Black Beans & Vice

by J. B. Stanley

  He barely noticed when one of the EMTs placed a firm hand on his shoulder and eased him away from his father’s unresponsive form. James stepped back, listening to a blur of muted speech, a blood pressure cuff inflating, a stethoscope shimmering on the pale flesh of Jackson’s chest, a light darting across a pair of unblinking blue eyes.

  With infinite care, the paramedics lifted Jackson onto a stretcher. They placed an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, and James couldn’t tear his gaze from the device, for it seemed to rob his father of a future that spoke of strength and independence.

  James followed the uniformed men as they wheeled his father through the lobby past rows of silent and sympathetic faces. When the Fitzgerald brothers detached themselves from the rest of the group, asking if they could help, James realized that he couldn’t just race off after the ambulance. It was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do, but he paused and took a moment to think.

  “Francis, can you and Scott tidy up the library and handle all the opening duties in the morning?” He removed a set of keys from his key ring and handed them to Scott. The twin gazed at them wide-eyed and then closed his fist around the brass keys with reverence.

  “Don’t worry about the library, Professor. We’ll run this place just like you would.” Francis promised.

  James clenched his lips together so they wouldn’t tremble and gave each brother a pat on the arm. “Please ask Willow to do the same at Quincy’s Whimsies. And give Mrs. Waxman a hand loading her painting into the car. Tell her I’m sorry I couldn’t say goodbye,” he added as he turned toward the doors leading outside.

  Tormented by the unwelcome thought that the portrait of Mrs. Waxman might be Jackson’s final painting, James jogged toward his truck. He tried to hide his misery beneath a façade of resolve and hope as he opened the passenger door for his stepmother.

  “He’s strong,” Milla stated firmly as James got in beside her and sped off behind the ambulance, the strobe of red lights bathing the white hood of his Bronco in an eerie glow.

  No one spoke on the way to the hospital. Milla’s hands were clasped and her eyes were shut, and James suspected she was deep in prayer. He also made silent appeals to the Almighty until they reached the hospital complex.

  In the emergency room waiting area, James completed the stacks of paperwork given him by the triage nurse, and then asked Milla to buy two cups of coffee from the vending machine down the hall. He knew that they were likely to spend most of the night in the waiting room and hoped that the hot brew might take an edge off the shock.

  They hadn’t spent long in the bucket-like chairs when another nurse asked them to follow her deeper inside the hospital. Within another smaller waiting area, this one offering padded chairs, an attractive female physician in royal blue scrubs met them with a kind smile. She introduced herself as Dr. Frey and after shaking hands with James and Milla, gestured for them to take a seat.

  “It appears that Mr. Henry has suffered a stroke,” she stated and James appreciated that she broke the news with gentle directness. “He’s been stabilized and we’re sending him for an MRI. We should know more after those results come back.” The doctor went on to ask Milla questions about Jackson’s health history and then left to check on Jackson and her other patients.

  Time crawled. Doctors, nurses, and family members passed through the waiting room in an endless parade. James looked at every person dressed in blue scrubs with hopeful eyes, keenly watching their faces in case they had something to impart, but they all walked by, focused on other patients and tasks. It took over an hour for Dr. Frey to return with the MRI results.

  She carefully reviewed what the test had shown and then advised them to go home and get some sleep and return during visiting hours in the morning.

  When James started to protest, Dr. Frey touched his hand. “Your father is currently sedated. It would be best if he weren’t stimulated. I know it’s hard, but you’ll do him the most good by being here fresh and bright-eyed first thing tomorrow.”

  The doctor’s words were delivered with such sincerity and concern that James and Milla felt compelled to heed them. James led his weary stepmother back to the Bronco.

  “I’m going to stay with you tonight,” James assured her as he pulled into his driveway. It felt like midnight although it was only half past ten. “Just give me a minute to grab a few things.”

  Inside the house, the darkness seemed to close in on him. James turned on every light he passed, grabbing the portable phone off its cradle as he headed down the hall to his bedroom. As he shoved his toothbrush and some clothes in a duffle bag, he dialed his ex-wife’s number.

  “Jane,” he croaked when she answered. “Oh, Jane.” And then he let the tears come.

  James made sure Milla was settled before trudging down the hall to his boyhood bedroom. Jackson had done little to change the small room since his son had moved to his own house on Hickory Hill Lane. The only alteration James noticed was that Milla was now using his aged, kneehole desk to organize her business accounts. The corner of the desk once occupied by James’ tin rocket ship bank now featured a pair of framed photographs taken during Milla and Jackson’s winter wedding. Another photo showed Eliot making a snowman in the Henry’s backyard. Eliot had tried his best to create a snowman resembling his grandpa. To accomplish this, the little boy had taped a paintbrush to the end of one of the stick arms and wrapped Jackson’s favorite plaid scarf around the snowman’s wide neck. Milla had captured him planting a kiss on Snow Jackson’s icy cheek.

  Eliot’s smiling, playful face was a balm to James. Cradling the photograph, he carried it to the nightstand and stared at his son while he wondered what news tomorrow would bring regarding Jackson’s condition.

  At first, James resisted sleep, feeling guilty that he would be resting in comfort when his father was alone in a hospital bed miles away. As the night wore on, however, his tired body and weary mind were no longer able to dwell on the dozens of “what if” questions that had been steadily amassing inside James’ head. Eventually he surrendered to slumber.

  The next morning he awoke to the pleasant sound of Milla moving about downstairs in the kitchen. These ordinary domestic noises—water whooshing through the pipes and the clanging of bowls and pans allowed James to believe that it was possible for life to return to normal. He jumped out of bed, showered, and got dressed in record time, worried that his father was already awake and frightened.

  “Don’t fret,” Milla said as he rushed into the kitchen. “I called and asked about your daddy. He’s still resting quietly, so come fill your belly with a hearty breakfast. You know there won’t be anything decent at that hospital. Lord knows I cannot take another swallow of the slop that vending machine calls coffee.”

  Nodding in agreement, James accepted a plate of eggs and bacon, but he found himself forcing down the food. For once in his life, he didn’t feel like eating. He cleaned his plate, however, because he knew it would please Milla, but it took every ounce of patience he possessed to watch her tidy the kitchen before finally turning toward the door.

  “I know you want to race to his side, dear.” Milla patted James on the cheek. “But we’re still going to get there well before visiting hours start as it is.”

  James frowned. “I don’t care about the rules. If they refuse to let us see him, the least I can do is try to track down Dr. Frey and gather more details about Pop’s condition. Why did he have a stroke in the first place? Is he going to need surgery? Rehab? Will he eventually be … okay?” The word came out sounding strangled.

  Milla slid her arm around him and leaned her head against his shoulder. “We’ll make it through, honey. And if I don’t get a chance to tell you today, then let me say it now: I sure am grateful you’re with me, James. I couldn’t have asked for a better son had I raised you myself.”

  Hugging her tightly, James carried their travel coffee mugs to the Bronco and, after watching Milla load a basket of baked goods into the back seat, dro
ve north toward the hospital.

  “What time did you get up this morning?” he asked her, gesturing at the basket.

  “About four,” she answered brightly. “I figured it couldn’t hurt to whip up some cinnamon scones for the nurses. Jackson isn’t going to be the easiest patient they’ve ever had and I figured I’d best start bribing them right off the bat.”

  James chuckled. “Nicely put.”

  The volunteer at the hospital’s reception desk directed them to Jackson’s room. As they approached the door, last night’s knot of fear reformed in James’ chest. Taking Milla’s hand, he moved into the room and then stopped, inhaling sharply.

  Jackson lay on the bed, attached to a multitude of tubes and wires. His arms and face were almost as white as the sheets covering his body and he looked shrunken, diminished. After all, to James, Jackson was the epitome of manliness. He was willful and fearless, his unapologetic personality rendering him taller and more powerful than his wiry physique suggested.

  “Pop,” he whispered.

  A nurse bustled into the room and James turned to her in anxious appeal. “Miss? Can you tell us how he’s doing?”

  The woman smiled at him. “He had a peaceful night,” she replied brightly while checking Jackson’s IV and making notes on a chart. “Woke up once during my shift and tried to talk, but he couldn’t get the words out. I told him where he was and that you all would be here to see him in the morning. He grunted and went right back to sleep.” She glanced at her watch. “We change shifts at seven, so I’ll introduce you to the nurse on duty before I leave.”

  “What about Dr. Frey?” James persisted. “Is she available to see us?”

  The nurse paused to think. “Dr. Frey was on call last night, so one of her partners will be seeing Mr. Henry today. His name is Dr. Scrimpshire and he’s a neurologist. He’s on rounds at the moment, but should be swinging through here any second now.” She gave them a comforting smile on the way out. “Your daddy’s in good hands, I promise you.”

  Not knowing what else to do, James and Milla pulled chairs up to the side of Jackson’s bed and waited. They chatted to Jackson about last night’s party in hopes that he could hear them, but he remained unresponsive. The only comfort his family could garner was the steady rise and fall of his chest.

  Dr. Scrimpshire entered the room fifteen minutes later and upon seeing a white lab coat, James jumped to his feet. The physician had encountered countless family members desperate for information about a loved one’s condition, so he wasted no time in explaining the situation. He placed a thin stack of folders on the nearest table and shook hands with Milla and James.

  “Mr. Henry has suffered a cerebral embolism,” he began in a deep, no-nonsense voice. “This occurs when a clot, usually originating from the heart, travels through the bloodstream and lodges in an artery in the brain. This blocks the blood flow to the brain.”

  Milla was wringing her hands. “That sounds pretty serious.”

  The doctor turned a pair of sympathetic eyes on her. “Your husband has sustained damage to his brain, Mrs. Henry. He will have to relearn many of the simple tasks we take for granted. But with the help of occupational therapy, there’s no reason he can’t live a long and fulfilling life.”

  Relief washed over James. “So he doesn’t need surgery?”

  “No.” Dr. Scrimpshire shook his head and uncapped his pen. He began to examine Jackson and made several notes in one of his files. James and Milla remained silent, watching the doctor with expressions of dread and awe. “We’ll start him on blood thinners to prevent those clots from reforming, but he doesn’t require surgery. That doesn’t mean that his road to recovery is going to be quick or easy. Fortunately, patients with supportive families tend to show the most marked improvement in rehab.”

  “Is he going to wake up soon?” Milla ventured.

  The doctor nodded. “It won’t be long now. He may be disoriented at first and I suspect he will have difficulty speaking. He may also express signs of fear, anger, or both. He’s basically waking up to a body that won’t do what he wants it to do.” He capped his pen and closed the file. “Just so you’re prepared …”

  James glanced at his father. “Before the paramedics came, he seemed to have lost feeling in the left side of his face. Is there any way to tell the extent of the...” James had to push the word out, “damage?”

  “I have the results of Mr. Henry’s initial imaging tests on my office computer. As soon as I’ve finished seeing the rest of my patients, I’ll come get you and we’ll look at them together.” The doctor rose and gathered up his paperwork. “The nurse will page me once your father is awake.” After giving them another compassionate smile, he left the room.

  James and Milla were silent for a moment.

  “I’m not sure I understood all of that,” Milla finally said, “but I’m holding fast to the part about Jackson living a long and full life!”

  Reaching out to cradle his father’s limp hand in his own, James said, “Me too.”

  _____

  Less than an hour later, James noticed his father’s eyelids fluttering and dashed from the room in search of a nurse. He knew he could have hit the call button on Jackson’s bed frame, but he trusted his own actions more. As he rounded the corner of the hallway, he nearly knocked Jane right off her feet.

  “I’m so glad to see you!” he cried. She gave him a fierce hug in return but James abruptly broke free and pulled her toward the nurses’ station. “Pop’s waking up!” he simultaneously told Jane and the pair of nurses behind the counter.

  By the time Jackson opened his eyes, a small crowd had gathered around his bed. A nurse bent over him, fussing with this and that while Milla squeezed Jackson’s hand to alert him that she was near.

  “Good morning, darlin’,” Milla spoke tenderly, keeping her voice calm and even. Her husband looked in her direction and she exhaled loudly relief. “You can see me, can’t you?”

  A strangled sound came from Jackson’s mouth.

  “Don’t try to talk, sweetheart,” Milla coaxed. “You’re in the hospital. You had a stroke last night. Can you nod your head if you understand me?”

  Jackson dipped his chin, his gaze never leaving Milla’s face. Milla’s and James’ eyes met across the bed. The fact that Jackson could see, move, and respond to other people gave him a surge of optimism.

  From that point onward, the medical team took over. They ran tests and checked vital signs and machine readings and Jackson’s fluid bag while James tried to find something useful to do. It was only later when he met with Dr. Scrimpshire and stared at images of his father’s brain on the computer screen that he began to fully understand what had happened to Jackson.

  The doctor swiveled his computer screen toward James and pointed out the shaded areas indicating damage. When James responded by blanching and gripping the arms of his chair, the neurologist put a firm hand on his shoulder. “The brain is a wonderful and mysterious organ, Mr. Henry. Damaged tissue does have the ability to recover.”

  “But not dead tissue?” James asked after he’d collected himself.

  “No,” the doctor admitted. “It will take many more tests to see what kind of rehabilitation your father will need. The good news is that our Rehab facility is one of the best in the state.”

  James looked away from the computer screen. “Sorry. I’m trying to digest everything. This hit us out of the blue. One moment, he was my typical, cranky, feisty father and the next ...” He stood and thanked the doctor. “Let me tell my stepmother about the results. I’d rather she didn’t see this image unless it’s absolutely necessary. She’s already having a hard time taking all of this in, and I think it would be best if she and I focus our energies on his recovery.” His eyes strayed back to the color-coded screen. “That’s the present. Now I’d like to turn to the future.”

  Dr. Scrimpshire nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a very wise plan.”

  _____

  Later, after hospi
tal visiting hours were over, Jane and James shared a quiet dinner at his house. Jane had arranged for Eliot to be picked up from preschool by his best friend’s mother. To the little boy’s delight, he was to experience his first sleepover that night.

  “It’s a good thing my parents were already planning a visit this month,” Jane said as she dropped a dollop of sour cream followed by a sprinkle of Monterey-Jack cheese over a bowl of black bean chili. “I told them to fly in this weekend. As for me, I just need to turn in grades this week, tidy up the office, and then I’ll be available.”

  James absently picked up the spoon she handed him. “Available?”

  “To take care of you, silly.” She smiled at him. “I know you, James. You’ll work eight hours a day, help Jackson with his rehab, continue to be the World’s Best Father, and go to church every Sunday.” She sat across from him with her own bowl of chili. “And that’s too much for any mere mortal to handle. With that kind of schedule, you won’t be able to do laundry or clean the house or stock your fridge. Whatever energy you have left will be spent driving up to see us, so I think Eliot and I should live here over the summer, if that’s okay with you.”

  The fear and worry that had been holding James hostage for the last twenty-four hours eased their grip. He stared across the table at his ex-wife in wonder. “I thought you were teaching two courses this summer.”

  “They’re online courses. My summer students are actually working adults and with their busy schedules, courses via computer are what they want. This way, they can work toward their degree without having to appear physically on a college campus.” She took a bite of chili and gestured for James to do the same. “So all I need is my laptop and a few hours of quiet in order to post lectures and do my grading. It’s perfect really. I get to spend more time with my favorite men. Three months of bliss.”