Waking Up in Dixie (9 page)

By then, there were three doctors and as many nurses in the room, and they all started buzzing at once.

Howe let out a thundering fart, then looked at Elizabeth with glowing adoration, pulling her close. “God, I miss you,” he said, kissing her hair as tears ran down his cheeks.

She couldn’t believe he was so alert, so articulate. Maybe it really
was
a miracle.

“When was the last time we made love?” His voice was hoarse and insistent, loud enough for everyone to hear. “I want to make love to you, Lillibet.”

After all those years, he gets the hots for her
now
?

On camera! In front of all those people, with more doctors and nurses crowding in every minute! Horrified, Elizabeth drew back, but Howe wouldn’t let go of her hand. “Howe, you—you’ve been very ill,” she stammered out. “You’re in the hospital, and the doctors are here.”

“I don’t care where we are.” He didn’t look at the doctors. “Tell them to leave, so we can be alone. Lizzie”—Lizzie! Where had
that
come from?—“I want you more than anything in this world.” One look at the sheet across his hips confirmed his statement, in spades.

Mortified, Elizabeth glanced to the doctors. “Is that normal?”

The dark-haired doctor in charge murmured back, “As we explained, a certain percentage of the patients have difficulty controlling their emotions and appetites at first.”

Howe held on tighter with a plaintive, “Lizzie!”

“Do not call me ‘Lizzie,’ ” she snapped at him. “I hate that name!”

Suppressing smiles, the other doctors and residents scribbled busily away on their notepads.

Howe tried to sit up, then collapsed against the pillows. “Whew. Feels like I’ve been hit by a train.” He leered at her. “But I can still make love.” He grabbed her hands and pulled. “C’mon, Lizzie. We’re married. It’s okay.”

She’d prayed for years to get back the man he’d once been, but this wasn’t the Howe she’d fallen in love with. He had never been so coarse and demanding. God only knew what he’d been doing with his whores all those years up in Atlanta, but he’d never talked about it.

Elizabeth tried to pull free of his grasp, but he was too strong. “Howe, let me go,” she ordered. “You don’t know what you’re saying.” How could he be so strong? Regardless of the physical therapy, he’d been in bed for months.

Stifled laughter erupted from some of the underdoctors as many hands came forward to free her.

“No!” Howe protested when they pulled her loose, his expression burning as he fought them. “Lizzie, don’t go. Don’t leave me. I have to have you.”

Elizabeth stepped back out of range and rubbed her arm. Howe hadn’t wanted her since he’d moved out of their bedroom when Patti was a toddler! And what was with this
Lizzie
business? He’d never called her “Lizzie.”

“Mr. Whittington,” one of the doctors told him, “you’re having a reaction to the treatment we just gave you. Try to rest. This compulsion will pass, I promise.” Oh, really? How could he be sure? “Your wife is here, and she’s not leaving, but you need to
rest now. There’s plenty of time for the two of you to be alone later.”

“Wha . . . no.” Howe wrestled against their restraining hands. “I need her
now
.”

The neurologist drew Elizabeth safely out of range while the others kept Howe in his bed.

“Get off me,” Howe protested, his strength failing as the adrenaline ebbed. “She’s my wife. I want my wife. God, if I don’t have her, my dick’s going to explode!”

Oh, sweet Lord in heaven! Howe had never talked that way in his life!

“Sorry about that,” the neurologist said. “We’ve only seen this particular manifestation once before. You two must be very close.”

“Not exactly,” she said in a masterpiece of understatement. “My husband never talked that way in his life. Ever. No matter what, he was a gentleman.”

“Lizzie,” Howe said, his arm extended weakly her way. “Please. I need you.” Then he went limp, along with the rising under the sheet.

Breathing hard, all of them watched Howe and waited for what came next, but when minutes passed with no further activity, they all relaxed a bit.

“He’s sleeping now,” the doctor said, indicating the EEG. “When he wakes up, we’ll want to do a brain scan so we can compare it to the one we did last week.”

Elizabeth straightened her clothes and tried to recover her decorum, which wasn’t easy under the wry scrutiny of the watching medical corps.

Was there a male equivalent for the term
nymphomaniac
? “Is he going to be the way he just was when he wakes up again?” she asked. “Because if he is, I’d like to see some restraints. And a prescription for saltpeter.”

The underdoctors exchanged amused glances.

What if he tried to jump her when nobody was around? As always, she projected the worst and tried to compensate for it. Howe had never liked condoms—birth control had always been her responsibility—so there was no telling what his whores had exposed him to.

“Is he out of the coma for good?” she asked the doctor.

“We can’t be certain,” he qualified, “but there’s a high probability that he is. This is all so new. We’re only talking forty-five patients over the past eight months who’ve responded to the drug so dramatically. But so far, those who have woken up with such high function haven’t relapsed.” He offered her a consoling nod. “There’s an adjustment period for them, and for their families, that varies from patient to patient, but the results have been good.”

Adjustment. That was putting it mildly.

Elizabeth smoothed her hair, compelled to explain, yet wishing she didn’t feel the need. “My husband was a very dignified and private person. I’d hate to see him embarrass himself again.” Or her.

Lizzie,
for God’s sakes.

My dick’s going to explode.
Really! Crass, crass, crass!

Howe Whittington had never, ever talked dirty. Never talked about sex at all. Recalling his outburst, Elizabeth felt a tiny,
unexpected stab of lust awaken the part of her she’d long since put to sleep, which only upset her further.

No way was she having sex with him. Not till she knew he was safe.

This was the twenty-first century, and promiscuity like Howe’s could kill.

Thank God the children hadn’t been there.

Or his mother.

On second thought, it might have been fun to see the look on Augusta’s face . . .

“Mrs. Whittington?” the doctor asked. “Are you all right?”

“I was just . . .” She bent close to the neurologist, feeling her face go hot. “Could you please do a complete STD test on my husband?” she murmured. “We haven’t . . .”

“Oh.” The doctor’s eyebrows shot up, but he kept his response low. “Of course.” He glanced at her in sympathy. “Of course. I’ll let you both know when the results come in.”

“Thank you,” she said, doing her best to keep the others from overhearing, “but considering what my husband’s been through, and the . . . unusual condition of his current mental state, would it be possible to discuss the results with me, instead?” Her cheeks prickled with heat. “I need to know if he’s . . .
safe.
”

There it was again. That pesky stab of ancient desire, Lord help her.

The doctor considered briefly, frowning, then nodded. “It’s bending things a bit, but under the circumstances, since he’s clearly impaired, I think we could do that. As long as I tell him afterward, when he’s more rational.” He patted Elizabeth on the
shoulder, a gesture she read as patronizing. “Your husband’s stroke occurred in the area of his brain that controls emotions and personality. His filters may have been damaged by the stroke. Many patients with injuries in that area of the brain experience similar problems, but they usually respond well to therapy and practice, over time.”

That was some comfort, at least, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to risk being ravaged in the meantime. “I just need to be safe. We can’t exactly keep him in a condom, and you said sedatives weren’t a good idea.”

“We’ll do another scan. If he continues to be so sexually agitated, I’ll consult with an endocrinologist and see if we can regulate that,” he offered. “Meanwhile, I’ll order some restraints for the staff to use, if necessary.”

“Thank you.” Howe Whittington, chained to his bed because he lusted after his wife? Elizabeth sensed laughter from the cosmos, but she wasn’t sure if it was coming from heaven or hell. Or if the joke was on her or Howe.

The doctor motioned for the Greek chorus to leave. “Your husband will probably sleep for several hours before waking up again,” he said as the others filed out. “If he continues to improve, we may not need another treatment. Most patients start with shorter waking periods that gradually increase in length as they grow stronger.” He sounded scripted, detached. “Physically, your husband’s going to need lots of good nutrition and PT before he’s strong enough to go home. Mentally, he’ll need long-term behavioral therapy to help him retrain his responses to the world around him. Do you have anyone you’d prefer to use?”

“No,” she said. As if any of his family would ever consent to “air their dirty linen,” even to a therapist. “Whoever you recommend. We can come to Atlanta for that.” She didn’t trust anybody in Whittington, HIPAA or no.

“I’ve been really impressed with the work Glen McAfee’s done with our coma patients. Good man. We’ll contact him and start that right away.”

She wondered if she’d be included in any of those sessions or kept on the outside, the way she’d been kept on the outside of Howe’s thoughts and feelings since they’d argued over the way he spoiled Patricia when she was just a toddler.

“If Mr. Whittington is hungry when he wakes up,” the doctor concluded, “we’ll remove the feeding tube and start him on some broth and Jell-O.” He left her standing there to wonder who Howe would be when he next came to.

But thank God, he had woken up and didn’t seem impaired. Just horny.

She needed to call the family.

Charles. She needed to tell Charles. Elizabeth retrieved her cell phone and speed-dialed his, even though he was probably still at work, clerking for one of Howe’s favorite judges downtown.

“Mom?” he answered, concerned. She never called him at work. “What’s happened?”

“Your father woke up.” She wasn’t going to be a perpetual caregiver to a coma patient. She wasn’t going to be sentenced to widowhood under her mother-in-law’s disapproving scrutiny. “I let them try the treatment, and he’s out of the coma. It’s amazing.
He just woke up. He seems to have all his faculties.” And then some.

No need to mention his temporary aberrations. Surely, those would pass.

“Mom, that’s fabulous!” their son said with genuine relief. “Great. When can I see him?”

“Not right away,” she hastened to say. “He’s still not quite himself.” That was an understatement and a half. “But you can see him soon.”

Howe moaned again. “Lizzie?” He stirred. “Where’s my Lizzie?” he murmured without opening his eyes. “I need my Lizzie.”

Lord. Again with the Lizzie. Elizabeth lowered her voice. “I have to go. He’s calling for me. The doctors said he’d be napping a lot, at first, but it’s only sleep. I just wanted you to know. I love you, sweetie.”

“You, too, Mama-lama.” The line went dead.

“Lizzie,” Howe pleaded louder, swiping at the IVs in his left arm with his right hand.

Temporary, she told herself. Once he was fully awake, he’d quit using that wretched nickname. It was almost as bad as the “Bessie Mae” she’d been before moving to Whittington at fourteen.

Nearing his bedside, Elizabeth glanced at the covers over his abdomen to make sure the coast was clear before getting within grabbing distance. Fortunately, he’d settled back into even breathing, his covers smooth.

She’d prayed for him to wake up, and God had granted her petition. But what was with the
Lizzie
? And his horniness?

“Lizzie, where are you?” Howe’s brows drew together over an anxious frown, eyes still closed.

“I’m here,” she murmured, bending over him, but still wary in case he grabbed her again. “I’m here, Howe.”

He opened his eyes, blinking as if things were out of focus, his expression confused. Then he touched the tube running up his nostril and scowled, then coughed. “What happened?” he rasped. “My throat hurts, and I feel like my blood’s molasses.” He groped for her hand. “Everything’s so bright. And the smells . . .”

It had been so long since they’d exchanged even simple touches that she felt dishonest taking his hand, but he grabbed hold for dear life and curled hers to his chest. “Lizzie,” he croaked. “Lizard-breath. I need you.”

Elizabeth couldn’t have said which shocked her more: the fact that he’d said he needed her, or his calling her “Lizard-breath,” a nickname from her favorite comic strip.

Howell had never, ever said he needed her. And if anybody had told her he read the funny papers, she’d have sworn it was a lie. The financial section, yes. But not the funnies. He’d long since become the most humorless man she knew.

“You had a stroke,” she soothed, “but you’re going to be fine.”

How much should she tell him? She should have asked the doctor. “It will take some time. Just rest. You’re weak.”