moving could be bad. Cause something horrible to happen.
Things will be okay as long as you don’t get up.
Her actions or lack there of weren’t logical. Her nerves were just fried, her anxiety level skyrocketing. And with that came the demons. The same demons that appeared after Dan’s death, and kept showing up now and again when things got too tough or scary. One of those demons was OCD, obsessive compulsive disorder. She’d developed rituals and thought odd things in order to ensure that life would go well for her and her loved ones. Of course, she knew her actions were ridiculous—like flipping off the light switch three times when leaving a room or counting to four before she got into bed—but she did them anyway.
She took a deep breath and told herself that everything was going okay, and that changing her seat wasn’t going to affect Cal’s surgery. OCD was a disease and nothing more.
Even though she knew these things, she still didn’t move. She was frightened and would remain where she was until the doctor informed her that everything had gone well.
But she couldn’t allow her fears to rule her. It wasn’t good for her or for Cal. She had fought to gain control over her life again after Dan died and she needed to keep battling.
It wouldn’t be a big deal to fight later, she thought. She could deal with the uncomfortableness of her location in the waiting room as she focused on the television. As long as she didn’t move, change seats, Cal would be okay.
She was being silly and she knew it. She needed to change chairs to prove she was better and able to operate like a normal person. She couldn’t let the debilitating condition rule her again. Allow it to seed and fester. She had worked too hard to defeat it.
In one quick movement she grabbed her purse, then got up and moved to a different chair. She immediately had the desire to go back, like an unscratchable itch somewhere in her mind. If it wasn’t for the Xanax coursing through her system, she probably would have. She spoke under her breath and told herself that nothing was going to happen because of where she sat. It was all in her head.
But as much as she knew it to be true, she couldn’t help the overwhelming feeling that she should’ve stayed in her original chair.
She knew OCD was just the mind’s way of dealing with tragedy. A way to make it possible for a person to feel like she had control over herself and her environment, and even over others’ situations, like Cal’s surgery. But nothing she did, such as flipping the light switch on and off ten times before leaving a room, or counting to five before getting into bed at night, would prevent bad things from happening. And it was only when she started performing rituals in public—her friends noticing her strange behavior—that she decided to get help. She saw a psychiatrist for medication and talked to a therapist. With counseling, she’d been able to manage, practically overcome, her OCD. She hadn’t had a serious episode until finding out about Cal’s cancer.
She closed her eyes and reassured herself that everything was all right, then concentrated on the television’s picture. There was a commercial for an injury
law firm. The spokesperson, who she guessed was the firm’s owner and not some actor, wore a dark, pin-striped suit and had slicked-back hair. His skin looked orange and she thought: bad spray-on tan. The man didn’t appear trustworthy or kind but sleazy and wicked. His beady eyes reminded Jackie of a reptile’s. They were the eyes of a predator and someone who only cared about money, not justice. Right there, she was certain the guy wasn’t an actor hired to play an attorney. When he said words such as malpractice and injured on the job, she felt as if she’d been struck by mental daggers. She didn’t want to be reminded about medical screw ups and complications, about malpractice suits. If she had the remote, she would’ve changed the channel.
Finally, when the nerve-wracking commercial ended, the talk show that had been playing resumed. The camera panned across the guests on stage before zooming in on the host’s face. “Today’s topic is a doozy, folks," he said. Words appeared across the bottom portion of the screen. The host then said them aloud as if to reiterate the topic to his studio audience. "Did You Know You Were Sleeping With Your Sibling?” The camera angle changed. A young woman wearing fishnets and a low-cut halter top was crying as she sat next to an older, heavyset woman whose face resembled a rodeo clown's. The older woman wore way too much makeup and looked like a character on her way to work at a funhouse. Jackie guessed it was the girl’s mother. In a chair on the other end of the stage was a young man with a shaved head and straggly beard. Apparently, he and the girl had slept together, not realizing they were brother and sister, the brother having been given up for adoption eighteen years ago.
She didn’t understand why people would want to air their problems to the world. They needed professional help. Unless they had been paid, guessing that that was the only reason someone would do it.
Deep down, she hated Trash-TV like the show she was watching. Yes, they were easy to get sucked into, but they were garbage. And the hosts who pretended to give a shit about the guests were garbage, too. But if she was being honest with herself, she was glad for the distraction; something mindless she could stare at and not have to concentrate on.
She settled in her chair, got comfortable and let her mind go. Only during commercials did she look at the clock on the wall.
The next show that came on was another Trash-TV show. This time the topic was: Who’s the Daddy? Jackie rolled her eyes, but sat back and watched the drama unfold.
Two hours later, one of Dr. Stetson’s team members entered the waiting area and approached her. Jackie felt immediate relief at seeing the doctor's bright face.
“How’s my son?” Jackie asked, standing.
“He’s fine, Mrs. Langston,” the woman said. “He’s being taken to recovery.”
“Everything went okay?”
“Everything went fine. You’ve got a strong boy. You should be proud.”
Jackie felt tears coming on and fluttered her eyelids to stem the tears. “Can I see him?”
“Certainly. I’ll have a nurse come get you once Cal is set up in recovery. Okay?”
Jackie nodded and placed a hand on the woman's shoulder. “Thank you, doctor.”
“You’re welcome.” The doctor smiled warmly before turning and walking away.
Thirty minutes later, Jackie was led to the recovery room to see her boy. She was informed that he was still unconscious. She didn’t care, simply needing to see him.
As soon as she saw him, a huge smile spread across her face. Her little angel was resting. She walked quietly over to him and stood beside the bed. Her smile faulted as her eyes settled toward the end of the bed where the blanket was tented by Cal's foot.
It couldn’t be, she thought.
She took a moment to think, to remember, and then pulled up the covers. The breath came out of her like she’d been gut-punched. She staggered backward and grabbed on to the bed rail to keep from falling. Her mouth hung slack and her eyes bulged in disbelief.
“Oh my God!” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. In moments, anger blossomed within her, spreading through her veins like acid. “You assholes cut off the wrong foot!”
“Ma’am,” said a nurse who was standing nearby. “Please keep your voice down.”
Jackie turned to the woman. Her jaw was clenched, nostrils flared.
“Don’t tell me to be quiet!” she said. “You people took off the wrong foot!”
“Calm down,” the nurse said and came over to Jackie. “I know this can be an extremely stressful time, but I need you to relax. Your son’s surgery went well and he needs rest.”
“My s—son’s right ankle was the one with the cancer, not his left. H—his left foot was the healthy one, and now it’s g—gone.”
For a moment, the nurse appeared unsure. Her face went slack and lost a bit of color. Then her eyebrows shot toward each other and her lips pursed. “Let me take a look at his chart.” The nurse walked over to the bed, picked up Cal’s chart, and flipped through the pages.
Jackie stared at her son’s leg-stump, shaking as if the air’s temperature were at the freezing point. The room before her seemed to sway, tilting this way then that, as if she were on a boat. She questioned herself, wondering if she was mistaken. Had gotten the leg with the cancer mixed up. Was it the left foot that needed to go? Not the right? Had all the stress gotten to her? The hospital staff surely knew which foot to remove.
No, she was sure it was the right foot. She’d spent days with her son going over everything. He was a righty, using that foot to kick with. His soccer coach had said he had a strong right leg. Removing the foot was the “right” thing to do.
She focused on the nurse. The woman’s face was ghost-white now, as if all the blood had drained from it. Jackie saw fear, and it was in that moment that she knew things had gone from bad to worse.
Dr. Stetson was immediately paged, but didn’t show up until an hour later. The nurse had said he was in another surgery, but Jackie didn’t buy it. When the man finally arrived, they talked in the hallway, not wanting to disturb Cal. The man reeked strongly of mouthwash and mint, but there was also a sweet aroma to it, one she knew all too well because of her father. The man asked what the problem was and it took all she had to not throttle him. In fact, she had no idea why she wasn’t going completely ape-shit. She supposed a part of her was hoping to hear something that made sense, as ridiculous as that seemed.
When she finally looked into the man’s eyes, she saw familiarity. They were the glassy eyes of an alcoholic, the eyes of her father. The man had been a drinker, quite functional, but a drunk nonetheless. She’d spent years learning the ways of a productive alcoholic.
“Mrs. Langston,” Dr. Stetson said, his breath sickening her. “We’ll get to the bottom of this catastrophe. I promise. This is outrageous and I’m quite shocked. There will be a full investigation in to the hospital’s staff.”
Jackie could do nothing but laugh.
“Are you okay, Mrs. Langston?” the doctor asked.
“Have you been drinking, doctor?” she asked.
The man’s face reddened, matching his bulbous nose.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re an alcoholic. Were you drunk when you performed surgery on my son and cut off the wrong foot.”
“Absolutely not,” he said, looking as if he’d been struck.
“We’ll see about that,” she said, and stormed off. She went to the chief of surgery’s office and told the man that Dr. Stetson had been drunk during her son's surgery. She wanted the surgeon to take a breathalyzer test. A blood test. She pulled out her phone and threatened to call the cops.
“I’ve been informed of the situation, Mrs. Langston. Now I need you to calm down.”
“Calm down? Are you fucking kidding me? Your surgeon removed the wrong foot. What’s going to happen now? Can you tell me?”
“I’ve informed the board of trustees and a full investigation is already underway. What I need for you to do is prepare your son for this awful news. I cannot begin to tell you how sorry
the hospital is, how sorry I am. But he still needs the surgery from what I’ve been told. His cancer is aggressive. It doesn’t care about our world. I know you don’t want to hear this from me, but you need to be there for your son.”
“Don’t tell me what I need. He’s my boy. I know what I need to do. And you expect me to put him in your people’s hands? Are you nuts?”
“I’ve already booked an OR. With your approval, we’ll have him back in surgery within the hour.”
Jackie couldn’t think. She was filled with anger. She wanted to burn the entire hospital to the ground and then take her son to another medical facility. But even through all her anger, she knew none of that was practical. Cal’s well-being had to come first. Make sure the cancer was dealt with. Then she could see to the idiots involved.
“I don’t want a single person from Stetson’s team touching my kid,” she said.
“You have my word. Cal will be treated like the president.”
She wanted to threaten to sue the hospital's ass off, but there was no point. The man knew it was going to happen. They’d be in court for years to come over this, that she was sure of.
She left his office and returned to Cal’s room, but he wasn’t there. A nurse, not one she recognized, informed her that he’d already been taken to the OR. With that, she skulked to the waiting room and stared at the chairs, wishing she hadn’t moved her seat.
Chapter Five
Cal was lying in the hospital bed, his head buried against his mother’s chest. The initial shock from the awful news had worn off, the numbness fading like Novocaine after a root canal, leaving only pain. His mom was speaking softly and trying her best to console him, but her words were just noise now. He was letting it out. Bawling. What his mother had told him was finally sinking into his mind.
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