Comet's Tale (19 page)

18

NOVEMBER 2006–DECEMBER 2010—NEW MEXICO, ARIZONA, NEBRASKA

Comet and I had been alone for nine months when I decided to travel to Albuquerque, New Mexico, for the Tony Hillerman Writers Conference. I had learned of this annual seminar for aspiring writers from a magazine announcement. Initially I scoffed at the idea of attending. Although I was sharper than I had been prior to surgery, it was still hard for me to absorb information quickly. Worse, I had zero technical knowledge about writing or publishing outside of the narrow parameters of the law. That meant I would be voluntarily exposing my fragile ego to potential embarrassment. I rationalized taking that risk by telling myself that if I liked the hotel that was the site of the conference, it could be a convenient future resting place when I trekked from Sedona to Omaha. Besides, Comet would enjoy the vacation.

Thanks to our many road trips, Comet was now a discriminating traveler. Over time she had become a “resort dog,” accustomed to the finer things in life, such as attention from hotel guests and leftovers from room service. My one indulgence on the Nebraska-Arizona trail was a stop at an upscale hotel in the Denver Tech Center, fifteen minutes from the spine institute. Once Comet had experienced the impressive thread counts of the hotel's sheets, a phone that could summon treats on a whim, and the “beautiful people” who were often in attendance, she scrutinized the standard roadside motel with the attitude of a supermodel:
No way.
Whenever I steered into a parking lot that lacked a grand entryway and a valet, Comet's eyes would widen in panic in my rearview mirror. She would refuse to jump out of the vehicle and I would have to drag her by the leash from the back of the SUV.

Comet enthusiastically approved of my decision to attend the Albuquerque conference. When we made our appearance in the hotel lobby, the staff at the front desk spent a good five minutes fawning over her—proof that they had superior taste. The faculty and students reacted to Comet with smiles, sighs, and gushing acknowledgment of her royalty, reinforcing her opinion that we were in the presence of the right kind of people. The crowning moment of the week, however, was Comet's introduction to Tony Hillerman.

It was the end of the four-day conference, and I was tired. Not only was I receiving a crash education about the world of writing, I had been sitting in an upright chair for extended periods—an hour or longer—for the first time in at least six years. I occasionally got up and took a brief walk to relieve the pressure on my spine, but for the most part I was upright on my butt. My abdomen and sides had begun to ache as if I had absorbed twelve rounds of body punches from Muhammad Ali. Now Comet and I stood waiting for the elevator to take us to the final function, that night's awards banquet. Exercising her impeccable manners, Comet waited for disembarking passengers before she led the way through the open elevator doors.

“Hi, Wolf.” Anne Hillerman, a tall, energetic woman who sparkled with warm enthusiasm and a gorgeous smile, was already in the elevator. She had befriended me during the course of the conference, introducing me to aspiring writers, published authors, and faculty members. I yanked on Comet's leash when I saw the other person in the elevator, suddenly at a loss for words.

“How are you two tonight?” Anne was asking. When I just grinned, she continued, “Wolf, this is my dad, Tony.”

Mr. Hillerman stuck his hand out in greeting. “Glad to meet you, Wolf.” He smiled down at Comet. “And who is this?”

I finally replied, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hillerman. Comet, you can say hi.”

Before I could tell him that he was one of my favorite authors, he observed, “Must be a female, she's smaller than a typical male. Greyhounds. Did you know . . .” For the next two minutes of the elevator ride and the five minutes more that it took to walk to the banquet hall, he casually recited an encyclopedic primer on the greyhound breed that left me wondering if, in addition to talent, he possessed a photographic memory.

I had intentionally arrived early in order to reserve a seat at a table that kept Comet out of traffic and allowed me room to move around when I could no longer sit. Despite the euphoria of meeting a man whose work I had enjoyed for decades, I hadn't been sitting for more than ten minutes when my ribs began to throb. Suddenly a prick of burning flared in a spot about halfway up my spine, a sensation I hadn't felt since before my surgery. Past episodes had taught me that something serious was about to happen if this brush fire wasn't extinguished right away. I pulled Comet to her feet and we hurried to the elevator.

By the time I entered my room ten minutes later, every attempt to suck air into my lungs made a wheezing sound. My jaw was aching and my clothing was soaked. I stripped everything off, throwing my pants and shirt on the floor as I stumbled to the thermostat. I dialed it to the lowest setting and then aimed for the bed. As I hit the mattress, a searing pain stabbed an area below my sternum. Black spots crowded my vision and I reached for the phone, jabbing at the button for the front desk. “I'm sick. I need help,” I croaked.

Five minutes later a hollow pounding sounded from the door and a man's voice called, “Mr. Wolf. Mr. Wolf, are you okay? We're having trouble with the lock. The card reader's not working. Mr. Wolf?”

Trouble with the lock? This is a four-star hotel, for crying out loud!
My fingernails dug into my palms as I silently raged at my stupidity. How could I have ignored the familiar signs—the aching muscles and stabbing pain that circled my ribs? I slammed my fists into the bed and tried to yell out, but the weak thuds, accompanied by my soft whimper, merely melted into the scuffling sounds and rising voices of the people on the other side of the door. Through parched lips I finally slurred, “Hold on. I'll get the door open.”

“What?”

I could hear plans being made to force the door open from the hallway. The electronic lock had given me some problems the previous day, but it had been repaired.
It worked for me,
I thought desperately, already slipping into unconsciousness. Comet had leaped onto the bed and was resting her head on my chest, staring at me intently. Her ears pointed upward in question marks of concern.

“Comet, get the door,” I gasped.

Thank God the handle was a lever and not a knob. Comet glanced at me and flew off the bed, somehow maintaining her greyhound dignity during her rush to the door. She reached a paw up and pulled down hard on the handle. It clicked open and Comet backed away as two medics dashed into the room, firing urgent questions.

Whenever the burn in my back got bad enough, arteries in my heart would spasm, restricting the blood flow—a heart attack without a blood clot. I whispered a quick summary of this condition and the medics instantly placed a tab of nitroglycerin under my tongue. Within minutes the arteries began to open, allowing me to finally inhale the oxygen flowing through the tube in my nose. My heart rhythms were already stabilizing by the time I was lifted onto a gurney for transportation to a local hospital. Since I was newborn-naked, the medics wrapped me in blankets. There was a frantic discussion about “What do we do with the dog?” but it became abundantly clear from Comet's tense stance and unsmiling eyes that she was coming with me.

“She's my service dog and we're here alone. Besides, she's the one who opened the door for you.” A medic nodded and Comet trotted alongside my gurney as we rolled into the hall. By the time I was wheeled through the hotel lobby (packed with gaping guests) and settled into the ambulance, the rescue squad was already referring to Comet as “sweetie” and assuring her, “Don't worry, he'll be okay.” For her brave part in the rescue, Comet was allowed to ride in the front of the ambulance, keeping a close eye on the medics as they hovered over me in the back.

Comet stayed by my side after we were deposited in the emergency room, where the doctor decided that I had not had a “traditional” heart attack and my vital signs were approaching normal. Still, he wanted more tests. The rest of the staff had other concerns. “What do we do with Comet?” It had only taken five minutes for her name to filter throughout the ER. The question came from one of several techs who had gathered near my room, and it instantly set off a spirited competition about who would be primary custodian.

An hour later I returned to a small room where Comet lay on a pile of sheets and blankets that had been plumped on the floor for her. By 4:00 a.m. the doctor gave me a thumbs-up. “The nitro was administered just in time. It doesn't appear that you suffered any heart damage, but I wouldn't advise traveling without nitro close at hand.” He told the attending nurse that I could be released later in the morning if I didn't suffer any relapses.

After the medical staff had deserted my room, I lay in the semidarkness listening to the silence and the occasional squeak of a nurse's shoes on the linoleum floor. I looked at Comet. She gazed at me steadily from her nest of snowy bedding. In the stillness of the hospital room, I couldn't avoid the unhappy truth. There was only one reason I was here alone:
me.
My visit with the girls had begun to convince them that I was no longer in furious denial about my physical limitations. I was sure they wanted their dad back and that I could eventually rebuild those bonds. Now it was time to make amends to the one person who had unstintingly supported me in sickness and in health. I truly would be a failure if I didn't at least try to honor the “until death do we part” portion of those vows.

“Comet, we need to go back to Sedona and talk to Freddie.” Comet's head shot up. I swear she was smiling.

Freddie had relented and given me her phone number a few weeks earlier, and I had apologized for my obsessive focus on failure, weakness, and all the creaky codes of valor that had skewed my behavior throughout our marriage and later prevented me from appreciating my new lease on life. But my apologies seemed so trivial in light of all that had happened. I had to show Freddie that the stranger who had kidnapped her husband eight years ago was now nothing more than a pile of compost. There was one small ray of hope: before I left for New Mexico, Freddie had asked, “Do you think Comet would like to spend a day with me? I miss her. Maybe you can drop her off.”

What a man can accomplish with just an address! Freddie had tried to ignore me the first time we met more than nineteen years ago, but I had been determined to get her attention. She had told me she worked in cardiology, so I fell to the floor from a bar stool and faked a heart attack (oh, the irony). A subtler but no less spectacular approach might be needed this time. I called a florist in Sedona and had twelve dozen roses (yes, 144) delivered to her door. Why twelve dozen? That's all the florist could get her hands on. The next arrangement a few days later, with seventy-five tall tropical blooms, was fewer in quantity but far more impressive in size. I knew that Freddie was too intelligent to fall for something so obvious, but I wanted her to know that my thoughts about her were at least as grand as the flower arrangements. Freddie's thoughts about me, however, were quite different.

Although Freddie had phoned to thank me for the flowers, her subsequent calls and emails were not as kind. She refused to meet with me in person. During several long conversations, she explained why. Even in the darkest of times over those past trying years, she said, she had always maintained a glimmer of optimism. The hope that something good would eventually emerge made the trudge a tolerable adventure. When, after my surgery, I reverted to obsessive, ill-advised rehab, Freddie became convinced that the worst part of my personality was now what would permanently define me—and finally kill the most vital part of her. “I can't live a life without some kind of promise, some chance of laughing and good times,” she said. It all made sense to me. I didn't tell Freddie, but for my part, I missed the high-spirited bon vivant I had fallen in love with. Freddie's essence had been smothered to the brink of extinction not by her duties as nurse and breadwinner but by my relentless determination to get to some version of perfect.

On a day that dawned with a frigid voice message reminding me to take Sandoz to the vet, I called Freddie to share my insights about our relationship. “But talking about it over the phone is so impersonal,” I added. “We should get together for dinner.” She wasn't buying what I was selling.

“Steve, listen to me. I miss our house and the dogs. I miss our daughters desperately. Kylie and Lindsey won't even talk to me. I even miss you a little.” Freddie paused. I heard her take a deep breath. “But I don't know if I could live with you again.”

Her words cored into my heart like an auger. “Freddie, how can you mean that? You can't throw seventeen years of marriage and a wonderful family away. You just can't.” My last statement was forced out in a whisper.

“Why not? You did.”

My repeated calls to her throughout that week and the next ended the same way, if she answered at all.

But did I get discouraged? Come on! After Freddie realized I had faked my heart attack that first night we met, she had told the bouncer to commit severe bodily harm if I approached her table to talk. I had given him three hundred dollars to ignore Freddie's orders. It was the best money I ever spent. My persistence this time, however, could not be expressed with stunts more befitting a teenager. We were long past the golden retriever stage—
Do you love me? Do you, do you, do you?
I preferred the greyhound approach, best summed up by the saying, “Life is not about waiting for the storms to pass; it's about learning to dance in the rain.” I wanted Freddie to know that I finally grasped that concept. If I was extremely lucky, it would mean something to her.

I sent Freddie a bouquet of deep pink roses and lilies and called her again. “There's a great jazz band playing at the Pub. How about dinner and music?”