Today—finally—the ICU team was going to take Mom off the ventilator.
“What does that mean?” Dad asked for the third time as they rode up the elevator.
“If she does well on the readiness test—if her vitals are solid—they’ll wean her off the sedation and wake her up and take out the breathing tube.”
Frankie saw the change in her father’s posture. His shoulders sank; he kind of caved in on himself and became smaller.
In an earlier version of their relationship, she might have slipped her hand in his, both giving and taking comfort, but they hadn’t healed enough yet for so bold a move. Frankie had spent two nights in her frilly pink bedroom, had cooked him two dinners, and they’d spoken only about Mom. Perhaps nothing else mattered until she was better. The long silences didn’t feel angry, didn’t hurt Frankie’s feelings. He was sad, and Frankie knew every nuance of sorrow; he just didn’t know how to act without Mom, who to be, what to say. This locomotive of a man who’d rumbled so loudly through her childhood had derailed.
The elevator doors opened. Frankie and her father walked down the hall, stood outside the windows of her mother’s room.
At six A.M., the ICU was relatively quiet. A team of nurses was in Mom’s room, gathered around her bed, checking her readiness.
“What if she can’t…” Dad said, unable to even voice the question.
Breathe on her own.
“This would be a good time for you to pray.” She stepped closer to the glass window, trying to hear what the nurses were saying inside the room.
Peak airway pressure … twenty-three.
That was good.
Vital signs.
She looked at the machines.
The nurses nodded to each other. One of them picked up the phone and relayed everything to the doctor.
Frankie saw the nurse nod and hang up. Wean her off sedation.
Frankie felt her father move closer to her. She almost leaned against him. They watched, waiting.
Through the window, Frankie saw her mother’s eyelids flutter. Slowly, slowly, her eyes opened. The unit nurse extubated Mom, who immediately started coughing.
“She’s breathing,” Dad said.
As soon as they were allowed into the room, Frankie and her father took their places; one on either side of her bed.
Mom blinked slowly.
Dad touched her face. “Bette, you scared me.”
“Yeah…” she said with a lopsided half smile.
Mom’s head lolled to the right. She stared up at Frankie. “My … grl…”
Frankie’s eyes filled with tears. “Hey, Mom.”
“Fran…” she whispered, lifting one bony, shaking hand up to be touched. “What … done … to yr … hair?”
Frankie could only laugh.
* * *
May 9, 1971
Dear Barb and Ethel,
Hello from the bubble world of Coronado Island.
Sorry it’s taken a while to write, but it was kind of touch and go with my mom for a while. The good news is that she’s out of the hospital. It will take some time for her to get full mobility, so I’m going to stay to help out. No idea how long. I’ve quit my job at the hospital in Charlottesville. Would you mind sending my few things here?
I want you both to know how much you mean to me and that my years with you—both in Vietnam and Virginia—have been the best of times.
I’ll get back to see you when I can.
Until then, stay cool.
Love you both.
F
* * *
May 14, 1971
Dear Frankie,
You’re breaking up the band, girl, and I hate it, but I think it’s time, and this is the kick in the ass I needed. I’ve sent a résumé to Operation Breadbasket in Atlanta. Maybe I’ll meet Jesse Jackson!
I’ll miss you!
Keep in touch.
Stay cool,
B
PS: I’ll bet Noah pops the question to Ethel now that we are out of the way.
* * *
Frankie rubbed lotion into her mother’s dry hands.
“Tha feels … gd,” Mom said, struggling for the words. Frankie leaned down and kissed her mother’s dry cheek.
Mom’s eyes fluttered shut. She tired so easily. But that was to be expected in the first few days after a stroke. She was at home, in a hospital bed that had been set up in a downstairs guest room. She was often frustrated. Sometimes she couldn’t find a word, or chose the wrong word, or slurred her speech. Every now and then a bout of vertigo made her sick to her stomach.
Frankie shut the door behind her and found her father sitting in the living room. He was hunched forward. Whatever it was that had once puffed him up had been lost with Mom’s stroke.