The Last Original Wife (20 page)

CHAPTER 17

Les the Nurse

I
woke up at five and dressed quickly. It wasn't like I'd had the best night's sleep anyway. Every time I rolled over and realized I was back in Atlanta, sleeping in my own guest room no less, I felt my chest tighten with anxiety. For as determined as I was to be kind to Wes and our children, I was completely annoyed with them all. Forgive me if this sounds petty. It wasn't just Wes who dropped his plate and glass in the sink, it was that Charlotte and Bertie too had been leaving their dirty dishes in there all day long. Now, did they not know that the dishwasher was strategically located
exactly
next to the sink? Just who was supposed to clean it all up? Had they left it for me? Obviously, they had.

Last night on the way upstairs with my bag that neither Wes nor Bertie had bothered to take up for me, I opened the door of the laundry room and immediately wished that I had not. There were wet towels, sheets, and clothes piled up to the sky. Who was supposed to wash, dry, and fold this mountain? Well, since Martha's unfortunate departure, it was waiting for me! Was this to show me how much I was needed?

But it was a new day, and I had other priorities. I'd get Wes through his surgery and then I'd raise hell. I started a pot of coffee and began to empty the loaded dishwasher. As soon as I finished putting everything away, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went upstairs to wake Wes.

“Time to shake a leg, Wes.”

“Okay, thanks. How much time do I have?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Okay, I'll meet you in the kitchen.”

I went back downstairs, turned off the alarm, and went outside to see if the newspaper had arrived. It had not, so I walked around to my backyard to see how it was doing. It did not appear to have suffered very much from the heat or my neglect. Amazing. I had thought the July heat would have fried it to a crisp, but it looked pretty good. At least our landscaper had not jumped ship. The flowerpots looked a bit dry, and the edges of my hosta were brittle. If I had time I'd get out my shears and clean it all up. Then I thought, Why, this isn't my garden anymore!

I heard the familiar slap of the newspaper as it slid across the bricks of our front walkway, so I went back around front and picked it up.
The Wall Street Journal
. No
Atlanta Journal Constitution
except on Sundays.

“Not necessary,” Wes used to say. “We don't need two papers. Waste of money.”

Okay, Wes, I thought. Why didn't you ever care about what I might enjoy? Truth? I bought the
AJC
and the
New York Times
every day for years and threw them away before he got home.

Charlotte had practically avoided me last night, which was fine with me. She probably thought I was permanently angry with her for telling Wes about the picture in the newspaper of Jonathan and me smiling and having dinner. Well, I
wasn't
happy about that, but that wasn't it, really. I could not have cared less if the entire population of the earth saw it. What bothered me was that in my mind I saw Charlotte riding the prevailing winds, thoughtful to placate her benefactor. With me out of the picture, she'd apparently do anything to ingratiate herself to the one who would provide her with what she needed. A babysitter, a roof over her head, spending money . . . It was a pretty pathetic state of affairs. I was not angry. I was just deeply disappointed in her behavior. Daughters were supposed to stand by their mothers. Charlotte had chosen sides.

And Bertie? What was that
smell
in his clothes and his hair? Well, I'd fumigate him and then we'd see. It was time to have a serious talk about his future whether he wanted to have that talk or not. Actually, it was long past time to talk to both of them.

I went back inside and there was Wes, pacing the kitchen floor like a two-hundred-pound cat.

“You're ready?” I said.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

“Here's the paper. Are the kids coming?”

“Thanks. They said they'd come down around ten. I should be dead by then.”

“Wes! Stop! Read the paper to take your mind off this. Now, did you pack a little bag in case they want you to stay over?”

“If they don't kill me, I'm coming home. I hate hospitals.”

I paused for a moment, deciding the lemon wasn't worth the squeeze. Either one of the kids or I could always run home and get him a pair of pajamas.

“Okay. We can always take care of that later. Now, are you sure you have your medical insurance cards?”

“Yeah, you want to drive? I'm too nervous.”

“No problem. I'd planned to drive you anyway. Just go get in my car and relax. It's all going to be all right, Wes. I promise.”

“Okay.” He sighed over and over. “Thanks.”

Surprisingly, there wasn't much to do to have Wes admitted, or at least it didn't take as long as I thought it would. He gave me his watch and his wallet and stowed the rest of his clothing in one of the lockers they provided for same-day-surgery patients. I stayed with him while he crawled up on a gurney in his skimpy hospital gown, paper shoes, and shower cap. They started his IV, and I felt so sorry for him then. His surgeon came in to say hello and see if Wes was ready to go. Naturally, Wes pretended he was fine and his surgeon looked Wes square in the face and told him not to worry.

“I do a dozen of these a week,” Dr. Chen said. “No problem!”

“And I thought it was so rare,” Wes said.

“Atlanta's a big town, and, besides, people come to us from all over the Southeast.”

“Yep,” said the orderly who was there to roll Wes down to the operating room. “Dr. Chen's got the magic touch.”

“You ready to go, Mr. Carter?” Dr. Chen said.

“Yeah, in a minute. Hey, Les, come over here. I wanna tell you something.”

“What, hon?” I leaned down to him.

He whispered in my ear, “You're a wonderful woman, Leslie. I've been a foolish man not to realize that. I've missed you a lot. Please don't leave me.”

Big strong Wesley Carter reduced to a mere mortal by fear. I stepped back a little and brushed his hair away from his forehead.

“Don't worry, Wesley. I'll be right here when you wake up.” I squeezed his hand and watched them roll him down the hall.

I knew he was asking me to stay with him for the rest of his life and I wished with all my heart that I could, but I let him think his request wasn't clear. Only Wes would ask something like that in this very dramatic moment. I knew in my heart he was trying to work me.

“The poor thing,” I said to no one and went to find a spot where my cell phone would work.

I called Jonathan. “Well, they just took him off to surgery,” I said.

“Look, I'm almost one hundred percent sure he's going to be fine, but I'm guessing he's nervous. You're awfully good to be there.”

“It's probably a really good thing I am here. The house and the kids were pretty discombobulated. And I think me being here makes it somewhat less frightening for the kids and probably for him too.”

“Well, hang in there. When are you coming home?”

I loved that Jonathan called Charleston home or maybe he just meant
back to me,
which was even better.

“I think I have to stay as long as he needs me.”

“That could be forever.”

“No,” I said. “I'll call you soon.”

Then I called Danette.

“So I'm in the cell-phone area down at Emory and they just took Wes in.”

“Oh, Lord. How's he doing? I'll bet he's a mess.”

“He's a wreck. Nobody's a big shot when you're lying in a hospital bed.”

“Boy, is that ever the truth. But I'd bet the ranch he was glad to see you.”

“Yes, he was. You were right. All those years together? I couldn't just leave him to go through this alone.”

“I'm sure it's very emotional.”

“Yes, it is. You know, I'm here with the kids and Holly, all of us together to see about Wes and I keep worrying that I'm making a huge mistake. Anyway, Bertie's here and I never get to see him. Maybe you could come by?”

“Of course I will and we'll talk! I have to see you, and Lord knows I haven't seen Bertie in ages. Let's see how Wes does. Call me when he's out, okay?”

“Will do. He's going to be fine. So can you give me Harold's cell? And Paolo's? Wes wanted me to call them to remind them that he's going
under the knife
this morning.”

“Oh dear! High drama, huh?”

“Men make terrible patients. Big babies. We both know that. I'll call them as soon as he's in recovery.”

She gave me their numbers, and I promised to call her back too.

“If you want me to come sit with you, all you have to do is squeak,” she said. “I feel terrible not to be with you especially if you're feeling, you know, uncertain about things.”

“Oh, thanks, babe, I'm okay. It's just hard. He should be out of recovery by noon or one, I'd think.”

I settled down with a magazine and began thumbing the pages. An hour or so passed. My cell rang. It was Bertie.

“Hi, Mom. We're on the way, and we wondered if we could bring you anything?”

Really? They must've sensed my discontent when they saw the sparkling clean kitchen.

“I'll have whatever y'all are having. Thanks, son. Dad just went into surgery.”

“Okay, good to know. See you in a few.”

About twenty minutes later, Charlotte and Bertie arrived with Holly in tow. They'd brought bagels and cream cheese, still warm. And hot coffee.

“Well, this is nice,” I said as I lifted Holly right up and onto my lap. She weighed considerably more than she had in May. And she was taller. “I think you've grown!” I said to her.

“Yep! I know! I've got a cinnamon one,” she said. “Want a bite?”

“No, no, honey. But thank you,” I said.

“Yeah, she's grown almost a whole two inches! Do you want pumpernickel or onion or plain?” Charlotte asked.

“How's Dad doing?” Bertie asked. “I'll take onion. This is one thing I sure missed. You can't get decent bagels in Kathmandu.”

“I'm sure. I'd guess Dad's still in the operating room,” I said, and I reached over to take a cup of coffee from the cardboard tray. “We should hear something soon. I'll take half of a plain one?”

“Here you go, Mom,” Charlotte said, handing it to me on a napkin.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

The wall clock went from ten to eleven, and closer to noon, Dr. Chen appeared. As if on cue, we all stood.

“Mrs. Carter?” he said to me. “Your husband did just fine. We're reasonably sure we got it all.”

“That's wonderful,” I said.

“We had to remove one testicle and we took some lymph nodes. They appear to be clean. Of course, we have to send them out to pathology and they'll give us the definitive answer in a few days, but I wouldn't worry. It was a seminoma tumor, stage I, and it does not appear to have metastasized.”

“Thank God!” I said. “When can I see him?”

“Well, he's still sleeping right now.”

“Can I take him home soon?”

“Actually, we decided to admit him for one night, just for observation. His blood pressure has been bouncing around. He's in no danger, but he's probably safer here.”

“I see. So when can I see him?”

“As soon as he starts coming around, I'll send someone right out to get you. Just remember to tell him to take it easy when he gets home tomorrow. We'll give him something for pain. No driving for a week and no heavy lifting for at least two.”

“Great. Well, I'm so glad he came through it okay. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Yes, thanks, Dr. Chen,” Charlotte said.

I noticed that Dr. Chen wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I also noticed that Dr. Chen noticed Charlotte and that she noticed him. He also appeared to have not even
noticed
Bertie was with us. Well, I had to admit, Bertie no longer looked like our tribe.

“So who wants to go get your daddy's pajamas and a toothbrush?” I said.

I stared at their blank faces.

“Fine,” I said and sighed. “I'll be back as quickly as I can. I'm sure your father will be happier to see your faces than mine when he wakes up anyway.”

“Oh, fine!” Charlotte said. “I'll go! Come on, Bertie.”

One bag of bagels does not a life change make. And here I had thought they were off to a grand new beginning.

When the elevator door closed, I sighed again and dialed Harold.

“Harold? Hey, it's me, Les. How are you?”

“I'm doing okay. But we miss you, Les, you know?”

They did?

“Thanks. Wes just got out of surgery and he did fine. He wanted me to give you a call.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. I saw him yesterday and wished him good luck. He's got the best doc in the country.”

“Thanks to you, I understand. Okay, then.”

“Let me know if I can do anything, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Harold sounded funny, like something was wrong, but he didn't say and I didn't ask.

I dialed Paolo next. My call went straight to voice mail so I left him a message.

“Hi
,
Paolo
,
it's Les. Just calling to let you know that Wes is out of surgery and he's fine. Give me a shout if you want the details.”

I settled back into
People
magazine, thinking I had no idea who I was reading about and further, I wondered why the idiotic antics of these lunatics were news. The whole celebrity magazine thing seemed like reports from the zoo. Pretty young people go and do something outrageous, like tattoo their children or overdose or get married in a tree in the jungle, the paparazzi combs their garbage, finds some juice, and sells it. Then an incredulous Dr. Phil reads them the riot act, they go on all the talk shows, and eventually some crazy publisher gives them a book deal. They write a memoir with a ghostwriter and go on Oprah's show, and she calls them all a pack of liars—and she's right, by the way. Then their story is picked up by Lifetime and made into a movie. A few months later, they walk the red carpet in borrowed gowns and win an Emmy. All that and I still don't know who they're talking about and why they're worthy of all this attention. Nonetheless, in no time they're a spokesperson for their own line of pots and pans or jewelry for JCPenney or Target. This, my friends, is a multibillion-dollar industry. Go figure.