by Harry Kraus
I brushed a tear from my cheek. Instead of experiencing new love, I was back in my own bed worried that Jack might not survive the night.
Why, God? Every time I decide to take steps to reclaim my life, disaster strikes. Why are you punishing me?
I shouldn’t have asked the question. I knew the answer my mind would conjure up. Even if it didn’t come from the throne of God, the answer was immediately with me. Because you’re unfaithful, child.
Images of Jack’s swollen body prodded memories of my own ICU experience into focus. First memories of a plan gone awry joined hands with guilt in an attempt to rob my sleep.
I looked at the nurse standing by my bed. “What happened?”
“You were in a car accident, Wendi. You’re going to be OK.”
My hand touched my stomach. “What did they do to me?”
“You had surgery. Your uterus was ruptured.” Her eyes searched my face.
“M-my baby?”
She shook her head.
Her message was understood, but the news didn’t hurt me. I was on my way to end the evidence of my affair with a married man.
The nurse gripped my hand. “There was a lot of bleeding, Wendi.You almost died.” She seemed to hesitate. “The surgeon needed to remove your uterus to save your life.”
My uterus? I felt my throat tighten. I won’t be able to have children! The irony hit hard. I wanted children, just not that child!
I’ d lived my life in the shadow of my father’s church. I strayed from the path and this was what I got?
“My mother, how’s my mother?”
“She’s still in surgery. The neurosurgery team is working on her now.”
“Neurosurgery?”
“She had a skull fracture. I don’t know any more.”
Great, I thought. This is what Mom gets for scheming this up to protect Daddy’s all-important ministry.
At eleven-thirty, I heard Henry arrive. I listened as the microwave beeped. He’d found the chicken. Ten minutes later, bathroom noises followed and Henry slipped in on his side. In a moment, I felt his breath on my neck. I pressed my eyes with my pillow, drying my tears. I tried to make my voice sound as if I’d been asleep. I moaned, “How’s Jack?”
“He’s ten units down.” His hand slipped around my waist. “If he can be stabilized, I’ll have him back in the OR tomorrow.”
I shuddered as Henry moved his hand beneath my pajama top. I kept my body stiffened against his touch, and my face away from his. “Just hold me.” I bit my lip.
Henry’s hand froze in midcaress, and I listened to him sigh. “Just hold me” isn’t a concept understood by husbands hungry for more.
He held me a few moments while I steeled myself against the emotions threatening to erupt. His were not the arms I desired. His were not the kisses I craved.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was insensitive this morning.”
My breath escaped in a sob. The dam had burst. I cried while Henry the husband did what most men do when their wives cry. He misunderstood my needs and tried to solve the problem. I needed a shoulder, not a solution.
“Why don’t we take off next weekend? We can go to Smith Mountain Lake.”
I didn’t want a weekend retreat with Henry. I didn’t want him to apologize. I wanted a divorce. If only it weren’t spelled with a capital D in my mind, maybe I’d be strong enough to tell him. I sniffed. Maybe he thought I was crying because I’d been so brash. “I shouldn’t have called you an insensitive pig.”
“But I am an insensitive pig.”
At that, I turned and looked at him, unable to conceal my surprise. Admitting his pride was as close to humility as Henry ever got. I nodded. I shouldn’t have apologized. “Sweet of you to admit it.”
He seemed pleased with himself. In fact, apparently happy that I’d accepted his apology, he seemed to think the coach was waving him on towards third base. He placed his hand against my skin. He was like most husbands in that respect, I thought; he equated a successful apology with sex.
I turned away from him. I was still dreaming of Jack. There was no way I could let Henry run the bases tonight. Not even if it was three minutes like our usual. I couldn’t.
I wanted to scream. My plans were on hold, if not destroyed. And somehow phoning Henry to clue him in from Jamaica seemed easier than telling him at the bedside of my wounded boyfriend. Besides, if I mustered the courage to tell Henry it was over, it would just bias him against giving Jack the care he needed. I’d better wait until Jack was clearly out of the woods. If only the woods weren’t so big and my boyfriend so lost inside them.
As much as I trusted in Henry’s ability to provide quality medical care free from emotional attachment, this would be too much. Besides, emotions had gotten in the way of Henry’s patient care before. I knew too well how quickly a clinical exam could turn into something more alluring. He’d fallen for me, hadn’t he? Henry rolled the opposite way, ending our cozy chat and leaving me to wrestle with conflicting emotions.
I shut my eyes and tried not to remember Henry’s exam room and how much I once longed for a surgeon’s gentle touch. He had been my knight in shining armor once. He’d rescued me from an uncooperative gall bladder, and, briefly, I’d been the pursued beauty in the fairy tale. But Henry stopped pursuing my heart, and I’d resumed my life of plastic smiles.
There, in the darkness, as my husband’s breathing transitioned into the deep nasal whistles of sleep, I wondered if God had yanked my leash today. For the second time I’d wandered off the straight and narrow, and something disastrous had goaded me back into the fold. The last time I’d returned to the sheepfold but felt like a wolf. The mask-of-happiness life I led sitting on the back pew of the church had left me empty and launched me into my plan for a prison break. I sighed. My plans had been foiled, and I remained trapped in my husband’s perfect life.
I buried my face in my pillow and whispered my commitment to a man I hoped would be my Moses and lead me from the drudgery of Egypt. “Jack Renner, I love you.” The words slipped out so easily, and tasted dangerous and delightful all at once, like stolen candy. I’d imagined whispering it to Jack a thousand times. We were to be together tonight. “I love you, Jack,” I whispered again, my heart pulsing like a love-sick teen’s. It seemed even more delicious and precarious to say it in bed with Hubby Henry.
I’d whispered it tonight. Maybe tomorrow I would be brave enough to raise my voice. I was done with safe. I was sick to death of my hypocritical guilty life. But now freedom was locked in an ICU bed, and my husband held the keys.
That’s when I remembered my fancy panties. I slipped my hand into my pajamas and smiled, letting the lace catch on my matching nail polish.
Tomorrow morning I would start with Henry’s Cocoa Krispies. Maybe I’d even skip my vitamin. Life on the edge. No more fiber.
CHAPTER 8
I woke up on day two of my wonderful Caribbean vacation in bed with Henry’s nose whistling. It used to be endearing.
I dressed in estrogen central, so my husband wouldn’t see my red-lace undies. Then, I dripped Ethiopian coffee, added French vanilla creamer, and left the house before Henry. I wanted to park my Mercedes up the hill on 29 and watch the Azalea intersection.
I parked in the front of an Exxon facing the highway and lifted my travel mug beneath my nose. I watched the light at the bottom of the hill through the steam rising from my coffee. For six cycles I timed the yellow caution. It lasted a full five seconds, plenty of warning for routine traffic. Unless it had been changed since yesterday, the light seemed to be operating fine. From this position, everything seemed in order. There were no visual obstructions. No overhanging tree branches obscured the traffic signal, and because the road ran north and south, the sun shouldn’t have been a factor either.
I looked at the steam from my mug fogging the side window and remembered my commitment to eat Cocoa Krispies. I returned home in time to find Henry performing an English muffin dissection. He talked w
ithout looking up. “You’re up early.”
“I wanted to time the light at the bottom of the hill.”
“So?”
“So I think the light is working fine. At least now it is.” I poured more coffee into my silver mug and leaned across the table. “Henry, did you really tell your chief resident that I visit my mother when I feel guilty?”
I watched an almost imperceptible twitch of his lip before he spoke. “You do do that, you know.”
“I visit my mother every week.”
“You feel guilty every week.”
This may have been true, but I was in no mood to hear of it from Henry. “Your resident was rude to me. I don’t think the university should train surgeons like that.”
“She was defending me.”
“So you know what she said?”
He looked over the top of the Wall Street Journal. “There is very little that goes on in my department that I don’t know, Wendi.”
“I want you to fire her.”
“She’s already been reprimanded.” He lifted his paper to hide his face. “She’s a good resident.”
“She’s mouthy.”
“She’s got spunk.”
“She disrespected me.”
“And you disrespected me, remember? She was only defending the boss. That’s what good residents do.”
I stuck my tongue out at the front page of his paper. It was immature, but I was done with holding back. If I didn’t feel like smiling, I wasn’t going to smile, Christian or not.
I watched as Henry walked to the foyer to do a preflight inspection. It was Friday, and he always rode his motorcycle on Fridays. It was the one irony that I loved about him. How a trauma surgeon could get on a bike after all the damage he’d seen, I’d never understand, but if anything could bring a smile to his serious face, it was the rumble of a cruiser. His was a Triumph Rocket III, cherry red and 2300 cc strong. I only knew it because he’d told me twenty times, and of course Henry J. Stratford, Jr., M.D., would only drive a motorcycle with two names and a suffix.
On Fridays, he discarded his suit for a leather jacket. He looked in the mirror and checked his hair, tie, jacket, pants, and zipper. And zipper.
I walked up behind him. “Are you operating on Jack again today?”
“If he’s stable.”
I kissed his cheek. “Do a good job.”
He looked at me as if I’d told Santa Claus to give out gifts for Christmas. He walked towards the garage with his Friday motorcycle swagger. “Always.”
I listened to the rumble of the Triumph and watched from the front window as safety-first Henry signaled and then revved the beast onto Azalea Drive. I let the curtain fall and plodded back to my kitchen. I’d just topped off my coffee mug when the doorbell rang.
Odd, I thought. No one calls on me this early. With the angst that the unexpected usually prompted in my gut, I walked to the front room where I could discreetly view the front porch. I peered around the edge of the drapery and felt my heart quicken. It was my hero, my open-sinner baby sister, Rene.
I flung open the door. One glance told a troubled story. Her hair unwashed, raccoon-circles of weariness beneath her usually sparkling eyes, and her shoulders thrown forward with a burdened duffle hanging from her hands, which were clasped in protection in front of her. This was hardly Rene, the sister who burned through life leaving little behind but smoke and the memory of her irritating laugh that made me so jealous.
But above her downward chin I saw the first hint of the strength I wanted as my own. She grinned at me through the unwashed kelp of her hair. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I stumbled over the duffle and pulled her into an awkward embrace and found myself on the verge of tears. She had no idea how much I needed her on that day of all days. I held her for a moment, unable to find my voice. She smelled of stale cigarettes and coffee. When I pulled away she looked down, and kicked at the army duffle at our feet.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m selling dictionaries door to door.”
“You look like hell,” I said, surprised at my vernacular.
Rene’s eyes widened at my comment. “Sales have been off.”
I shook my head and looked at the Saturn in the driveway. “Been driving all night?”
“Almost. I napped for an hour in the parking lot of the Almighty across the street waiting for you to get up.” She shrugged. “When I saw Henry leave, I figured it was safe.”
“Safe?”
She nodded and avoided my eyes. The smile was lost, and her expression hinted at a story.
I pushed her towards the door and picked up her bag. I groaned at the weight. “What’s in here?”
She pushed a strand of rebellious brunette hair behind her ear. “Everything.”
“Coffee?”
“I need a bed.”
“You need a shower.”
“That I’ll take.”
“You can stay in the guest quarters downstairs. Sleep for a few hours.” I stared at her for a few seconds before adding, “Then we’ll talk.”
She didn’t argue. I followed her down the steps.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
She sighed her frustration but didn’t fight back. Something was seriously wrong.
I pointed to the bathroom. “There are fresh towels on the rack. I’m going to run a few errands. I’ll be back by noon.”
She filled a glass with water from the bathroom faucet and lifted it to her lips. Her voice cracked. “Cheers.”
After watering the willows and making a run to Kroger to stock the pantry with comfort food for my reunion with Rene, I saw her emerge from the basement. My head was in the refrigerator when I heard her voice. “Got anything to eat around this joint?”
I lifted two raspberry wine coolers. I opened one, but she waved me off. I felt my jaw slacken, but I kept the surprise to myself. I’d bought them just for her. “Coffee then?”
She sat on a barstool at the edge of the counter. “I shouldn’t.”
I shook my head. An alien had taken over my sister. I looked back in the fridge. “Orange juice?” I squinted at her, testing one more time. “I’ve got vodka.”
“Juice is fine,” she said, never lifting her eyes from the counter.
I set a glass in front of her and filled it. “OK,” I said. “What is it? Randy?”
My first guess hit the mark. I saw it in the lines at the corner of her mouth that appeared when she was tense.
She played with the juice, slowly shaking her head. Randy was a jazz musician, a sax player, and Rene’s newest in a short string of bad relationships. She pressed her upper lip with the glass. When she finally met my eyes, I could see the tears threatening her fresh mascara. “I’m pregnant.”
“Rene!” I gasped. “That’s wonderful.”
She glared at me. “No. It’s not.” She gulped the juice and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “For you, it would be wonderful. But not for me.”
For me, it would be a miracle. Henry and I had married, knowing that biological children without a surrogate would be impossible. I’ve got ovaries and plenty of estrogen, but no uterus to house a baby. But Henry had allowed me to dream. We’d even talked of asking Rene to carry the child for us and he’d allowed me to design a nursery. It was part of Henry’s five-year plan. Tenure. Check. Blonde wife. Check. A male child came somewhere after the home in the suburbs and the Mercedes, and somewhere before an elite preschool where Henry J. Stratford, III, could get a head start in Latin. “Rene,” I replied softly, “I didn’t mean — ”
“I’m on my own, Wendi. Randy’s out of the picture.”
I sipped at my wine cooler and sat at the kitchen table, hoping she’d spill the story without my prodding. She did.
“This was his idea. He had this romantic idea of being a little family.” She looked into her empty glass. “We were going to get married,” she sniffed. “I missed my period last month, but I didn’t let
on. I wanted to be sure so I could surprise him.”
She paused, and I was getting impatient. “So?”
“So by the time I was late again this month, I went to the clinic for a test. That’s when they told me I was right. I was pregnant.” She looked away again and wiped her eyes with the sleeve of a white blouse.
“I’m not getting this, Rene. You wanted this, right?”
“I did want this.” She pushed the glass across the Corian countertop. “Once. But not now.”
I waited for more.
“He thinks I cheated on him.”
“Is he crazy?”
“I had to have a blood test at the clinic. They said it was all routine,” she mumbled. “Part of the pregnancy workup.” Again, she halted. Her story was in neutral, and I was flying ahead.
I stared at her, wishing I could push her forward. Talk to me, Rene.
Her eyes met mine and in a moment I could see the terror she held there. It was only a flash, but I knew, perhaps as only a sister could, that her fear was nearing a life maximum. I leaned forward. “What, Rene? You can tell me.”
“I’m HIV-positive.”
CHAPTER 9
Rene let the words hang for me to digest.
My baby sister, daughter of a Christian minister, pregnant out of wedlock. And HIV-positive.
I couldn’t speak. I gathered my sister in my arms and cried. HIV haunted the halls of gays and drug abusers. Not heterosexuals. And certainly not respectable families like ours.
After I collected myself, my words tumbled forward in a rush. “But it’s treatable. There are good drugs now. Anti-retrovirals or some such pills,” I said, waving my hand in the air. “I’ve heard Henry talk of it. It doesn’t mean you’re gonna die or anything. At least not for a long time.”
She didn’t respond. I don’t think I was encouraging her.