by Harry Kraus
My next thought was to kill the saxophone player. “Randy did this, that no good — ”
“Wendi!”
“What?” I said, folding my arms across my chest. “I just started cussing yesterday.” I nodded, assured this was an appropriate time. I shrugged. “Maybe I’m just tired of holding it in.”
Rene shook her head. “He tested negative, Wendi. He didn’t give it to me.”
My hand went to my mouth. “But who — ”
“Don’t look at me that way!”
I didn’t know how else to look. I turned away. “Who then?”
“It’s a short list. All before Randy.” She looked up. “I didn’t cheat on him.”
I didn’t like Randy. “You should have.”
She laughed, obviously surprised at my new brazenness. “You warned me about dating a musician.”
I thought about my love for Jack and how many stupid things I must have said while living a plastic life. I pulled hard on the wine cooler in my hand and set the empty bottle on the counter. “So why come here? Why now?”
“Don’t make me say it.” She shrugged. “Where do I always go when I’m in trouble?”
“Why?”
“You have an ego problem, don’t you? You just want me to say it, don’t you?”
I was completely lost. “I’m family. That’s why you’re here.”
“Dad and Mom are family. And I’m not there.” She huffed. “You’re together, Wendi.” She gestured her hand around the house. “You’ve arrived. You’ve got a great husband, a great job. You’re the daughter Dad always wanted.” She walked to the refrigerator and emptied the carton of OJ into her glass. “Unlike me.”
“You don’t know me.”
She let my comment fall.
I thought about spilling the story about the outward Christian frosting over the cake of my scrumptious evil heart. And I almost did. But just as I was taking a breath to begin, I saw a glint of hope in her eyes, a hope built on the me she thought I was and not the me I was about to reveal. I cleared my throat instead and offered an implant smile.
“What did you tell me when Simon left me?”
I opened my mouth, but my head was blank. I chewed air searching for advice long forgotten.
“What did you tell me when Grandma Aldridge had a stroke? What did you tell me after your accident?”
She’d come to a well looking for water, but I was dry. I had no idea what wisdom she expected.
She stared at me, but I just sat there empty and unresponsive. At least at that moment, I didn’t offer a platitude I didn’t believe in.
She put down her glass and touched my shoulder. “You told me God cares about us. That he’s watching out for us even when it’s dark.”
I said those things. But no one ever asked me if I really believed it.
Guilt. My conscience attacked. I’d been nothing but an imposter, and now my sister wanted comfort that I couldn’t manufacture.
Rene had always seemed the strong one to me. Confident. The one with the on-the-edge life. But now, with tears in her eyes, she was broken, and I couldn’t come up with the everything’s-gonna-be- alright message she craved. I studied her a moment, looking at the soft curl of her mousy brown hair and her lovely eyes. Sitting there in a petite frame was a warrior, and I knew she had the will to fight or she wouldn’t have come. I just needed her to find the spark again.
My voice was paralyzed. I couldn’t tell her the words I wished I believed. Instead, I crossed the kitchen and gathered her into my arms. She fell into me, crying into my blouse. I probed her hair, unable to speak.
“I’m afraid I’m going to die.”
What was I to say? I opened my mouth in search of a phrase with a ring of truth, anything that might sound remotely close to a cozy blessing, even an “It’s gonna be OK,” but I couldn’t say it. To say anything only propped me up as a poser, an actress in a play I’d promised to leave. Somehow to speak meant turning my back on a man lying on an ICU bed fighting for his life. A man who had to live if my dream of being free had any hope at all.
And so, with my soul barren, I simply held her and let my frustration vent in tears.
We must have cried for minutes on end. All I knew is that when she lifted her head, my blouse was soaked and her hair completely tangled. Somewhere in the middle, I’d found enough of my voice to whisper, “Oh Rene,” and that had uncapped a second well and our tears flowed with new force until her sobs quieted once again.
When we separated, I turned back to the sink and leaned against the counter. “Why don’t you talk to Daddy?”
I heard her huff. “I can’t.”
I understood. She’d not spoken to him since he’d told the congregation of her refusal to set aside her immoral ways. It was an ugly affair, a churchy event that seemed to me an inability to stand up to the church elders rather than the following of some biblical principle as he claimed. It was a year before I’d landed the perfect husband, the perfect future, and the perfect life.
I shook my head. I couldn’t say the things that she wanted to hear.
I listened as Rene found the Kleenex box on the counter. She was never timid about blowing her nose. I looked at her, standing in a pair of capri jeans and a white blouse, which she left unbuttoned from the collar, one, two, three. Always one more open button than I dared.
I swallowed and reached for my own collar. I fumbled with a button and tugged the neckline open. This was the new me. More cleavage. Less whole-wheat.
I opened the refrigerator again. “You need to eat. How about a toad in the hole?”
She smiled. Daddy always called his special breakfast that, an egg fried in the middle of a piece of toast with a circular cutout. “Sure.”
I worked, relieved to have something, anything to do but talk. Every minute or so, I glanced at her. She sat picking at her fingernails and saying nothing.
Finally, when I set the plate in front of her, she spoke again. “Randy changed the locks on his house. My bag was sitting on the porch yesterday evening when I got home.”
I called Randy a bad word. The words tingled from my tongue bittersweet. I enjoyed it, but felt anxious, like a child testing a murky stream with a big toe.
Rene giggled.
“What?”
“You cussing.” She shrugged. “It’s funny.”
I put my hands on my hips, incensed. I took a deep breath and scowled. I paused for a moment, searching for just the right way to emphasize the word before launching boldly ahead. I found another word that would have sent Miss Fogberry after the dishwater soap to cleanse my tongue. I launched it into the air, smiling. There! Uncharted waters.
This was too funny for Rene or just beyond reason, something akin to snow skis in hell or Mother Teresa with an AK – 47. She began laughing hysterically, holding her stomach and swaying until I thought she might slip from the barstool.
This, of course, was funny to me and I responded in a proper giggle of my own.
When Rene finally regained her composure and began to eat, she ate like a wolf. I turned to the skillet and started a second toad in the hole.
She imitated Daddy’s voice, the deep, croaky imitation of a frog he used every time he served us this breakfast when we were little. “Ribit. Riiiibit.”
I joined the little chorus. “Ribit. Riiiibit.”
We laughed again, and I marveled at how her mood had responded. A hug had worked so much better than the words I’d failed to offer.
“You can stay here,” I said.
“I’d rather Daddy didn’t know.” She looked down. “At least for now.”
I shrugged. “OK.” I looked at my mischievous kitten clock with her eyes darting back and forth and thought about Jack. “I need to go to the hospital. I have a friend who was in an accident.”
She shifted in her seat.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll be home long before Henry.”
Cindy Swanson peered across her surgical mask and studied the eyes of her attending
surgeon, Henry Stratford. The eyes could communicate so much, something she had learned well in her years standing across the table from surgeons during her residency. With the mouth covered by a mask, she’d relied on her ability to read approval, displeasure, or anger from the small rectangle of the forehead and eyes.
She hoped the signals she sent were getting through. She’d taken extra time that morning with her mascara and eye shadow. Nothing extravagant or showy, just a subtle application to improve on nature’s gift. She’d flirted with him before, but only in the brash banter that the surgeons so often used in a group. But now, seeing that the situation with his wife was fertile for her advances, she longed for an opportunity to express her feelings in private.
Dr. Stratford was the most compassionate man she’d worked with. So capable and confident, but so warm in his communication with his patients, a rarity among her other surgical teachers, who left the handholding to the nursing staff.
The game she planned was a dangerous one. With only six months left of her training, an affair with a supervising attending could be an assurance of an excellent recommendation or a blight on a career yet to begin. She knew in her head to stay away, but her heart prompted her forward. Surely she could be a more natural match for Henry than the bimbo that dared to insult him in public. She dreamed of fanning the sparks of physical attraction she felt whenever Henry leaned close to her to assist her through an operative case. And their love of surgery could lead to years of shared intellectual joys as well. Certainly more than that uptight brunette he married. I can’t imagine she could provide the intellectual challenge to keep Henry interested year after year.
She removed the series of towel clips holding the skin together, allowing it to part to reveal the underlying fascia. “Scissors,” she said, holding out her hand.
The technician placed the instrument in her open palm.
“Get the suction ready,” Henry said.
She snipped the suture holding the abdominal fascia together. With all of the packing against the liver, the suture popped as she cut, and the sides of the abdominal wall opened like a book.
“Slowly now,” Henry coached. “Remove the packs from above the liver first.”
She obeyed, lifting out one blood-soaked pad after another. When they were all out, she held her breath. Was it going to bleed?
They peered into Jack Renner’s open abdomen.
“Should I stitch the liver?”
Henry shook his head. “Better leave well enough alone. It’s not bleeding. Let’s get out of here.”
“Should we drain it?”
“You know the answer to that.”
Just like an attending. Always testing. Always teaching. “We’ll need a Jackson-Pratt drain.”
Henry’s eyes smiled. “Good.”
“Closing music,” Cindy said. “Let Dr. Stratford choose.”
Henry looked at the circulating nurse. “I’m in the mood for the Stones.”
In a moment, “Beast of Burden” began prodding them home.
Cindy smiled behind her mask. Henry was full of surprises. “I’ve got the preliminary data for the trauma outcome predictor chart review. Can I bring them by your office?”
“Sure. After this case?”
She glanced at his eyes. He was all business. “Oh, I’ve promised the med students I’d meet them for a teaching session. Can I bring them by tonight? Will you be in your office at seven?”
“I can be.”
Excellent. The department should be empty by then. “I’ll come by.” She let her gloved hand rest against his as she asked for a suture. It was a casual touch, something that could have been unintentional. She let it stay there until the technician complied with her request.
She felt her heart quicken. Dr. Stratford and her alone after hours. Perfect.
I left the house fighting guilt, so I visited Mom and read a chapter of The Beautiful and Damned before heading to the ICU waiting room. There, as I entered, I saw Steve and Miriam Renner sitting beside Yolanda, and all three behind a collection of luggage. Miriam stood and hugged me. “Your offer is such a lifesaver!”
I pulled away gently to see my father standing behind her. “These dear folks were staying at the Ramada, but he’s retired and I knew you had the guest suite. I told them it would be no problem.”
No problem for you! I tried not to cringe. For as long as we’d lived across the street from the church, my father had offered my guest quarters to missionaries, visiting preachers, and other company. The parsonage is much too small, he would say, calling at the last minute on Saturday eve. It didn’t seem to bother Henry, but he was never home anyway.
I tried to send my father a stern look behind Mr. Renner’s back, but he waved me off, knowing I would comply. I was about to object and tell him the guest quarters were taken, but I didn’t want to betray Rene’s confidence.
“Tell her, Steve. Tell her,” Yolanda gushed.
Mr. Renner cleared his throat. “Jack is waking up.”
“I thought they were keeping him on the ventilator,” I said.
“Your husband operated on him this morning and removed the packs. He said the bleeding had stopped, and as long as it was OK with the neurosurgeons, they were going to try him off the ventilator ahead of schedule,” Miriam said.
“Does he know you?” I asked.
Yolanda hugged me and squealed, “We haven’t seen him yet. The nurse is supposed to come get us as soon as he can speak.”
Great, I thought, I’ ll probably have to visit with Yolanda. I need to talk to Jack alone.
A few minutes later, Brenda, Jack’s nurse, came out with news. Jack was off the ventilator, still a bit groggy, but able to speak a bit, and she would let us visit two at a time.
She led the Renners away, and I was left with Yolanda and my father in the waiting room. I pulled my father aside and whispered, “How could you invite them to stay without asking? How do you think Henry will feel about keeping the family of one of his patients?”
“It’s church family, honey. We always look out for those in the fold, you know that.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. “I don’t like it.”
“It’s probably only a few days. Then Jack will be out of the woods and they will be going home again.”
I watched as Yolanda paced, twirling the blonde hair over her right ear with her finger. Her nervous energy made me want to scream.
A few minutes later, Steve escorted Miriam onto a waiting room chair.
I touched Steve’s shoulder. “How is he?”
“His memory is a bit blurry.”
Miriam sniffed.
Yolanda wanted details. “Did he ask for me?”
Steve shook his head and took Yolanda by the hand. “I’m not sure he knew us, Yolanda. This may take some time.”
“Surely he’ll remember me. Did you ask him what he remembers?”
Miriam nodded. “I could see it in his eyes. He recognized me. I told him I was his mother. I told him his fiancée would be coming in. I told him you were very beautiful and that he’d made a wise choice.”
I wanted to barf. Jack loves me!
Brenda opened the door to the ICU and looked at me. “Next?”
Yolanda grabbed my hand. “Go with me, won’t you? I’m not sure I can see him alone.”
I tried to smile, but managed only a nod. “Let’s go.”
Brenda led us to Jack’s side. His head was still swollen and shaved, but the pressure monitor entering his scalp had been removed and I recognized the first hint of a smile.
Yolanda was the first to speak. “Hi, Jack.” Her hands were folded across her chest as if she was afraid to touch him.
“Do I know you?”
I watched Yolanda’s jaw slacken as Jack held up his hand and continued. “Wait, don’t tell me,” he said, his voice strained and just above a whisper.
We leaned in to hear.
“The man and woman who were just here, they told me my fiancée was comi
ng in.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid things are a bit fuzzy.”
He stared at us with bloodshot eyes and nodded. “But the woman said I had good taste and that my girl was very beautiful.” He looked away from Yolanda and took my hand, cradling it in his. “You must be my fiancée.”
Yolanda pulled my hand from his. “Jack!”
His expression was blank. “What?”
“I’m your fiancée!” she screamed. “Don’t you remember?”
He studied her for a moment and shook his head, and then turned to me. “You look familiar,” he said.
Yolanda shook her head. “He’s brain damaged!” She fled the room sobbing as Jack gathered my hand back in his.
“You,” he said, “are very beautiful. You must be my girl.”
CHAPTER 10
Jack still held my hand as Henry appeared at the edge of the ICU bed. I felt immediate heat in my cheeks and stuttered as I pulled my hand away. “Jack, you’ve lost your memory. I’m Wendi Stratford. The woman who just left was your fiancée.” I smiled sheepishly at Henry. “He thought I was Yolanda.”
Jack coughed. “Yolanda?”
“Yolanda is the name of your fiancée.” I tilted my head towards the exit. “The woman who just left.”
“I don’t know a Yolanda,” Jack said. He looked at me. “I was engaged?”
Henry walked to my side. I nodded. “You were engaged.” Henry touched my arm. “This is my husband, Jack. He’s your surgeon, Henry Stratford.”
Henry took Jack’s hand, feeling his pulse at the wrist. “What year is it, Jack?”
“Two thousand eight.”
I looked at Henry. “How can he know this and not remember his fiancée?”
Henry shrugged. “Perhaps the injury has robbed his recent memory.”
“I remember you,” he said, looking at me.
I feared what he might say. “You were my piano teacher.”
Jack smiled. “I remember playing the piano.”
“Do you remember teaching me? You were at my house just before your accident.”
He looked from me to Henry and back to me before shaking his head. “’Fraid not.”
It took me a few seconds to remember to breathe. You don’t remember?! I paused, wondering how this new development affected my plans for our future. I’d shamelessly confessed my attraction to him, brazenly throwing myself in his path. But now, he didn’t remember. My mind raced around the possibilities, each thought a new stream breaking away from the banks of my old dilemma.