We Are Not Ourselves(171)

86


After work she drove up to the home. She made her way to the circular reception desk from which the hallways radiated. Below the counter ran a ring of binders with red labels on their spines bearing the letters DNR, for Do Not Resuscitate. She had indicated in her application that she wanted this designation for Ed, but still that stark, resigned lineup took her by surprise. An odd few didn’t say DNR, and it filled her with shame to see them, because it meant those families hadn’t given up hope, or they were willing to stick it out until the end, the very end, the end of science and technology.

She was directed to a television room. Wheelchairs were arranged around the perimeter. The room was full of women older than her husband, some by decades, whose gazes seemed directed less at the program than at the light the set cast. There were a few men, frail and reduced; she didn’t spot Ed at first, but then there he was, hidden behind a man who distended and released his cheeks as though blowing on a tuba. Ed looked as if he’d been caught in a traffic jam. He was moaning quietly. When she stood before him, his moan turned into a wail, and he pumped his arms up and down. She wheeled aside the tuba player, who looked at her skeptically as he puffed out, with an audible pop, the air he’d been holding in. She asked at the desk to be directed to a common room, thinking not to disturb Ed’s roommate.

Ed wailed and thrashed, trying to twist in his seat to get a look at her. When he made to rise, the seat belt stopped him, and if he tried to rise farther, the barest push on his shoulder made him fall back in the chair. After making a couple of turns at the end of corridors, she arrived at the common room, which was blessedly empty. She closed the door behind her and wheeled him to a wicker chair, where she sat facing him. He continued to wail. She tried to soothe him with a hand on his shoulder and he slapped it away. She tried to touch his face and he motioned to bite her. He was seething through his teeth. She insisted on smoothing his hair. He looked wild, unkempt. Already they had dressed him in an outfit that looked shabby and unmatched. She would have to speak to them about that. The easiest way to get them to give him good care was to let them know that she would be around, that they couldn’t slip. It was the same with the nurses she supervised.

For a few moments he suffered her attempts to pat his hair down, but then he put his hand to his scalp as though deliberately to mess up the work she had done.

“I know you don’t want to be here,” she said.

“No.” He shook his head. “No, no, no, no. No.”

“I’m here. I’m going to be here. I’m going to be here every day.”

There was a confused sadness in his expression, a struggle to convey what he was feeling.

“I couldn’t take good enough care of you at home,” she said, swallowing hard. “I couldn’t keep you safe.”

He fell quiet. She was finding it hard to keep herself together. She was determined to get through this without breaking down.

“No,” he said.

“Okay,” she said. “This is just for now. It’s temporary. When you stabilize, we’ll get you out of here.”

He snorted at the word “temporary,” as if a bit of the old humor were back. Then he slipped back into the wailing, only now it was weirdly dislocated from the conversation and seemed almost meditative. He stared into the distance. She shook him to make him stop, and finally, mercifully, he was quiet.

“I can’t be here during the day,” she said. “But I’m going to come after work, every day. Do you understand me? I’ll be here all the time. You’re going to get sick of seeing me.”

His eyebrows shot up. “No, no, no!” he said.

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll have help.” She reached to pat down his hair again, and he batted her away with a shocking directness and force.

“No!” he shouted, less in plea than command. He was pointing a finger at her. “No! No!”

“No what, Ed?” She had a creeping feeling he understood something. She hadn’t said she was keeping Sergei on, but she sensed that it was the topic between them now.

“What is it?” He grew quiet again, brooding, his bottom lip pushed out, his chin tucked, his eyes searching hers.

“No.” His voice was meek, but the note it struck was final.

“No what? You don’t want me to have help?”

“No.”

“All right,” she said. “I’ll get by. I’ll manage.”

“No,” he said again.

? ? ?

A vestige of evening light lingered in the air as she headed back. She decided to take a detour through town. She took Valley off Pondfield and drove up the hill, into the warren of expensive homes. The road curved quickly and with little give; she had to pull over once to let a car pass. Lush trees shouted their vigorous greens, balancing the calm of the Tudor revival homes, every one of which seemed perfectly placed and spaced.

She stopped in front of Virginia’s home. She wondered whether Virginia had ever seen her there, whether she’d noticed how often the same car stopped outside her house or across the street for a little while and then drove off.

She drove down the hill and took Garden, stopping next to the empty tennis courts. When they lived in Jackson Heights, she’d bought Ed private lessons with a pro at the tennis center in Flushing. She never forgot her admiration at the way he held his own with Tom Cudahy the first time she saw him play, or that he’d so thoroughly assimilated the little coaching he’d gotten that he’d turned himself into a decent player. Tennis seemed like the perfect sport for him to take up, or at least the perfect one if he arranged his life the way she wished he would. The exercise would satisfy him, tiring him out as effectively as the long jogs he liked to go on. The courts were state-of-the-art, and the pros who taught there were trying to get on the US Open circuit or just coming off. It was the kind of place where Ed would meet people, make the right contacts, and form an ambitious plan he might not otherwise conceive of. It lacked that deliberate grandeur of a country club that she knew he would balk at. Still, he objected to the extravagance and didn’t attend a single session. Connell wouldn’t go either. The two-hundred-dollar credit never got used.