by Josh Thomas
The doctor came. “Her heart’s giving out. There are no good options. She’s in pain. Fluid is filling her lungs. We can remove it but it’s a very painful procedure. We can’t take a chance on general anesthesia. If we give her pain meds, her blood pressure will drop dangerously. But it’s already dropping without them. She’s scared. She can’t breathe, she’s drowning. What do you want us to do?”
Jamie stared at nothingness. Once again he had responsibility for someone’s life—his own mother’s. He looked at Kent, whose eyes were full of compassion and strength. He looked like a state trooper in an emergency.
Jamie keyed in on the strength. “I’ll deal with her fear. You save her life. Remove the fluid from her lungs. If she’s unable to tolerate the pain, give her the minimum analgesic that allows you to continue the procedure. If you’re still unable to continue, give her the pain meds. Do not allow her to die in pain!
“As for the blood pressure, perform a balancing act. If it doesn’t work, despite your best efforts, don’t let her die in pain. Thank you; good luck. Now get to work. Save my mother’s life.”
The doctor hurried out. Kent looked at Jamie. “You’re amazingly poised. Those are the best possible choices.”
“Hope so.” Jamie went to his mother’s side, kissed her cheek. Awake, she looked at him.
Then he had an impulse, brought Kent over to her. “Mother, this is my friend, Sgt. Kent Kessler of the state police. Kent, my mother Thelma Rees Foster, a clinical pharmacist and formerly Indiana’s Junior Miss.”
She looked at Kent a long time. “Hello, ma’am.”
She said to Jamie, “Nice eyes.” Kent stepped away.
A minute later she said, “Things are bad.” And the sickening sound of fluid in her lungs.
“They have no good options, Mom.”
“I know.”
“Hang on as long as you can. I love you.”
“You too. Stone, Danny.”
“I’ve got calls in to them. Meanwhile, will it help you be less afraid to know what’s going on?” She nodded a little. “They’re going to try to remove the fluid in your lungs,” he said, patting his chest. “It will hurt.
They can’t give you much anesthetic because of your blood pressure.” She blinked. “If they can balance everything and you get through it, you may be okay.”
“No,” she said. “Dying.”
“Oh, Mom,” he cried softly. But he nodded a little so they wouldn’t be afraid. He held her hand. Her eyes, when they were open, looked fear at him; but she was also courageous and calm somehow, giving strength to him. They tried to give it to each other. “I’ve ordered that you not be in pain. If they can’t do the procedure, they’re to take away your pain.”
“Good. Love you.” Technicians came to wheel her away. ***
Kent and Jamie sat in a pseudo living room, not talking for a half hour. Jamie’s phone didn’t ring. Finally Kent said, “I should get you some food.”
“Ugh. I couldn’t possibly.”
“I’ll go down to the cafeteria. You want anything? Just name it.”
“You go,” Jamie said with a perfunctory wave. “I’ll try a few bites of anything.”
Kent brought back two plates, chicken and ham, had him pick. Jamie pointed at the chicken. The meat turned out to be lukewarm and greasy, awful. He ate mashed potatoes out of the box, a few bites of chemical-tasting dressing. He ate some green beans, picked at the chicken with fork and then fingers. Kent did better with his plate. “Eat,” he urged.
“I am.” Jamie ate three more bites of chewy chicken, unwrapped his apple pie, stared at it. Ate a bite or two, then felt full and heartsick. “I don’t even want to look at this.”
Kent finished his food, took the trays away, sat down again. Didn’t know what to say; there was nothing that could be said. Jamie tried to push money on him. Kent wouldn’t take it. They just sat together in gloom.
“Thank you for staying,” Jamie said. Kent reached out a big hand, rubbed Jamie’s back. ***
The operation didn’t work, she couldn’t tolerate it. They brought her back, “made her comfortable.” Jamie sat with his mother while she lay dying. Kent stayed outside where Jamie could see him. Pain shots came every twenty minutes. Thelma’s breathing slowed dramatically, just four or five a minute.
Jamie tried to think of what he could say that would most please her, the most important thing to say while he still could. Then he knew what it was, knew exactly; and had to think of whether if he said it, he’d mean it, be able to live up to it.
He wouldn’t. But maybe that’s just pride.
Could he concede? To the brother he hated and loved? He kissed her cheek, picked up her hand, leaned close to her ear. “I love you, Mom. I promise you, I’ll try my best to get along with Stone.”
She gasped. Tears flew out her eyes. He gave her what she wanted— and she died, she up and died.
21
Pallet
Kent drove him home. Jamie thanked him woodenly and hurried inside. He shut the door, leaned against it, and as soon as he saw her decorations he began to weep.
There was nowhere he could look without seeing her. Renoir prints, cut from old pharmaceutical calendars, hung in fancy frames. Porcelain birds, a cardinal, a bluebird, a yellow finch, perched on her coffee table. The hutch displayed every vase and pitcher he’d ever bought her. He cried. He just cried.
His stomach hurt, his eyes felt hot, his nose ran. He sank to his knees on her berber carpet. She couldn’t be gone, she couldn’t be. But she was. As soon as he’d promised her the one thing she wanted, she died.
He looked at his hand, at the knuckle where her tear fell. He hated his hand.
He kissed it, could still see where that tear dried.
His mother was dead. What’s worse, he made the decisions that killed her.
He wracked for ten minutes that way. Slowly he became aware that this didn’t accomplish much; that he had duties, responsibilities. He had brothers; he had a funeral to plan, he ought to call the priest.
He wanted to call Kent, turn himself in, be locked up, plead guilty. He wanted Kent to throw away the key.
Yet the doctor said there were no good options. Jamie’d done the best he could. His brothers wouldn’t second-guess him; not even Stone would.
He cried anew. Why couldn’t he reach Stoney?
He dug out his cell phone in case Stone called. Then he looked at it, not ringing, smug and silent.
He needed a tissue. He needed to wash his face. He trudged to her bathroom, yellow and cheerful, carpeted in berber, the towels hung just so, everything perfect. He’d shown her how to fold the towels in sixths so they’d look perfect.
He blew his nose, washed his face, dried it on one of her perfect towels, which he refolded out of rote. He watched his hand fold the towel and realized he’d just washed off her tear.
He avoided her bedroom, walked back the long way through the living room, into the kitchen with its Astroturf and its remnants. Her phone sat on the kitchen table. He had to call the priest. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to tell anyone what happened.
He didn’t know where she kept the phone book. He didn’t know the priest’s name. It was getting late, though. He’d have to call the priest at home. He should do it now, not wait till the man—he was pretty sure the priest was a man—went to bed. Where did she keep her phone book? Why didn’t his cell phone ring?
He found the book. Opened the yellow pages under Churches, found Episcopal, found the man’s name. Found the listing in the white pages, called. “My name is Jamie Foster. I’m Thelma Foster’s son.” He broke a little.
“Yes, she’s in the hospital, I visited her. How is she?”
What to say? How to get the words out? Report them, straightforwardly. “She died tonight.” The priest said he’d come within an hour.
***
Jamie had to talk to someone close. He tried for ten minutes to get his voice together, but as soon as he heard Casey’s he
went wobbly again. Choked out his news, a junior Walter Cronkite reporting the death of the President.
Heard Casey’s shock, his sorrow, his mourning voice. “Fucking diseases. When did it happen?”
“This evening, um, 9:12 p.m. I was out with my cop, up at the crime scene. My mother told me to go, I swear she did. Then this happens. The hospital called and called this afternoon, while I was looking at pictures of murder victims. Casey, we were getting somewhere, the cop and I, she was feeling better, and God, Casey, I’m an orphan. In six months I’ve lost everything. My poor Ricky. Now my Mom. I have a brother who hates me 200 miles away; the only person who loves me is 2000 miles away.
“In Columbus people look at me and say, ‘He’s cute, he’s blond, he’s smart, he has everything.’ I have nothing! It’s all been stolen from me. It took me years to finally get a little family. And now they’re gone. My poor mother.”
He couldn’t help it, he sobbed. “Let it out, child. Go on now, don’t hold back.” Jamie found himself wailing over the telephone. He pulled himself together somewhat, only to lose it again. “That’s it, baby. Cry your eyes out, I’m here.” Casey’s tenderness threw Jamie into another spasm. “Poor baby. You did everything you could.”
“No, I didn’t, Casey. I went chasing after a story when I should have been at the fucking hospital!”
“James, listen well: you did everything you could for her. You were there for her, not Stone, not Danny. You couldn’t know this would happen. She sent you up to that slough, right? And you were there with her, mowing her grass, smoothing her skin, getting her the pain shot they didn’t want to give her. It wasn’t your brothers who were there, man, it was you. Come on, Jamie, stay with me.”
Jamie sniffled, couldn’t talk for a minute.
At last he said, “Thank you, Casey. I love you.” Another dam broke behind his left eye.
“Whoever told you WASP boys about that stiff upper lip bullshit was a liar.” Jamie chuckled slightly. “Man, I’m sorry. We loved your mama. Even Louie did.”
“I know,” Jamie said, sniffling a big one. He realized it wasn’t too entertaining to listen to someone blow his nose long distance, so he managed to say, “You gonna be there awhile? Let me call you back, man. I’m sorry for this. It’s just, it’s so unexpected and I can’t handle it and it’s my mother. This is Thelma R. Foster we’re talking about!” He had to add the next line, but it tore him up to say it. “Indiana’s Junior Miss.”
“Tell you what, James. I’m going to the store right now to buy cigarettes. It’s only a five minute walk, and I’ll be here for the rest of the night. Okay, Jamie?”
Jamie nodded six times before he could answer. “Yes, Case,” he croaked. “Thank you, I’m sorry.” “No never mind, James. You know better than that. I’ll be home in five minutes.” “Okay. See you.” Even to himself Jamie sounded three years old. ***
Thirty minutes later, having paced every square inch of his mother’s berber and dialed answering machines repeatedly, he called Casey back. “How you doin’, baby?”
Haltingly Jamie said, “I wanted to get back with you, I didn’t want you worrying and wondering, hanging by the phone. I’m not any better but at least I’m functional enough to call you back.”
Casey could tell he had written it down. “It’s okay, man, call me anytime. I’m here for you. If you want to call at 4 a.m., you call, now. Any luck reaching your brothers?”
“No. I’m still on my own, but I did reach the rector, he’s going to be here in 30 minutes and that will help. The rule is you call the priest first, then he helps you figure everything else out, so you don’t blow ten grand on a casket to put in the ground because you’re grief-stricken; but we don’t need a casket, she didn’t want that. But still I suppose they’re trained people; am I making any sense?”
“Sure. You haven’t got hold of Danny or Stone yet, but you did reach the priest and he’s on his way. I’m glad. You have to have someone with you. I wish I could be there. What can I do to help you, long distance?” Casey’s honey voice, always sweet to the ear, broke Jamie’s heart again.
“There’s nothing to do, really. I donated the transplantable organs.”
“Good, Jamie. Your Mom will live on that way.”
“That’s a comforting thought. Thank you, Casey, I needed to hear that. I guess the next step is IU. She always had this idea from her college days that the body is just a shell and why not give it to pharmaceutical research? So I call Indiana University—they’re the ones with the medical school—to arrange for it. There’s probably a document about it in her computer, she always was great with the paperwork, but it’s an IBM-compatible and God knows how long it will take me to figure out how to work it.” Casey groaned in sympathy and IBM ignorance. “As many times as I told her about Macintosh, she went through two computers but she never would buy a Mac.” Jamie knew this tangent was quite crazy, but he said whatever came into his head. “Of course, the operating systems are becoming more similar. And she does have Windows, the poor man’s Mac. But still, I don’t know nothin’ ’bout birthin’ no IBMs.”
“I wish I could help.”
“She’s got financial stuff in there, I’ll have to go through that at some point. And go to the safe deposit box first thing tomorrow before they lock it up. She died in the hospital, so the local paper will call them right before deadline, they may have her name in tomorrow’s paper, in which case fuck the safe deposit box. Casey, I’m babbling so bad.”
“No, you’re not, you’re thinking things through with me. I’m listening to every word.”
“Father Jim’s on his way, and I’ve got the disposition of the body to go through, but we can have the funeral whenever we want. Once IU’s done, they cremate them. Then we’re to bury her ashes in the garden at St. John’s.”
“That’s a sweet thought, the church garden. Father Jim will help, you’ll be glad he’s there. And take care of yourself, now. Have you eaten? Think about eating.”
“I ate tomato sandwiches this afternoon.” Thelma didn’t keep food in her refrigerator. Could he bring himself to eat the frozen lasagna he’d made for her? “The worst part is I’m going to be here by myself tonight, and I hate the thought of that. What am I going to do with myself?” An idea came to him. “Once I reach Danny maybe I can try to work. The prose will be incoherent, but I’m going to need something to structure my time, and that’s what we pay editors for, right? All I’m doing here is wearing holes in the carpet.”
“Don’t worry about work. This is unnecessary, James. I mean, if you get hit by lightning and want to work, fine. Otherwise don’t give it a second thought.”
“I’m just trying to think of something to occupy my time, I’m this total tilt-a-whirl of thoughts. We did good today at the Slough, did I tell you? We really did good.”
“Will it help you to talk about that for a minute?”
“Maybe it would. Help me get rid of this jumblehead.” Jamie lit a cigarette. “The cop’s excellent. He got an ID, Glenn Archer Ferguson of Indianapolis, report filed by roommate or lover Gary Tompkins. Victim strangled, ligatures, no sign of struggle, no physical evidence—and the cop’s a crime scene expert. But we found great witnesses: neighbors can place an old brown Toyota at the scene, registered to Thomas Alan Ford.” Casey dropped the phone. “Are you there?”
“I’m here, man. Blown away, but I’m here.”
“Now you know why I’m such a complete french-fry brain.”
“Boy, you got me extra crispy.”
Jamie smiled. “So it is a story, Case. And here I’m a total wipeout, my mother’s dead, my brothers are hundreds of miles away, I’m pacing all over the place, I barely know where I am, this isn’t the time to be thinking of this; but for the last four years we’ve thought of little else. I won’t be able to write anything useful. I suppose it can be postponed a week. But when we’re going for tips we ought to strike while the trick’s still dripping. Now we’re not gonna make it. Damn, I can’
t believe all this happened in one day.”
“You’ve got way too much on your mind. So I’ll give you some directions, okay? Take some quick notes?”
“Let me find paper. Okay. Go, chief.”
Casey snorted. Casey as Jamie’s boss was a fiction they maintained only when it suited them; it seldom did. Tonight Casey was Jamie’s caregiver. Otherwise they were soul buddies, fraternal twins, close as sardines. “Headline: Jamie’s Goals Tonight.”
“Goals Tonight.”
“Number One: Talk to priest.”
“Right.”
“Number Two: Reach brothers.”
“Yes. Oh God.”
“Number Three: Eat something. Did you write that down, James?”
“Eat something,” Jamie mumbled, unable to imagine it.
“Number Four: Focus on Jamie’s needs only. Underline ‘only.’ Nothing else matters. Read ’em back to me.”
Jamie did. “Thanks, Casey, that’s a big help.” He re-read the list, his lips turning into a semi-circle, quivering, pointing to the equator. Six months ago Number One was Talk to Priest. “But what I really need, and I’m so ashamed?” He hesitated. “I want someone to hold me. I want a man to fuck me silly and make me forget everything. And sleep with me and be there for me the next day and the next.”
He began to cry again.
Casey got alert; Jamie had never been fucked in his life. He was the aggressive type, but also open and curious; Rick was the one who needed rigid roles. Casey and Jamie had discussed in great detail the thrills Jamie got from being Rick’s little blond musclestud—all of which lasted one year, not five. Casey would never have put up with it, but he hurt for his friend. “You need someone to take care of you tonight. Imagine your new lover’s there right now, his arms around you, kissing you, keeping you safe.”
“My new lover? Will I ever find a man I can trust?”
“You’ve had a standing offer from me for five years.” But they’d had that conversation many times, so Casey said, “You’ll find someone. He’s waiting for you, and he’ll be fifty times better than Rick. If you’re lucky, he’ll be half as good as me.”