Accidents of Marriage (16 page)

Ben saw the look of complicity pass between Olivia and Kath. They were sending some secret
stupid man
message. Because he didn’t know some ultimate connection that lay between lotion, marriage, and love.

Sometimes women just drove him crazy.

“She’d never be upset, Ben,” Olivia said. “She’d love to know Emma was using her lotion.”

He didn’t have a clue.

“Let’s get going,” he said.

•  •  •

Students filled J.P. Licks, drawn in by the free wireless and a staff who didn’t care if you stayed from the moment the door opened until the time they closed the gates.

Olivia put on oversized blue reading glasses and cleared her throat. She shuffled through the blue file folder she’d removed from her briefcase, making three piles of papers. “I made three sets of the report. Thanks for the permission to talk to Maddy’s doctor, Ben. Summary’s in front.”

She handed a stapled packet to each of them, saving one for herself. “Read it, and later we’ll make action plans. I stopped at the hospital and gave one to Anne and Jake.”

Ben started to say thank you, but his throat closed as he saw the packet label:

Madeline Greene Illica: Postaccident update.

“Remember, these are my translated layman’s notes,” Olivia said. “This is for us.”

Kath dumped three sugar packets in her tea. “Thank God you
could do this. I can’t wrap my brain around the dense medical stuff.”

Olivia shook the papers at her. “Read so we can talk.”

Kath wound her long black hair around her fingers as she looked at the papers. “This is so horrible.”

“Right. It’s horrible. Now move on and read, okay?” Olivia squeezed Kath’s hand. How did women do it? Ben thought of his father, his brother. Even with blood between them, they’d never build up enough closeness to show their bellies. He didn’t even know if Olivia and Kath had met before the accident—yet here they were, soul-sisters.

What we know: Left temporal lobe closed head injury. Impact caused her brain to bump the opposite side of her skull. Blood clot required surgery. Possible damage at site of impact and opposite side (don’t know yet!).

Maddy is in a coma. A coma rarely lasts more than 2 to 4 weeks. A persistent vegetative state sometimes follows a coma. Maddy is not presently in this state and may never be.

Some patients may regain a degree of awareness even after persistent vegetative state. Others may remain in that state for years or even decades. The most common cause of death for someone in a persistent vegetative state is infection, such as pneumonia.

“Right back,” Ben said. He left Olivia’s packet on the table and headed to the bathroom, where he locked the stall, put down the toilet cover, and sat, head in hands. He inhaled Lysol, soap, and human waste particles. He concentrated on the graffiti on the wall.
Janelle DiRosa sucks.

Maddy was the love of his life. She knew that, right? Their roots tangled around each other’s so densely he didn’t know how to separate them. He’d have no family without her.

The cold water Ben splashed on his face soaked the collar of his golf shirt. He pressed his fingers into his forehead until his face ached. He looked too damned normal in the mirror. Shattering the glass would work—his face would look as fractured as he felt.

What if Maddy didn’t wake up?

What if they charged him? Found him guilty?

For God’s sake, driving to endanger was a criminal offense. He’d be facing anything from probation to jail time. At the very least, he’d have to report it to the bar, and God knew he had enough enemies there.

What if he lost his fucking job?

When he returned to the table, Olivia and Kath wore matching maternal looks of concern, though Olivia’s face managed to infuse impatience into the caring. She held out the sheaf of papers. “Are you okay? Do you think you can finish?”

He couldn’t determine if she was being sarcastic or solicitous, but he took the high road and chose solicitous.

Postcoma Outlook: Difficulties can be expected with memory, fatigue, anger, judgment, concentration, disinhibition, dizziness, seizures, and depression.

Taking care of yourself: Signs of stress: inability to sleep, nightmares, poor self-care, poor appetite, guilt or self-blaming, feelings of loneliness and worthlessness, excessive use of alcohol and/or medication.

This he didn’t care about. He skipped the rest of the sympathy until he got to:

Family Members, what you can do: Read to get information, don’t hold vigil 24-7, and be prepared for a marathon, not a sprint . . . Remember, patients may hear what you say while in coma . . . Expect they may strike out when they wake up . . . Take comfort that 99% eventually get out of agitated state . . . Family burnout is common. Reduce stimulation. Physical touch can be upsetting. Test the waters. Don’t talk down.

Signs of Improvement: Following simple commands. Localized response . . . Agitated and confused . . . Higher-level responses: The patient may seem more like herself . . . However, there may be personality changes.

“Are you okay?” Kath asked.

Ben tapped his fingers on the report. “I’m fine.”

Olivia nodded. “You have to make plans. Get the house ready for when Maddy comes home. It’s paramount to create the right environment.”

“You might think it’s too early, but it’s important for so many reasons.” Kath put her hand lightly on his forearm. “For the kids—for everyone—we have to believe in her coming home. Create a positive atmosphere. I don’t care if it sounds hokey. It might work, and it sure won’t hurt. Do it for the kids, if nothing else.”

“Right. Got it. Positive. The right environment. Okay. We should.” Contrary to Olivia’s findings, stress wasn’t inducing agitation in Ben, but rather a narcotized feel of total collapse. Falling asleep at the table seemed possible. He shuffled ahead a few pages.

How does TBI affect sexual functioning?

The following changes in sexuality
can
happen after TBI:
Decreased Desire:
Many have less desire or interest in sex.
Increased Desire:
Some find their sexual desire increases after TBI and may want to have sex more often than usual. Others may have difficulty controlling their sexual behavior. They might make sexual advances in unsuitable situations or make unsuitable comments of a sexual nature.

He closed the report.

Olivia leaned forward, pressing her breasts on the tabletop. “Are you listening, Ben?”

“Of course. Let me take in all this information, and I’ll come up with a plan.”

“We. I think
we
should come up with a plan. I’ve spoken to Anne. To Jake. We all need to help.”

A fatigue headache built steam. The medical words had blurred into word soup. “I said I’ll take care of it, Olivia.”

“Like you took care of Maddy?”

His jaw tightened. “You want to go there?”

Kath switched to holding Olivia’s arm. “Leave it be. Okay?”

Ben watched her hand tighten. “Okay?” Kath repeated, her voice toughening.

“Fine.” Olivia looked disgusted.

“Ben?” Kath asked.

“Right. Got it.” He stood and walked out.

•  •  •

Once home, Ben threw himself on the couch. His eyes burned from sweat and lack of sleep. He got up and wandered from hot room to hot room. Finally, he poured a glass of cold water and brought it into the dining room.

They rarely ate in there. Dust covered the top of the table, except where Ben dropped daily piles of mail and magazines. He swept it all aside and placed the sweaty glass on the wood. Seeing the ring of moisture forming, he lifted it, wiped it with his arm, and put a weeks-old
Atlantic
underneath.

Sitting, staring at nothing, he took small swallows of water while rubbing his tight chest. The collection of fifteen years of marriage surrounded him. Charcoal-black china with three blood-red circles lined up straight in the buffet, waiting for a special occasion. Maddy had found the pattern so exciting she’d almost killed him when she leapt on him to tell him she’d found
the perfect plates
.

Framed photos stared at him. Emma holding Gracie, who held infant Caleb. Ben’s arms enveloping a hugely pregnant Maddy from behind, her smile crinkling her puffy face. Ben’s father appeared stiff yet quietly happy, standing with Emma at her recent eighth-grade graduation.

Where was his family going to end up?

Maddy’s grandmother wearing fox furs around her neck, proud and sophisticated—probably years younger than Ben’s present age, but looking older than he thought he and Maddy appeared.

Cobalt-blue wedding goblets glinted from a glass shelf—the cups they’d used for their first sip as a married couple. A Jewish tradition. The glasses were not so much expensive as precious, and thus behind glass, taken out each anniversary. Last year Gracie spent an hour getting
the room just right for them. Candles. The table cleared of clutter. Two pressed white napkins.

What the hell am I supposed to do, God?

Ben walked to the cabinet, opened the door, and took out the deep-blue glasses, leaving two clean circles in the dust. He carried them to the table. The faceted crystal shimmered in the sun. He lifted the glasses high and tapped them together. Music. Glass music, Gracie called it the last time he and Maddy toasted.

He clinked them again and again. He clinked them until the music was no longer sweet. He clinked them until the glasses ground against each other. He slammed them harder and harder until finally he threw one against the wall and watched it shatter.

CHAPTER 15

Emma

Emma perched at the edge of her mother’s hospital bed, reading aloud from
The Family Nobody Wanted
, one of her favorite childhood books. An old-fashioned sketch of happy parents holding up a happy baby illustrated the cover. When her mom gave Emma the small worn paperback years before, Emma remembered turning it over to read the large brown letters on the back cover.
They had very little money—but a great deal of love to share.
The story was about parents who’d adopted children others had rejected.

Exactly the kind of book her mom adored: happy misery.

Emma was almost at her favorite part, where the mother, desperate to feed the family, opened a can of rattlesnake meat she’d previously kept on the shelf as decoration. She cleared her throat and began reading.

“
Rattlesnake is supposed to taste like a cross between chicken and tuna fish,
” she read. “
Any resemblance ours might once have had to either certainly had been lost in the long passage of years since it had been canned. It turned out to be something closer to cotton strings in a curdled cream sauce. We ate it because, after all, it had calories.
”

As always, Emma loved the description—imagining strings in sauce.

“
The minister dropped by that night for a visit. When he went to the kitchen for a drink of water, he reached for the can, which was back in its usual place on the window shelf.

“
 ‘When are you two going to eat this rattle—’ he began, and then broke off in surprise when the can came up light in his hand. He turned it over and stared. Carl had reamed it open from the bottom, washed it out, and replaced it on the shelf . . .
”

As she read on, through the part where the minister laid ten dollars on the sink, Emma’s throat clogged. That family was so lucky. Would her father ever think to wash out a can because her mother thought it was pretty? More likely, he’d yell at her because it was spreading germs, or because tin cans were ruining the environment.

Emma studied her mother’s eyelids. She put a finger to one cheek and then the other, touching the slack muscles. Was it her imagination, or was her mother becoming faker-looking every day? Like a rubber doll.

“I have to go now, Mommy.” Antiseptic and medical odors filled the area, smells her mother would despise. Reaching into her jeans pocket, she slid out a tiny plastic travel jar she’d bought at CVS. She scooped out a bit of almond-perfumed cream, one her mother used to moisturize her hands. Not the one Emma had borrowed—she’d already tried that one.

I love the smell, but it never lasts,
her mother said when she used this one.
Still, it’s so good while I’m putting it on
. Emma took her mother’s hand and rubbed the lotion in, the short-lived scent sweetening the air around them.

“Smells good, right, Mom? Tomorrow I’m going to bring something different. I don’t know what—I’ll go to Sephora, okay?”

What could wake her mother? Strong sexy perfume like Aunt Vanessa wore? Something soothing and familiar, same as the cozy sun-warmed fragrances her mother chose? Perhaps the known would remind her mother of life and draw her back like a Gypsy spell. Romanian, like on Grandpa Benedikte’s side. Maybe something new would penetrate. Emma wished Nurse Bernadette were there, instead of Nurse Angela, so she could ask.

She took gentle hold of her mother’s thinning wrist. “Wake up, Mom. School is starting soon. Gracie wants you to take her shopping. Daddy will be terrible at the mall, and I can’t drive. We need you.”

•  •  •

Emma rushed upstairs to her bedroom after supper. No one had said a word during the entire meal—they just watched television as they ate their Mrs. Budd’s Chicken Pot Pie. Three days before, her father had carried the portable TV from the guest room to the kitchen. Now it played during every meal. Her mother would hate that. Mealtime television was only allowed when her mother had been so tired that she’d brought pizza in and they ate it in the living room. Or the time they had ice cream for supper.

Or once in a while just because she’d been mad that Daddy hadn’t shown up.

Baruch Atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech Ha’Olam, please make Mommy wake up.

Emma drifted along with Rihanna, trying to not-feel. When she opened her eyes, Gracie stood in front of the bed.