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Cameron
After filling Mrs. Haddad in on Aimee’s stroke and asking her to keep an ear out for Arlene in case Rain decides to let her cry instead of soothing her, I arrive at Penn Stroke Center. I’m ushered into a small conference room by a friendly young woman in scrubs, but everyone wears them, so I’m not sure of her position. There’s a table with three chairs. She offers me a seat and asks if I could use coffee or some water. After I decline her offer, she leaves. I tap my fingers on the table. I become more aware of my heart racing, so I try to distract myself by rising to examine the pictures of two Philadelphia riverfront landscapes hanging on the pale-green wall. The room is windowless, which doesn’t help my pent-up emotions.
Moments later, Aimee’s doctor comes in, a tall Black man who appears to be in his fifties. He wears a concerned yet warm expression as he shakes my hand. “Hello, Mr. Michaels, I’m Dr. Manning. Please sit down.”
I take a chair, and he sits across from me. “I understand you’re Aimee’s friend.”
“She’s my best friend. She hasn’t any living family members, so I’m also her power of attorney.” I shift in the chair.
“Thank you for talking with me. Aimee suffered a stroke that has affected her ability to communicate. She can’t speak. Nor can she write, draw, or gesture to convey what she can’t say. She knows when people are talking to her, but her ability to express herself is—hopefully only temporarily—disconnected.”
“Hopefully?” This is much worse than I anticipated. “What are her chances of recovering?”
“Every patient is unique. A lot of it will have to do with her desire.”
“Are you aware she has a history of depression?”
“Yes. We accessed her records and her medications. The woman who is subletting her apartment and who called 911 was helpful. Aimee’s treatment plan will include ways to deal with her depression.”
I force my right heel to settle on the floor. “She contacted me from Europe... I can’t remember clearly how many days ago. I’ve lost track of things.”
“Take your time,” Dr. Manning says. “You’ve had a shock.”
“It took several days for her to get things together before leaving the tour, but she said she was crashing emotionally and was coming home.” I am confined to the chair, and there’s very little room to move. I lean forward. “Frankly, I’m worried about whether she’ll have enough willpower to fight through. She’s always been sort of fragile.”
“From what I can tell, her initial willpower, as you said, is surprisingly good. Sometimes, we find an inner strength we didn’t know we had.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“Now, when you see her, be yourself and remain calm. Reassure her. Obviously, don’t ask questions. That will only frustrate her. We can’t imagine what it’s like to be trapped in a body that won’t express what we’re thinking or feeling. But do communicate what you are thinking and feeling.”
“How can I expect her to react to seeing me?” I ask.
“I’m sure she’ll be happy you’re here, but being unable to communicate those feelings may make her angry or cause her to cry. Simply reassure her that displays of emotion are to be expected after a stroke.”
After we talk some more, Dr. Manning directs me to Aimee’s private room. The heavy door creaks when I open it. When Aimee sees me, her teary eyes look panicked. I rush over and wrap my arms around her.
“Aimee, sweetheart. I’m sorry this has happened.” I run my hand through her adorable pixie-cut dark-brown hair. I wipe her wet cheeks. She keeps crying. “No matter what happens, I won’t leave you. We’re going to make it through this together.”
It’s baffling to be talking to someone who can’t offer me any indication of whether they understand what I’m saying, but her beautiful green eyes continue to search my face as if I know an answer.
“I can tell that you want to communicate something.”
She can’t even nod, but I sense her answer is yes.
“I can imagine how frightening this is for you, but try to relax.” I take both her hands in mine. They are cold and clammy. “I met with Dr. Manning. He explained this is temporary. You’ll work with therapists in the hospital’s rehab facility to heal this part of your brain. When you’re released, I’ll work with you. I promise to take care of you, Aimee. Please don’t quit.”
A nurse comes in. “She needs to rest.”
“I understand.” I release Aimee’s hands, and she immediately shifts around on her bed like an agitated, frightened animal. “I’m coming back tonight.”
I hope having a sense of when she can expect to see me will help her to calm down. She lets her eyes close, and I quietly slip out into the hall.
As I drive back down toward my neighborhood, I remember that the eggs, butter, condiments, and breast milk I hastily packed up from Rehoboth Beach yesterday are the only food in my apartment. I find parking down the street from my place and hike toward the Acme on Fifth, but I find myself wandering over to Washington Square, where Shirlene first told me she was a ninety-year-old woman who died but came back to life in my brother’s girlfriend’s body. She had resisted the light in order to take care of her elderly husband. I was impressed with her level of devotion, but now that devotion has taken her away from me.
My head feels woozy, and the trees begin to move. Not sure I can hold myself up, I sit on a park bench. Shirlene is dead. She gave up Arlene, me, and life itself for Stan and Danny. I laugh at my foolishness. I believed if I had any advantage over Stan, it was that I was alive. I could hold her, kiss her, and make love to her. Apparently, there’s no competing with a grieving widow’s devotion for her recently deceased husband. Hattie might argue that Shirlene didn’t go back to be with Stan but to confront him about the vasectomy. Either way, she needed Stan more than she needed me.
I blink and try to clear my head. My vision goes back to normal. Stress. This is all too much stress. My brother, who wore his heart on his sleeve until he dulled the pain with drugs, resented how I could compartmentalize my feelings. Although that coping mechanism isn’t healthy, I have no time to grieve over Shirlene. Too many people are depending on me. I have to keep my shit together.
I’m numb by the time I enter the downstairs hall and start hauling my grocery bags up to my apartment.
“Everything was quiet upstairs. How’s Aimee?” Mrs. Haddad asks from her doorway.
I set the bags on the steps and come down to her. “After she’s released from the hospital, she’ll be in rehab. I need a place for her to live where I can take care of her.”
“She’s not going to be able to manage on her own?”
“The stroke affected her ability to communicate.”
“I’m so sorry.” My landlady points to the door down the hall. “How about the studio apartment?”
“That would be great, but I’m going to have to take the semester off from work to take care of Aimee. So I can’t afford the rent.”
“We’ll work something out. Besides, my husband needs a deadline to make him finish the rehab.”
My eyes burn with emotion. “Thank you. Aimee will have some privacy, and her visiting therapists can come and go without disturbing the baby.”
“And I’m right here.” Mrs. Haddad briefly touches my shoulder. “If Rain won’t allow me to help with Arlene, I’ll do what I can for Aimee. In fact, count on me to be her personal chef.”
Mrs. Haddad is tough and compassionate. She reminds me of my grandmother. “Thank you for always being so kind,” I say.
“Go upstairs and check on your baby.” Mrs. Haddad ducks into her apartment.