Four Days with Hemingway's Ghost (21 page)

“AAAHHHH!
AAAHHHHHHH!! AHHHHHHHHHHH!!!  HELP MEEEEEE!  I WANT TO DIEEE!”

I thought that one of those blood clots just might have formed in one of her veins or arteries.  It entered my mind that a clot could be coursing her circulatory system—about to lodge somewhere and possibly obstruct her blood flow.  Suddenly, like a low black cloud from hell, an eerie sense of impending doom darkened the stark white room.  The ugly haunting possibility that my Blanche could be dying right there, right then, right in front of my eyes mortified me.    

“Oh shit!  Hold on, honey.  I’ll be right back!  I’ll get some help.”

But I didn’t have to.  Two nurses and a doctor came running through the doorway.

“AAAHHHHHOOOOWWWWW!!!!!”

“What’s wrong?” the doctor asked pulling the ice pack off.

“What’s wrong is that she’s in
fucking
agony. 
Godammit
, what’s wrong with you idiots?  We’re here over two hours, and nobody has done shit.  For Christ’s sake take care of my wife!”

“Alright, alright, calm down,” the doctor said to me. Then to Blanche he said, “You’re going to be okay.  Just hold on a few seconds.  We’re going to give you morphine.”

She bit down hard on her lip and squirmed in agony as the nurses jammed huge hypodermics into both her arms.  Her face was scarlet now and every bit as contorted as her toes.  I’d never in my life seen anybody suffer like this. 
No living thing—man nor
beast—should ever have to endure such agony.

Thankfully the morphine took only seconds to kick in.  Once it did, Blanche calmed down somewhat, and they wheeled her to the X-ray room.

Chapter 2
5

The doctor who was to perform surgery the next day later told me it was one of the worst breaks he’d ever seen.  After that they
monkeyed
around with all kinds of tests, and it wasn’t until 12:30 a.m. that they finally took my battered wife up to a room.  Because the doctor told me Blanche would be sleeping and there was nothing I could do, I went out to the dark, deserted parking lot and drove home.  When I got there, puddles the size of Lake Michigan were all over the front lawn.  The sprinkler was still going.  Like a zombie I walked through its spray and turned off the spigot at the side of the house.  Then I went inside to our empty bedroom and hugged Blanche’s pillow until I fell asleep.

At ten the next morning, I was alongside her as she was being prepped to go into the operating room.  She was conscious but not totally there because of all the painkillers they’d filled her with. 
Lying
there, her face pale beneath a thin plastic surgical cap, she looked so exhausted and resigned.   

As I stood next to the gurney and held her hand, the surgeon, who didn’t look a day over twenty-nine, dropped yet another bomb on me.  Blanche didn’t react because she was in La-La Land, but he said, “Mister Phelan, I’m almost certain she’s going to need two surgeries.”

“Oh no!
  What are you talking about?  You can’t be serious.  She’s going to have to go through this twice?  Why?”

The curly-haired doctor with studious brown eyes and the build of a marathoner said, “From what I’ve seen in the X-rays, your wife’s ankle is so badly shattered and splintered that I’m probably going to have to install a brace to hold it together for a week.  Then, yes, she will have to come back for the reconstructive surgery.”

This nightmare was only getting worse.  I was almost as tired as Blanche and looked just about as bad.

“Doc, listen to me.  This woman is one of the finest human beings alive.  I’m not saying this just because she’s my wife, but
believe
me; this is a very special woman lying here.  Can’t you please
try
to do the reconstruction right now?”

Both his young face and his words told me he was somewhat offended when he said, “Of course, if it is possible I’ll do it right now.  But she’s had a very serious compound break.  I’m almost certain that the tissue surrounding the bones will be badly damaged.  That’s why we have to hold everything together with a brace for awhile . . . so that the surrounding tissue can heal.”

Looking up to the white ceiling now, I let out a long weary breath.  Then I looked back at him. 

“What kind of brace are we talking about here?  You’re not going to put one of those nasty looking ones with all those nail-like things going into her skin, are you?”

“Yes, there will be pins involved.  I’m sorry, but I have to do what’s necessary.”

“What are the odds you’ll have to do that?”

Looking a bit testy again he said, “There’s probably only about a five-percent chance I
won’t
have to, Mister Phelan.  I’ve done a considerable number of these surgeries, and as I told you last night, this is one of the worst breaks I’ve ever seen.  I’m sorry, but we have to go into surgery now.”

He nodded to the two nurses who’d been standing by, and as they prepared to roll Blanche away, I kissed her ever so gently on the lips.  Then my voice cracked as I whispered in her ear, “I love you,
Blanchie
.”

“Please,” I said looking back at the doctor, “take good care of her.”

He assured me he would, and I asked him how long this was going to take.

“If I install the brace, probably an hour or two; if by some chance I
can
reconstruct, it could take up to four hours.” 

Then as he adjusted his cap he said, “Alright, I’ve got to be going.  You try to take it easy.”  Patting my arm he added, “I promise . . . as soon as we’re done, I’ll meet you in the waiting lounge.”

I waited in the small dim lounge.  I’d forgotten my reading glasses, so I perused one magazine after another without them.  I probably drank a half-gallon of coffee as well.  Except for about twenty minutes when an old man was in the room, I had the place to myself.  Time dragged.  I got up a few times and took walks outside around the hospital grounds.  I don’t drink the hard stuff, but had it not been so early, I would have gone somewhere and had a couple of quick ones to settle myself down.  Instead I drank all that coffee and became pretty wired.  An hour, two, three, and then four finally passed.  I thought that must be good news.  The doctor just might be putting Blanche’s ankle back together. It sure seemed that way.  But when three o’clock rolled around, and it had been five full hours, I really started worrying.

What can be taking so damn long?  Please God, don’t let there be any complications.  What if something is going seriously wrong?  I don’t like the smell of this
. 
I’ll freaking kill myself if anything happens to her.  I couldn’t go on without her. 
Ohhh
. . . please, help me Ernest.  If you can hear me, please . . . .
 

When I was right in the middle of my plea, the door opened.  It was the doctor.  He told me he’d been amazed at what good shape the tissue surrounding the ankle had been in.  He’d completed the job.  There would be no need for a second surgery.  I don’t know how many times I thanked him before I bolted up to Blanche’s room to wait for her.

Late the following afternoon, I brought Blanche home with a new walker and a knee-high, inflatable medical boot.  With the protective black monstrosity looking like something only a masochistic robot might wear, I knew right off that more adjustments than I’d bargained for would be necessary around our house. 

For the next eight weeks, Blanche could not go to work.  She only got out of her recliner when she had to.  And every time she did, the “
clickity
-clack,
clickity
clack” of her four-legged walker was to me a cruel reminder of our worsening situation.  Without her working, we were now unable to make even the minimum payments on our burgeoning credit card balance.  The excellent rating we’d always managed to maintain took a serious clobbering.  And for the first time in our lives we had collection agencies calling us.

I could no longer just run my business.  I had to do all the chores at home as well.  I knew nothing about cooking and didn’t want to learn, but I had no choice.  I made breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day.  I did the laundry, the cleaning, the dishes and everything else, including helping Blanche in and out of the shower.  Around the clock—twenty four/seven—a strangling feeling of impending doom was squeezing away what small semblance of hope we had left. And on top of it all, we hadn’t heard a single thing from Amber
Rinaldi
. 

Then one night in late May things got even worse. 

It was going on eight o’clock. 
Jeopardy
had just ended.  Sitting in her recliner with her right ankle full of sheet metal and screws and propping it up with a pillow, Blanche asked me, “Did you get the mail today?”

“No.  I didn’t,” I answered.  “I’ll get it now.” 

I didn’t get right up.  I hesitated a moment and looked at her.  She’d put on weight, and that wasn’t like her.  She’d always taken impeccable care of herself.  My wife, the eternal optimist, was now as defeated as I was.  A second chin had begun to form beneath her first one.  It wasn’t all that noticeable, but it was there.  She didn’t wear makeup anymore; didn’t polish her nails; and the only clothes she would wear were my old, baggy tee shirts.  I wasn’t sure, but I also thought she was becoming a bit dark under her eyes. 

I looked down to the three long vertical scars on her ankle and knew well and good they certainly hadn’t done anything for her ego.

“I’ll be right back,” I said lifting myself from the chair.

As I walked across the lawn in dusk’s gentle pink light, I stared at the spot where that small depression had been.  The thin sandy outline around the clump of grass I’d dug up and filled was still visible.  The spot looked like a scar itself—a wound that had caused so much pain and unhappiness.  I sneered at it as I made my way to our curbside mailbox.

When I sat back down inside the house, I handed the four or five letter-sized envelopes to Blanche.  “Here!  You look at them.  I can’t take any more bad news.”

As she opened each envelope, I stared at the TV but saw nothing.

“Oh hell,” she said, “you’re not going to like this.”

Tired as my feet were, I started untying my sneakers.  “Alright, Blanche . . . what is it now?” 

“It’s from one of the banks we have a credit card with.  They’re raising our interest rate because we’ve been late.”

“To what?
  How much are they raising it?”

“From twelve percent to
thirty point five percent.
 
My God, Jack, what are we going to do?”

I sat there speechless and let it sink in.  The hot anger within me was building like a volcano about to blow.  I was going to scream, pace around the room, throw my hands up in the air and curse a blue streak.  I was going to go into a diatribe about how criminal it was to demand such a usurious interest rate.  I was going to go into the evils of the banks that were legally indenturing us.

But I didn’t because the phone rang.  I shot up out of the chair and stormed across the room to put an end to its grating ring.

“Hello!” I snapped. “Who is it?”

I couldn’t believe my ears.  It was a sales call.  Some guy was trying to sell me an alarm system.  I cut him short and asked him his name.  He told me it was Raymond, and I said, “Raymond, I’ll tell you what.  Why don’t you give me your home phone number?  And I’ll call you back when you’re trying to eat dinner or relax after a hard day.”

I then slammed the phone down and couldn’t move.  I just stood there by the end table and unlit lamp.  Finally, I’d had it.  I had reached the very end.  There was no fight left in me.  I just wanted to die.  I felt a huge swell of tears building and dropped my head.  My shoulders started bouncing.  I was totally broken. 

Then the phone rang again. 

I thought that if it was that Raymond character again and if he had the audacity to call back, I wouldn’t even have tried to give him hell.  I’d just hang up the phone.  I’d disconnect the jack and go to bed.  I only wanted to escape now.  I just wanted to go to sleep.

But it wasn’t the solicitor.  It was Amber
Rinaldi
.  And I couldn’t believe the excitement in her voice.  After exchanging hellos she said, “Jack, I am so happy to tell you that we’ve just about sold your book.”

I took a deep breath.  Tilting my head way back, I fought back the tears the best I could.  “Oh my God, Amber, I love you.” I said. 

Then with the first tear finding its way down my cheek, I turned to Blanche.  She was sitting up in her recliner now, on the very edge of the cushion.  I asked Amber three quick questions.  “Who bought it?  Which publisher?  Is there an advance of any kind?”                      

“Well, Jack, like I said, we’ve
just about
sold it.” 

For the second time in my life my heart stopped.  I couldn’t believe my ears.  She wasn’t going to take this away from me, was she?  Like everything else in my life, I thought for sure there was now going to be a snag.  But I was wrong.