by Mary Hogan
True to form, Anita bustled into the apartment with a venti skim latte from Starbucks and an egg-and-cheese protein box. “I know you,” she said. “You’ll eat chips in the hospital cafeteria. You’ll drink Diet Coke all day.”
“Not all day,” I replied. “And it was pretzels.”
She set the food and coffee on the kitchen table and circled her arms around me. “He’s not your mom. He’s not your dad.”
Tears rose up by degrees. First, I felt a pressing in my chest, then a tingling across my face, then slippage down my cheeks.
“Sit,” Anita said. “Eat protein.” I sat and ate protein and blew my nose while I told my best friend about the ordeal.
“Lola.” Anita cocked one brow. Lola tilted her nose to the floor.
“It’s not her fault,” I said. “It’s mine. Paul’s been so—” I didn’t tell her the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but. Instead, I said, “He’s been so selfish lately. I wanted to punish him. I’m a horrible wife.”
“You’re not horrible, Fay. You’re spiteful.”
A chuckle burped through my lips.
“All wives are spiteful now and then.” Anita snapped a detergent pod into the dishwasher dispenser. “So I hear.”
As I swallowed the last bites of cheese, I heard the dishwasher rumble on and the water swish around. I watched Anita suds the soapstone countertop and wipe down the butcher-block table. The clean scent of dish soap swirled through the air. Turning to me, she asked, “Do you know when Paul will be out of surgery?”
“Noon. That’s what the doctor said.”
“Good. I have time to walk Lola while you get dressed.”
Sometimes, I wanted to slide my hand into Anita’s palm and beg her to hang on to me forever.
WE SAT. WE waited. The View morphed into The Chew. Noon edged up to one o’clock, then neared two. The coffeemaker in the corner of the surgical waiting room was broken. Anita slyly checked the time on her phone. “A text from my mom,” she lied. Then she said, “Be right back,” and stood up and marched over to the reception desk.
It felt peaceful in limbo. I didn’t mind watching Mario Batali make something cheesy in his orange Crocs and cargo shorts. The longer we waited, the less real it felt. We were picking Paul up. Plain and simple. We were waiting for him to get dressed. The three of us would have lunch. Was there a good pizza place nearby?
“Fay?”
Looking up, I was startled to see Paul’s law clerk.
Isaac’s physique filled the room. Not at all fat, he was nonetheless huge. His shoulders could carry an ox yoke. When a person looked at Isaac Lewis, they could see that he was the sort of man who would—and could—carry them out of a collapsed building.
“John called me,” he said. “How’s the judge?”
“Still in surgery.”
In Isaac’s alarmed expression, I suddenly realized how long Anita and I had been sitting there. “You’re worried about his trial?” I asked, stupidly.
“I arranged for a backup judge.”
“Ah. Good. I think he may need, um, a few more days.”
Anita reappeared. “Isaac!” She kissed his cheek. “Do you know something we don’t know? Reception won’t tell me anything.”
He said, “No,” but his eyes flicked to the right. A sign, Paul once told me, of lying. “Defendants think they are so smart,” he’d said. “Lies are always written on a face.”
“I’m going to get food,” Anita announced. Then she turned toward the elevator. “If you see Paul before I get back, Fay, give him a kiss from me. On the lips.”
I laughed. Isaac settled in the chair next to me and took my hand. Leaning close, he said, “Paul’s surgery may be a blessing.”
I made a face.
“Not a blessing,” he rushed in. “Wrong word. It’s just that, well, remember what we talked about?”
“His new medication?”
“Yeah.” He knew I was covering up. I knew that he knew. “Since then,” he said in a low voice, “things have slipped a little, to be honest. Paul has had trouble understanding briefs. Lately, he’s been asking questions in court that show he’s not listening. Or, maybe he’s listening, but not fully comprehending. It seems to come and go. I’ve been planning to talk to him about retirement. You know, soon. I’m not sure how much more I can cover for him. Or how much I should.”
“I see,” I said, not sure what else to say.
“A long recovery may be just what he needs to ease himself off the bench. No shame. Not like saying he’s leaving to spend more time with family. No one ever believes that. I’m thinking, maybe we have a silver lining here? You know, not as bad as a competency hearing.”
My heart thudded. Competency hearing? Had things gotten that bad?
“Mrs. Agarra?”
At last, the surgeon stepped through the door. I leaped up. Still dressed in green scrubs, she said, “Sit. Please. We met in the emergency room. I’m Dr. Kanton.”
I sat. I introduced Isaac. I asked, “Is Paul okay?”
Pausing ever so slightly, Dr. Kanton said, “Yes.”
My heart dropped to my knees. A pause.
“He’s still in recovery,” she said, sitting next to me with her elbows on her knees and her fingers braided. “As you know, it was a severe break, made more complicated by osteoarthritis in the acromioclavicular joint.”
Nodding, I said, “Ah,” even as I wondered, Had I known his break was severe? The night before, wasn’t it only serious?
“I was able to repair the humerus fracture and secure the titanium plates,” the surgeon continued. “The fracture tore a nerve, making the repair somewhat tricky. Paul was under general anesthesia longer than I’d like, but he’ll come out of it soon.”
“He’s still asleep?”
“No. He’s awake. In the recovery room. As I said.” Her clipped sentences felt slightly punitive. My cheeks flushed. I realigned my features to look more mature. Since Paul’s accident, I’d felt as though my adulthood had slithered away. Seeped through the floorboards. In its place was the child I remembered: a teenage kid who promised God she would give up MTV and anything else He wanted if He would erase the hollow stare in her mother’s eyes.
“Anesthesia can linger in the body,” said Dr. Kanton. “It can take time to clear a patient’s disorientation.”
“I see.” Of course, I didn’t see at all. I cocked my head pensively.
“When can we go in?” Isaac asked.
“One visitor for now. Family.” She stood, and I did, too. Leaving Isaac in the waiting room, I followed Dr. Kanton like a puppy. On our way down the hall, she turned to me and said, “Don’t be alarmed if your husband seems dazed. He’s on oxygen. To help his body recover as fast as possible.”
“I see.”
Of course, I didn’t see anything at all.
“Judge?” The surgeon’s loud voice was jarring in the quiet around Paul’s bed. “You’re in the recovery room. You had surgery to fix your broken shoulder. Your wife is here to see you. It’s time to wake up.”
My husband slowly opened his eyes.
“Paul?” Tears rained down my cheeks.
Propped up on a pillow, his shoulder and arm encased in a surgical sling, Paul stared blankly. His nose and mouth were covered by an oxygen mask. With each breath, it fogged up.
“I’m here, my love.”
Pulling a penlight from her breast pocket, Dr. Kanton clicked it on and flicked it in Paul’s eyes. “Paul?”
From deep within his throat, a garbled noise tumbled into the oxygen mask. “Hoam. Git owa.”
I glanced at Dr. Kanton. When she nodded, I lifted the oxygen mask off his face. “Say that again?”
“Get me out of here.”
It was muddled, but clear enough to understand. The doctor said, “That’s a good sign.”
“It is?”
“He’s coming around.”
“Shhhh,” Paul whispered. “What’s that noise?”
Dr. Kanton p
ushed some button on the beeping machine at the foot of Paul’s bed and said to me, “Keep that oxygen flowing.”
I returned Paul’s mask to his nose and mouth. I smoothed the wiry hair on top of his head. Despite the muffle of the mask, I heard him say, “They’re just outside the door.”
“Who?”
“Paul. You’re safe.” Again, Dr. Kanton raised the decibel level of her voice as if to penetrate his fog. “You are in a hospital. Your wife is here. Can you tell me what year this is?”
Paul twisted his neck left and right. “Mmgaah.”
“Paul? Judge?” Dr. Kanton was shouting again. “I told you where you are. Can you tell me what I said?”
He looked at her like she was insane.
Paul’s free hand flailed in the direction of the IV line running into his vein. He tried to grasp it. Or was he reaching for my hand? I sandwiched his palm between both of mine and squeezed.
“What month is this? What season?” Dr. Kanton continued yelling questions. “Do you know what city you live in?”
Again, Paul stretched his neck and made a noise. “It sounds like he’s in pain,” I said. “Is he in pain?”
“Discomfort and paranoia are not uncommon.” To Paul, she asked, “Do you recognize your wife?”
Paul stared blankly. The blood left my face.
“What’s happened?”
Ignoring me, Dr. Kanton pointed to her watch. “Can you tell me what this is, Paul? This?” She held up a pen. He said nothing.
“What’s wrong with my husband?”
The surgeon’s lips were pressed into a white line. She looped around the foot of Paul’s bed and rested her hand on my upper arm. “I need you to calm down.”
“Calm down? His surgery was hours ago. You said he was fine.”
“I said that anesthesia can have aftereffects. Especially in the elderly.”
Elderly? She was talking about my Paul. Judge Paul Agarra.
“What does he need?” I asked. “More oxygen? Protein?”
“Give it a few days.” She returned the penlight to her pocket and moved closer to the door.
“Days? Of what?”
“Rest. Sometimes, cognitive fog lasts longer than we’d like.”
I stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Agarra.” She smiled fakely. “The best course of action is to reassess in a day or two.” She seemed put out, as if Paul hadn’t played by the rules. As if I was being pushy. Before she left, she said, “Get some rest yourself, okay?” In a flash of green scrubs, she was gone.
I stood there, dumbfounded. Get some rest? What?
In a conspiratorial whisper, Paul murmured beneath his mask, “She’s gone. Help me up.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
WHEN PAUL WAS MOVED INTO A REGULAR ROOM, I SHOULD have made a fuss. “He’s not recovered,” I should have said. “Why did he leave the recovery room?” Instead, I stood at my husband’s bedside and picked up where Dr. Kanton left off. “You’re in the hospital, Paul. You broke your shoulder. Can you tell me what I just said?”
Paul stared blindly at the ceiling. His oxygen mask was gone. He opened his mouth and mumbled, “Did you ask me?” In flashes of recognition, I could see that he knew me. Just as abruptly, I could see that he didn’t. My brain couldn’t process everything. It felt encased in Bubble Wrap. Apart from reality. Protected against a hard landing.
Utterly exhausted, I slumped in the chair next to Paul’s bed and stared at the drip, drip of his IV.
By then, Anita had left, as had Isaac. It was late afternoon. Maybe the middle of the night? All of a sudden, I became aware of a nauseating smell.
“Oh,” I said.
“We got here as soon as we could.” Kate Agarra deposited a huge bouquet of flowers in my arms. The cloying aroma sickened me. “Beautiful,” I said, breathing through my mouth. “I’ll see if the nurse has a vase.”
“Forget about that,” John commanded. “Where is the doctor?”
“Dad?” Kate positioned herself in front of Paul’s face. As if he were blind, for God’s sake. She wore lululemon joggers and running shoes. “We’re here for you. Edie sends her love. She couldn’t leave her tutoring session. But, like I said, we’re here.”
Had she gone straight from the gym to the airport?
“Why isn’t Dad in a private room?”
I looked at John and blinked. I had no idea why Paul was in a shared room. It’s where they put him. After they removed him from the recovery room when he wasn’t recovered at all.
“What’s the woman’s name?” My stepson fired questions at me.
“What woman?” I didn’t appreciate his tone.
Paul swatted his free hand in front of his face. The other one was tucked into a surgical sling. He asked Kate, “Do I know you?”
“The surgeon,” John said, impatiently. “What’s her name again?”
“Dr. Kanton.”
“First name?”
Still, I didn’t know. Did I need to know? What difference did it make?
“They know who she is at the nurses’ station.”
With my arms puking flowers, I watched John stomp down the hall in full asshole mode. His sense of entitlement oozed from his pores. His iPhone, of course, was in his hand. It looked vaguely threatening, as if he had an attorney on speed dial.
“Page Dr. Kanton for me,” I heard him say.
“You are?”
Instantly, that nurse became my favorite.
“John Agarra. A-G-A-R-R-A. Son of Judge Paul Agarra.”
“Need anything? Juice? A bagel?” Leaving Kate cooing into Paul’s face, I left to find a vase. Outside Paul’s room, a strong urge to run overtook me. The elevator was so, so close. A teenage volunteer skipped up to me and inserted her face into the blossoms in my arms. “Gorgeous.”
“My husband hates cut flowers,” I said. “They represent death to him. The beginning of decay.”
The girl stared, her lips glistening. Sweetening my voice, I asked, “Do you happen to have something to put these in?”
With a nod, she plucked the monstrous bouquet from my hands and disappeared down the hall. The stink stayed on my clothes, my hands, my face. I made my way to the restroom and shut myself in a stall.
“Pull yourself together, Fay,” I muttered. Then I did something I would never normally do: I sat on the toilet with my head in my hands. “You are a capable adult. You can handle this.” I reminded myself to breathe in. Then, I reminded myself to breathe out. Repeat. I closed my eyes and pictured a glassine lake. I listened to my heart beating. Ba blop. Ba blop. I waited for my brain to rejoin my body. As soon as I felt sturdy enough to cope, I stood and unlocked the door. Marching to the sink, I splashed water on my face, not caring if my mascara ran or not. Had I even applied mascara that morning?
Dr. Kanton was back in Paul’s room, flicking her little flashlight in his eyes and shouting again. “Can you tell me where you are, Judge?” He blinked at her disinterestedly. I stepped back. John stepped forward.
“What I need from you is a timetable,” he informed the doctor. His arms were crossed over his chest and his stance was wide. Kate straightened the mini Kleenex box next to Paul’s beige pitcher of water.
The surgeon returned the penlight to her breast pocket. She inhaled and said, “Hmm.” For the first time, I noticed that she was once a pretty woman. Her dark hair had been naturally black; the bluish undertone in her skin had been the ideal backdrop for sterling silver. I wondered, Had she been muscled in medical school? Or had she always had soft edges?
“Let’s step outside.”
Paul grunted when the three of us followed Dr. Kanton out of his room. A nursing assistant with a bathing bin passed us on his way in.
“Thank you.” Kate gratefully squeezed the assistant’s arm. He smiled. Kate Agarra was the type of wife who would learn all the nurses’ names if her husband was in the hospital. She would show up with homemade cookies and T-shirts that read Team John.
She’d cover John’s bed with a quilt from home. A framed photo of Edie would stand in his sight line. Kate would never lie that her husband disliked flowers when it was really her problem. She wasn’t the kind of woman who thought stale flower water smelled like rotting corpses.
“Yes, thank you!” I yelped to the assistant who was already at work in Paul’s room.
Beyond my husband’s earshot, Dr. Kanton began, “As I already explained to Mrs. Agarra, it’s not uncommon for older patients to experience cognitive fog following surgery. The medical term is postoperative cognitive dysfunction, or POCD. It can last for days or weeks. According to one study, twelve percent of patients over sixty experience cognitive impairment for a full three months after surgery. Some even longer.”
“Three months?” Stunned, John turned to me. “Did you know this?”
“I was told. As she said.” POC . . . what?
“It’s usually transient,” Dr. Kanton said.
“Usually?” John gaped at her. “My father is a sitting judge.”
“Yes. I am aware of that. Give it a chance to clear.” Ever so slightly, her body turned toward the elevator. “The only time I’ve seen POCD descend into a permanent state is when the patient had cognitive impairment before surgery.”
“What?” I swallowed dry spit. The airy bull pen seemed to suddenly lose its oxygen. I opened and closed my mouth like a cowfish on the beach. It wasn’t obvious, but Dr. Kanton’s shoulders ticked back to us. She asked me, “Did you ever notice any memory lapses or personality changes in your husband, Mrs. Agarra?”
“Like what?” Suddenly, I felt sick.
“Forgetting names more than usual, an inability to process or recall information, poor judgment, gait disturbances, that sort of thing.”
“Fay?” John’s voice was an ice pick.
“What do you mean by permanent?” I swiveled away from John and his self-righteous face.
Concern creased Dr. Kanton’s forehead. “Well, we don’t like to use the word ‘dementia,’ but there have been cases where patients develop symptoms similar to Alzheimer’s disease.”