Over His Dead Body

CHAPTER 11

THE CODE YESTERDAY IN THE HOSPITAL had been for a toddler who'd fallen off his s wing five days ago. Compared with the tragedy of three dead children in two days, Cassie's problems with her own children seemed like nothing, a pseudo problem. What were they really doing that so annoyed her? Teddy had come home and appropriated his father's best sports shirts, his most colorful socks and boxer shorts from his father's closet as if he were already gone. And he was eating all his father's favorite foods from the kitchen shelves.

Teddy also couldn't stop humming George Michael's song "Freedom." On Saturday at the hospital he had spent all his time trying to locate and hang out with his surprising choice, Lorraine, a big-boned, overweight operating room nurse who wore polyester and had a Long Island accent. The Sales family did not have strong New York accents.

On the positive side, Teddy's having to locate this girl in the very large hospital required some social skills. He was too shy to call her on the phone, so his strategy had been to hang around in hopes of running into her. On Saturday night, after Lorraine finished up assisting the emergency repair of a ruptured spleen, Teddy ran into her and asked her out for pizza.

Cassie heard him return home just after midnight. On Sunday morning, he ducked out at ten-thirty, earlier than he'd ever gotten up in his life. He didn't arrive at the hospital to visit his father until three in the afternoon. By then she was steaming.

"Teddy, where were you?" she asked when he found her with all the other visitors in the head trauma lounge.

"I took Lorraine out to brunch," he said, grinning happily despite the family tragedy.

"Where?" Marsha asked curiously.

"International House of Pancakes."

She snorted with contempt at his sudden sinking to the lowest possible food denominator.

"Shut up. How's Daddy?"

"The same," Cassie told him, thinking that her son looked happy. After all the praying she'd done for her wonderful, terribly shy boy to meet a lovely girl, Lorraine was the thanks she got.

And Marsha! Well, Marsha was under some kind of constant advisory alert with Dr. Thomas Wellfleet-thirty-two, unmarried, and definitely on the prowl. They had called each other on the phone. They had met for a consultation in the hospital. Afterward, they had sipped a not very good Merlot and talked on Saturday evening about the case in a very pleasant restaurant on the Miracle Mile, the posh shopping mall near their house. While their father was in intensive care, her two children were having fun. They were going out, were dating. At home, they were talking together, whispering. They became instantly quiet whenever she walked into the room. In just one weekend they had become allies. Clearly, they were hatching some plot to take over her life. Cassie dreamed that they were four again and swept away in a giant flood that covered the whole North Shore of Long Island, sparing absolutely no one but her.

During the many hours that Cassie waited in the visitors' lounge expecting Mitch to come out of his coma and return to normal any second, dozens of other patients' relatives schooled in and out, eating, drinking, telling one another their stories, and visiting their stricken family members who were usually too sick to recognize them.

Dr. Mark Cohen came to see Mitch several times, and each time he stayed for a few minutes to comfort Cassie. He'd sit down next to her on one of the leatherette sofas for two and talk about the past, about the changes in their lives since they'd known each other. Having children, raising them, getting busier and busier. Mitch's phenomenal success, and his own lesser one. Each time Mark settled on the sofa, he leaned close to her and examined her face carefully with caressing fingers. It never seemed to bother him that other visitors were around or the TV set was on. He must be used to them, Cassie thought.

After the first time he saw her on Friday, he arranged for a nurse to bring gel packs for her face every few hours. After that he had an investment in her convalescence and came to check on the results. He must have wanted a good result with at least one person in the family. On Sunday morning Mark took her for a short walk. On Sunday afternoon he took her for coffee in the hospital cafeteria. She had hers with hazelnut creamer and toyed with the spoon. She wondered how much he knew about her husband and family that she didn't know. Mitch had been a phenomenal success?

"Thanks for the gel packs," she began.

"Oh, forget it. It's nothing. You're looking much better today. Are you using those creams I suggested?"

"Yes, Marsha got them for me." She got the feeling that Mark, like Mitch, was avoiding all the meaningful subjects.

"Your doctor probably didn't tell you to, but just between you and me, it doesn't hurt at this point to start softening up the stitches. When are they coming out?" he asked, sticking to her face.

"I'm not sure. Maybe Thursday."

"You're looking very good, really." Then he gave her a frankly admiring nod that made her think he'd lost his mind.

"Thanks, Mark, tell me about Mitch."

"Honey, he's holding his own. That's all I can say for now. Have you checked into his arrangements for a catastrophic event?"

Cassie stirred her coffee. "I don't want to go into the files just yet."

Mark gave her an incredulous look. "That's not like you, Cassie. You've always been a practical girl. Don't you want to know what his wishes are should his body fail him?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"He's on a respirator," he said gently.

Cassie blinked. Of course she knew that.

"Does Mitch have a living will? I'm not sure he would want extraordinary measures to keep him alive in this condition forever."

"Forever?" Cassie blinked again.

"Look, maybe I'm speaking out of turn. But we're old friends, Cassie. I don't want to hide anything from you."

"Forever? He could live like this forever?"

"Well, not forever, but for a long time. People can hang on for years."

"Years? Like this?" Cassie knew Mark intended to be kind, but his raising such a possibility felt somehow like an assault. She started shredding her paper napkin. Just two days seemed an eternity.

"I told you, he made it through the first forty-eight hours, but that's about it." He shrugged. "We'll have a better picture in the next few days, and we have to be hopeful, of course. But…"

"I'm very hopeful," Cassie said. Today was only Sunday. Hard to believe.

"But Cassie, you have to be your practical self, too. You need to look into the arrangements he's made for a major event like this. I'm assuming you've checked and made sure Mitch has provisions in his health insurance for all the long-term care he's going to need when he comes out of intensive care."

Cassie didn't want to tell her doctor and old friend that her kids were plotting against her, and she wanted them to leave the house before she started investigating those arrangements.

"What are the odds he'll recover?" she asked again. He'd told her already, but she couldn't take it in. She just couldn't absorb the alternatives: death or a partial recovery.

"Oh, I don't want to go there, Cassie. A lot of people do very well." Mark was distracted by a dapper man in a sports jacket at the coffee machines far away. He waved.

"But you don't think Mitch will do very well, do you?" she pressed. "You told me that yesterday."

"They can surprise you," he said, vague again.

"I'll say," she murmured. She'd had about as many surprises as she could take. As far as she was concerned, Mitch should just make up his mind: Walk into that heavenly light, or return to the chaos of life. Right now, if she were in his situation, she wasn't sure which she would choose herself.

She sighed, and Mark refocused on her. His round face was pink and healthy. He was overweight, but had a nice smile. He smelled of soap and fruity cologne. He was a man who liked women. She could feel it in his touch as he patted her hand. Mark, who'd always been so brisk and professional, was acting like a real friend. It made her feel important for a moment, and she realized that she'd forgotten what a man's comfort felt like. She enjoyed the warmth of his hand as it rested on top of hers. Her heart beat a little faster. A real friend.

Mark shifted a little in his chair, giving her a knowing smile that she felt all the way down to the tips of her toes. What was this? She withdrew her hand, ostensibly to adjust the scarf on her head. "How's Sondra?" she asked suddenly.

"Still very short. She's concerned about Mitch, of course, and sends her best," he replied, wry for a second, then casual again with the doctor voice she knew so well.

"It was nice of her to call." Cassie kept adjusting her scarf.

"Well, she's a very nice woman," he said without conviction. "Cassie, has anyone else called, been to visit? Any of your friends? You need a lot of support right now. Family and friends help."

"Oh, I totally agree." Cassie nodded. If there was one thing she didn't want, it was support. Mitch would hate having people know, having people see him like this, gossip about and pity him. She couldn't talk to anyone until things were more settled. It was a family thing. She had to handle it herself. And there was the little thing of her face-lift.

"Mark, what is this long-term health care you're asking me about? Why is it so important?" she asked. She just didn't get it.

"Oh, you know. When Mitch comes out of this, he may need to go to another facility for aftercare. We don't keep patients here long-term."

"Another hospital?" she said faintly.

"For rehabilitation, therapy. It can take a long time. But let's not talk about that now." He reached out and squeezed her hand one last time, then ended the conversation. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, okay? Just before noon is when I make my rounds during the week. But I'm in constant touch with the staff here. And you can call me on my cell anytime, night or day. You keep that pretty chin of yours up, okay?" He chucked her under the chin.

"Okay," Cassie replied gamely. "Absolutely." She tried to smile bravely as he left the cafeteria. She was still trying to figure out what had happened. Had he been coming on to her? Had she turned him off? The fleeting electricity in his smile and the delicate touch of his fingers lingered for a while in her mind after he was gone. She was unnerved by the heat she'd felt and the undercurrents, the innuendo of the conversation. She was concerned, but after a while she concluded that nothing bad had happened. Mark was a friend. She'd been starving for the personal touch and had gotten it, that was all. Still, she couldn't drink her coffee, even with its pleasant hazelnut-flavored creamer.

Sunday evening, ten days after Cassie's surgery and two days after Mitch's stroke, Marsha and Teddy further trashed their rooms in preparation for their return to their studio apartments in Manhattan. Just before they left, Marsha came into the kitchen, where Cassie was still on her feet, dazedly trying to find things to do.

"Mom, you okay?"

"Sure, I am," Cassie told her. "Fine."

"I've washed my sheets and towels. The towels are in the dryer now. Teddy was only here for two nights. I figure his sheets are good for a few more days. When is Rosa coming back?"

Rosa was the cleaning lady they'd had for the last fifteen years. She'd been on vacation in Peru for three weeks.

"Soon. I don't know."

"You should get someone else. And you don't have to sit at the hospital all day tomorrow. Why don't you rest for a few days. It wouldn't hurt."

"I want to be there when he wakes up," Cassie said.

"I hate to leave you like this, Mom." Marsha drew Cassie over to the kitchen table and sat her down. She looked sad as she patted her mother's hand. "Are you okay?"

It reminded Cassie of Mark's pats. She thought she must look pretty pathetic to engender this kind of reaction from both of them.

"You're a nice girl, Marsha," she murmured, her eyes puddling as she realized for the second time that day how unused to touch she'd become. "Marsha, about those receipts-"

"Oh, Mom, let's not talk about that now," Marsha cut her off quickly.

"I didn't sign them," Cassie told her. "I want you to know that."

"I know that, Mom." Marsha gave her another sympathetic pat.

"You do?"

"Yes. I'm really sorry." Marsha hung her head. "I shouldn't have jumped on you like that."

"Marsha, why did you do it? We would have taken care of you, gotten you therapy. Why-?"

"Mom!" Marsha's tone changed into a whine. "You don't think it was me? Are you crazy? I wouldn't do anything like that. How could you think it was me?" she cried.

"Teddy?" Cassie was astounded. "Was it Teddy?"

"No, Mom. Not Teddy, either."

Cassie tried to frown with her new forehead. "Daddy? Daddy? Your father did this on purpose, didn't he?"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow."

This was hard to swallow. Cassie swallowed it. "Your father opened credit card accounts in my name? Signed my name? Bought a Jaguar?" She was really annoyed about that Jaguar. "Who has it?"

Marsha shook her head, didn't want to say.

Teddy came in. "What are you two talking about?" he asked suspiciously.

"Teddy, Daddy took out credit cards in my name? Bought all that stuff? A car? Where is it all?"

Teddy put his arm around her shoulders. Another one. Gave her a pat.

"Why?" She looked from one to the other.

"Must be some kind of a tax thing," Teddy said vaguely. Suddenly he found his shoes very interesting. Very interesting indeed.

"What kind of tax thing, Teddy?"

"Mom, Teddy and I will talk to you about these money things some other time. We'll get a tax lawyer and, I don't know, we'll work it out." Marsha gave Teddy an angry look.

"I'll get a lawyer," Cassie said. It was her life. She felt forlorn. "When are you coming back?"

"Maybe tomorrow night. Maybe Tuesday. Mom, Edith is coming over to be with you tomorrow. Are you okay for tonight?"

Cassie knew it was useless to question them further. She told them she was just fine. But where was that Jaguar? She kept focusing on the car because hers was such an old one.