Always the Last to Know(71)

“We’ll stay friends,” he said over tea, kindly covering my hand with his. “And I can recommend some great caregivers and therapists.”

I nodded. “You’re irreplaceable, LeVon.” I had to wipe my eyes on a napkin.

“I think you’re pretty amazing yourself, Barb. A lot of people fall apart when something like this happens.”

“They must not be from Minnesota.” He laughed, those kind eyes and ready smile. I squeezed his hand. “If I’d ever had a son, I hope he would’ve been like you, LeVon.”

It was his turn to get teary. “That means a lot to me. I’ll be here till the end of the month, so don’t you worry. I’m not abandoning this ship.”

“Will he get better, LeVon? I know you’re not supposed to guess, but what do you think?”

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Technically, you’re right. I can’t guess, and patients surprise us all the time. But I don’t think he’ll ever recover completely, no. Most of the patients I’ve seen with hemorrhagic stroke and traumatic brain injuries . . . at his age, no, I don’t think he’ll ever go back to being the guy you used to know.”

I nodded, my heart sinking even though I’d kinda known that already. “Well. Thank you.”

Sadie wasn’t coming today; she had to do something with that little pile of sticks she called a house, so I’d left work early. I had to e-mail Gillian about the town’s birthday (and apologize for that wretched dinner party) and call Juliet (who had been a bit tipsy, which wasn’t like her). I had a speech to write for the Small Town Coalition and a few e-mails to return. A phone call to Lucille Dworkin, who had been pestering Lindsey to see if we would arrest her neighbor for using his leaf blower before eight a.m. on a Saturday.

I looked in on John, who was asleep in his chair, and took the soft cashmere throw I’d splurged on last year, tucking it around him in case he was cold. Regulating his body temperature was one of his medical issues these days. His hair was sticking up on one side, and I smoothed it down. He didn’t stir. I hadn’t shaved him today, because it made him agitated, and he had a fuzz of white stubble on his face.

He looked so old.

A knock came on the door, and it was a relief to answer it.

Janet Hubb, who had crashed our dinner party and inspired John to say his first intelligible, post-stroke word, stood there, smiling.

“Hey, Barb,” she said. “On my way to see my brother, thought I’d pop by.”

“Hello, Janet. Come on in.”

I wasn’t sure why I liked Janet, but I did. She was the type of woman who didn’t care about postmenopausal facial hair—I had to force my eyes not to study her lip—and she only seemed to wear overalls and those awful gardening clogs. I liked her hair, her granny glasses, her bulky, hand-knit sweaters (although perhaps I’d knit her something with a little less hay in it, fewer dropped stitches).

“How you doing today, friend?” she asked, taking a seat at the kitchen table. “How’s our John?”

Our John. “He’s resting.”

“Yeah. So it’s none of my business, but I picked up some weird vibes last weekend, and I just wanted to check on you.”

“Ah. Yes.”

“How are you feeling? I mean, you’ve been through the wringer. Your kids, too. The drunk one? I thought she might stab me with her fork.”

“Oh, Juliet is lovely. She would never stab anyone with a fork. Or any instrument.” I sat down, too. “Tell me, Janet. You obviously like John for some reason.”

“Yeah. He’s cool.”

“Why would you say that?”

“I don’t know. He listens really well.”

“He has no choice, does he?”

She smiled. “Good point. I feel like he hears me, though.”

“I feel like he hears you, too. He always brightened up when you came into his room at Gaylord, and the fact that he spoke when he saw you . . . that was a real breakthrough.”

“Has he started talking more?”

“No.” Just those three yous when he saw Janet. Apparently, the women who inspired John were not in his family. I wondered what he’d do or say if Karen visited, but she wouldn’t, would she? Theirs was a love that was more than a love only when she thought he was wealthy. She wasn’t the type who would wipe drool from a man’s face.

As Janet had last weekend, after the hand kissing.

“This is a really pretty house, by the way,” Janet said.

“John cheated on me,” I said. “I only found out after his stroke.”

“Well . . . fuck.”

“Yes. My daughters don’t know.”

“So you’re all alone with this?”

“My best friend knows. Would you like some coffee? I baked cookies with my granddaughters yesterday, too.”

“I love cookies. Sure, I’ll take a coffee. Thanks, Barb.”

For the next hour, we talked. Janet told me about her brother and his progress. They only had each other, she said; their parents died when they were teenagers, and Janet had become Frank’s legal guardian at the age of eighteen to his twelve. They’d had no other relatives for most of their lives, and they were so close they lived on the same street before his accident.