"Mitch, I know you're not in a coma. This is what you always do," she said, getting impatient now. The least he could do was wink. Other stroke victims could wink.
Whoosh, whoosh. Click, click. Not Mitch. He wasn't even going to try. He was holding out as usual. She tried another tack.
"Mitch, the kids were going through your files. Teddy says you're going to be audited. If you don't wake up, I'm going to have to deal with this myself." There, it was out. Guiltily, she sneaked a look out the window to see if anyone was watching. She was talking to him harshly, raising forbidden subjects. He was supposed to take it easy. He was supposed to feel it was safe to come back into the world.
A voice came up, loud and urgent. "Code, room six." Doctors and nurses rushed out. Lots of noise and urgency. Everyone converged on the room across the hall. After several intense minutes, the curtain was drawn and it was over. The second one in two days. Cassie was shocked. This was how they died.
"Oh God. Mitch, don't leave me." The words came out a cry from the heart if ever there was one. She dropped her chin to her chest and prayed. Save this man. Oh God, save him.
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."