"I'm not sure what
you mean. What could we possibly need to talk about," Dylan asked in the
most innocent voice he could muster. He was unsure how much his mom had heard
and wasn't prepared to make any unnecessary admissions just yet. "Can't a
guy just get up early and enjoy the sunrise?" He never thought when he
went to bed a few short hours ago that Thanksgiving day would start like this.
His mother cocked her
head to the side and stared at him with one eye. She reminded him of the parrot
he had as a child. It was as if she was trying to decide whether to take a
peanut from him or bite his finger.
"How old are
you," she asked.
"Twenty-three."
"So how long have I
known you?"
"Twenty-three years, I suppose." She still had her head
cocked, and in spite of the possible danger to his fingers, he reached for his
coffee. “Why are you asking?” He made his best attempt at what the family
called the boo-boo face. Whether he
was conscious of it from that early on or not, from about the time he was able
to walk, Dylan could melt his mother’s heart simply by going doe-eyed and
pouty. It drove his siblings crazy, but it was his gift, and by the age of
twenty-three, he had honed it to an art.
This time, it wasn’t
working.
"Dylan, do you
remember when you were five and you came to me holding the two halves of the
Royal Doulton figurine that the cat had knocked down?" He felt his cheeks
warm when she mimed air quotes at the end of the sentence. "Well, I knew
it wasn't the cat then, and it isn't the sunrise now. Moms just know. What’s
wrong with Henry?"
“It’s not Henry, it’s
Eva, and he’s not sure yet. They’re taking her to the hospital now. Her heart
stopped.”
“And he asked you to
come?”
It shocked him that she
heard that much of his conversation. To himself, he cursed the paper-thin walls
of the cabin and his mother’s bat-like hearing simultaneously. “He did, and I thought
that if I left right after Thanksgiving dinner. . .” He trailed off, stirring
his coffee to avoid eye contact.
“Dyl, this is the first
Thanksgiving that the whole family has been together.”
“I know mom, but. . .”
“Let me finish, honey.”
She picked up from where she left off. “This is the first Thanksgiving that the
whole family has been together, but I know how close the two of you are. I
can’t even pretend to understand the depth of the bond that you share as
Masons, but I see glimmers of it in so much that you do since you joined; how
you comport yourself; your desire to be
more; the way you genuinely care for everyone around you. Your soul has
expanded, son, and I could not be more proud of you.”
Dylan’s eyes pooled with
tears. He pulled her in close and hugged her tight. “I don’t know what to do
mom,” he sobbed. “I don’t want to disappoint the family.”
“Henry is your family,
too. He needs you there.”
“I’ll wait until
everyone is up, so I can say goodbye. Dad’s gonna be mad.”
“You just go, and let me
handle your father. He understands more than you give him credit for,” she
said, taking a large travel mug from the knotty pine cabinet above the coffee
maker. “He may be a little disappointed, but he’ll understand. Now go.” She
screwed the lid on tightly and handed it to him. “Go,” she added for emphasis.
The tires crunched on
the gravel as he drove from the cabin. Through tears, he watched it shrink in
the rearview mirror, silhouetted by the rising sun. He said a silent prayer of thanksgiving for
his family, for both of his families.
It was late morning as
he walked in to the Emergency Entrance of the hospital, and it was busier than
he expected for Thanksgiving morning. The Macy’s Parade played on the flat
screen television that hung in the corner of the waiting area. A boy no older
than four, his hand wrapped in a now ruined bath towel, turned from the
floating balloons that had been keeping his attention to watch Dylan approach
the triage desk. Following her son’s eyes, the boy’s mother glanced up as well
as she ran her fingers through his blonde hair.
“I’m here to see Eva
Ranier,” he said to the nurse in the pink scrubs.
“Family,” she asked as
she typed the name into the computer.
“Yes. Family.” He didn’t
love lying, but he knew it would both save precious time as well as avoid an
argument (one that he knew he would eventually win). Besides, Henry was family, there was no doubt about
that.
“Curtain four,” she said, gesturing violently
behind her with her head. He assumed that her willingness to put her neck in
such danger meant that curtain four was all the way in the corner. “The doctor
is in there now. Go on back.”
As he approached, he heard
fragments of conversations – stitches, flu, surgery – through the other curtains
as he passed. They’re about as thick as
the walls of the cabin, he thought to himself.
He approached Eva’s
curtain and listened. “We’ll take her up to surgery in a few minutes. She’s not
out of the woods yet, but we’ll do everything we can, Mr. Ranier. You calling
911 saved her life.” Through the gap, he watched Henry stroke Eva’s frail hand.
The pale skin was almost translucent, and it bunched easily as his thumb rode
up toward her wrist. A cluster of wires rose out of the top of her blue
hospital gown and disappeared behind the bed.
He wasn’t sure of the
protocol for entering a curtained-off area, so he simply said, “Knock, knock,”
softly as he pulled the curtain back.
Henry sprang to his feet
with the speed of a man thirty years younger and engulfed him in a hug.
“Dylan,” he exclaimed, a little too loud. Softer, he continued. “I can’t
believe you came, son. I told you to stay with your folks. We ruined
Thanksgiving.” The hug was so firm, it was difficult for him to breathe, but
Dylan embraced him back.
“You didn’t ruin
anything. I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”
Henry released him but
kept his hands on Dylan’s shoulders. “You’re here,” he said, smiling through
tears. “You’re actually here.” Henry pulled him in again and slapped him hard
on the back, sobbing.
“How is she,” Dylan
asked, mostly to the doctor.
“She had a severe MI – a
heart attack. The next few hours will tell us a lot, but we have a great
surgical team standing by. I’m heading up to scrub in for her open heart
surgery now.” Two orderlies opened the curtain and unlocked the wheels on her
bed. “Why don’t we all ride the elevator together. That’ll give you a few more
minutes with her before we take her into the OR.”
The doctor brought Dylan
up to speed on the situation as they were lifted toward the surgical floor. The
ding that counted off floors seemed to sound in syncopation with the heart rate
monitor at the foot of Eva’s bed. As the doors slid open, Henry kissed Eva on
the forehead and whispered something in her ear. The doctor waited until he was
finished, then waved them out first, pointing to the waiting area to the right.
He and the bed carrying the love of Henry’s life turned left toward a set of broad
doors on which were stenciled the words, AUTHORIZED
PERSONNEL ONLY. Before he could get too far, Henry caught hold of his long,
white lab coat. “Doc, she’s my sun and my moon. Bring her back to me. Please.”
On the word please, he broke down.
“We will, Mr. Ranier.
I’ll come see you the minute we’re finished,” His eyes flashed with confidence
as he turned and disappeared through the wide doors.
Over the next hours,
Dylan distracted Henry as best he could. He caught him up on the family. He
told him about work, and he listened as Henry told him about the first time he
met Eva.
Dylan tried several
times to coax him to the cafeteria, but he refused to leave the waiting room in
case the doctor came. Every invitation to eat was met with an apology for
making Dylan leave his family.
“Quiet, old man,” Dylan
smiled. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I have an idea. Maybe you can help
me with the Third Degree lecture?” He already had a pretty good handle on it,
but knew from experience that they could easily pass an hour or more once they
got started. Halfway through the lecture, Dylan was interrupted by the ring of
Henry’s cell phone. He took the opportunity to check his own phone. Not even
two o’clock yet.
“This is Henry . . .
She’s in surgery now . . . Please don’t go to that trouble, I’ve already messed
up enough people’s holiday . . . I don’t even know when I’ll be able to get
home . . . If you insist . . . You’re too kind – runs in the family obviously .
. . You know where the house is. There’s a key under the potted mums on the
front porch. Are you sure you want to do that? It seems like a lot of trouble .
. . God bless you.” Henry flipped his phone closed and wiped a tear from his
eye.
“Who was that?”
“Oh, no one. No one you
know, I mean. Just a lady from church who wanted to let the dog out.”
“You seemed to fight her
pretty hard over something so simple.”
“Really? You appeared to
listen terribly intently to a conversation that you weren’t a part of,” he
retorted, winking a little at Dylan. “Now where were we?” It was the first time
Henry had smiled all day.
It was after six when
the doctor came in. He walked up to them with all the poise he had when they
last saw him, and they knew before he said a word that she was going to be
fine.
“You have a very strong
wife, Mr. Ranier. She’s going to be okay.”
“Can we see her?”
“They’re closing now,
then she’ll go into the recovery room, so not for a few more hours. Go get
something to eat, and be back around nine. I’ll take you to see her myself.”
“That’ll never happen,”
Dylan said. “I couldn’t get him to leave these chairs since she went in.”
“Nonsense, kid. We
should eat.”
“But don’t you want . .
.”
“I need to shower and
get some of Eva’s things for when she wakes up. I can’t give you the full meal,
but I have sliced turkey in the deli drawer of the icebox, and we have a lot to
be thankful for. Get your coat.”
Dylan thought it was odd
when Henry had him stop at the end of the driveway. For as long as they had
been friends, he never saw Henry use the front door. Henry tossed Dylan the key
as he fumbled for his knapsack in the back seat.
“Head on in, my bag
spilled.”
Dylan walked up the
steps of the front porch and moved the key toward the lock. The door opened on
its own as he did. He expected to see the stranger from church who had called
earlier, but standing on the other side of the threshold was someone far more
familiar. “Dad?”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Son.”
To be continued . . .
