The Anesthesia Game

by Rea Nolan Martin

“In that case, I should start by excusing myself and freshening up.”

  He opens the wine cooler fridge and examines a bottle of white. “Before you go, approve the vintage?” He turns around, bows formally, and presents the bottle. “Only the best for you, m’lady.”

  “Ha! Well, the best is good enough for me,” she says, chuckling.

  “Good. So you know where you’re staying, right? Upstairs to the left. Newly renovated. The sister-in-law suite we’re calling it.”

  “That would be me, wouldn’t it?” She frowns. “Or rather, ‘I’.” She winks. “Be right back for that wine.”

  In the foyer, Hannah grabs her purse and the slouch bag containing her PC and piles of overdue bills, flicks the hall lights, and climbs the winding staircase. Not that she’s able to pay most of these bills, or really any, but she was not about to leave them at the farm for Jonah to inspect, either. And anyway, maybe Mitsy will pay her enough to erase all this pesky financial karma. Or pay a strategic part of it, anyway. $50,000 might seem like a lot to ask, but so is flying all the way up to Connecticut to do whatever it is she’s here to do. One good deed deserves whatever it takes.

  Winding up and around, she checks out the floor-to-ceiling picture window on the first landing. Even in the dim shadow light, the view is inspiring. Plop this house on a precipice in Santa Barbara and she’d do almost anything to get it. Anything. She sighs. Well, not anything. Or maybe she would. The point is Mitsy doesn’t know how good she has it, but that’s not news.

  To the left and through the hall, she kicks open the double doors to the suite and feels for the switch. Well, whoa! She practically inhales the alluring decor. This is just too grand and yet…so soft and welcoming at the same time. Just too too Architectural Digest. Not that she’s complaining. Even Rapunzel could live happily locked-up in this suite, no rescue required. Just the big featherbed alone with its giant cloud of comforters and pillows feels like a five star B&B in Bavaria, maybe, or a mini-palace in Venice. The afghan rug, the chaise lounge, the crystal chandelier! It’s not like Hannah doesn’t know what money is or how to spend it; of course she does. But this! This is grandeur on a scale to which she could easily and happily become accustomed—she already is!—especially if it came without a debt collector.

  She places her bags on the floor by the fainting couch and draws the billowing white satin drapes. Exquisite! In the spacious bathroom, she brushes her teeth, combs her freshly-colored auburn hair, and reapplies her peachy nude lipstick. She wishes Jonah had come with her. If he were here and saw this place, he would realize how much Hannah sacrifices every day. How much she holds back. What she could be spending, but doesn’t. It drives her crazy that he never gives her credit for what she doesn’t spend. He can be so small-minded.

  She tugs at the bottom of her jacket, breathes in and straightens her posture. Chin up; shoulders back. Carriage belies a well-bred woman, their mother always told them. Not that their mother got anywhere with Mitsy, God knows. Mitsy just didn’t understand any of the finer touches, but enough of that. Time to go back downstairs and see what this evening has in-store.

  There’s a knock at the door. “Presentable?” Aaron calls to her.

  “Uh, yes sir,” she says, surprised.

  He opens the door, wheeling her suitcases, one by one, followed by the garment bags.

  “Figured you’d need these at some point.”

  “True, but I could have helped.”

  “Came right up the elevator,” he says, pointing to the hall. “No trouble at all.” He hangs the garment bags in the walk-in and holds up his index finger. “One more thing; be right back.” He returns with a Waterford goblet of wine, hands it to her, and leans against the doorjamb, almost filling the frame. “So how’s Jonah?” he says matter-of-factly.

  “Jonah?” she says, laughing.

  He shrugs. “Just wondering. We’re so wrapped up in our difficulties here it’s nice to come out and play once in a while. Ask about other people, you know?” He leans forward. “See what kind of a mess the neighbors are in.” His eyes widen. “Or not? I don’t want to assume.” He folds his arms. “But you and Jonah were in a bit of a mess, weren’t you? And I don’t really know how that panned out.”

  Hannah sits on the edge of the chaise with her wine, amused. She might as well be comfortable. “I figured Mits would fill you in.”

  He runs his fingers through his thick, shiny black hair. “Mitsy? No. She’s pretty consumed with, I don’t know, health issues on every front.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of that to consume her I suppose.”

  “There is, yes.” He rocks his head back and forth. “And Jonah?” he reminds her.

  “Well, actually, Jonah’s great,” she says. “We’re back to being good friends, so anything could happen.” She sips her wine. “He’s checking on the ranch while I’m here, as a matter of fact. Helping out with the horses in between selling off pieces of the Firestone Estate. The real estate business is booming.”

  He nods. “Good. That’s good. So you’re friends. You’re not enemies.”

  She narrows her eyes, “Uh, yeah? We’re friends; of course we are. Seven years of marriage has to count for something, right?” She looks at him impishly. “Not that it did with Richard, of course, but he’s another story.”

  Aaron smiles. “Indeed. A man-child if I ever saw one.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise. “Exactly!” She’d just assumed everyone in the Michaels’ household blamed her for that first catastrophe, but apparently time has brought perspective. “What about you all?” she says. “Mits wouldn’t even tell me what disease she has—what new kind of torture you’re all in for.”

  Aaron rubs his dark stubble thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I even know myself,” he says. “Arthritis? Some kind of grizzly inflammatory arthritis, I believe. If you ask me, it’s stress, but…you know, she doesn’t really handle…” He shrugs. “Anyway, things are tough, what can I say?” He glimpses the ceiling. “And I’m not much help.”

  All at once there’s a clattering in the downstairs hall, low voices, and finally, “Aaron? Are you here? Where are you?”

  He looks at Hannah meaningfully. “To be continued,” he says, and turns toward the hall.

  After a gulp of wine Hannah follows, trailing him by a few yards and keeping to the shadows. As she rounds the stairs to the front hall, she holds back so Syd can’t see her. Can’t ruin a surprise at the eleventh hour, after all! Surveying her family from a distance, she’s shocked at how thin both Mitsy and Sydney have become, like something’s gobbling them up. So disconcerting. Or maybe it’s the lump of gray sweats swimming around Mitsy that makes her look so thin. Since when is Mitsy at weight, though? Or under? What?! She’s been twice the size of Hannah since day one, and was certainly that size the last time they saw each other. Which was when? She can’t remember. At least a year. At the Make-a-Wish dance, probably, which was the single most difficult thing Hannah ever did—placing that tiara on Sydney’s bald head. Good God!

  Aaron hugs Sydney and swings his hand toward the staircase, presentation style. “Ta da!” he says and Hannah sashays down on cue.

  Syd’s hands fly to her mouth, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” she says, wide-eyed. “I swear to God I was just wishing you were here, and here you are!” She grins. “I’m getting really good at materializing!”

  “Materialize a hug then,” Hannah says as she rushes toward her niece. They dance around and around. “Let me look at you,” Hannah says. “Let me get a good hard look.”

  Syd pulls off her red wool cap. “Still bald,” she says, and buffs her head with her palm. “I grew a little back in November, but then…” She shrugs.

  “Maybe we’ll go shopping for that wig this time?” says Hannah with forced gaiety. “Or are you still opposed?”

  “She won’t wear a wig,” says Mitsy. “Don’t bother.”

  “Not any old wig,” says Syd. “Mom likes the Jurassic bubble cuts or Farrah Fawcett mardi gras wi
gs.” She throws her hands around her head to illustrate the bulk. “But if I had one that looked like your new cut, I might.” She reaches up and tugs a strand. “I love it, Aunt Hannah. Very sleek.”

  “Why, thank you, cookie! There is such a thing as style even down on the farm, you know—but you have to know where to look.”

  “How long are you staying?” says Syd. “Don’t tell me you’re here for the day or I’ll explode.”

  “Aunt Hannah will be here for a few weeks, Sydney,” says her mother.

  Syd’s wide hazel eyes are emphasized by the dark circles beneath them. “Weeks?!” she says. “Weeks?! Really?” She claps her hands. “Hooray!”

  “If I can, that is,” says Hannah. “If Jonah doesn’t drum up a big catastrophe on the farm. There are a couple of broodmares in the barn about to foal, so you never know.”

  “Jonah?” says Mitsy, eyebrows raised. “Really?”

  “Yes,” says Hannah. “Jonah, really. He’s helping out.”

  Mitsy nods, considering whatever—maybe Hannah’s overall availability, which is why Hannah said it in the first place. In case she needs an out.

  “And as far as the foals are concerned, he would need you…why?”

  Hannah ignores this, because after all, what can she say—that she delivers foals? Instead she says, “Where’s my hug, sis?” As she embraces her sister, she can feel the bones under the lump of jersey sweats that surround her. “God, Mits,” she says, “where the hell are you in this pile of laundry? Time for some new duds, I’d say.”

  “That would be nice,” says Aaron from the corner, and Mitsy glares.

  Syd says, “I have a puppy, Aunt Hannah! Have you seen her?”

  Hannah is mightily impressed by Syd’s diversionary tactics which are almost as polished as hers. “Yes, indeed I have seen the pup, but why don’t we go see her again?”

  Man, would she like a drink.

  In the kitchen, Hannah and Sydney tussle with Godiva while Mitsy disappears upstairs and Aaron throws together some kind of chicken dish. There he is chopping, dicing, slicing, and pounding, and as much as Hannah would like to help, she’s just too fried. Just too much for one day. And anyway, since when does Mr. Perfect also cook? Where’s the pizza? It’s as intimidating as it is appealing. No cookbooks in sight!

  Syd goes upstairs to call her friend, Zelda, and Hannah helps herself to a new glass of chardonnay, having left her other glass upstairs. “So hey, chef,” she says to Aaron, “where does sis go while you take care of supper?” She sips her wine. “I mean, is she napping? Reading? What?”

  He lifts the top of the skillet and inhales the fragrant steam. “I just hope you know how to cook,” he says. “You’ll be doing a lot of it.”

  “Well, sure I can cook,” she lies. “But…”

  “But what?” He reaches past her for the dried rosemary and thyme.

  “But I don’t…doesn’t Mitsy ever cook? I mean, what does she do?”

  He grabs his tumbler of neat scotch and sips, eyes wide. “She visits doctors, takes Sydney to the clinic, and…what she’s doing right now.”

  Hannah nods, “Which is?”

  “Probably her twice daily consultation with Pandora.”

  “What?!” says Hannah. “You’re down here cooking dinner while she’s consulting a dime store psychic?”

  As Aaron stirs the colorful medley of whatever ingredients twice around the pan, he says, “Dime store quality or not, I couldn’t say, but she sure charges concierge prices.” He shrugs. “She seems to calm Mitsy down, though. She might be the whole reason Mitsy decided to accept Godiva. So maybe it’s a good thing? I don’t know.”

  “But what do they talk about? How much is there to say?”

  He shakes his head. “If I’m honest, plenty. This house is a goldmine of emotional coal. This story will probably take the rest of our lives, and maybe two or three more to process. It may never wind up.”

  Hannah grimaces, sidling closer. “That doesn’t sound good,” she says. “What exactly are you saying?”

  His eyes sweep the room for spies, settling back on Hannah. Practically nose-to-nose, he knifes the air at the top of his head and says, “We’re all up to here. Mitsy quitting on me is the limit.”

  “Quitting on you? But doesn’t she have a…condition?”

  “Whatever she has,” he says, “she won’t talk about it. She’s crawled into her little cave and curled up. Been there for half the year already.” He nods with emphasis. “That’s why I asked her to bring you up here. With all my traveling and her hibernation, Sydney’s got to have someone sane to talk to.”

  Hannah stares at him in disbelief. “This was your idea?”

  “That’s right,” he says. “Those two are oil and water.”

  “But I can’t live here, Aaron. At some point I have to leave.”

  He chucks her chin. “I’ll worry about that when it happens. Just hang in there as long as you can. Please!”

  Well, how can she say no to that?! Of course she’ll stay. If she can. If it doesn’t get too tough. If Jonah doesn’t need her, plead for her return! After all, it’s Mitsy’s family, not hers. So exhausting. “Be right back,” she says.

  “Twenty minutes to dinner,” he calls after her and then more softly, “Please don’t tell Mitsy I said anything? Her life is tough enough.”

  “Yeah, right,” she says, “and yours isn’t?” She scoots up the back stairs and across the hall to the threshold of the master bedroom, where she hears her sister talking real low.

  “But, I mean…what else could it be?” she says tearfully.

  As much as she tries to control herself, a rocket explodes in Hannah’s head. She marches into the dim lit den of lush spring green textiles and faux painted walls to the walnut canopied bed and grabs the cell right out of Mitsy’s hand. “Stop calling my sister, you fucking fraud,” she yells into the phone before triumphantly pressing END.

  In a barely audible voice, Mitsy says, “Hannah…”

  Hannah sits down next to her sister on the bed and clasps her pale hands. “You don’t need to discuss your life with an alien from Mars,” she says. “You have me now.”

  “That was my doctor.”

  Hannah blinks. “Your doctor?” she says. “Oh.”

  “My rheumatologist.”

  Hannah freezes a grin. “LOL, right?”

  Mitsy shakes her head. “I’ve been waiting for that call for three days.”

  “But I’m sure he has a sense of humor. He can’t be that vain.”

  Mitsy places her head in her hands. “The tests were negative,” she says barely audible.

  Hannah shifts onto her left hip, bending her leg beneath her butt. “But that’s good, right? Nothing godawful then?”

  Her sister shrugs. “I don’t know. If the tests are negative, then what’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” says Hannah, air-jabbing with her index finger. “You are checking out, and none of us can afford that. I did not travel all the way up here to take care of every single person in Darien, do you hear me?”

  Mitsy looks up. “Who are you taking care of right now, Hannah? Isn’t Aaron making dinner?”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact he is,” she says. “And that’s why I came up here in the first place. The man worked all day, or at least half the day, and now he’s making dinner while you relax.”

  “Relax?” she says, chortling. “I wouldn’t call this relaxing. I was at the clinic with Sydney all day. He should bloody well try doing that once or twice and see how much fun it is.” She lowers her eyes. “But Pandora says I have to give him a long rope. That’s what I’m doing. I’m giving him rope.”

  Hannah jumps up. “He doesn’t need a rope, Mits. He needs a wife! You need to get back in the game or you’ll lose him.”

  “Into the game?” says Mitsy. “I can barely get through an hour without falling asleep. My joints ache and my gut is in a knot. My child has been sick for…” she star
ts to sob, deep heaving sobs.

  As much as Hannah wants to kick her sister in the ass, she knows she can’t do it now. She hugs her instead, which seems like the right response, but not forever. She will not be party to aiding and abetting the demise of Mitsy Lancaster Michaels. And besides, there’s no way she signed up for this level of horse shit. Everywhere she goes, she’s surrounded. She might as well have stayed on the farm.

  Sydney

  Syd’s dad is calling her for dinner, but she has to finish her conversation with Zelda first. Zelda hasn’t exactly been available lately, which Syd understands since she’s in school all day followed by theater rehearsal in the afternoon and the garage band at night. And maybe some homework, who knows? She’s not exactly the straight A type.

  “Z,” she says, “are you there? Where’d you go?” She looks at the phone to see if the call ended, but no. Zelda probably muted so she could yell at her brother, not that Syd minds a good argument. She waits, admiring the iPhone her dad gave her last week against her mother’s better judgment. Of course, everything’s against her mother’s better judgment, so you have to draw the line somewhere. If it were up to her mom, Syd and Zelda would probably be talking about Barbie dolls through a pair of soup cans connected by a string.

  “I’m back,” says Zelda, “sorry. I got a text from Dane.”

  “Dane?” Syd squeals. “Really!”

  “Yeah, he might want to be in the band. We renamed it, you know.”

  Syd’s heart pounds. “What! Without me?”

  “I’m sorry,” says Zelda, “but some of these things are spontaneous, and …”

  “Forget it,” says Syd. “Don’t say it.”

  “You have to be there, Syd.”

  “SYDNEY!!!” calls her dad from the kitchen. “Dinner!”

  “Well, excuuuuse me for not being there, Z,” Syd says.

  “I know why you’re not there,” says Zelda emphatically. “But I couldn’t help it. Dane hated the name.”

  “Dane hated it?” Syd says in a slightly conciliatory tone. “Well, Pink Flash is a little girly. What did you change it to?”