Fall Semester (23 page)

“Maren,
mi todo,”
he rasped, driving further into her, the surrender seeming to go on forever.

She was kissing his eyes, his cheeks, whispering his name as their breathing slowed. He had collapsed, melting into the delicious softness of her. Maren stroked her fingers up and down his back, and he sighed in contentment, his mind completely empty.

Malcolm took some of his weight on his elbows so he would not crush her, but he didn’t want to move. The thought of drifting to sleep again inside of her was deliriously appealing. He nuzzled his nose into the crook of her neck and closed his eyes.

Minutes passed.

“Malcolm...?” she whispered, sweetly.

“Yes, my dear?” he spoke into her neck.

“Can we do that again?”

Holy hell.

Malcolm’s eyes opened, and he lifted his head to study her. She looked timid and a little embarrassed; it was adorable, but he would need food or sleep before he could do that again.

“Again?...As in right now?” He brought the index finger of his right hand to her beautiful mouth where she had trapped her bottom lip between her teeth. He tugged at the sumptuous flesh and watched her release it, wondering if, indeed, he needed any sustenance before resuming.

“I don’t mean...right now....But...later,” she said, a look of uncertainty crimping her brow.

He realized with shock to his gut that she was asking about the future, wondering if what they had shared was just for one night. And by the half-guarded, half-hopeful look on her face, she wanted more than one night. His heart clenched with joy, and he smiled recklessly.

“That, my darling, is entirely up to you.”

One side of her mouth drew up in an cautious smile.

“Really?”

Malcolm tried to feign mock incredulity.

“Does that surprise you?”

Maren gave him a wry look.

“Only because you’ve avoided me for half the time I’ve known you.”

Malcolm stared into her eyes for a beat.

“Well, that plan is all shot to hell, now, isn’t it?” he said, eyeing their naked bodies with emphasis.

As he expected, this made her tilt her head back in laughter. Malcolm felt that he had achieved the day’s greatest tasks, and he drew her tight to him in enjoyment.

“So,...that means I can come back...soon?” she asked, tentatively, after regaining her composure.

Malcolm cradled her warmth to him, running his hand along her hip. “Soon” was not soon enough.

“Come back tonight,” he said with certainty.

Maren bit her lip again, seeming to keep her answering smile in check.

“I think I will,” she said, coyly. But then a little frown stole her expression. “Until then, I need to be with my family....And Lane will be back in a little while....Would you take me home so I can shower and change?”

Malcolm wished he could say no, wished she had fresh clothes here so that he could be the one to convey her to the hospital.

“Of course,” was all he could say.

Chapter 25

Maren

M
aren had just enough time to take the fastest shower known to womankind, smiling all the while. She pulled on clean clothes and stuffed her feet into her red Chuck Taylor’s before Lane pulled into her driveway and beeped the horn. It was not even 7:30 on a Sunday morning.

“My roommate won’t thank me for that,” she said, climbing into the Jeep, combing out her wet hair.

“Nice to see you, too, Sis,” Lane said, raising a brow at her and throwing the gear shift into reverse.

It
was
nice to see him, Maren thought. The ordeal of the night at the hospital had been taxing and upsetting. Maren knew that without Malcolm by her side, she would have felt completely lost. Having Lane with her on the way back to the hospital was more than nice. She tried again.

“I’m so glad you are back....How was your flight?”

Lane’s dark eyes scanned over her, and he didn’t need to question her sincerity.

“Uneventful....I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night....It won’t happen again,” he said, somberly, eyes on the road.

“It’s your job. We understand,” Maren said, wanting to ease his guilt.

“Well, I worked it out with my boss. I won’t be going out of town...for a while.”

Maren eyed her brother, but he stared straight ahead.
For a while.
Lane didn’t say it, but she knew what he meant. He wouldn’t go out of town until
after.
And, just like that, the happiness that had carried her following the most incredible night of her life suddenly lost its grip, fear and dread wrestling for control of her instead.

But fear and dread made room for guilt—and plenty of it—when Maren and Lane entered the ICU. Standing at the entrance of their father’s room, they were met with the sight of a disheveled Laurel, asleep with her head slumped onto the foot of the hospital bed and the rest of her body teetering forward from a metal chair. Their mother did not look much better.

Her own chair was upholstered, albeit in hospital-grade synthetics, but by the look in her red-rimmed eyes, the extra comfort had not offered their mother even a modicum of rest. She smiled, wanly, and rose to greet them.

Maren realized that Lane was taking in the shocking sight of their father in the hospital bed—tethered to IV, monitors, the disgraceful catheter bag that wasn’t quite hidden by the bed—and he could register nothing else. He didn’t until Erin touched him on the shoulder.

“Mom...” His voice was painfully hushed. “I’m sorry.”

Lane pulled their mother into his arms, and the sight of her brother with tears in his eyes did her in. Maren’s own tears began anew, though she fought to blink them away.

“Mrs. Gardner,...” a tall, middle-aged nurse had materialized behind Maren. “I’m sorry, but two of you will need to step out.”

The nurse smile apologetically, but she stood, waiting for them to comply.

“Of course,” Erin said, releasing Lane. “You stay here, son. If your father comes around, don’t be alarmed if he is confused. Maren and I will go to the waiting room for a few minutes.”

Erin grabbed her eldest by the hand and slipped out of the room as Lane stepped closer to their father. Maren saw him raise a hand to his mouth and pinch his bottom lip, a nervous habit he’d had since childhood. It made him look young and helpless, and Maren hated walking away from him and her slumbering sister.

“It was a long night,” Erin confided as they stepped into the corridor. Again, guilt shot through Maren.

I should have stayed.

“I’m sorry, Mom....I shouldn’t have left you.”

Erin frowned and shook her head.

“No, no. I’m glad you did. We did alright,” she said, wrapping her arm around Maren’s shoulders. “I just don’t like what that morphine does to him. He doesn’t make any sense. He thought Laurel was Aunt Jackie, and he wanted to know how she’d gotten here so fast from Austin.”

“Oh, no,” Maren murmured, hating the indignity for her father.

“Yes,...Laurel was quite upset.”

Poor Laurel.
Maren thought back over her night with Malcolm. She would not trade it for anything. Even now, the thought of him kissing her, making love to her warmed her like an internal sun. But, for now, her family had to be her focus.

“Has Dr. Birch made rounds yet?” Maren asked. She had met Dr. Birch, her father’s oncologist, only once when she’d driven her father to a chemo treatment and the 40-something doctor with a bald spot and kind eyes had come in to check on him.

“Not yet. The nurse said he’s due this morning.”

“Well, he and Dad have talked a lot about pain meds. Maybe he can prescribe something that’s not as debilitating as the morphine,” she said, trying to sound hopeful but feeling that hope was misplaced.

They waited hours for the doctor to show up. The four of them had rotated places half a dozen times. She and Lane went down to the cafeteria for coffee and bagels for all of them, and both were too cool and bland to be satisfying.

Their father roused several times with varying degrees of cognizance. Lane and Laurel left around 9:30 to go home to get Erin’s car since the family had arrived by ambulance the night before. While they were gone, Maren stood to pace the small unit, and her father came around. He must not have noticed her standing in the periphery. Erin sat at his bedside and took his hand. Mark looked at his wife for a long moment.

“I’m sorry, Erin,” he slurred “I want to wake up...Fucking hate morphine....I’m no good to you like this.”

Erin smiled and dismissed his words, murmuring to him and covering his face with kisses. Maren backed out of the room to give them some privacy. Her mind ran to Malcolm, and she dug her phone out of her bag to text him. To her surprise, she had missed several of his messages.

Sunday, Nov. 5
: 7:51 a.m.

How is everything at the hospital? More importantly, how are you?

Sunday, Nov. 5:
8:42 a.m.

I shamefully confess that I went back to bed after dropping you off. I awoke just now to discover that my pillow smells like you. (Heaven.)

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:46 a.m.

Clearly, texting you a third time signifies that I need to get a life, but I just have to know: Have you, my sweet, eaten any breakfast yet?

Each message was better than the last, the last making her laugh. And they touched her. Again, she longed to tell him that she loved him.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:48 a.m.

I’m so sorry, gorgeous. Phone in bag. Won’t happen again.

We are okay here. I’ve had “breakfast,” but I would not recommend it.

Also, I could write a poem about how good you smell. Maybe I will.

His response was immediate.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:49 a.m.

I’m just walking in from a run, and I can promise that my smell right now is not poem worthy. Unless it were a limerick:

There once was a man who had funk

Of his armpits, and ass cheeks, and junk.

So he had to shower

That very hour

Or live his whole life like a monk.

Maren’s burst of laughter earned her a stern look from the charge nurse at the nurse’s station, and she covered her mouth to try to compose herself.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:50 a.m.

You are hilarious! I think the nurses are going to kick me out of ICU. I can’t stop laughing.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:50 a.m.

Damn. And I’m missing it.

This made her breath catch, and she quieted.

“And I miss you,” Maren whispered to herself, fighting the urge to share the thought with him. But she did miss him. The pull toward him was unlike anything she’d ever felt. Everything she needed, he gave. Safety, comfort, passion. Humor. Who would have thought that she could have laughed on a day like this? It was such a relief.

Her phone chimed again.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:52 a.m.

You owe me a limerick.

Maren smirked at the phone.
Challenge accepted.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:54 a.m.

Sir, if you’ll pardon the cheek,

I’d kiss you from here to next week.

Though I’ve had you twice,

Twice will not suffice.

It’s “Maren,” remember, not “Meek”.

She smiled, wickedly, and was quickly rewarded.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:55 a.m.

You win.

(And I’m a fool for letting you leave my bed this morning!)

Maren was about to tease him with another poem when Dr. Birch strode past her into her father’s room. She gasped.

Sunday, Nov. 5:
9:56 a.m.

Doc’s here. Gotta go.

Dr. Birch was shaking her mother’s hand when she came in, and her father—for the moment—seemed aware of the doctor’s arrival.

“...and this is our oldest daughter, Maren,” her mother said.

Dr. Birch turned to shake her hand, nodding.

“Yes, we met a few months ago. Hi, Maren,” he said, smiling gently.

“No morphine...” her father murmured from his bed.

“You got it, Mark.” Dr. Birch crossed to the pump console and made adjustments. “It will take some time to leave your system, but you should start to feel less lethargic soon. But we need to discuss other options.”

He spoke to her father, but he brought his eye contact repeatedly back to Erin as he explained.

“One very effective, non-opioid pain relieving measure we have is a celiac plexus block. Mark, you may remember that we’ve talked about this.”

“Mmm..Hmm.” Mark’s eyes were closing.

Dr. Birch looked back to mother and daughter.

“It’s an outpatient procedure that takes less than an hour. Using radiography, we isolate the celiac plexus that enervates the abdomen and, using a needle and going in through the back, we administer a dose of phenol that essentially stops the nerve bundle from transmitting pain.”

“It sounds like an epidural. How long does it last?” Erin asked, frowning.

“An epidural is a fair analogy, but we’re only blocking the one nerve bundle and the effects last considerably longer. In most cases, up to three months.”

“What are the risks? And side effects?” Maren asked.

“Risks are similar to those with epidurals, but unfortunately, the most common is ineffectiveness on the first administration. There may also be some initial numbness to the lower extremities, which is why Mark was hesitant to try it earlier.”

“Oh...” Erin murmured, looking at her husband. Maren wanted to step out of the room. She suddenly had more information about her parents’ trip to the lake house than she wanted.

“If you choose to go that route, we could proceed immediately, and Mark could still be released today. But we’d want to keep him on the Tramadol to help with pain he may have with metastases. Has he said anything about headaches?”

Erin rolled her eyes.

“He tries to hide his pain. Stubborn man.”

Maren watched her mother’s eyes go to the man she loved, and they filled with tears again.

“He doesn’t want me to know how bad it is,” she said, hoarsely, over the lump in her throat.

The doctor’s voice softened.

“Well, with hospice, he won’t need to do that. Patients often try to minimize their suffering to spare their loved ones. It’s normal, even if it isn’t helpful. Hospice changes the dynamics, so, hopefully, everyone can rest a little easier.”

Erin was only able to nod.

“There’s one more thing we need to discuss,” Dr. Birch continued. “Mark was adamant about not resorting to a g-tube or a food peg. I absolutely respect his choice, but—”

“But he’s eating next to nothing!” Erin sobbed, her frustration blazing in her damp eyes.

Maren bit her lip and studied her father again. He
had
lost weight in the last few weeks, but Maren realized that he looked even more gaunt than when she’d seen him three days before. Another wave of guilt, leaden and clinging like tar, washed over her. Where had she been? What was the point of moving back home, of transferring schools, if she was not more of a help to her parents right now?

“I don’t want him to starve,” Erin’s voice rasped, and she clasped her elbows, hugging herself pitifully. Maren approached her and wrapped a bracing arm around her. She felt her mother trembling and cursed herself.

“Of course not,” Dr. Birch said, gently. “I’d like to start him on Metoclopramide for nausea. It’s very reliable, and it has few unpleasant side effects. I also recommend supplementing his diet with liquid meals like Ensure. A steady consumption of even a small amount of calories and fluids will better sustain him and minimize nausea.”

“What about when...” Erin started, but couldn’t finish. Tears streaked down her cheeks.

Dr. Birch did not need any clarification.

“If he becomes too weak to eat, we’ll rely on intravenous glucose,” he said, reassuringly. “He won’t starve. I promise.”

Erin could only nod, brush away her tears, and try to smile at him, but Maren could feel her mother’s body sag with relief. She wondered how long her mother had been worrying about this. Had she said anything to Lane or Laurel? Was she just bearing it all on her own?

With sudden clarity, Maren realized that she needed to move back home. At least for now. Without a car at her disposal, she simply was not on hand enough to do her parents much good. That should have been obvious last night when they were faced with a real emergency, but it was undeniable now when she considered the terrible burden they bore with every unchartered step. Being in town wasn’t enough. She needed to be helpful, be present, day in and day out.