“I have to go now, so I’ll leave you to your calls.” As the doctor rose, Sheriff Eddie Spruill’s patrol car barreled around the corner from the front of the hospital, sirens blaring in violation of every municipal noise ordinance. Dr. Clare raised his voice to be heard. “I’ll call when we know anything. This could take a while, so don’t get nervous if you don’t hear from me. I promise to let you know as soon as there’s anything to tell.”
Right behind him, Augusta Whittington made a beeline through the automatic doors. “Christopher Clare!” She pointed at him as if he were an escaping felon. “Why aren’t you taking care of my son?”
He acknowledged her with a nod, but didn’t stop. “Hello, Mrs. Whittington. I’m on my way to do just that.” He swiped an ID, then escaped into the emergency department, leaving Elizabeth to explain the situation to her mother-in-law.
Elizabeth faced Mrs. Whittington and motioned to the seat the doctor had vacated. “Sit down, Augusta.” It was the first time she’d ever addressed Howe’s mother with such familiarity, but since she was about to tell the woman her only child had a brain tumor, Elizabeth decided they should be on a first-name basis at last.
Surprisingly docile, Mrs. Whittington subsided, her back erect to brace herself for what she was about to hear. “It’s a stroke, isn’t it? I’m sure of it. That’s what killed his father.”
How could she be so sure? She hadn’t allowed an autopsy. But Elizabeth was past such petty concerns. She had a dreadful bond to share. “Yes, it was a stroke. Caused by the blood supply to a small tumor in his frontal cortex.” She pointed to the area the doctor had indicated above her eyebrow. “They’re prepping Howe for surgery right now.”
Augusta blanched, shooting to her feet with bald panic in her expression. “I have to see him.” Her blue-veined, manicured hands clenched. “They can’t take him till I see him. I didn’t get to say good-bye to his father. Dear God, let me have that, at least.”
Elizabeth surprised herself by rising and putting her arms around the woman who had never thought her good enough for precious Howe. To her surprise, Augusta’s stiff posture relented, but only a little. “He’s probably in the operating room already,” Elizabeth explained. “Dr. Clare just came out to tell me what was happening and have me sign the authorization.”
Augusta glared at her with fierce determination, as if willing Howe to get well could make it so. “Chris Clare is the best, bar none. Howe will have the best.”
“Thank you for calling Dr. Clare. And the others,” Elizabeth said, surprised at how deeply she meant it. “And for the helicopter. The paramedics said it probably saved his life.”
Before breaking free to straighten her already perfect silk shirtwaist, Augusta patted Elizabeth’s arm—a sole gesture of affection in all the years they’d known each other. “My Howe deserves the best.”
Under other circumstances, Elizabeth would have taken that as a subtle dig at her own undesirable origins, but in that place, in that dreadful hour, they were equals, and she rose above it. If Charles were the one in the operating room, she’d feel the same way Augusta felt about Howe.
A uniformed volunteer approached them from the hallway to the main hospital. “Mrs. Whittington?”
Both of them answered at once. “Yes?”
The woman looked from one to the other. “If you ladies will please follow me, I’ll take you to the intensive care waiting room. Dr. Clare will call down from surgery as soon as he has anything to report, but his procedures can take a long time, so don’t let that worry you. He’s very meticulous, which is a good thing, when it’s neurosurgery.”
They followed through a series of spaces and hallways till the volunteer led them to a small room with cushioned chairs, a TV, and a desk that held a telephone. To Elizabeth’s relief, there were no other people there.
At least their drama wouldn’t play out in front of strangers.
After the volunteer left them alone, Augusta sank to a chair, her spine still unrelenting. “Thank God there’s no one else in here.”
“My thoughts, exactly.” Elizabeth went to the TV and changed the program from Judge Judy to a nature show on PBS, then took a chair several seats away from her mother-in-law.
Silence stretched brittle between them till she remembered aloud, “Oh, God. The children.” She started hunting for the phone again, which had been swallowed back into the bowels of her purse.
“You can call Charles,” Augusta announced, opening her slim crocodile clutch. “I’ll break the news to Patricia. She’ll be heartbroken. You know how she adores her daddy.” Far more than she adores her mother, Elizabeth silently finished for her, then let it go.
“Good idea.” Frankly, Elizabeth dreaded telling Patricia. Unfortunately, her daughter took after Elizabeth’s father—the life of the party, all impulse and emotions, and devil take the effect it had on anybody else. Elizabeth loved her, but despaired of her manipulative ways and lack of focus.
Augusta drew her cell phone from her purse and stared at it as if it were a snake.
Elizabeth volunteered, “Her number’s—”
“I know her number,” Augusta snapped. “It’s just this contraption that takes me a minute.” She dismissed Elizabeth with a waggle of her crowded gold charm bracelets. “Don’t look over my shoulder. Call Charles.”
Elizabeth couldn’t let Charles get the news the way Howe had about his father. If they were going to lose Howe, she prayed there would be time for Charles to be there. She pressed speed dial for Charles’s cell. To her vast relief, he answered.
“Hey, Mama. What’s up?”
How could she tell him? “Your father’s sick, Charles,” she said quietly. “He’s in surgery at Piedmont. I think it would be best if you came home right away. Do I need to call the dean? I know your bar exam is just a few weeks from now, and—”
“I’ll get the first plane out,” he said, his tone clipped. “Don’t worry about the bar exam. What is it, Mama? I want to know.”
Always the straight shooter, her wonderful boy, as direct as his father was oblique. A strong boy. And good to the bone. “It’s a tumor,” she said, “a small one, in the front of his brain. The blood supply ruptured, causing a stroke, but the doctor said the mass appeared to be regular and contained.” The possibility of cancer hung unspoken between them. “Your grandmother got us airlifted to Piedmont and called in Dr. Clare, a wonderful neurosurgeon.”
The children didn’t know much about their other grandmother, safely tucked away in a Clearwater condo provided by Howe, and Elizabeth meant to keep it that way. “Gamma says he’s the best.”
“Good.” Charles’s voice strengthened. “Don’t worry, Mama. Dad will be all right. He always lands on his feet. You just hang in there till I get there. One of the guys can take me to the airport. I’ll charter a plane if I have to.” He’d gotten his pilot’s license at sixteen, and his commercial license at eighteen. “I’ll get Sam to meet me when I get to Atlanta.” Charles’s best friend, Sam, went to Emory.
“Don’t speed,” she cautioned. “And make sure the plane’s safe. I couldn’t stand it if something happened to you, too. I’ll see you when you get here.”
“I’ll be careful.” A brief pause. “Do you want me to call Patti?”
Elizabeth glanced over to see Augusta pressing the buttons on her cell. “Thanks, but Gamma’s doing that for me.”
“I’ll see you soon. I love you, Mama-lama.” He used the name he’d called her as a child, and it almost undid her.
“I love you, too.” Her eyes welled with tears, not for herself, but for the loss her son was facing. Howe hadn’t been a demonstrative father, but he’d been a good one, and Charles loved him. Please, God, keep him safe. Keep them both safe.
She closed the phone, suddenly feeling hollow.
“Patricia, this is your grandmother,” Augusta enunciated. “Call me at once. There’s been a family emergency. My cell phone number is . . .” She glared briefly at Elizabeth. “What in
blazes is it? I never call myself.”
“Four-oh-four, five-five-five, eight-eight-two-one,” Elizabeth summoned from somewhere in the obscure reaches of her mind, though how she remembered was beyond her.
Augusta repeated the numbers, then said good-bye and held the phone out for a critical assessment before finding the disconnect button. “I don’t know why that child doesn’t answer. She might as well not have a cell phone.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. Augusta rarely even turned hers on, considering it beneath her to be at the beck and call of everybody no matter where she was.
Elizabeth glanced to the clock on the wall. Three-fifteen on a sunny Sunday December afternoon in Athens. Patricia could be anywhere.
Then she jumped when the phone in her hand rang. The screen showed her daughter’s number. “Hello?”
“Mama?” Patricia’s tone was the one she’d had when she was little and afraid, waking Elizabeth’s maternal emotions. “What’s wrong? Please tell me Daddy’s okay.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Elizabeth told her. “I’m so sorry, but your daddy’s had a stroke. He’s in surgery at Piedmont, but he’s in the very best of hands. There was a small tumor at the front of his brain—”
Patricia lost it. “Oh, God! A stroke?” she sobbed out. “That’s what killed Granddaddy! Daddy can’t die. He can’t. He’s the only one besides Gamma who really loves me!” The last hit Elizabeth hard, square in the sternum. “He can’t die, Mama. He can’t. Don’t let him.”
Shaken, Elizabeth managed, “Sweetie, do you have a friend who can drive you down here?” Patricia was reckless under the best of circumstances. “I don’t think you should drive right now, but I do think you need to come.”
“Cathy!” Patricia shrieked away from the receiver. “Get your car! I need you to take me to Atlanta. My daddy’s dying!”
For once, she wasn’t exaggerating.
Her voice came back on the line. “I’m coming. Where? You said where?”
“Piedmont Hospital, at Peachtree and Collier. We’re in the intensive care waiting room. But don’t speed. There’s time,”
Elizabeth said, unaware how prophetic that would turn out to be. “The doctor said the surgery could take hours and hours. Be safe, honey. Don’t let anything bad happen to you.”
“If Daddy dies,” her daughter wailed, “I might as well die, too.”
Elizabeth didn’t even try to address that. “Just be safe, honey. I love you. We’ll be waiting.”
She ended the call, then turned to her waiting mother-in-law. “He can’t die,” she whispered, echoing Patricia’s desperation, the tears overtaking her at last. “He can’t.” Grief for all they’d lost and all that never had been overtook her, and she broke down.
Augusta peered at her with consternation. “You love him?” Clearly, the idea didn’t compute. “Even after all these years? Even after . . . everything?”
So she knew about the hookers.
“God help me,” Elizabeth managed through her tears, shocked by the truth of it. “I do.” But how could she? She’d laid that all to rest so long ago.
Augusta rose and took the seat beside her. Awkward, she patted at her shoulder. “There, there. We mustn’t make a spectacle. Howell wouldn’t want us to. Dignity. We have to be strong for the children.”
All the frustration of the past few hours suddenly found a focus, and Elizabeth turned on her mother-in-law. “Like you were for Howe when his father died? Do you have any idea how your coldness about that hurt him? Well, it did.” Anger replaced the sorrow that had gripped her. “He hated you for that. He told me so.” Augusta flinched, but Elizabeth took no satisfaction from it. “I hope my children do see me cry for their father. At least they’ll know I cared what happened to him.”
Her mother-in-law stood. “I refuse to listen to such hateful talk. Call me when you learn anything, and send Patricia to me. I’ll be in the other waiting room.” She left without a backward glance.
Even when attacked, she just gave orders.
Numb, Elizabeth sat back to wait, alone.
Two hours later, Patricia arrived. By then, Elizabeth had calmed down enough to comfort her daughter, then send her to her grandmother.
Another hour passed, during which Elizabeth escaped into a soggy sleep, curled in a chair in front of the droning TV. Then someone was shaking her. “Mrs. Whittington?”
She looked up to see Dr. Clare standing over her, a concerned look on his face. He’d said he’d call, but there he was, in person.
A chill settled to her marrow. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“No,” Dr. Clare hastened to reassure her. “He’s holding his own.” He smiled. “Your husband is obviously a very strong man.”
Thank you, God! Elizabeth crumpled in relief. She could almost believe that everything was going to be all right. Then the words brain damage brought her spine erect. “The damage . . . ?”
Dr. Clare met her frightened gaze with frankness. “The surgery went very well. The frozen section sent to the lab for immediate testing indicated that the tumor is benign and very slow-growing, but we’ll have to wait for the biopsy results for confirmation. That should come in by Friday. The good news is, the growth was regular and well encapsulated. Could have been there for decades. As for what damage the rupture of the tumor’s blood supply might have caused, we won’t know for certain till your husband wakes up.”
Elizabeth wanted to hope for the best, but was afraid to. “And when will that be?”
“Not for at least several days. We’ll be keeping him sedated to try to minimize the swelling. Everybody reacts differently to this type of trauma. We’ll just have to wait and see. Take it one day at a time.”
“But he’s out of the woods, so far?” she asked.
“So far, so good,” he said, patting her upper arm. “Let’s just pray it stays that way.”
“When can we see him?”
“Once he’s settled in ICU, the nurse will notify you when you can look in on him. After that, you might want to get a room nearby and get some rest, yourself. This is going to be a long week.”
“His mother . . .” Elizabeth couldn’t help putting herself in Augusta’s shoes. “She really wants to see him. And our daughter.” Why was she explaining? “Our son’s on his way.”
The doctor remained kind and patient. “As soon as he’s settled and stable, you can each peek in on him, but he needs to rest.”
As if he could in intensive care.
The doctor’s pager went off, and he looked at the screen. “Sorry. I have another emergency.” As he rose, he handed her a card. “Here’s my PA’s name and direct number. If you have any concerns or specific questions, please call him. Families often see signs of trouble before the staff does, and I want to know right away if anything goes wrong.” He rose to leave. “Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .”
“Please, go. And thank you.”
She’d scarcely been alone a minute, collecting herself before braving Augusta and Patricia, when Charles strode in and wrapped her in a warm bear hug. “Hey there, Mama-lama. What’s the latest?”
Tears of gratitude and relief sheeted down her cheeks as she related what the doctor had just told her. “Now we just have to wait.”
Charles rubbed his palms up and down her back, then gave her another, briefer, squeeze before he drew away. “Where’s Patti? And Gamma?”
“Powwowed in the other waiting room.” She didn’t need to explain. Charles had long since wised up to the way things were, but he’d accepted the situation with a grace Elizabeth hadn’t been able to muster. “Let’s go tell them.”
Her son took her hand, and fortified by his presence, she accompanied him into enemy territory to deliver the news.
Then they went, one by one, to see son, father, and husband lying pale and bandaged, connected by a maze of wires and tubes to monitors and IVs.
The blank peace of his expression gave them all comfort.
And then t
he waiting started.
At first, they all stayed at the hospital, taking turns getting food and necessities, fielding calls from church friends and Howe’s employees and Women’s Club and Garden Club and Sewing Club and Rotary members. And P.J., who seemed surprisingly concerned that Howe might not wake up, which seemed odd to Elizabeth, considering P.J.’s recent declaration of love.
Elizabeth told him, and everyone else, the same thing: Howe was holding his own, and they just had to wait for him to wake up.
Faithful servants Pearl and Thomas packed for the four of them and brought their things, then stood weeping quietly by Howe’s bed before returning to watch over the houses back in Whittington.
But as the days wore on and Howe remained in his coma, the concerned calls and flowers slacked off, and Elizabeth took the doctor’s advice and got them rooms at a nearby hotel. Augusta kept vigil on Wednesdays and Thursday nights. Charles took Tuesdays; Patricia took Sundays and Mondays, and Elizabeth sat up on Fridays and Saturdays. Their nights off were short, and the days at the hospital stretched longer and longer, but still, they saw no change.
And so their worlds were reduced to a small waiting room and one visit an hour beside a narrow bed in a tiny curtained space where the body of her husband lay.
Elizabeth did her best to distract herself and the children in the times between: reading, doing crossword puzzles, teaching Patricia to knit, and playing cards. She brought small Christmas gifts and treats for the dedicated staff, and did everything she could to make their jobs easier, but before she knew it, Christmas had come and gone, and the doctors moved Howe to a regular room, where she and the children and Augusta could offer him more stimulation to try to help him wake up.
After another two weeks passed with no change, the hospital social worker came in and said Howe needed to be moved to a long-term skilled-care facility.
Augusta and Patricia went ballistic, but blessedly, Charles took them out of the room so Elizabeth could have some peace to digest the idea that her husband was being sent to a nursing home.
Waking Up in Dixie Page 5