A Small Matter (21 page)

“We’re not going to throw you away,
Mulroney,” she said. “But you’ve got to come back to me.” She got
on her knees beside the bed and took his hand in hers. “This is
your little girl out here, baby,” she said. “I need you back. I
love you and don’t want to live without you.”

She pressed the play button on the boom box.
The Beatles--She Loves You--began to blast--Vickie’s and Mulroney’s
special song, dedicated to themselves the day he proposed--if
anything would bring him back, that would be it.

“It’s you she’s thinkin’ of,” she sang.

She waited in the din, waited for her husband
to feel the tears of the Lady, to hear the music of their song and
press forward from across the veil and return to her. She waited
for Mulroney, for his homing instinct to kick in and bring him
back. She waited for him to put an end to the disruption his
passing had created. She waited for him to put an end to her
helplessness and hopelessness. She waited for a signal, a sign,
that he understood and was on his way. She waited for a flutter of
an eyelid, a flicker of a finger, a deepening breath. She waited
for Mulroney to return to her and help her life begin again.

She waited on her knees until her knees went
numb. She waited. The song came to an end. She waited some
more.

But the big man never moved.

Chapter 32

“There is a time and place for patience,” Dr.
Sellers said. “Once you’ve tried everything you can think of--but
my feeling is you haven’t really tried everything, so it’s only
natural you should want to shake Mulroney back to life.”

“I’m too angry to be patient,” Vickie said.
“Something was ripped away from me--I’ve been cheated out of my
destiny. I know I should be feeling deep sorrow over Mulroney being
in a coma and all, but the plain truth is, I feel angry. I guess
that’s why I was shaking him--I’m angry that he left me like he
did--and right at the time when we could have had the most
happiness together.”

Vickie had been interrupted at Mulroney’s
bedside by Dr. Sellers, a grief counselor for the Medical Center
who, at Dalk’s insistence, had sought Vickie out and caught her in
the act of vigorously shaking Mulroney’s inert form. Sellers, a
diminutive, elderly woman with graying hair accented by cheerful
lips glossed an improbable shade of blue, had, at the sight of
Vickie’s frenzy over the comatose giant, demonstrated considerable
inner strength and took charge of Vickie’s outburst, leading her
away from Mulroney and down the hall to the quiet comfort of a
plush inner sanctum designed as a refuge for the downcast souls who
were left behind to cope in the wake of a loved one’s illness. The
two sat comfortably ensconced in deep leather chairs opposite a
heavy marble-topped coffee table, where Dr. Sellers had, for over
an hour, gently been coaxing Vickie’s account of the past three
days from her and helping her come to grips with the high points as
well as the low.

“All it takes is one good idea to solve an
impossible problem,” Dr. Sellers said. “But it takes patience to
come up with that good idea.”

“But which idea is the best one?” Vickie
said. “Mulroney’s cardiologist, Dr. Lerner, thinks a good idea is
to do the bypass while Mulroney is still in his coma.”

“That’s not so unusual,” Dr. Sellers said.
“They open up a lot of chests in the emergency room while the
patient is still unconscious.”

“But I can’t allow that,” Vickie said. “I
have a different idea--I’m convinced if Mulroney doesn’t come back
to life first, he’ll have no chance on the operating table. He has
to come back and be present for the fight of his life. That’s why I
guess I lost my patience and started shaking him--he’s taking too
long to come back. Every minute he delays, the odds are going down.
I’m in between a rock and a hard place--if I wait for him, and he
dies, Dr. Lerner can say that I killed my husband by withholding
permission for the bypass. But if I let them operate and Mulroney
never comes back, then I’ll never forgive myself. So you can see
why I’m out of patience. This whole thing has got me frazzled. I
hate myself for not being strong enough to deal with it.”

“The first thing you’ve got to do,” Dr.
Sellers said, “is to stop hating yourself and feeling sorry for
yourself. The self-pity will only make the problem worse.”

“Why shouldn’t I hate myself?” Vickie said.
“What good am I to anyone? I caused the problem in the first place.
I pushed my husband into this coma. I’m jinxed. I’m already in
hell. What makes the hell worse is that I recently had a glimpse of
Heaven--it makes it all that more painful for me to be here.”

“When did you see heaven?” Dr. Sellers
asked.

“Last night--I had an experience with another
world--I was taken to a place that I believe we go after we die.
When I came back, I found that my cancer was gone--I was freed from
my death sentence only to find my husband facing his own version of
death row. He’s been temporarily resuscitated, but I can see it
won’t be long before what’s left of him will expire. I’m going to
have to watch the man I love die--not once, but twice! If that’s
not hell, I don’t know what is.”

“You believe you were healed of your cancer?”
Dr. Sellers asked.

“I know it,” Vickie said. “I can feel the
energy surging through my body. It happened when I was touched by
the teardrop of Our Lady--are you Catholic?”

“I’m Jewish,” Dr. Sellers said, “But if you
say you saw the Virgin Mary, far be it from me to argue the point.
I’ve worked for this hospital for over fifteen years, and I know
there are times when somebody gets better and the doctors have no
rational explanation. If you say you’re healed, then so be
it--although if you say it’s from cancer, you might want a
confirmation of the remission.”

“My brother said the same thing--he insisted
that I get a clearance from my own doctor,” Vickie said. “He’s
still hung up on the system in that way.”

“Your brother seems to love you very much,”
Dr. Sellers said. “His concern stems from that love--you’re lucky
to have such a brother.”

“That’s part of why I think I hate myself
right now,” Vickie said. “When I tried to kill myself, I felt
ashamed, because he’d have to live the rest of his life with the
shadow of his own sister’s suicide over him.”

“You’ve got a problem with your husband,” Dr.
Sellers said. “My advice to you is to not aggravate that problem by
adding to it. Don’t make it worse by wallowing in self-pity, anger,
or lack of faith. Stop blaming yourself for your husband’s
condition. This may sound odd, but you’re giving yourself too much
credit for your impact on other people’s lives if you think you’re
responsible for putting them into comas. Unless you have some
secret psychic powers you haven’t shared with me. You said you
experienced a miracle--well, I must ask you--where’s your faith?
Why can’t your husband have the same experience? Or are miracles
reserved exclusively for you?”

“Gimme a break, Doc,” Vickie said. “I know
I’m not responsible, but it’s hard to shake the feeling that I
somehow contributed to Mulroney’s demise. I did have
faith--earlier, anyway, when I tried to bring my miracle to him. I
placed my rosary on his chest and touched him with a teardrop from
Our Lady--it should have brought him back, but he never moved. It
drove me insane. It’s exactly like what happened with my mother
when she died of cancer. First, she went into a coma, and then she
died. Now, my own husband is lying comatose in a hospital bed,
smelling like death, and the doctors are telling me that they still
have work to do, that I shouldn’t give up hope--but no matter what
they do, I get the feeling that he’s going to die like my mother
did--then I’ll be alone. Can you blame me for feeling sorry for
myself? Do you have any idea what I’m going to go through if he
dies? I’ll be completely alone.”

“First, you’ve got to put your mother’s death
behind you,” Dr. Sellers said. “the two incidents are
unrelated--secondly, you don’t have to be alone. If it comes down
to that, we can help you learn how to handle it. There are some
great people who have survived the loss of a loved one who meet
here every week to help the new survivors.”

“I’ve got to give you credit, doctor,” Vickie
said. “I fully expected you to pitch for the status quo, to use
your powers of persuasion to convince me to allow Dr. Lerner to
open Mulroney’s chest. But you didn’t go that route.”

“I’m not here to tell you what to decide from
a medical standpoint,” Sellers said. “I’m here because I believe
that when you’ve got a big problem, you shouldn’t have to play it
out all alone. Somewhere inside you is the answer--by talking with
me, you may discover what it is.”

“Look, Dr. Sellers,” Vickie said. “I know you
mean well. But forgive me if I don’t jump for joy at the news that
after Mulroney dies, I can come back here and sit with a bunch of
other grief-stricken folks and cry on their shoulders.”

“There is no right way for you to feel,” Dr.
Sellers said. “You’ve been through a personal nightmare with your
own cancer, and a second nightmare with the collapse of your
husband. Your sense of confusion, anger, panic, loneliness, and
grief may come and go. They may be very mild, or very extreme. The
reason we offer group support is because you’ll need it. It’s a way
for you to let your feelings and reactions happen in a caring
environment. At first, your feelings are going to overwhelm you,
but this will lessen over time--that’s why the group can
help--you’ll have someone to talk to when you’re feeling
overwhelmed.”

“You mean, like when I tried to kill myself?
That kind of overwhelmed?”

“Exactly. If you’d had someone to call,
things might have turned out differently.”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “I’ll give it some
thought.”

“Your emotions are important,” Dr. Sellers
said “They’re a large part of who you are. You want to give them a
place to come out and be respected. If you’d had such an outlet,
you wouldn’t have been trying to shake Mulroney awake like you
did.”

“I envy you,” Vickie said. “You’ve spent a
lifetime helping others.”

“I’m not saying you should accept the
inevitable,” Dr. Sellers said. “I don’t want you to resign yourself
to Mulroney’s death. As long as he has breath in his body, there’s
a chance he’ll come back to you. But meanwhile, you’ve got to show
some courage. You’ve got to hold on for your miracle. Remember,
even though success isn’t certain, it’s still possible. Are you
willing to take the emotional risk of believing in his recovery?
Are you willing to set aside your self-pity for the time it takes
to do everything you can to help him come back to you?”

“You’re asking me to make a sacrifice,”
Vickie said. “To sacrifice myself for the greater good of my
husband. You’re asking me to behave like a saint.”

Dr. Lerner laughed. “Why yes,” she said. “I
suppose I am. Will you do it?”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “I’ll do it. And why
not? I came from one miracle. There’s no reason to think there
won’t be another.”

“Keep the faith,” Sellers said. “Faith never
fails.”

Chapter 33

“First of all,” Vickie said, “I’ve gone and
gotten myself into another heckuva pickle.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Dalk
said.

Vickie, Dalk, Mary-Jo, and Dalk’s sensei,
magic-man and one-time business partner, Toyama, sat at table in
the cafeteria of the Medical Center, where Vickie pointed out the
recent processes and events which had combined to create her
present predicament.

“I’m banned from further activities in this
fun palace,” Vickie said. “I’m not allowed in Mulroney’s room
anymore. Dr. Sellers finked on me and now they think I’m a danger
to his health, because I shook him a little bit. When I protested,
Sellers said that I better watch myself. Apparently, because I told
her about my suicide attempt yesterday, she said she could have me
locked up for observation for three days--she strong-armed me with
that threat.”

“Wait a minute,” Dalk said. “Back up. What’s
this about you shaking Mulroney?”

“I shook him,” Vickie said. “Dr. Sellers
walked in on me and caught me in the act. It was bad
timing--another three minutes and I think Mulroney might have
snapped out of it.”

“Vickie,” Dalk said. “You might have killed
him--all those wires and connections he’s attached to are there
because he’s extremely delicate.”

“I’m sick of technology,” Vickie said.
“Whoever said that life can be prolonged by a bunch of machines
with blinking lights?”

“Hey look,” Dalk said. “Nobody’s saying the
machines work all that well, but what else do we have? Mulroney’s
experiencing some rather accelerated changes in his body right now,
and somebody has to keep an eye on the store. Without the monitors,
nobody knows whether he’s coming or going.”

“Mulroney is a human being,” Vickie hissed.
“He’s not some mass-produced artifact. He’s not something to be
measured.”

“You need to eat something,” Dalk said. “Try
the chili.”

“Okay,” Vickie said. “As long as you don’t
tell me it’s as good as my own chili.”

“Nothing beats your chili,” Dalk said. “But
this stuff works on a certain level. For one thing, it has shredded
beef and what appears to be real pieces of garlic. It tastes
healthy enough.”

“I’ll get you a bowl, Vickie,” Mary-Jo said,
rising and heading for the start of the cafeteria line. The place
was filled to capacity with hospital workers eagerly chowing down
on the stuff, as though it were some heretofore undreamt-of
substance which, having been recently discovered, transported the
humdrum act of lunch into a higher reality of sorts. A few eyes
followed Mary-Jo, bestowing upon her frankly approving looks, she
looking, as she always did, better than any other woman in the
place.

“I’m sorry about all the trouble I’m
causing,” Vickie said. “You’re supposed to be getting to know
Mary-Jo in some romantic little Sunset Boulevard bistro, and yet
here you are, eating bad chili in a hospital cafeteria. Under
different circumstances, I’d be serving you a batch of my world
famous prize-winning Lamplighter cook off chili. So tell me, how
are you and Mary-Jo doing?”