A Sundog Moment Page 5

  He started fumbling to pick up the phone again; he had to help his wife.

  Her eyes suddenly opened. “Michael?”

  “Shhh,” he soothed, touching her face. “Don’t move. Something may be hurt. Hush, I’ll call the rescue squad; just don’t move, everything will be all right.” He moved to get up and she stopped him cold by trying to sit up.

  He was furious she wouldn’t listen. “Dammit, Elizabeth! Don’t move. You could be hurt, something may be broken; just be still.”

  “Michael, stop.” Elizabeth sat up, vaguely aware he was angry but not understanding why. “How did I get here?” She looked around, confused.

  Short of bodily forcing her to lie back down, he couldn’t stop her from moving, and she was acting normally. “That’s what I’d like to know. Elizabeth, why are you in here? I almost had a heart attack when I discovered you weren’t in bed.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said contritely, and then it all came back in a rush as she looked at him. Then she saw the book that had dropped beside her.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to wake you, so I came in here and started reading something. I suppose I fell asleep. I must have fallen off the couch. Look, here’s the book.”

  Suddenly the adrenaline rush dissolved and Michael was exhausted. He rubbed the back of his neck. “God, I’m tired.”

  Instantly, he felt her hand rubbing gently against his, her voice a whisper. “I’m sorry. Let’s go back to bed.”

  He helped her up and stood looking down at her. “Elizabeth, do you promise you’re all right?”

  There was that winning smile, and he hugged her hard, wishing, hoping, things really would be all right again.

  It was late morning when she woke. Michael was already awake but had been reluctant to interrupt her sleep. While he sat there in the chair next to the bed, he watched her, enjoying a rush of memories that now were tinged with worry. Was last night a fluke? Would he, God forbid, wake up again in the middle of the night to find her slumped to the floor? The uncertainties were dancing all over his rational thoughts and left him edgy.

  Resting on her side, Elizabeth’s face was smooth, her lips gently curling. He hoped she was dreaming of him. Their lovemaking had been so good, so satisfying, he wondered why sleep had been such a problem for her last night. He finally realized he was clenching his hands as well as his jaw, and consciously forced himself to relax.

  Her eyes opened to see him reading, looking relaxed and content, and she smiled. She loved seeing him like that, loved having him at home with her. She moved slightly and their eyes met.

  “Well. Sleeping Beauty awakes.” His smile was tentative, eyes filled with the moments of the previous night.

  She sat up, stretched, and then winced. “Ow. I must have hit the floor a little harder than I thought. And thank you for letting me sleep in. What time is it?” She glanced at the clock and her eyes widened. “Goodness! It’s almost noon. I can’t believe I slept that long.” A thought edged to the forefront. “Oh. Did you talk to Mother?”

  He nodded. “Got hold of her early this morning. She’s disappointed, but I told her Kellan said she would call her when she got back from camping and let her know when she can visit. How’s that?”

  “Good. Thanks.” It was a heaviness she hadn’t realized was there until it slipped off. Her mother was the only one who could make her nervous like this. Actually, it was simply because she hated to see Virginia Mae disappointed. In a way she couldn’t explain, she felt a duty to keep her mother happy and content. She never noticed how stressful that responsibility could be because it was not a conscious choice; it was what she needed to do. She felt the same way about her daughter and husband and, to some extent, her cousin and friends.

  Elizabeth got out of bed and began to fall as one foot slipped away. Michael moved like a shot, grabbing her arms in a crushing hold. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured, frowning.

  He helped her sit on the side of the bed. “Elizabeth, were you dizzy again, is that it?”

  “No, no, I’m not. My foot, it just . . . slipped out. Actually, I don’t really know what happened. Here, let me get up again.” And she did and took some steps forward without any problem. But when she turned back to Michael, the left foot didn’t move with her and she started falling. His arms, seconds away, again caught her and helped her sit back down.

  “Isn’t that odd?” She frowned, pulling her foot up, looking at it as if it didn’t belong to her. She was trying hard to ignore the rapid beating of her heart.

  “Odd? Elizabeth, isn’t that the same one you had trouble with yesterday morning?” It wasn’t his intention, but his voice sounded accusing. She bristled.

  “No,” she said curtly. She thought for a few moments more and then got up slowly. Carefully, she walked with exaggerated attention to what she was doing and succeeded in moving to the bathroom door. “See? I’ll be fine.” She smiled brightly and was startled by his scowl.

  “You’re not.” How could she say such nonsense and smile? “You should see yourself. Something is terribly wrong. Stay here and don’t move. I’m calling Gordon.” He insisted she sit down on the chair he had vacated. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “I don’t remember the number to his cell phone, I’ve got to look it up. I won’t be long.”

  She watched him leave the room and felt some tension go with him. God, she silently asked, why is this happening?

  What would Mimi have to say about all this? White hair pulled away from a worn, pleasant face, her grandmother always had good things to eat and words that would make her smile. Mimi’s constant stream of dialogue to the Almighty had been practical, quick, short, and to the point. “Dear Lord, where did I put that needle and thread?” or “Father, thank You for not letting me make a bigger fool of myself than I did.”

  At this moment, though, Elizabeth was wondering about getting some answers. She was also trying not to be impatient because Michael was making such a fuss about all this, when she knew it was going to be absolutely all right. It had to be.

  Something else caught her eye. The dust balls hanging from the corner near the bathroom door. Since Elizabeth had become ill, her part-time housekeeper, Sudie Babcock, had been coming once a week instead of three times. It showed.

  She would call and make sure Sudie came on Monday. Elizabeth detested a dirty home as much as she hated a cluttered one. She felt personally offended if everything wasn’t in its particular place. She turned to look as her husband stalked back into the room, as unhappy as when he’d left.

  “It’s going to be five weeks before you can see the specialist. Gordon said he couldn’t get the appointment any sooner than that. He also said there’s probably some residual damage; you might need an ankle brace, he’s not certain. But one thing’s for sure, no high heels!”

  Damage? Her next immediate thought was succinct. No way!

  He picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. “Do you want me to help you in the shower?” The aid was offered so grimly, she didn’t need to think twice. “No, I’ll be careful. Just go.”

  “All right. I’ll be right here reading.” He motioned to the love seat. She watched him turn to leave.

  The shower went without incident. That was a small triumph, and she congratulated herself on succeeding by concentrating on what she was doing. Thoughtfully, she slowly let the relaxing water run over her, knowing everything was going to be fine. Slowing down didn’t have to be a bad thing. Everyone should slow down. Maybe that was the key. Maybe that was the answer, she mused, as she thanked God for it, just in case.

  By the end of the afternoon she had new tennis shoes, as well as walking shoes in black and brown, and black leather Mary Janes for dresses. They were bought at Michael’s insistence, but secretly Elizabeth was determined never to wear them.

  She went to bed that night tired and after a long, healing sleep, all traces of weakness disappeared. Elizabeth was delighted to find she could walk wit
hout any difficulty, without thought. It was the ease of it, she thought, luxuriating in the taste of the word. Ease. Without thought, without concentration, to just be able to move.

  She was thrilled, but not surprised. Michael didn’t share her optimism. As he went to call the doctor yet again, Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Gordon’s going to change his cell number and not tell you what it is! You’ve called that poor man more in the last two days than you have in the last two years.” Her laughter didn’t appear to ease Michael’s anxiety one bit.

  The brief talk with Gordon had only confirmed his suspicions. “He said remissions are very common with this disease. And remissions can happen at any time. That’s why they call it relapsing/remitting.”

  Despite his explanation being delivered with such a dour expression, she let it slide over her like water off a duck. She merely smiled. “Would you like some coffee?”

  He pushed back his chair. “I’ll get it,” he said, but she was already setting a steaming mug in front of him.

  “Drink all of it and eat your cherry pastry,” she instructed him. “I sincerely hope it improves your disposition.” The gaiety of her smile did not soften his mood, and he remained silent, worried lines drawing his face down.

  A week slipped by before Elizabeth sat at the small Queen Anne desk in the library for the first time since all this had started. She pulled out the latest journal, flipped to the last entry, and grimaced when she saw the date. She had never missed so many days—weeks—before.

  She finally shrugged and tore the pages from the notebook she had written in at the hospital and slipped them inside. She had been keeping daily journals since she was eighteen. It not only helped chronicle her life, but it also made sense of her present.

  Taking the time to write down thoughts about what was going on and how she was feeling about events in her life let her carefully and thoughtfully sort out tangles that occurred. She also loved the feel of a pen in her hand, and there was deep satisfaction in forming letters that were as perfect as only a true artist could make them. This belonged completely to her.

  How to begin? There was still a swirl of disbelief that mocked everything she had been told. Her eyes roamed over the volumes of books that lined the shelves. People’s lives decorated these walls—their thoughts, their stories. Some amusing, some wrenching, some uplifting, some not. All she wanted to do was make sense of her recent past.

  She bent over and started.

  It’s odd, the changes and upheavals that set us all on edge, only to be placed right back where we started. It’s all confusing, but I’m glad, I’m grateful. I have been well my entire life. Now, after the merest blip, they tell me everything’s changed. I hear the words that Gordon has to say, and certainly those of my husband, but . . . I have to wonder—what has actually changed?

  Not much. I can still do whatever I want to do. Those first little missteps I had right after I left the hospital have evaporated into the past, and as far as I’m concerned, permanently. Well, all right, I will concede I don’t have all my energy back, but how could I, after what I’ve been through? And there are my husband and my doctor, thinking all these horrible thoughts; my mother is worrying herself sick, and even my daughter! Poor Kellan. She called last night because of a story a friend told her. I swear, when there’s bad news it’s like getting a bunch of mothers together at a baby shower and their stories must be compulsively aired in vivid detail to the mother-to-be. Stories of hellish labors, deliveries that almost assured death . . . always the worst things to bring up at bad moments. I wonder if Eve did that with Adam?

  Probably. I think it’s human nature and I know if I thought long enough, I’d be able to come up with my own transgressions. But back to Kellan . . . She asked me a hypothetical question that I was at a loss to answer. She said she understood, but I have to wonder if she did, because I’m having a hard time dealing with it myself.

  Kellan had just met a student whose mother had this same illness for twenty-five years. Within the last year, when the mother got to the point she could no longer swallow, the woman had refused to be fed intravenously, thereby ending her life. “Mom, without even thinking twice, I blurted out that the woman just gave up! This girl said no, no, that wasn’t the case; her mother was just too tired to fight anymore.” Kellan was horrified and asked me point-blank, “You would never do that, would you?”

  Am I supposed to know? I told her emphatically I had no intention of ever getting to that point, so don’t waste a single brain cell worrying about something that would never happen. I then proceeded to spout off all the good and bright reasons to be hopeful à la Gordon and the specialist, about how a cure was right around the corner, etc., etc., then Kellan stopped me dead. It seems that’s just what that mother had been told for twenty-five years.

  After I regained my breath, I reassured my only child that there was nothing to worry about, then we chatted about inconsequential things, about happy thoughts and future plans. I hung up the phone after doing a superb Pollyanna act, then sank into my own thoughts of what-ifs and what-might-bes, all pounding around inside my head.

  That lasted longer than I care to admit. Finally, I hauled myself up and gave myself a stern pep talk about all the good things I’ve been repeating over and over since that moment in the hospital when I regained my life. I forced myself to evaluate things clearly.

  So all right, I admit I don’t have the energy I did. But just as important, neither do I have those horrible moments that lasted only a handful of seconds, comparatively. Yet my mother still looks at me as if she intends to burst into tears at any moment. She keeps telling me how brave I am, until I want to toss those words out of the English language. What does it mean? I’m not a bit different—she is.

  Elizabeth closed her eyes and shook her head. Her innate sense of fairness couldn’t be ignored.

  Poor Mother. I’m sure she’s trying her best to cope. I wish she would realize there is nothing to cope with. I AM FINE. If I died today in a car wreck, I hope they’d put that on my tombstone: SHE WAS FINE.

  The only one who treats me as she always has is Carol. But I think that’s because she’s very self-absorbed right now, pushing away the divorce (she still won’t talk about it), and drinking more alcohol than I’ve ever seen her consume. Granted, I haven’t been around her very much over these last years, but I still think it’s excessive. She remains even more slender than she was before, so I know she’s not eating like she should, and is constantly exercising on all the equipment she has littered around the house.

  I have to say one thing for her, though, she hasn’t lost her wit. She has gleefully turned into a male-basher and makes no apology for it. Maybe it’s part of healing; if you make fun of the hurt, it can’t slap back so hard.

  Michael is another story. Things have changed subtly but enough for me to notice. He watches intently, pretending that he doesn’t, but I can tell. It’s as if he’s waiting for the inevitable moment when he has to jump up and take over. If I fumble with the silverware setting the table, he is there to take the pieces out of my hands and finish. I have to wonder, Why isn’t he proactive? Why doesn’t he do it for me while I’m doing something else?

  It’s that waiting, like he’s holding his breath for another moment that will unbalance us. “For Pete’s sake,” I want to scream, “lighten up!”

  A new thought bolted through Elizabeth’s mind and she sat very still as she slowly considered it.

  I wonder if it’s their collective fear that is draining me, pulling at me so constantly, enough to keep me tired? Suddenly, I see the strain of having to be as normal as possible, even though the hilarity is that I am just like I’ve always been. Huh! Whenever Michael is around, there can be no mistakes because he will jump to his own conclusions. When my mother is around, I have to be as normal as possible (whatever that is) because she is ready to be devastated for me instantly.

  Do they think they are helping? Good grief, I’m getting exhauste
d just thinking about how they are wearing me out! Well. This can’t go on. What I have to do is disregard them, and just do the best I can. If I ignore their constant hovering and especially their expectations, then I will be fine . . . Gee, I wonder how they’ll handle that?

  With that last gibe, Elizabeth closed her journal with a loud slap and smiled. She had made some discoveries she hadn’t realized by sorting through her feelings. That always made her feel in charge. She picked up the large journal, carried it to an armoire at the back of the room, and locked it in with dozens of others. She always kept her written thoughts locked up. It made her feel secure, even though no one in the family had ever pried or even asked her about what she wrote.

  Feeling refreshed and focused, she walked into the kitchen, set the table before Michael got home from work, and began fixing dinner.

  During the next several days, Elizabeth returned to the known patterns of her life. While she tried not to remember too much about those days in the hospital, she continued praying in snatches as her grandmother used to do. Mostly it was thanking God for this, letting Him know she was grateful for something as mundane as being able to enjoy sitting on the deck overlooking her backyard, sipping coffee or tea. She was very alert to the movement of her legs and hands. The pleasure of simply moving in harmony was as immense as it was indescribable.

  Elizabeth’s happiness was so palpable that finally even Michael was able to relax. He loved his wife, wanted her to be happy and well and, more than anything, wanted their lives to flow past those horrible moments . . . so he tried to focus on her smiles, on her easy movements and more than anything the laughter that bubbled up from her heart, spontaneous as summer breezes.