Bygones

  The cardiologist appeared at that moment. “Mr. and Mrs. Curran?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  Michael and Bess both stood.

  “I'm Dr. Mortenson.” He had steel-gray hair, rimless silver glasses and thick hands with a generous peppering of black hair on them. His handshake was hearty and firm. “Randy will be in my charge for a while yet. His heartbeat has leveled off now—a little rapid but we've administered inderal, which should help stabilize his heartbeat. If we can keep it reasonably steady for—oh, say twenty-four hours or so—he'll be totally out of the woods. Right now the lab people are drawing his blood gases. Our toxologist will do a drug screen and we'll be running a routine battery of other tests as well—blood sugar, electrolytes—standard procedure where cocaine is involved. We'll monitor him here in the ER for a while, then in a half hour or so he'll be transferred to Intensive Care. He's actually very alert now and asking if his mother is here.”

  “May we see him?” Bess asked.

  “Of course.”

  She gave a timorous smile. “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Michael thought to ask, “Are there legalities involved, Doctor?”

  “No. As I told Randy, we're not the police, neither do we report these cases to the police. Because he's admitted to using cocaine, however, he'll be referred for counseling, and a social worker will more than likely get involved.”

  “I heard him say he's never used it before. Is that possible?”

  “Absolutely. You recall the death of the young basketball player, Len Bias, a couple of years ago? Sadly enough it was his first time, too, but what he didn't know was that he had a heart defect, a weakness too great to endure the effects of the cocaine. That's the trouble with this damned stuff. It can kill you half a dozen different ways, even the first time you let it in your body. That's why we have to educate these kids before they try it.”

  “Yes . . . thank you, Doctor.”

  The ER medical staff was still watching Randy's monitors as Bess approached the gurney, with Michael lingering several steps behind. A nurse in a traditional white uniform and cap was filling a syringe with blood from Randy's arm. She snapped a piece of rubber tubing off his biceps and said to him, “You've got nice veins.” She sent him a smile, which he returned halfheartedly, then closed his eyes.

  Bess stood watching, willing her eyes to remain dry. The lab nurse finished drawing her samples and left, pushing a tray containing rows of glass test tubes that clinked like wind chimes as she moved away. Michael hung back while Bess moved to the bed and bent over their son. He looked ghastly, sickly white, his eye sockets gaunt and his nostrils occupied by the oxygen prongs. The leads from his chest draped away to the monitors. She remembered when he was one and two years old how deathly afraid he'd been of doctors, how he'd cried and clung to her whenever she took him into the clinic. Again she struggled against tears.

  “Randy?” she said softly.

  He opened his eyes and immediately they filled. “Mom . . .” he managed in a croaky voice as the tears made tracks down his temples. She leaned down and put her cheek to his, found his hand at his hip and took it gingerly, avoiding the IV lead-in taped to its back.

  “Oh, Randy, darling, thank God they got you here in time.”

  She felt his chest heave as he held sobs inside, smelled smoke in his hair and shaving lotion on his cheek, and felt his warm tears mingling with her own.

  “I'm sorry,” he whispered.

  “I'm sorry, too. I should have been there for you, talked to you more, found out what was bothering you.”

  “No, it's not your fault, it's mine. I'm such a rotten bastard.”

  She looked into his eyes, so like his father's. “Don't you ever use that word.” She wiped the tears from his temples but they continued to run. “You're our son and we love you very much.”

  “How can you love me? All I've ever been is trouble.”

  “Oh, no . . . no . . .” She smoothed his hair as if he were two years old again, then braved a wobbly smile. “Well, yes, sometimes you were. But when you have babies you don't say I want them only when they're good. You take them knowing that sometimes they'll be less than perfect, and that's when you find out how much you love them. Because when you've struggled through it, everybody comes out stronger. And that's how this is going to be—you'll see.”

  He tried to wipe his eyes but she did it for him, with a corner of the sheet, then kissed his forehead and moved back so Michael could take her place.

  He moved into Randy's line of vision and said simply, “Hi, Randy.”

  Randy stared at his father while his eyes filled once again. He swallowed hard and said, “Dad . . . ?”

  Michael braced a hand on Randy's far side, bent over and kissed his left cheek. Randy's arms went around his father's back and clung, trailing IV cords and blood pressure paraphernalia. He hauled Michael down as a sob broke forth, then another. Michael held him as fiercely as possible while attempting to keep his weight off the electronic leads taped to Randy's chest. For a long time they embraced in silence, only an occasional telltale sniffle giving away the difficulty they were having holding their weeping inside.

  “Dad, I'm so sorry . . .”

  “I know . . . I know . . . so am I.”

  Ah, sweet, sweet healing. Ah, welcome love. When they had filled both their hearts, Michael drew back, sat on one hip and rested an elbow alongside Randy's head. He put his hand on Randy's hair, looking down into his brimming eyes. “But this is the end of all that, huh? You and I have some time to make up for, and we're going to do it. Everything Mom just said goes double for me. I love you. I hurt you. I'm sorry and we're going to work on it, starting today.”

  Just don't die. Please don't die when I've just gotten you back again.

  “I can't believe you're here when I treated you so shitty.”

  “Aw, listen . . . we just didn't know how to get past our own hurt, so we shut each other out. But from now on we're going to talk, right?”

  “Right,” Randy croaked. He sniffed and tried to run the edge of one hand beside his eyes.

  “Let me help you. Bess, is there a Kleenex over there?” She brought some and passed a handful to Michael and watched as he ministered to his son much as he had when Randy was a toddler, drying his eyes, helping him blow his nose. The sight of the two of them, close and loving again, brought back fresh tears to her eyes.

  At last Michael sat back. “Now listen . . .” he said to Randy. “Your mother has something to tell you.” He stood and reached for Bess's hand, his eyes saying, Just in case he doesn't make it through the next twenty-four hours. He drew Bess forward and stood behind her, his hands resting on her shoulders. She slipped her palm under Randy's and told him quietly, “Your dad and I are going to get married again.”

  He said nothing. His eyes locked on hers for some time, then shifted to Michael's.

  Michael broke the silence. “Well, what do you think?”

  “My God, you've got guts.”

  Michael squeezed Bess's shoulders. “I guess you'd see it that way. We think we've grown up a lot in the last six years.”

  Bess added, “And besides that, we fell in love again.”

  A nurse interrupted. “We're going to move Randy to Intensive Care now. Then I think we'd better let him rest for a while.”

  “Yes, of course. Well, we just wanted you to know, darling. We'll be outside.” Bess kissed Randy. “We'll talk about it more when you're out of here. I love you.”

  Michael, too, kissed Randy. “Rest. I love you.”

  Together they went out to the ICU waiting room to face the long vigil that would either take or give them back their son.

  Chapter 19

  DURING HIS CRITICAL twenty-four hours, time passed for Randy as phantasm. He would sleep as if for aeons and awaken to find the clock had moved a mere ten minutes. Faint sounds interposed themselves between sound sleep and full consciousness like a background score for his dreams. The beep, beep, beep of the
blood pressure monitor announcing its new reading became his drumsticks on the rim of his Pearls, beginning a new song. The tinkle of test tubes when the lab technician returned became Tom Little's keyboards. The dim squish of rubber soles on hard floors became a rush of tail feathers on a woman who was dancing through his dream, dressed like a Las Vegas chorus girl in a bright pink flamingo costume while he played backup music with the band. She whirled and he caught sight of her face: it was Maryann Padgett. Somewhere in the room rubber wheels rolled across the floor and through his dream sped a skateboard and on it, the kid Trotter, going faster and faster, on a collision course with Maryann. Randy tried to call out, Trotter, don't hit her! but Trotter was watching his high-top tennies, jumping black electrical cables, unaware that he was going to wipe out and take her right along with him.

  “Trotter, look out!”

  Randy opened his eyes. His own voice had awakened him. His heart was thudding in fear for Maryann.

  Lisa was standing beside his bed, holding a baby in her arms.

  He smiled blearily.

  “Hi,” she said quietly.

  “Hi,” he tried but it came out so croaky he had to try again. “Hi. What are you doing here?”

  “Came to show you your new niece.”

  “Yeah?” He managed a weak grin. Lisa wore her smug Ali McGraw smile, the one with the hard edge that scolded while telling him beyond a doubt how much she loved him.

  So I'm going to die, Randy thought.

  The realization brought little fear, only an incredible sense of well-being, of giving up the fight at last and doing so content in the knowledge that he was surrounded by love. There was no doubt in his mind he was right, otherwise they wouldn't have let Lisa bring that newborn baby in here.

  He grinned and thought he said, “I'd hold her but I'd probably electrocute her with all these damned wires.”

  Lisa showed him the baby's face. “She's a beaut, huh? Say hi to your uncle Randy, Natalie.”

  “Hi, Natalie,” Randy whispered. Jeez, he was tired . . . such effort to get words out . . . cute baby . . . Lisa must have made Mom and Dad so happy . . . Lisa always did. He, as usual, had screwed up again. “Hey, listen . . . sorry I didn't come to see you.”

  “Oh, that's okay. I had about eight midwives as it was.”

  His eyelids grew too heavy to keep open. When they dropped he felt Lisa kiss his forehead. He felt the baby blanket brush his cheek. He opened his eyes as she straightened and saw her tears glimmering and knew undoubtedly he was dying.

  The next time he woke up Grandma Stella was there, in her eyes the same soulful expression as in Lisa's.

  Then his mom and dad again, looking haggard and worried.

  And then—too unreal to believe—Maryann, which made no sense at all, unless, of course, he'd already died and this was heaven. She was smiling, dressed in aqua blue. Did angels wear aqua blue?

  “Maryann?” he said.

  “I was here visiting Lisa, and she asked me to come down and see you.”

  Virgin mother Mary, she spoke. She was real.

  He told her, “I'd pretty much given up on you.” To his own ears his voice sounded as if he was in a tunnel.

  “I'd given up on you, too. Maybe now you'll get some help. Will you?”

  She wasn't an easy woman; rather, an exacting one, a throwback to a time when parents taught their daughters to seek a man who was pure in heart and mind. The crazy thing was, he wanted to be that kind of man for her. He didn't understand it but there it was. Lying on his hospital bed, dying, he promised himself that if by some miracle he was wrong and he got out of here, he'd smoked his last joint and screwed his last groupie and snorted his last coke.

  “I guess it's time,” he answered and closed his eyes because he was so tired not even Maryann Padgett's presence could keep him awake. “Hey, listen,” he said from the pleasant darkness behind his closed eyelids, “you'll be hearing from me when I get my act together. Meanwhile, don't go falling in love or anything, will you?”

  When Maryann Padgett returned to the ICU waiting room, his entire family was there. She went straight to Lisa.

  “How is he?” Lisa asked.

  “Weak but making jokes.”

  Worry sketched drooping lines down Lisa's face. “I got too involved in my new married life and stopped calling him.”

  “No,” Maryann whispered, embracing her friend. “You mustn't blame yourself.”

  But at one point or another during their vigil, recriminations fell from everyone's lips.

  Michael said, “I should have tried harder to get him to talk to me.”

  Bess said, “I shouldn't have encouraged him to audition all the time.”

  Gil Harwood said, “I shouldn't have put him in touch with that damn band.”

  Stella said, “I shouldn't have given him the money for that van.”

  By ten o'clock that night, everyone was exhausted. Randy's condition seemed stable, his heartbeat regular, though he remained in Intensive Care, where five-minute visits were allowed only once an hour. Michael said, “Why don't you all go home and get some rest.”

  “What about you?” Bess said.

  “I'll stay here and nap in the waiting room.”

  “But, Michael—”

  “No buts. You do as I say. Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning. Stella, Gil, you too, please. I'll be here and I'll call you if anything changes.”

  Reluctantly they went.

  A nurse brought Michael a pillow and blanket and he lay down in the family lounge with the reassurance that they'd wake him if Randy showed the slightest change. He awakened after what seemed a very brief time, drew his arm from beneath the blanket and lurched up when his watch showed 5:35 A.M. He sat up, rubbed his face, finger-combed his hair, stood and folded the blanket.

  At the nurses' station he asked about Randy.

  “He had a very good night, slept straight through, and there was no sign of any more problems with his heart.”

  Less than twelve hours to go before he was totally out of the woods. Michael shrugged and stretched and went to find a bathroom. He splashed cold water on his face, rinsed out his mouth, combed his hair and tucked his shirt in. He'd had these same clothes on since yesterday afternoon. It seemed half a lifetime ago since he'd donned them and come up to the hospital, smiling, to meet Bess and to visit Lisa and the new baby. He wondered how they were. Poor Lisa had had a shock, learning about Randy, but she'd handled it like a trooper, getting permission to bring the baby down here to show Randy in case he died. Nobody'd said as much but they all knew that was the reason.

  He stood in the doorway of Randy's room, watching him sleep.

  Ten more hours. Just ten more.

  He walked to the window and stared out, standing with both hands on the small of his back. What irony, both of his children in the same hospital, one bringing in a new life, the other with his life in the balance.

  He thought about it as dawn lifted over the St. Croix valley and lit the river and the boats at anchor and the thick maples that rimmed the water and the dozen church steeples of Stillwater. Sunday morning in late August, and the townspeople would soon be rising and dressing for worship services, and the tourists would soon be flooding in to shop for antiques and buy ice-cream cones and walk the waterfront. And the boat owners would be awakening in their cabin cruisers and stepping out onto their decks and watching the mist rise off the St. Croix and deciding at which restaurant they'd eat brunch. At noon Mark would come to the hospital and take Lisa and Natalie home.

  And four hours after that—please, God—Bess and I will do the same thing with Randy.

  As if the thought penetrated his sleep, Randy opened his eyes and found his father standing at the window.

  “Dad?”

  Michael whirled and moved directly to the bed, taking Randy's hand.

  “I made it.”

  “Yeah,” his father said, his voice breaking with emotion. If Randy didn't know he needed ten more hours
to be out of the woods, Michael wasn't going to disillusion him.

  “You been there all night?”

  “I slept some.”

  “You've been here all night.”

  Moving his thumb across the back of Randy's hand, Michael gave a quarter smile.

  “You all thought I'd die, right? That's why Lisa brought the baby for me to see, and why Grandma came, and Maryann.”

  “That was a possibility.”

  “I'm sorry I put you through that.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes that's what we do to people who love us—we put them through things without really meaning to.”

  They took a while to study each other and to reaffirm silently that they were done trying to put each other through anything and were ready to take the next step toward a wholesome relationship with one another.

  “Where's Mom?”

  “I made her go home and get some sleep.”

  “So you two are getting married again.”

  “Is that okay with you?”

  “You guys in love?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then it's okay.”

  “We'll have some things to work out.”

  “Like?”

  “Getting you well again. Deciding where we'll live.”

  “I can live anyplace.”

  You'll live with us, Michael vowed silently, realizing his and Bess's plans to cut Randy free would have to be waylaid for a while. The idea brought him great hope and a sense of impending peace. “Just so you know—we're not abandoning you. Not this time.”

  “You didn't abandon me before. That was all in my head but the shrinks here are going to get my head on straight again.”

  Michael bent low over his son, looking into his eyes. “We'll be there for you. Whatever you need, whatever it takes. But now, I'd better go. Five minutes is up and that's my limit. Anyway, I need a shower and a shave and a change of clothes.” Michael stood. “I'll call your mother, then take a run home. But I'll be back in a couple of hours, okay?”

  Randy looked up at his tired father, whose rumpled clothes and shadowy growth of whiskers bore witness to his night's vigil. It struck Randy in that moment how damned hard it must be to be a parent, and how little he'd considered the fact until now. I must be growing up, he thought. It made him feel expansive, and a little scared, taken in the light of the events of the past twelve hours. What if I have a kid someday and he puts me through this?