“Merry said you're interfering in her life, but when I asked if she wanted you to leave, she became agitated. That's when she overturned the table and stalked out.”
“Will it help if she sticks with therapy?”
“At this time? No. Merry's uncooperative. Until she asks for help, this is a waste of your money and my time.”
“Do you think she'll ever function normally?”
“I don't know.”
A door slammed on my hopes of going back home for good. “What if I left?”
“It would do irreparable harm. More, it would put the children in jeopardy. If you left, I think she'd spin completely out of control. Are you planning to return to New York?”
“I want to, but I can't abandon Alex and Em. Or Merry.”
Dr. Silberman rose and shook my hand. “I'm sorry.”
“Would it be possible to get her into a rehab center to get her off the drugs and booze?”
“It would have to be a voluntary commitment. She could check herself out.”
“Could Whip commit her?”
“Involuntarily? No. She's not a threat to herself or anyone else.”
Merry sat stiff and defiant, arms crossed under her breasts, when I returned to the waiting room. I walked past her and headed out to the car. We made the short ride home in strained silence. Merry took off upstairs; I took off for the patio.
I hadn't been in the kitchen more than ten minutes fixing lunch when I was subjected to a stealth waist hug. Emilie.
“What brought this on?”
“You're all pinky orange again.”
“That means exactly what?”
“You've decided to stay.”
“For a little longer.”
“No, you're going to stay.”
With that, Emilie squeezed me again and danced out of the room, spinning her way down the hallway toward the front door.
At least one of us was happy with the decision.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Twenty four hours after the debacle at Dr. Silberman's, Whip called to say he'd be home the next day. “I'm going to stop at the office on the way from the airport.”
“See you after you unwind. Be home for dinner.”
I knew the transition from a man's world on a construction site to domesticity could be disconcerting. When I came back from New York, I had to come down from a high of being with my friends. I was never certain what I'd find.
I was in the kitchen, deep in thought, when Whip appeared at my side. He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Where's Merry?”
I wiped up a spill on the stove. “Upstairs. Napping.”
“She been out of the house by herself?”
I shook my head and rinsed the sponge.
“Still sleeping all the time?”
“Yes.”
Whip took the stairs two at a time, only to return within a few minutes, thunder in his eyes. “She's taking a shower and will be down for dinner.”
“She's been like this every afternoon since you left.”
“My fault. I shouldn't have gone.”
“You're right. You shouldn't have gone, but you did. Now, we have to deal with it. Merry's sinking deeper into booze and drugs every day.”
“Crap. Johnny and I tied one on last night in camp, but I don't get drunk as a daily habit. Got to get her sobered up. Just don't know how.”
“Me neither.” I'd told Whip about my bargain with Merry, shrink for a plastic surgeon, when he called home. I'd told him to think about committing her too. “Even though the shrink was a dismal failure, maybe a new surgeon will be the magic decoder ring.”
“Get on it in the morning.” Whip scrubbed his fists through his messed-up hair.
“Any thoughts about residential rehab?”
“Can't do it.”
“Can't or won't?” I thrust my jaw out. “What can you do?”
Dinner was strained. Merry had washed her hair and tried to look presentable but began drinking even before we sat down. Emilie picked at her food and answered in monosyllables; Alex wolfed his food like a starving peasant. I filled some of the silence with polite, if desultory, conversation. Merry drank. Whip looked mad and scared.
Whip called Dr. Rosenberg, Merry's first plastic surgeon, about her obsession over her looks and asked for a referral for a second opinion.
After much searching and getting nowhere, Dr. Rosenberg found a renowned plastic surgeon who accepted a one year teaching fellowship at Chaminade. That hospital wasn't as convenient as VCU, but it claimed this doctor's credentials were impeccable.
“Mr. Pugh, Dr. Hunter will see you now.”
Whip tossed aside a month-old copy of National Geographic, and we followed the nurse down a long corridor to a private office toward the back of the clinic. Whip had talked me into going with him to meet the surgeon. I'd agreed to stay through what I hoped would be the final stages of Merry's recovery: her facial reconstruction. If I was going to be responsible for transportation, I wanted to know what to expect.
“Dr. Hunter.”
“Mr. Pugh.” Dr. Andrew Hunter leaned over his desk to shake Whip's hand.
“And you are?”
“Mrs. Davies, Merry's mother.” I, too, shook the doctor's hand. It was soft and damp.
“I don't need you here.” Dr. Hunter sat behind his desk.
“I asked her.” Whip crossed his arms across his chest.
“Suit yourself.” Hunter held out his hand.
“I brought Merry's records.”
The doctor took the large manila envelope, which he set in the exact center of his empty desk. He leaned forward on his elbows.
The sterile office contained the requisite framed diplomas and board certifications, along with a color photograph of a racing sloop on a bookshelf. The photo was like the one you got when you bought a frame. Very professional. Very impersonal. Very not-the-doctor's boat. Nothing in the office reflected his personality. No family pictures. No awards. Just medical texts. Maybe he hadn't fully settled in. He'd just arrived, after all.
We were as nervous as the night Whip asked me for Merry's hand. We both wanted something: He wanted his wife; I wanted my daughter. If Merry would go through the pain, we'd go through the wait.
“Dr. Rosenberg said you're one of the best around. I sure hope so, because we need you to help Merry.”
“I am the best.”
Whip raised an eyebrow, but the doctor wasn't looking at him.
Dr. Hunter opened the thick envelope. He shoved the color photographs aside, jammed the X-rays up on light boxes, and peered at them through half-glasses. He nodded, shook his head, and muttered as he poured over each in turn.
“Hmm, her zygomaticomaxillary complex was pulverized, the eye socket fractured, her nose crushed. Look here. She hit the steering wheel with incredible force. She should have been wearing her seat belt.”
“How do you know she wasn't?”
“She wouldn't need me if she'd been buckled in. The air bag didn't deploy either.” The doctor peered over the tops of his glasses. “I can tell from her injuries.”
Dr. Hunter talked through the changes in the X-rays in turn. By the time he reached the end of the tour, I knew nearly as much about Merry's skull as the surgeon did. I wished I knew as much about what was going on inside her brain.
“Can you help?”
“Of course. Don't get me wrong. Rosenberg's a good technician and did a decent enough job putting the bones back together. I'm an artist. I can bring her back to what she was or where she should be. Rosenberg can't.”
Where she should be? She should be Merry.
Dr. Hunter turned to the stack of color photographs.
“Rosenberg did a better job than I thought. What a mess! Where's the ‘after’ shot? Okay, not bad, but too many scars and her left eye's still all wrong. Do you have a recent photo from before the wreck?”
Whip pointed to the family portrait from last Christmas.
Dr. Hunter stared at Mer
ry's smiling face. “Funny, I thought she'd be blonde.”
After getting assurances Dr. Hunter could reconstruct Merry's face, we agreed to bring her in. We shook hands. Whip waited until he was in the corridor to wipe his hand on his pant leg.
“To quote Alex, yuck.” I wiped my hand too.
“I hate men with clammy handshakes. Something vaguely amphibian about them.”
When Whip told Merry about his consultation with the plastic surgeon, she wanted to go the next day, but Dr. Hunter had no openings for more than two weeks.
“Doesn't he know how important this is to me?” She ranted and raged to no effect.
“He's busy.”
On the appointed day, Whip and I took Merry to Chaminade.
We weren't going to have a repeat of the fiasco with the psychiatrist. Whip would decide what work Merry was going to have done, and I would drive her to her appointments. If Merry rejected Dr. Hunter, we had no backup. It was Hunter or nothing. Nothing wasn't an option.
Merry swallowed a couple of extra pills in the car to settle her nerves. Even so, she fidgeted in the waiting room until Whip snapped, “For God's sake, sit still. They'll call you when it's your turn.”
“How can he keep me waiting?” In spite of the drugs, Merry became edgier by the second.
“Mrs. Pugh, Dr. Hunter was delayed in surgery. He'll see you now.” The nurse led the way.
“About goddamned time,” Merry grumbled.
Dr. Hunter stood behind his desk and smiled. “Merry, may I call you Merry?”
He didn't wait for an answer. He didn't acknowledge Whip or me. We didn't exist.
“Sit down. I'll go over your medical history with you first. Then I'll examine your face to see how much work I have left to do.”
Dr. Hunter held up the Christmas photo and said it would be the baseline so he'd know where to start. He showed Merry a series of pictures taken in the hospital right after she arrived. She'd never seen them.
“That can't be me!” Her face looked like hamburger.
“You've come a long way, but you're not where you want to be yet. You agree, don't you?” Dr. Hunter smiled at Merry.
Whip growled. When I asked a couple of questions, they fell to the floor unanswered and were kicked aside under the doctor's desk.
“I asked Mr. Pugh if you wanted your old face back or a new and improved one.”
Merry sat in silence. Emotions flittered across her face.
When she didn't respond, Whip did. “We want Merry's left eye to look normal. Fix her nose. Refinish the surface of her skin to take away the scars. I'll be happy when you're back to where you were before the accident.”
Dr. Hunter frowned. “Will that be enough for you, Merry?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Summer crowded in on the Fourth of July. What happened to “I'll probably be gone a week or two” back in February? Every step toward going home came with two steps backward, keeping me in Riverbend.
Merry's first surgery, the major one where her eye socket and cheekbones would be restructured, was scheduled for the Wednesday after the Fourth. Merry, Whip, and I would be alone that critical period before surgery, because both kids were leaving for summer camp on Friday the second.
Alex was going to a two-week computer camp at Penn State University, where he'd stay in a dorm. “I'll be just like a real college student.”
Emilie had chosen a yoga camp in the Great Smoky Mountains. “I want something spiritual, Mad Max, some place where I can get away and meditate a lot.”
The more she could learn to handle whatever gift she had through exercise and meditation, the better off she'd be. Whip didn't understand all this woo-hoo stuff; Merry didn't care as long as nothing got in the way of her operation.
On the first of the month, Whip came home for dinner. I met him in the hallway and stared at his empty hands.
“Weren't you supposed to bring home Chinese?” I'd overheard him talking with Merry earlier in the day.
“Crap. Merry promised to order dinner, and I was supposed to pick it up, wasn't I?”
Whip turned on his heel and bolted for the Imperial Palace. He called a few minutes later to tell me he had to wait for the order. Merry hadn't called after all.
Merry seemed to be coming around since she met Dr. Hunter. Was I wrong? I watched her closely, but all I saw was her becoming happier with her initial surgery less than a week away.
Merry was on her first public vodka and tonic in the family room when Whip returned. He put the food down in the kitchen, but she didn't move.
“Get up and set the table.”
I wasn't prepared for Whip's anger when he pulled Merry to her feet and pushed her toward the kitchen. He'd had time to work up a bellyful of steam while our food cooked. Whip went to the bottom of the stairs and called the kids.
Alex blasted out of his room, shouting, “I beat Mad Max three times at LAPD today.”
“You guys made enough noise for the whole neighborhood to know.” Emilie grouched.
“Hey…Chinese. Cool.” Alex grabbed a goldfish box and spooned General Tso's Chicken onto his plate. He added rice and Ants in the Trees, a fancy name for broccoli with black beans.
“You forgot extra egg rolls,” Merry complained.
Was that all she thought about?
“If you'd called in the goddamned order like you said you would, you'd have egg rolls.”
“You always forget egg rolls, Dad.” Emilie, ever the peacemaker, tried to soothe the open wound that was her father's heart.
Whip drew in a deep breath and forced a tight smile. “I guess I do.”
We ate in silence, except for Alex's exuberant chomping. I had so much more work to do with him. We were halfway through our meal when Whip said he'd be doing a lot of traveling again. He and his longtime partner, Zach “Tops” Zimmerman, spent the afternoon pouring over staffing assignments.
“Tops and I have several huge projects lined up. I'll supervise at least one of them. We're just about out of skilled people. Only one can keep projects running right.”
Baloney. Whip wanted to get away from Merry, if only for a few days at a time. I did too. Each trip home was an escape from my disintegrating daughter.
“You're running away.” Emilie set her chopsticks beside her plate and crossed her arms.
I laughed.
“I'm sorry, but you look just like your mother. And me.”
Merry turned blurry eyes at Emilie. “Yeah, you look like your grandmother.”
She probably meant to hurt me, but I refused to get riled.
“You're running away.” Emilie hung onto her thought with the tenacity of a Rottweiler. “Mom, make him stay.”
“I don't care if he goes or not. It's all the same to me.” With that, Merry got up, refilled her wineglass, and went upstairs, leaving her plate on the table.
“Crap.” Whip half-rose then sank back in his chair. “Hey, I'm not leaving tomorrow. My first trip will be while you guys are at camp. You'll never know I'm gone.”
I, too, leaned back and crossed my arms under my breasts—metaphorically, since I didn't want to be seen sitting in judgment over my son-in-law. Not in front of Emilie and Alex. Whip and I needed to present a united front, even when it wasn't true.
Whip would never be satisfied in a nine-to-five job, home every night for dinner, weekends doing chores, and taking his wife to dinner on Saturdays. He was only truly happy with the dust of a job site on his boots and one of his guns strapped to his hip. That didn't jibe with being a father.
Alex finished a second helping and began a third while his father talked about several contracts his company won recently: another huge job in the Middle East, repair work on I-95 north of Richmond, something in northern Kentucky, and a tricky tunnel-and-highway project in the Peruvian Andes.
“Not another Middle East assignment, Dad,” Emilie said. “The last time ended in this mess we're in.”
“It's not fair to blame the area of the world.”
“I don't care. I don't want you going to the Middle East. Period.”
“You mentioned two jobs in the States, one here at home, one in Kentucky.” Before I could go any further, Emilie turned pale and sweaty.
“Dad doesn't want either one. He's going to Peru.” Emilie's words were distant, yet distinct.
“How do you know?” Whip had never seen Emilie go to her secret place before.
“When you think about going to Peru, your colors change inside. It's complicated. I'll explain it some other time.” She waved a hand in dismissal.
“Peru? I want to go too.” Alex turned up the volume to his outdoor-voice level.
“Alex.” I held up a finger.
“Sorry.”
“I'm right. You're going to Peru.” Emilie was close to tears.
“It's a huge job. I don't have anyone else I can trust.” Whip lost the battle of wills.
“Hadn't you better find people you can trust?” She carried her plate into the kitchen and returned to the breakfast area. “I thought you trusted Uncle Johnny,” she said, then she left.
“Does she mean Johnny Medina?” I'd never heard her refer to anyone by that name.
“Yes.”
“Why can't he take Peru?” I was ready to fight even a losing battle if it would keep Whip focused on his parental role.
“He just can't. Wife wants a divorce. Has to be here.”
“You don't? Your wife needs you, Whip. Here. Think about her.”
“Hey, anyone want the rest of the chicken?”
I shoved the half-empty box across the table. Alex dug in with his chopsticks, apparently too intent on claiming the bits inside to bother putting it on his plate.
“I have to think about this.” If Whip was planning to disappear into South America, where did that leave me?
“How long is this project?’
“At least six months.”
Whip was manipulating me, and I hated it. He didn't even ask if I could stay.
Alex finished the chicken and went upstairs.
“You can't just tell me you're going away for half a year and expect me to drop everything. I have a life too. It's in New York. Adjust your schedule to take care of your children when I go on vacation this summer.”
Mad Max: Unintended Consequences Page 8