THE KIDS WERE STILL BICKERING twenty minutes later when three doctors hustled imp ortantly into the lounge. The family internist was the one in charge. Dr. Cohen had taken care of both Cassie and Mitch for twenty years. They'd had dinners together many times. His cellar was stocked with their very good wines, nothing less than $140 to $200 a bottle. He had about a thousand-bottle cellar and could afford it. He was a short, wide, completely bald man with a round, usually smiling face like the happy stickers the kids used to get on their papers when they were small. He wasn't smiling now.
"Cassie!" Unprepared for the black eyes and bruised jawline, he stopped short. Truly shocked, he turned to Marsha for an explanation.
Marsha, however, missed his distress. She had caught sight of something she liked and had put three fingers to her forehead as if to keep her head on during a religious experience. The object of her attention was a thin, stern-looking, white-coated young man, about five feet nine, totally unremarkable, and a complete opposite of the long-haired, tattooed biker-types that usually caused her seizures.
"Uhhh, hhhhh." A third doctor, whose tag readNESSIM SALIM, coughed delicately. This one looked as exotic as his name sounded.
"Ah, Dr. Salim is a neurosurgeon. This is Mrs. Sales, Marsha, Teddy," Dr. Cohen introduced them, bowing slightly. He straightened up and smoothed his bald head as if he still missed his hair. "Cassie, what happened…?" The question hung in the air.
"It's nothing at all." Cassie waved her hand at him impatiently.
"Ah. Unfortunate timing, then," he murmured with full understanding. "This is Dr. Wellfleet. He's our best young neurologist."
Dr. Wellfleet nodded solemnly. He must have thought so, too.
A fourth man, this one dressed in a black suit, hurried officiously in, his jacket flapping in his haste. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs. Sales, I'm so sorry." He put his hand on Cassie's arm to comfort her and pulled her scarf off. Now everyone saw the black stitches around her ears and the change of hair color her surgeon had suggested to distract people from the changes in her face. Her hair was no longer the light silvery brown of the last decade. It was now a shocking daffodil yellow.
"Mom!" Teddy screamed.
Marsha gasped and dove for the scarf as it slipped to the floor.
"Uh uh uh." The man coughed to cover his dismay.
"Um, um. This is Reverend Ballister. He's the chaplain here at the hospital. We thought it would be a good idea to have him here with us." Dr. Cohen only choked a little on the awkwardness and the public revelation: Old Cassie had done some restoration work and dyed her hair an awful color.
"Mrs. Sales. I'm so sorry," the reverend intoned again.
Marsha rearranged the sparkling evening scarf over Cassie's head and blue blazer as if she were a mannequin in a store window, while Cassie wished she'd gone over the banister and broken her neck.
"My husband is not a believer," she said to the minister with as much dignity as she could muster. Never mind that the appalling man had humiliated her. Never mind her ridiculous blond hair and black eyes. This was something Mitch would not tolerate. This God thing she had to nip in the bud.
"Perhaps you'd prefer a priest or a rabbi." This from Dr. Salim. "We have both nearby, practically on the premises," he said, eager to please.
"My husband is not a believer in any God," Cassie replied firmly. "He's not a religious man. He's against organized religion of any kind. He specifically doesn't want special prayers…" Her voice failed her. Her hands flew to her face. It occurred to her that Mitch really was dead, and that that was the reason they had all come together. The last family members brought to this room had lost their little girl. Mitch was gone. She stared at the four of them, her hands fluttering helplessly. She'd been waiting for him all these years, and now he'd left her for good. The future flashed dangerously in front of her. What would she and the children do? Teddy couldn't run a sophisticated business. He might be able to add, but he could barely dress himself. Marsha didn't care about money. She was in the helping profession. And Cassie herself didn't know a thing about the finances. Mitch had taught her how to stock a cellar and what to serve with what, but yelled at her if she sampled the merchandise or wrote a check.
"It doesn't matter if your husband is not a religious man. I'm here for you, for the family, to help you through this," the chaplain went on as if he hadn't heard her.
Luckily, Cassie didn't have a gun handy. She would have shot him on the spot.
"Is Daddy dead?" Teddy, still in shock over the yellow hair and stitches, was the one to blurt out the question.
Marsha elbowed him. "Shut up, Teddy."
"What's wrong with that? He's being audited. I need to know." Teddy was offended.
"Shut up, you idiot. Don't you have any sensitivity at all?"
"Fuck you, I'm not an idiot." Teddy balled up his fists for a fight.
"Go ahead, hit me," Marsha invited him softly, rolling her eyes at Wellfleet as if she'd known the neurologist all her life. She had a crazy brother, right? Wellfleet raised an eyebrow, responding to her attractions.
"Oh my God," Cassie murmured. Marsha was making a conquest on her father's deathbed.
"Now, now. Let's calm down and take a break," Dr. Cohen suggested. "Come on, kids, I know you're upset, but have a little respect." His voice was soft and tolerant. After all, he'd known the family for a long time and had children of his own.
"I have respect. She's calling me an idiot," Teddy muttered.
"Well, but think of your father," he said. Mitchell Sales had pledged several million to the hospital.
"I am thinking of him. I'm closer to him than they are."
"Idiot," Marsha spat out again.
"Well, I am," Teddy said. "I'm closer to him-I know him better than any of you. I bet you didn't even know he was being audited."
"Teddy, now is not the time for sibling rivalry." Dr. Cohen put a hand on his shoulder and moved him and the rest of the group down the hall into a conference room with a mahogany table and ten chairs. Cassie shivered as they took their places.
At this moment Cassie couldn't help remembering the intense pride Mitch had taken in all the family funerals. He'd arranged everything for the funerals of both her parents and his mother. Three beautiful affairs. She remembered that they'd served only white wine (when she'd always preferred red), a Côte de Beaune, Puligny-Montrachet, Grand Cru Vineyard Chevalier-Montrachet. She'd forgotten the vintage, it was so long ago. She hadn't had to make a single decision, or even go to the hospital to identify their remains before the bodies were cremated. Mitch had insisted on cremation. He'd taken care of everything.
And now she wondered how she was going to manage the kind of affair he'd want. Ever since the news that red wine was better for the heart than white came out a decade or so ago, red wine sales had absolutely soared. Maybe a Petrus Pomerol would be acceptable to him now. Or maybe she should serve both red and white. But which ones? Mitch's father was ninety-two and hadn't had all his marbles since 1966. Cassie hiccuped on her panic, holding back a sob.
"The good news is we've got him stabilized," Dr. Wellfleet began.
Teddy let out his breath in a whoosh. "Well, thank God!"
"Amen," echoed Dr. Ballister.
Alive? Stable? Cassie was further confused by the good news.
"We couldn't get any more time on the audit even if the old man croaked," Teddy explained, all smiles in his relief.
"Teddy!" Marsha cried.
"Well, he's had it postponed twice. They won't take any more postponements now," he said. "Ira Mandel is resigned to going ahead with it no matter what."
"I never heard anything about this." Now Cassie was confused. Why was Teddy harping on this? What did an audit have to do with anything? Mitch was alive. That meant no funeral. What else could possibly matter? Ira Mandel was Mitch's accountant. He also happened to be Teddy's boss. Nepotism was rampant everywhere.
"You never called me when you were in a damn car accident. It's obvious you don't love me as much as her." Teddy shook his head angrily. He was back on the car accident.
Cassie thought she was going nuts. Audit, stabilized. These words were not in her vocabulary.
Dr. Cohen glanced at Dr. Wellfleet. Wellfleet was lifting his eyebrows up and down at Marsha à la Groucho Marx. Cassie was shocked. They were connecting. Her daughter and the skinny neurologist. Dr. Cohen broke the silence.
"Let's stick with your father for a moment. He's in critical condition. It was touch and go for a while there, but we gave him TPA in the ER, and we've got him stabilized for the moment. Oh, and Dr. Salim is here on consultation. In case there's a need for emergency surgery."
"On what?" Cassie's head spun.
"TPA is the drug that halts brain damage after a stroke, Mom," Marsha translated softly for her mother. "Surgery would be for, like, bleeding, or a blood clot. It would be brain surgery, of course." Marsha put a protective hand on her mother's arm.
Dr. Wellfleet gave Marsha a melting smile for understanding the medical situation. "I'm afraid your husband had a stroke," he confirmed to Cassie.
"A stroke!" That was the one possibility that hadn't occurred to her. Life or death was all that had been on her mind. She swallowed hard. A stroke was a long-term kind of thing.
"Of course he's going to recover; he wouldn't want to miss his audit," Teddy quipped. He struck the pose of a madman with one eye closed and his right side drooping, hand crippled-his idea of his daddy as a stroke victim.
"Oh my God!" Marsha made a disgusted sound at the inappropriate, fifth-grade humor of her brother.
Teddy mouthed the word "bitch" at her.
Cassie was appalled. They seemed so heartless, without feeling of any kind. Suddenly it wasn't hard to understand why animals in the wild sometimes ate their young. "What's the prognosis?" she asked timorously. She had to focus on Mitch, poor Mitch struck down in his prime.
"Will he walk? Will he talk? Will he be able to write checks?" Marsha zoomed right in on the practical considerations. Daddy paid the bills, after all. Mommy was the idiot who didn't even know where the checkbook was.
Dr. Cohen tapped the table with his pen. "It's very early to predict. Some people do better than expected. Others-"
"What do you mean ‘better than expected'?" Cassie cried.
"The CT scans show that your husband had a stroke. That means plaque on his arteries prevented the blood flow from getting to his brain. His brain shows quite a bit of damage from oxygen deprivation."
"How much damage?" Teddy broke in.
Dr. Cohen put his lips together. "We'll have to see. We're just going to have to take this one day at a time." He gave them his first bright encouraging smile.
"But you gave him PTA. Doesn't that arrest the damage?" Cassie asked hopefully.
"TPA," Marsha corrected gently.
"I know. I'm no dummy," she replied.
"Of course, you're not, Mother," Marsha said sweetly enough to indicate that she thought her mother was a great big dummy.
"Well, how long before we'll know something?" she asked slowly, trying not to take offense.
"We'll have a better idea in forty-eight hours." Wellfleet spoke slowly, too. It was pretty clear they didn't have much hope.
"The first few days are crucial. We'll know more in a day or two," Dr. Cohen added quickly.
"One day at a time. That has to be our credo." Dr. Ballister took this opportunity to say a few comforting words. Cassie didn't hear them. She was alarmed by the prospect of her husband in a wheelchair. Mitch had to recover, he had to. As an invalid, he'd be very difficult to manage.
"I'd like to see him. Is he awake?" she asked.
"He's in intensive care. You can go in for a few minutes, but don't expect much."
"Oh no." Panic overtook Teddy's face for the first time. Courage wasn't his middle name.
Marsha, on the other hand, had resolve written all over her. She squared her shoulders, the social worker kicking in. All three doctors gave her admiring glances. She glowed with the attention. The past week she'd been through hell with her mother. Now it was Daddy's turn. The girl was jumping into the parenting role with both feet. She draped her arm around her mother's shoulder. "Don't cry, Mom. Daddy's strong. He'll pull through this. I know he will."
Grateful for the comfort, Cassie reached across her chest and patted Marsha's hand. She didn't want to tell this finally empathizing daughter that the tears in her eyes were for the young mother who'd lost in a nanosecond her husband and both children when they went out for pizza on the L.I.E.