The Mulligan (28 page)

“She complained her chest ached. Next thing I know, she's on the floor passed out. The medics think she might have had a heart attack.” He glances my way then forces his gaze onto the road. “Pray for her now, OK. Pray while I drive.”

My throat closes. I push it open. “I'm praying right now.”

“Out loud. So I can hear, too.”

“OK.” I press my hands together, shut my eyes tightly. “Dear God. Please be with Mom right now. Help the doctors make her better. Please. We need her so much.” I can't help it. Tears run from my eyes and I cry. Big sobs.

Robert touches my arm. “He heard. That's what counts. She's going to be OK. She has to be OK.”

I want to believe him, but I think of Grandpa. Death happens. Bad things happen. I've learned that lesson too much this past year. Now Mom. “She's been under stress with the house, Dad, and her new job. I should have helped more.”

“You did everything you could. Let's not go there.” His tires squeal as he veers into the ER parking lot. Within minutes, they put my mother in a closed cubicle.

Robert and I are told to stay in the waiting room with half a dozen other people in various states of illness. An hour goes by before the front nurse calls us. I rush to the counter before Robert, who is getting a drink of water.

“We're going to need some insurance information. Will one of you come back and meet with us?” It's not a nurse, it's a clerk, and I don't know what kind of insurance Mom has. I go anyway, hoping it will get me closer to the back.

“She has insurance through my father,” I tell her. I don't want to call him, but they suggest I do. I pull out my cell and punch in his name.

“Dad? It's me. I need your insurance information. Mom's in the hospital.”

His voice explodes in my ear. I finally get the information, but only after I tell him what I know. He says he's on his way. I want to tell him don't bother, that you are the reason she's here. But I let it go when the nurse comes along with Robert to tell me we can go back to see her now.

The hospital smells antiseptic—like the one where Mattie died. I was born in this hospital but feel no real connection to it. We follow the nurse to cubicle three. She pulls the curtain back for us to stand next to Mom's bed.

I shut my eyes fast. She looks like she's dying.

Robert puts his arm around me. “It's OK,” he whispers. His comfort helps as I open my eyes and stare down at this lifeless person on the bed.

The nurse adjusts the blanket. “She's going to be transferred to CCU. The doctor will speak with you soon. She's had a heart attack and needs surgery.”

I cover my mouth, biting my lip until I taste blood. “She isn't that old,” I say as though my reasoning will change everything.

“Heart attacks can strike anyone, especially if they have been under severe stress or it runs in their family. There are many reasons this happens. I'm so sorry. Why don't you go back out in the waiting area until we get her transferred, and then you can visit again?”

The evening drags. I drink two sodas and eat a pack of vending machine cookies.

Dad shows up an hour after I call him.

Robert gives him the update and he sits on the opposite side of the room from us, drinking cold coffee. His hair is disheveled and he's wearing an old pair of jeans with a sweatshirt and jacket. Not his usual attire. I can't help but wonder what he was doing when I called. I don't ask though. I don't want anything to do with him.

At six o'clock, we are told we can go upstairs to meet with the doctor.

Dad follows us into the elevator.

None of us speak.

I inch toward Robert to place as much distance between my father and myself.

The elevator plays music, soft piano notes.

I think of Mom and the radio channel she plays every morning. Something classic. She'd enjoy this song.

The door slides open and we wait for Dad to go first, following him down the hall to the nurse's station. A woman dressed in paisley pink greets us and motions us to where the doctor waits in a cubicle.

“I'm Doctor Stevens. I know this is happening fast but her cardiac cath shows a 95 percent blockage of one of her coronary arteries. We're prepping her now for bypass surgery and she'll be going to the operating room in a few minutes. I'll come out to talk with you when the surgery is over. When they get her settled in the CCU, you'll be able to see her briefly. Do you have any questions?”

I sink to the chair against the wall as my father and Robert pepper the doctor with endless questions—getting the same results. My mother is very ill and needs surgery.

We shuffle out to the next waiting area to begin the long wait.

“Bobbi, can I talk with you in private, please?” My father's voice startles me from the magazine I'm trying to focus on. He's standing by my chair, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He has this habit of rocking back on his heels, and today I swear I will push him over if he starts to do it.

“What about?”

He motions toward the hallway.

I follow, my feet hugging the carpet as I do. He's the last person on this earth I want to talk with today. My teeth ache as I grit them.

He leads me to a soda machine where no one else is standing.

“I want to know what happened. What's your mother been doing?”

“What?” My mouth falls open. “You know what she's been doing. She's been divorcing you. She's been selling the only home she ever knew, and she's been pounding the pavements getting a stupid minimum wage job so she can live in some one bedroom apartment by the tracks. What do you think she's been doing?” I gasp for air at the end of my speech.

“I knew she was upset, but not to this extent.”

His reaction floors me.

“Upset. You knew she was upset. Dad, what planet are you living on?”

He shakes his head to the side. Confusion settles into his eyes. It hits me. My father is clueless as to how he affects others.

“She suggested the divorce. She said I wasn't happy and she couldn't make me happy anymore. Doesn't she understand she's my whole reason for living?” His eyes close. Is my father going to cry?

“What are you talking about? You're the one who keeps leaving her. You're the one who has all the affairs, Dad.”

His head shoots up.

Yeah, I hit a nerve and I don't care. “I saw you.” And it's out.

He turns away from me, his back bent. “You never told me.” I can barely hear him.

“Well it isn't something a daughter wants to tell her father, you know. You cheated on Mom and she stuck by you. All these years and you haven't cared. Look what you did before Thanksgiving. You came back only because you thought you could live your golf career again through me after what I did to Robert. You hated me, Dad. You still do.” My chest is on fire. Words I thought I'd never say to my father spill from my mouth. Ugly words. I don't stop until I break him and when he finally sinks into the chair against the wall, I turn and leave him. I leave him like he has left us more than once.

The hospital exit is down the next hall. I push through the door into the parking lot where a gust of cold air strikes my face. My coat is inside in the waiting room and I stand freezing in the cold December air, my hand shaking against my arms.

The relief I expect to come doesn't. Instead, sadness raises its head and almost chokes me. If there was ever a chance to repair my family, I've blown it by my recent actions.

A hospital employee dressed in a parka comes out the door. She looks my way. “Honey, don't you think you should put a coat on? It's probably close to twenty degrees out here. You'll catch a cold and be in there as a patient soon enough.”

“I'm fine. Thank you.” I rub my arms and move closer to the brick wall. Finally, I feel Robert's keys in my jeans pocket from when I'd picked them up after he left them lying in the ER. I search the parking area and discover I'm in the lot where we left the truck earlier. Maybe I'll leave for a while. The doctor said her surgery might take a few hours or longer.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull into our driveway. The car heater is on full blast and I'm reluctant to get out and make a dash for the door. When I finally do, I enter the back way and note the mess the EMTs have made in the kitchen where they found my mother. The chairs are pushed back and her sweater lies in a heap. I pick it up and caress the soft fabric while folding it in half.

The teapot beckons me. With my mother's favorite cup in hand, I wander upstairs to her bedroom, searching for what, I don't know. Her bed is made with her favorite quilt—birds and lavender flowers. I sit on the edge and let my gaze wander. It drops to the nightstand at my right. She's written some notes in her familiar penmanship. I pick up the paper and smell her perfume on it.

The letter is to my father.

It's a love letter. I read until the end and put it down, flushing and angry at the same time.

My mother loves him and wrote the letter to ask him to try again. She blames herself for everything that has happened in their life including getting pregnant. She even offers to sell the farm and move anywhere he wants to move to be with him. Even Florida.

I fall backward on the bed, my head slamming into the pillow shams. They give with my weight. Plush. Groaning. I look up. The ceiling is painted beige with little ridges feathered around the far edges. She once told me she wanted to put a picture of mine up there so it would be the first and last thing she saw when she fell asleep and woke.

I called her silly and offered to paint something but never got around to it. I glance at the bedside clock. In another four hours, it will be a new year. A new year with new dreams and hopes and disappointments. I want my mother to be here to experience all of them with me. My hip aches as I roll to my side. The letter stares at me—reminding me that my father and mother are a couple. No matter what the situation. No matter if they are apart or together, I can't change how they feel about each other.

Tears trickle from my eyes. I wanted to keep them together, and then I wanted to keep them apart. Do I know what's right anymore? Is their business any of my business? This whole last year of college was for my father so that he would be happy again. But did I ever ask him what he needed?

The answer rises in my throat and makes me run to the bathroom in the hallway. My insides land in the toilet. I slide to the cold linoleum and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “I never asked.”

My voice echoes off the pale green bathroom walls. I assumed what my family needed without asking or caring that they might want otherwise. I rise to my feet as my cell phone starts to vibrate. One glance shows me it's Robert.

“Hey. How's Mom?” I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror. Bloodshot eyes greet me.

“Where are you? The doctor came out and said they're moving her to recovery. It went well, Bobbi. She's going to be OK. Now get your butt back here with my truck.”

“It's good news? Praise God.”

“Praise God, indeed. He hears our prayers. He heard yours.”

I shove my phone into my pocket.

God heard my prayer. He really heard me.

I swallow hard and drop back to my knees. “Please forgive my doubt, Lord. Please forgive me for running ahead of You and making my own plans. Thank You for healing my mother and thank You for opening my eyes to Your love.” When I finally rise, I add one more prayer and hope He's still listening.

 

 

 

 

31

 

The clock on the waiting room wall reads 11:45. In fifteen minutes, it will be the New Year. My father is asleep on the sofa, and Robert has gone to the cafeteria to see if they are still serving anything.

I saw my mother when I came back but she's been sleeping. We should go home, but I won't be the first to suggest it.

Dad nodded when he saw me, but that's it.

Robert grabbed me in a bear hug, his smile spilling off his face.

On the drive back, I made a decision. I'm done playing Superman. I'm turning in my cape for good and going to focus on putting my own life together and let everyone do the same for themselves.

By the looks of it, Dad isn't going anywhere. His love for Mom has been pretty evident since his arrival at the hospital. Maybe if I stay out of the way, they will work out their own problems. If they don't, it isn't on me.

Most of the hospital staff has gone home.

I was told they work on a skeletal crew on the holiday although tonight is a big one for fatalities. A few cleaning ladies nod to me when I use the bathroom. Thanking them would sound dumb, but part of me wants to. Instead, I return to the waiting room and pull my jacket around my shoulders.

The temperature has never been warm in here and right now I'd give anything for my bed.

“Hey, they're closed. Not even coffee.” Robert comes up to me. He holds salted peanuts in his fist and offers me some from the half-eaten bag.

“No thanks. How about we all go home until morning? They say she'll sleep a long time yet and everything went well.”

He shakes his head. His eyes are bloodshot and his clothing looks like something he's taken from the trash. “Not me. Here. Take the keys and go get some sleep. I'll stay with Dad.”

Having permission to return home appeals to me more than camping out in a cold waiting room. Besides, I want to call Drew and wish him a Happy New Year if I can. I take the keys and head out to the parking lot. It's well lit, so I'm not worried about anyone bothering me.

Fireworks sound off to my right.

I look up and see flashes of colorful lights rising over the rooftops. A smile works its way to my lips. I do have something to celebrate this year.

My phone rings as I reach the truck. Drew's name shows on caller ID.

“I was going to call you. Happy New Year.”