Flirting With Pete: A Novel (48 page)

“Maybe you ought to take Meg home,” she suggested softly. “She needs sleep. So do you.”

“And you.”

Smiling sadly, Casey looked at Caroline. “It was like this right after the accident, hours and hours of just sitting here, waiting for something to happen. I’d sleep on and off in the chair. I could do that now, too. I hate to leave her alone.”

“They’ll call you if she takes another turn.”

“I know. But I’m still ten minutes away. I was closer at the condo.” She gave a disbelieving half-laugh. “Two weeks ago, the condo was home. How could everything have changed so fast?”

He didn’t answer, simply slipped a hand in hers. She touched her cheek to his shoulder for the sheer comfort of it.

Then an idea hit. Catching her breath, she righted her head. “Oh.
Wow
.” She looked up at Jordan. “All these months I kept thinking that if Mom improved, I’d find a way to move her home with me. I barely had room then. Now I do. I want to show her the townhouse.”

“She can’t see it,” he reminded her gently.

But the thought had taken root. “Maybe not, but what’s the harm? She’s been lying here for three years. Maybe that’s the trouble. Maybe she needs a change of scenery to show her there’s still a world out there. There’s plenty of room at the townhouse. She’ll be just as comfortable there as she is here. For what it’s costing here, she can have a live-in nurse there.” Her mind was filling with possibility. “I’ll be able to see Mom between clients. I’ll be right there if anything happens. I’ll feel like I’m
doing
something.” She had another thought. This one brought a small smile. “Isn’t it a kind of poetic justice? Connie gave me the townhouse, but he never gave her a thing. I think it would be fitting and proper for her to see the place. To stay there. To use it.”

“Would she want that?” he asked quietly.

“If she doesn’t,” Casey challenged defiantly, “let her open her eyes and tell me.”

The move took place early the next morning. An ambulance brought Caroline to Beacon Hill, where she was met by Casey and Jordan, Meg, and a private nurse. In no time, Caroline was settled in Connie’s big sleigh bed. Casey wouldn’t have put her anywhere else.

Angus appeared to agree. After hiding behind the draperies until the flurry of activity was done, he ventured out and ever so cautiously approached the bed. He leapt onto it and sniffed his way up one side of Caroline and down the other. Then, seeming not at all bothered that she wasn’t Connie, he curled into a ball at her feet and went to sleep.

That was the good news.

The bad news was that Caroline gave no sign of being aware of the move. If she shifted her eyes, it wasn’t in response to any stimulus. Her hands lay inert. She didn’t even cough, just continued rattling on with each breath.

Casey blamed her lack of awareness of the move on heavy sedation, but she didn’t dare ask the nurse to cut it back. Nor did she ask the doctor, when he stopped by at noon. The alternative was seizures, he would say. None of them wanted that, least of all Casey. She wasn’t tempting fate. She was tired of doing that.

Besides, her emotions had taken an interesting turn. The triumph she had expected to experience bringing Caroline into Connie’s home never materialized. In its place was an odd contentment. What Casey felt— absurd as it sounded— was a sense of peace.

The move was right. She knew it in her soul. In bringing Caroline here, there was a closing of the circle in Casey’s own life.

She was still frightened, but the fear was controlled, enough so that she was actually able to see clients— not only see, but counsel them well. Yes, a stranger might call her cold and unfeeling, working while her mother lay unresponsive in a bedroom upstairs. But a stranger hadn’t worn Casey’s shoes for the last three years.

Ahh, but there were strangers who had. Casey was one of many thousands holding vigil for loved ones who had been in comatose states for extended periods of time. Having talked with a few and read the stories of others, she knew that survival for those who watched and waited required a nominal return to normalcy. Just as Casey couldn’t possibly have spent every minute of the last three years at Caroline’s side, she couldn’t do it now. Nor did she think her mother would want it. Caroline was a doer. She would respect Casey for respecting the needs of her clients.

One of those clients was Joyce Lewellen, but it was a different Joyce who came in from the waiting room. This Joyce had color on her cheeks and a bounce in her step. She looked as though a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Well?” Casey invited with an anticipatory smile as they took their usual seats.

“We lost,” Joyce said.

Casey had expected to hear of a win. Her smile was erased by surprise.

“The judge ruled against us,” Joyce explained, “but the weirdest thing happened. I wanted to win. You know how badly I wanted that. I didn’t sleep last Thursday night. I was a mess, waiting in the lawyer’s office for the decision to arrive. When it came, he read it himself, then he read it to me. Then he put the paper down on the desk. And… just like that… it was over. I mean, all the things you’d been telling me ran through my mind, and suddenly they made sense. I tried. No one can say I didn’t. I tried to find someone responsible for Norman’s death. And I couldn’t. The doctors did try to save him. Okay, maybe they should have guessed that he might react adversely to the anesthesia. Maybe something in Norman’s medical history should have given them a hint. But it didn’t, and after the fact they did what they could to save him. I’m not saying I’m happy. Norman’s still dead. The girls are still without him, and I’m still alone. But I’m content with the judge’s decision. I took it as far as I could. Win or lose, I tried.”

Content. Casey had used the same word to describe how she felt about having her mother here with her in Connie’s house. Her situation wasn’t any happier than Joyce’s. Caroline was still in a vegetative state. But Casey had
done
something in bringing Caroline here. Just as Joyce had
done
something in pursuing the lawsuit.

“You were feeling helpless after Norman’s death,” Casey said, which was how she’d been feeling herself.

“Very. Our marriage wasn’t perfect. I’ve told you about that. But he was good to me, and he certainly was good to the girls. I felt I owed it to him to try.”

“You were very angry last week.”

“I know.”

“Do you feel angry now?”

“You told me to let it go.”

So Casey had. Thinking about that, she left her seat, went to the desk, and took two butterscotch candies from the drawer. She gave one to Joyce and unwrapped her own as she settled back into her chair. She slipped it into her mouth and folded the paper. Looking at Joyce again, she gently repeated the question. “Do you feel angry now?”

Joyce thought about the question this time. “If I try, I could get myself worked up. But the bubble burst, and I feel relieved. If I could bring Norman back, I would, but I can’t. If I could find someone at fault for his death, I would, but I can’t. I was there during the hearing. The judge seemed intelligent, and he seemed fair. Now he’s made his decision. He took it out of my hands.”

Casey envied Joyce. She wished
she
had a judge to take things out of her hands— someone to issue a decision in writing saying, definitively, that Caroline’s time had come. Caroline was withdrawing from her. The question was whether it was time to let go.

Caroline was never alone. When Casey wasn’t with her, the nurse was by her side, and when the nurse took breaks, Meg was there, sitting on the side of the bed, holding Caroline’s hand and singing softly. By mid-afternoon, Brianna had stopped by. Then Jenna and Joy and others of Casey’s friends came. Then two members of her yoga class. Then several of Caroline’s friends from Providence. Then Emily.

Jordan was in and out through the day. At one point, when Casey remarked wistfully that she would have liked to carry Caroline to the garden, he took things in his own hands and brought the garden to Caroline. He filled vases with viburnum and sweet woodruff, with bluebells, lilacs, and lilies. He brought the first of the peonies; he brought sweet William and bleeding heart. By late afternoon, Caroline’s room was nearly as gay with fragrance as the garden itself.

Early evening found Casey alone with Caroline, marveling at it all, when a soft knock came at the open bedroom door. Ruth Unger stood on the far side of the threshold, looking far less confident than she had in her own house the Friday before, clearly unsure of her welcome, clearly respecting the bounds of that threshold.

Casey was startled. She might have hesitated— might have reminded herself that Caroline might not want Connie’s wife anywhere
near
— had Casey not spent that little time with Ruth three days before. Against her better judgment, she had liked Ruth then. And now she was touched.

With a tentative smile, she gestured her into the room.

“I wasn’t sure…,” Ruth began, trailing off when she neared the bed and looked at Caroline. She seemed truly grieved.

“How did you know she was here?” Casey asked.

“I call the nursing home every Monday.”

Casey hadn’t known that. No one at the nursing home had told her. Of course, she hadn’t asked. “Why… do you call?”

“To see how she is,” Ruth explained, her eyes still on Caroline. “I didn’t trust that Connie could pick up the phone and make the call, but I felt he ought to know if there was a change.”

“Were the flowers your doing, too?”

“No. He did that himself.” She paused, gave a diffident smile. “Of all the times I imagined bumping into your mother on the street, I never pictured we would meet like this.”

“Why would it matter?” Casey asked, though without bitterness. Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t feel anger toward Ruth. “You got Connie.”

“Yes. I did. And he loved me in his way. But she was part of his life.”

“One night. That’s all.”

“One night, one daughter,” Ruth corrected with a small smile, and here, too, Casey was touched. Ruth had no cause to make Casey feel good. Yet, she had done it on Friday and was doing it now.

“Well,” Casey said softly, and let it go.

“I saw Jordan downstairs,” Ruth said. “I’m glad he’s here.”

“You know Jordan?”

“Yes. Jordan and I have something in common, and it’s not Connie.”

Casey was a minute in following, but she finally did. “Art.”

“We kept seeing each other at shows, even before we realized that we shared this other connection. He’s far more talented than I am, of course.”

“He would probably argue with that.”

“That’s because he’s a gentleman,” Ruth said, then continued, “I brought dinner. Coq au vin. Meg is heating it up.”

“That was
very
sweet of you.”

“I wish there were more I could do.”

“This is helpful— the thought and all. I truly appreciate it.”

“If there’s anything else, I’d like you to call and ask.”

Casey smiled. “I will,” she said, meaning it.

Ruth nodded. She continued to study Caroline for another minute. Then she gave Casey’s shoulder a light rub. “Let me know how she does?”

Caroline’s breathing worsened. When the nurse rolled her onto her side, Casey was there, helping hold her body, urging her to cough up what was clogging her airways. “Come on, Mom. You can do it. Do it for me.”

But Caroline didn’t respond. When they propped her in a half-seated position, the rasping was as bad as ever. The phrase “death rattle” kept coming to Casey’s mind. Each time it did, she pushed it away. But each time it returned.

Even Meg heard the change. She stood against the side of the bed opposite Casey, while her eyes focused on Caroline. “It’s like she’s trying to tell you something, only you can’t hear her, so she’s speaking louder and louder. What is she trying to say?”

Casey feared that she knew. Leaning close, she begged, “Talk to me, Mom. Tell me what you’re feeling.” When she heard nothing, she pushed the issue. “We always used to talk, you and I. Remember how we did— not even so much before the accident, but after? You talked to me, Mom. I could hear you clear as day. You were thinking your thoughts, and I heard them.”

“Could anyone else hear her?” Meg asked.

Casey smiled sadly. “No. But no one else knew her well enough to be able to think her thoughts.”

“If you were thinking her thoughts, were they real?”

Casey was taken aback. She stood straighter. If getting a handle on reality was the goal, Meg had certainly asked the right question— which was humbling for Casey, a dose of reality in its own right. Meg was no therapist, indeed had no formal education beyond high school. But she had lived through an emotional crisis and intensive therapy, and emerged a fully functional human being. That earned her a certain credibility.

Suddenly Casey was curious. “Tell me about Pete,” she asked.

Meg looked surprised, but only for a minute. “What… should I say?”

“Was he real?”

“In my mind, yes.
Real
real? No.”

“Had you grown up with imaginary friends?”

Meg shook her head.

“Were you aware when you first saw him that you’d made him up?”

She seemed to grapple with the question. When she finally answered, it was with an element of unease. “I want to say I was. That way I won’t sound so crazy.”

“Meg, I carry on conversations with my mother,” Casey confessed brashly. “Is that much different?”

“It is,” Meg maintained. “You don’t act on what you imagine.”

“I have. I planned us a trip once. I booked space for us on a cruise to Alaska.”

Meg looked appeased. “The whole time Pete was with me, I thought he was real. I did. I just didn’t know if he would
stay
. I used to think I’d come home and find him gone. I couldn’t believe that he would really want me.”

Casey had read all this in the journal. “When did you realize that you’d made him up?”

Meg considered her answer. “I used to think it was when I was at the hospital. When I first got there, I was kind of on the fence. Sometimes I believed he would come and get me. Other times, I knew he wouldn’t. Couldn’t.”