“In here.”
I take one last look out the window, where nothing seems amiss, and there’s still no sign of a human presence in the van. Mel bustles into the room. “You should have seen . . .” Her voice trails away when she sees my face. “What’s wrong? Your face is white. Are you sick?”
She doesn’t need to be privy to my worry, which is probably pointless anyway. “Just a little headache. What should I have seen?”
Mel launches a lengthy story. I don’t hear a word.
Shed of Skin
Freed within her exile, the serpent
slithers boldly, strikes
without compassion,
splendor in the death dance.
Ah, patient is my sister.
No hurry now but to sup
before the meal grows cold,
she enfolds her victim tenderly,
awaits the egress.
Therein lies the victory.
Could Eve have denied her,
so beautiful in patterned scales, cool
in calculated treachery, sensuality
defined in the flick of her tongue?
Temptation is her legacy.
Enhanced by evolution,
perfected by time’s passing,
she expels the weight of Eden
in gushes of sweet venom.
To grow, she must leave herself behind.
Subtle stretch. Elastic. Pinpricks
of sensation. Inner fabric gives
way in painless liberation.
Sister emerges, new.
Sin such as this commands envy.
Twenty-Nine
Graham arrives home on Sunday, almost on time, after an early-morning round of golf with his friends. Melody greets him with a lukewarm (aka married) kiss and, for not the first time, I wonder what’s left between them. Considering he has been gone for two days, and she is about ready to escort me out the door, the answer isn’t hard to discern. Marriage equals ho-hum, at least after a couple of decades. For me personally, it didn’t take nearly that long.
We hit the road around two. It’s a clear winter day, no hint of snow in the forecast, so the trip should be a piece of cake. The plan is for both of us to stay overnight at Cavin’s, leave the Escalade there in the morning, and he’ll drive us to the hospital. Mel will stay long enough to make sure I come up out of the anesthesia, safe and hopefully sounder than before I go under.
We’ve opted to take Interstate 80, and then drop over the mountain past the Northstar ski resort. The route is more direct to Cavin’s place, and Mel is still a little uncomfortable with the big SUV, which can almost drive itself on the freeway. Once she’s got it comfortably pointed in the right direction, I ask the question I avoided last night.
“So, how often do you see Mom?”
“I’ve been wondering when you would ask me that. The answer is, not often. The last time she stopped by was probably three years ago. She was with a different guy, and they stayed for lunch. Then I didn’t even hear from her for several months. She e-mails from time to time. Calls once in a while.”
“Did this time seem any different? I mean, like, do you think she’s dying or something?”
Mel snorts. “She looks awfully healthy, don’t you think?”
Too healthy. It’s irritating. “And she never asks for money?”
“She always asks for money. Including yesterday. I gave her everything I had on hand. Which reminds me, we need to stop at an ATM.”
“Why?”
“Uh . . . because I need some cash?”
“No. I mean, why did you give her any money?”
She infuses her reply with a massive sigh. “Look. Handing her a few bucks is the quickest way to get rid of her. All that stuff about connecting with the kids is crap, but then you already knew that.”
“She put on a pretty good act.”
“Mom always was the queen of melodrama. Too much time absorbing soap operas or something. Anyway, most of that was for your benefit.”
“I know.” This song comes on the radio—a reggae-sounding “Smoke Two Joints” by a band called the Toyes. That, of course, reminds me of my niece. I attempt subtlety first. “Did you talk to Graham about Kayla?”
“You mean about her staying out all night? No.”
“Why not?”
Another protracted sigh. “Because if I would have, there would’ve been a huge blowup and it wouldn’t have changed a thing. Not to mention, you and I would not be here right now. We’d be back at the house, and I’d be scrambling to make everything okay.”
“Everything isn’t okay with Kayla.”
“What do you mean?”
I relate the circumstances of yesterday afternoon’s encounter. “Did you know she smokes marijuana?”
Mel is slow to respond but finally admits, “Yes. I’ve smelled it on her before but have tried to ignore it. I’m sure it’s just a phase and besides, to tell you the truth, she’s easier to get along with when she’s a little buzzed.”
“Are you serious?” I most definitely did not expect this. Melody has always been the Mother of the Year type.
“In all honesty, I think pot helps her more than her meds do. I’ve done some research, in fact, and there is a good deal of anecdotal evidence that THC can battle anxiety and maybe even depression. It’s natural, and not physically addictive, like the prescription drug she takes. I wish they’d just go ahead and legalize it everywhere. Of course, the pharmaceutical companies will fight that tooth and nail.”
My sister is full of surprises.
“You don’t think smoking dope might impair her judgment a little? Like maybe enough to make her believe it’s okay to stay out all night with her boyfriend?”
“I think she would have chosen to do that with or without marijuana.”
“I assume, with or without marijuana, she has enough sense to use birth control?”
“She’s been on Depo-Provera for almost two years now. One shot. Twelve weeks of protection.”
“Except from STDs.”
“Well, there is that. Hopefully, between her health classes and my harping, the message to use condoms, too, will have sunk in.”
“Does Graham know about the pot? Or the birth control, for that matter?”
“Are you kidding me? He’d totally overreact.”
Whoa. Not only has she gone hippie, but she also keeps secrets from her husband. What else don’t I know about Mel?
“How about you? Have you smoked weed?”
She laughs. “Would you let me drive your car if I told you I have?”
“Not with me in it.”
At Truckee, we turn off the interstate, onto Highway 267 toward Tahoe. A steady stream of cars pours from the Northstar portal—skiers, going home after a fabulous weekend. I’m jealous. Luckily, most of them travel the opposite direction, back toward the cities. Those we do have to follow are probably locals, because they maneuver the pass in a competent, most untouristy manner.
The whole time we climb, I contemplate how many things I never suspected about Melody. I believed I knew her inside out, and it’s worrisome in a way, although it is a good reminder to never assume nor take things for granted. That a person is married to a doctor and goes to church doesn’t mean she’s a perfect, law-abiding soccer mom. And even if she’s your sister, one who has always confided in you, that doesn’t mean she has confessed everything. God knows there’s information about me that Mel isn’t privy to. Pretty sure she’d prefer it that way.
The evenly sawed five-foot berms along the roadways inform me winter has made a regular appearance at Tahoe this year. And as we ascend the hill to Cavin’s, the snow stacks are even taller. Someone has cleared a place for the Escalade in the driveway, however.
We are still sitting in the Cadillac when the front door opens, and out comes Cavin, dressed in Sunday-casual clothes that highlight his physique—slim, long-sleeved T-shirt, butt-hugging jeans. “Wow. I forgot how handsome he is,” says Mel.
> “You should see him naked.”
She doesn’t respond, and I wonder what she’s thinking—How inappropriate, or Yeah, that might be interesting? Either way, her face colors slightly.
Cavin comes to unload my gigantic suitcases. But first, he circles and opens the passenger door, poking his face inside. “Hello, beautiful lady.” It’s been a month since Carmel, and his kiss makes me realize how much I’ve missed being with him. It is sweet and lingering, despite our one-woman audience. When it’s over, he grins. “You nervous?”
“Nah. I’ve kissed a guy before. In fact, I’ve kissed you before.”
He rolls his eyes, looks toward Melody, as if asking her to translate.
“Oh! You mean, am I nervous about the surgery? Should I be?”
“Nope. You’re in good hands, and I’ll be keeping an eye on those hands.”
“Good, then I’m still not nervous.”
“Good, then I hope you’re hungry. You probably won’t feel like eating much post-op tomorrow, so I went all-out tonight. Let me help you down, and I’ll get your bags.”
Mel and I follow him inside. It’s warm and neat and smells divine. “Roast chicken?” I ask.
“Cornish game hens, wild rice, and artichokes. No mangoes. I’ll stow your luggage, then we’ll open some wine.”
Once he’s out of the room, Melody comments, “A doctor who can cook? That’s a killer combination. If I were you, I’d hang on to this one.”
One day at a time, darling sister. One day at a time.
Thirty
For not being nervous, I’m pretty damn anxious about going under. Sometimes they do arthroscopies using local anesthesia, or a spinal block. But my knee is in need of total reconstruction, and that will put me on the table for several hours. As the nurse inserts the IV, I’m actually shaking.
“Hey,” she soothes. “This doesn’t hurt that much. Do needles bother you?”
“Not usually. I just don’t care for the idea of being knocked out.”
“You’ve never had surgery before?”
“Only for my wisdom teeth, and when I woke up afterward, the way the dentist leered at me gave me the creeps. I hate feeling helpless.”
“No worries.” She tapes the needle to the hollow of my inner arm, leans close conspiratorially. “I hear you’ve got a very special watchdog observing. But even if he wasn’t, Dr. Stanley isn’t the leering type.”
“How do you know about my watchdog?”
She gestures toward the door, where Cavin just happens to be standing, facing the other direction, talking to Melody. “I’ve got eyes.” Now she lowers her voice. “Barton isn’t all that big. Word gets around. Congratulations. He’s a keeper.”
Two people in less than twenty-four hours. Not that I necessarily disagree, but it’s almost enough to make me take a harder look. Everyone’s got flaws. Some you can live with, some not so much.
“I’ll go let them know you’re ready for the anesthesiologist. Your sister wants to come in first. Is that okay?”
“Of course.”
I watch the nurse go, fresh and trim, even in her paisley scrubs, and wonder if she has a thing for Cavin, or if they’ve ever hooked up. Probably not, considering his desire not to manipulate the boundaries of ethics. Still, when she passes him, he can’t help but look, and jealousy jabs, straight-razor thin and just as sharp.
Mel shuffles across the room, sits in the wheeled chair bedside. “You good?”
“Yeah, except I think that nurse has a crush on my doctor.”
“I wouldn’t worry if I were you. That man is crazy about you.”
A Band-Aid for my wound.
“We’ll see. How are things at home?”
“Want to trade places?”
“That good, huh?”
“Let’s just say if I could, I’d stay up here a few extra days.”
“So, do.”
“Can’t. I’ve got a big project due.”
“A writer’s job is portable.”
“True. But a mother’s job isn’t. Especially the mother of teenagers.”
We leave it there and Dr. Stanley comes marching in, clipboard in hand, to deliver some pre-op cheer and post-op instructions. “You won’t be in the mood to listen later,” he says, before rattling off a very long list of dos and don’ts.
“You expect me to remember all that?”
“I’m sure Dr. Lattimore will remind you, if memory fails. The main thing is, don’t push too hard for the first week or so and stay off your feet completely, except to use the bathroom, for the first three days. And ice. Lots of ice.”
“You sure the knee will be better after it heals?”
“Good as new.”
“Really? Can you do the rest of me, too?”
He chuckles. “The rest of you appears fine to me. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The last sentence was addressed to Cavin, who has come to escort me to the OR. “Better than fine,” he answers. “Ready?”
“Give me one second? I need to tell Melody something.” The two doctors step away from the bed and I wiggle my finger, inviting Mel closer. “If anything should happen—not that it will, this is routine and all—but if there’s some weird complication or something, all my affairs are in order. I’ve established a trust, named you executor. I e-mailed my attorney’s name and number last night. Just in case.”
She pulls back, surprised. “Me? I . . .”
“What?”
“I’ve never even considered what might happen if you . . .”
“Died? It’s bound to happen sooner or later, hopefully the latter. There’s a lot at stake, Mel. I wouldn’t want Mom to get her filthy hands on any of it. No way she will, the way I’ve structured the trust. If you want to be overly generous with your own funds, fine. But, please, never give her a cent of mine.”
“Whatever you want.”
“No. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Mel gives me a hug.
Cavin wheels me into the OR.
The anesthesiologist does his thing.
Defying professionalism, Cavin kisses my forehead before he goes to wash up and don surgical scrubs.
As I wait to slip into oblivion, I think about the lovemaking we shared last night. Though still limited by my range of movement, we made sure it was the very best yet because it will be several days at least before we can indulge again. Can’t wait to see what it’s like once I’m good as new.
I’m aware of movement and know that Dr. Stanley and his crew are arranging the instruments he’ll need—the scope he’ll insert in the small incisions they’ll carve. The camera attached to the scope, which will transmit images onto a screen. Surgical drills, saws, biters, shavers, scissors, and so on. Saline solution. Sutures. Oh yes, I’ve done my homework.
They’ll remove torn cartilage.
Trim torn structures.
Graft tendon to repair torn ligaments.
They’ll . . .
I float up out of darkness into muted light. It’s heavy, or the air is. It’s hard to take a breath. I wheeze in one. Another. Three. And now it’s a little easier. Except my head throbs. And I think I want to vomit. But it hurts to move, so if I puke, it will be all over myself. Where am I?
“Oh, good. You’re awake.”
“Cavin?”
He takes my hand. “Yes, it’s me. How are you feeling?”
“Awful.”
“Define awful.”
“Headache. Nausea. General discomfort.”
“Sounds about right. Any pain in your knee?”
“Oh, man. Not until you mentioned it.”
“I’ll get you some promethazine for the nausea. Once that’s not a problem, you can have pain meds. I think we’ll keep you here overnight. I’ve got a surgery in the morning. By the time I’m finished, you should be good to go. Meanwhile, get some rest.”
Despite my being asleep for however many hours, rest sounds good. Wait. “What time is it? Did Mel leave yet?”
/>
“Not yet. It’s a little after two and the car is coming at three.”
“Can I see her?”
“Of course. You’re in Recovery. We’ll need to move you to a regular room. Then she can have a short visit, as long as you’re still awake. If you doze off, we won’t bother you, however. Can I pass on a message in case that happens?”
“Yes. Tell her not to worry about calling my lawyer.”
Thirty-One
It’s a good thing Cavin is overseeing my recovery, for a couple of reasons, the main one being he insisted from the day he brought me home that I push through the pain and work on extension. It hurts like hell, but I’ve had plenty of time to read up on postsurgery recovery, and without encouraging my knee to straighten, I could lose range of motion permanently.
He also has access to the latest gadgets, including this cool machine that combines cryotherapy with intermittent pneumatic compression. It’s more effective than ice, continuously cycling cold fluid through a knee wrap. And the IPC stimulates tissue healing, at least theoretically.
The first three days are frustrating because, other than the stationary stretching exercises, I can’t do very much. Despite the lack of activity, I’m tired and in a fair amount of pain because I’m trying to wean myself off the oxycodone as quickly as possible. I have to keep my knee elevated and hooked to the machine. I can feel my butt growing fatter by the hour.
Cavin alternately cheerleads and scolds. The truth is, I need both, and he seems to instinctively know which way to push, and when. At the moment, he’s examining the incisions, something I’m glad I don’t have to do on my own. For someone who prides herself on total independence, I’m a wuss when it comes to wounds.
“Looks good,” he says. “No sign of infection. And the swelling is subsiding.”
“It itches like crazy.”
“That’s not uncommon, though I’m sure it must be annoying.”
“Not nearly as annoying as all this time on the couch.”
“No worries. You’ll be up and running in no time at all. Well, no actual running for a while.”