Final Lullaby, page 13
“I know how hard it can be. I’m a single parent too. You sound like a great, protective mother. I commend you for standing your ground.”
“That reminds me of that Tom Petty song.”
“‘I Won’t Back Down’?”
Manny and Carmen sang a few lines of the song together.
“No, I won’t back down.... Thank you, Manny.”
“Thank you, Carmen. I’m here Tuesdays 6:00 to midnight. Sundays, noon to 4:00. Call anytime.”
“I will.”
Click.
“What’s this, Manny? Did I hear you singing with someone?”
“Shut up, Angela.”
“Okay, I’m sure it will never happen again.”
Geneviève and Sarah surged through the front door. “Angie? Manny? Are you on calls or can you come out here?” They were bundled in hats, scarves, and peacoats with only pink noses showing. Sarah held a protective mittened hand over her belly, which had grown greatly since I last saw her. She walked in baby first, Sarah second. Manny and I knew what the news was.
“The autopsy results came back early. They found six medications in his system - three antidepressants, two anxiety medications, and sleeping pills.”
“Suicide?” Manny asked the obvious. He had never met Neil.
“Looks like it.” Sarah removed her mittens and blew hot air on her fingers. I brought everyone a cup of tea. The four of us sat dazed.
“I failed. I could help everyone else but him. In my store, the call line, community center, or in life. I have a warm hug and silent wisdom for them all, but I could not see the divine in Neil.”
“Angela, stop doing this to yourself. It’s not your fault. Neil had a lifetime of abuse and overmedication. Don’t make this about you. He was nasty to you. You tried. I saw it.”
“I saw it too.” Sarah wrapped her cold white fingers around the mug. “He wasn’t all that nice to me or Ben either.”
“I’m going to Brooklyn to be with Tucker. I’m sorry for all the trouble I caused here. That rock was meant for me. That glass was my heart.”
Geneviève stood up. “I let him go. It was a bad situation. We’re going to have a memorial next Sunday at the center. Ask Tucker if the band can come to play. Neil’s son Sam will be here.”
“Will do.”
10.
TEN KILOS ON
The next four years thrust forward as they do for two imaginative, productive people in love. I managed my shop through a roller coaster of economic turns. People still flocked to Bean There to share their living stories, more so because of the hardships in the world. They stayed to buy books. I initiated more online business with schools and programs for underprivileged families.
Encouraged by my internet expansion, Tucker launched Home Sweet Home Staging, a virtual business, so he could work from home or while traveling. Our mutual ardor adventure made globetrotting a regular event, even with all the responsibilities at home. We backpacked through Europe several times, hitting some usual suspects: Barcelona, Amsterdam, London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Budapest, Prague, Vienna, Stockholm, Copenhagen, and more, along with sweet smaller spots, including Meiringen, Switzerland; Assisi, Italy; Racha, Georgia; Buçaco Forest, Portugal; and Rovaniemi, Finland. In Japan, we saw the deer at Nara and Buddhist Temple in Kyoto.
The green Jeopardy! board was filled with travel destinations for years to come, including a post-retirement stay in Italy to become fluent in Italian – someday far off in the future. Tucker crafted a stirring portfolio of international birds in flight. I led him to homes of Chopin, Monet, Beethoven, and Kafka. Our priority was to get to know locals in each locale we visited through an organization dedicated to world peace through cultural exchange. We formed a network of musicians and intellectuals worldwide, including up the West Coast in America. We accommodated them, and they returned the gesture.
In Prague, we met Anna, who hosted us for three days. We walked to her childhood homes, schools, church, outdoor markets, hangouts, and nature areas. Her tours were woven within her life narrative, which flowed out easily and passionately to our eager ears. Anna shared intricate, personal details about the Velvet Revolution, which ended over forty years of communist rule in Czechoslovakia and ushered in a Parliamentary Republic. Her story, told through the eyes of the teenager she’d been at the time of the revolution, included details of her participation in the historic International Student Day. Through her story we learned details of the long effects the changes had on her contemporaries and country. Mutual hosting gave our trips meaning.
Geneviève made me vice president of the community center, which was daunting because it had taken a year for the community to warm to her vision. The idea was for people to get to know neighbors and community during good times and bad, to lend a hand to others when possible, and to have a community couch to sit on if one felt isolated, adrift, in need, or simply chatty. It wasn’t a pub, counseling center, state agency, church, book club, dance class, or meet up group. Our rules were simple: no politics, religion, disrespect, or ads. Due to the fragmentation of society, Geneviève wanted to invent a new (old) way of coming together.
Tucker and his band Ten Kilos On donated their time to play some evenings and weekends. This helped warm the place up like a crackling fire on a cold winter’s night. Birthday parties, birth announcements, and memorials became popular at the center. A large bulletin board connected people with others in need in a more real way than online communities. Sometimes people came to meet dates there in a safe space, or just kibbitz on a couch with others.
The band took their name from a song Tucker wrote. For the recording they hired a bagpipe player who blew the pipes at the end of each line, accenting the words “long,” “upon,” “gone.”
TEN KILOS ON
The eve stretched loooong,
Our feet blistered and weary,
We were petered out,
Our spirits dreary.
We came upoooon a quaint abode
As ten more kilos, we pushed; we strode
And found this peaceful place to lay our heads,
To sleep and dream from safe in bed.
Breakfast was chai and adzuki beans.
We were rich in love, though slight in means.
Many times, when we reach road’s end,
Hope appears around the bend.
On days when darkness tempers our cheer,
We remember when life led us here.
To a quaint abode ten kilos on,
At a moment when all hope was goooone.
Paolo Paradis, the electric jazz-blues fusion star known for his shredding chops, invited Tucker to sit in with his band Paolo Paradis and the Psithurism Paupers in Brooklyn, whenever Tucker could make it. My exultant blues boy had a full and satiating dance card. He was elated.
Our relationship deepened in delicious ways. I danced out Shakespeare plays for him; he painted me songs. Outfitted only in his tee-shirt and socks on cold nights, I’d contribute a finger-roll and shimmy shake on tambourine, melding with his bluegrass banjo or pensive or peppery piano. I’d recite Lady Anne’s soliloquy in a swooping Swan Lake dance, ending in a split on the ground where we’d have soulful, sweet sex that hurtled us galaxies beyond conscious grasp. Tucker cried out “long live John Keats!” at the height of our pleasure, which caused us to laugh so hard we fell fast asleep on the rug, waking by dawn when Socrates came to get a hug.
We’d sit outside on warm or cool still nights in the yard, alone or with friends, often with my head on his shoulder, jamming, breathing in the stars and sharing threads of our past that wove us into each other’s present and offered a multihued future that might lead anywhere. His telescope was a gateway to see outer worlds; his eyes led me inward to depths unfathomable.
These years were hard for Rosemary. She was in a string of relationships, none of which really worked. First Scott, then Abebe, Aki, and then Rhonda. After she met someone, she would disappear from our lives only to reemerge months later in tears. When we were busy, she went to the community center.
“Angie, I’m going to be alone forever.”
“Rosemary, you’re an amazing person.”
“Can’t you just tell me I’m going to find someone?”
“But I don’t know the future.”
“God, you’re so pragmatic!”
“I hope you’ll find what you’re looking for.”
“You’re so lucky that you have Tucker.”
I was. I hugged her.
Geneviève bemoaned the unexplained loss of Johnny. The unknowing was a weight that caused her shoulders to slump. She and I struggled with guilt after Neil’s suicide even though rationally we knew better. Our experience keyed us into the harrowing self-blame people feel after suicide.
Neil’s son Sam was adrift. He robbed a house and did six months in juvenile hall. We searched for a male of his father’s age to mentor for him. When young Robby learned of the situation, he stepped up and offered to coach Sam in track and field, which Sam had participated in when his dad was alive. Running proved transformational in Sam’s life. Track gave him a community, confidence, and endorphins. It was beneficial for Robby too. I was so proud of him.
We kept up relationships with Kieran, and Tucker’s parents in person, and mine remotely. I missed my folks, especially on birthdays and holidays, but they choose their life; I choose mine. Overall life was remarkable. Tucker and I were arguably the luckiest people on the planet.
11.
THE MESH MESS
The sun graced us with a warm and welcoming fall day. I spread my palms flat on the earth, pointed toes skyward, and eyed Tucker’s trim abs as his tee-shirt draped down around his chest. I studied how his beautiful biceps shortened and flexed as he struggled to find a point of upside-down balance. He had no sooner kicked up into a handstand during morning yoga when his sinewy arms folded like the legs of a card table. He dropped on the grass, his hands over groin.
“Owwww.”
Socrates bounded up and down, barking and whining, and licked Tucker’s face.
“What’s wrong? Is it your appendix?”
“What kind of crazy-ass anatomy classes have you taken? My appendix isn’t in my testicles.”
“Oh, no, what happened to your testicles?”
“Nothing. I think it might be a hernia.”
Leaning on me like a crutch, Tucker hobbled to the car. We sped to his physician’s office. He didn’t say a word about my driving. As we waited for him to be fit into the schedule, he poked at the sore spot and grunted. An old woman with a drippy nose observed him as if he was going to be blinded for sinning. At the two-hour mark, the receptionist called, “Trucker Boy.”
“Um. Yeah. Tucker Boyd.” Drippy nose rolled her eyes, visibly relieved that we were leaving.
Dr. Brineman has a multitude of diplomas on his wall. When I squinted, they looked like my dad’s post-it notes stuck just so in formation on the refrigerator door. I read a diploma on the top right. It was from junior high. The one next to it from high school. I’m surprised he didn’t have a kindergarten report card up too. Plays well with others.
Or does he?
“Feel this?” Brineman grabbed my hand, pushed it onto a lump a smidge to the left of Tucker’s crotch, and wiggled my fingers around. “This is an opening of muscle. The connective tissue needs to be surgically repaired. It’s an inguinal hernia. Inner groin. Common in men. Some women too.” Then, without offering to buy me a drink first, he placed his hand on my inguinal ligament and pressed firmly. “See? Yours is smooth.” In what other field could a man touch a woman’s crotch without asking?
Don’t slap him, Angie. Focus on Tucker.
The doctor tossed off a few questions. Tucker guessed he got the hernia from carting around cameras and tripods. Brineman referred him to Dr. Ramon. “He’s the surgical expert. The guy you need to go to. Call him stat,” Brineman ordered. “If I ask, he’ll fit you in as an emergency.”
Tucker and I, in a haze of hurry, researched before making an appointment. I checked Dr. Ramon’s profile on the Board of Registration in Medicine while Tucker buried himself in review sites. Ramon came up with a clean record from the board and, according to reviews, was adored. I drove Tucker to the consultation and sat in the waiting room catching up on store orders.
Tucker rejoined me and encapsulated the consultation. “He’s got more diplomas and awards than Brineman.”
Junior High diplomas? I wondered.
“He is pretty cocky about being an expert in hernia repair who has authored dozens of peer reviewed papers on the subject. Angie, I’m scared.” He hadn’t planned on surgery when he woke up happy and healthy that morning, I understood.
“Oh, here he is. Dr. Ramon, this is my wife, Angela.”
The doctor, hair slicked and shiny with mineral oil, vigorously shook my hand. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen, but not good. Not gonna get better on its own, right? Huh? Am I right? So, we operate at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow. Remember, no food, drink, or even a sip of water after midnight. NPO, right, huh?” He slapped Tucker on the back.
“Right.” Tucker looked scared.
“Tomorrow? That’s it? What do we need to know about this? Risks, choices?” I was incredulous.
“You’re worrying too much, Angela. “I’m a surgical expert. It’s a minimally invasive outpatient surgery. My technique is the gold standard. You’re in good hands. Risks of not operating outweigh the normal risks of any surgery.” Using his thumb and index finger, he formed what looked like a gun and pointed it at Tucker, “Poo. You’re on track, buddy. Get some sleep. Wipe down with the antiseptic all over in the morning. Don’t miss a spot. Okay? You got that, right?”
In the car, as I clicked my seatbelt on, I expressed doubts. “He’s pushy, don’t you think? And that hair.”
“What am I supposed to do? It hurts. I can’t stand upright. Brineman uses him all the time.”
“I should’ve gone in with you. It’s always good to have another set of ears.”
“I was thorough. I shared my physical history like a PowerPoint presentation. I asked questions about risks and recovery.”
I could imagine how Tucker’s side of the conversation went. Ramon was arrogant though. When I mentioned that, Tuck said he wanted a confident surgeon and only trusted the one referred by his doctor. It was like he played defense against me.
I called Brineman’s office and spoke with Jean, his office manager. “Jean, it’s rushed. I’m worried.”
“Angela, I understand your concern. If it was my Derek, I’d be protective too. This surgeon has an excellent reputation. He does state-of-the-art laparoscopic surgery. Tucker will be fine.”
“I’d like to talk to Dr. Brineman.”
“He’s in with a patient.”
“I’ll wait as long as I need to.”
Tucker curled into the car door, clutching his stomach. After five minutes, Brineman’s voice came on. “Mrs. Boyd, no need to worry. Ramon is the best. The gold standard. It’s a keyhole surgery. A few incisions, a few days of pain, and he’ll be good as new. Get some rest tonight.”
Right. Not much chance that will happen.
Tucker came out of anesthesia with a joke. “The gown doesn’t go with my coloring. I’m a winter.”
“You can tell a person’s true nature by how they come out of surgery,” Dr. Ramon’s nurse said.
“Hi, Angela.” Tucker white-knuckled my hand. His face was pale, but exactly an hour after he came to, Dr. Ramon sent us home as Tucker complained about sharp shooting pain in the area.
“You’ll sleep, you’ll feel better. Okay? Right? Mesh repair is easy.” This seemed to be Ramon’s whole schtick.
What, Nurse, can you tell about one’s personality when they are in excruciating pain and pass out on the toilet after being sent home from an outpatient clinic? Is that due to the nature of the patient? Tucker crawled on his hands and knees to the bedroom, drenched in sweat. He was ice cold. “Oh, Tucker, lie down right here. I’ll get a blanket and call 911.”
“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” he cried.
“I’ll stay right by your side. I’m with you, Tucker.”
After blood and urine tests, a saline IV, and being hooked up to beeping heart monitors for eight hours in the ER, Tucker was discharged. I spoon-fed him broth for days. Looked after him like a mama lion just like with Simon, my Seal Point Siamese kitten. Got people to help at the store.
While Tucker tried to sleep (unsuccessfully due to pain), I read about laparoscopic hernia surgery. “They cover the hernia with mesh from within the abdomen and staples are commonly fired through it into the muscle tissue in order to fix it as a patch.” Dr. Ramon never told any of this to us while he rushed Tucker in as though his gut would burst if we waited a day.
Tucker writhed in pain. I tried to get answers from medical providers. We were told, “Dr. Ramon is the best. He says the operation was successful,” then asked, “Has Tucker ever had anxiety?”
Anxiety? Tucker? No. It was at this point, I smelled a rat.
Tucker, always health-conscious, attempted to eat his usual healthy diet. He was the chef, and I, chief bottlewasher and salad maker, so when he couldn’t eat due to pain and nausea, I taught myself to make him his own soups. I contributed two recipes from Lena: lentil - vegetable soup and squash - garbanzo bean soup, the one that birthed the name of my bookstore. As the weeks went on, his pain levels remained high. He couldn’t work or function normally.
“My life is over. That guy destroyed me.”
“I’ll find you help. There has to be a way to fix this. Hang in there. I love you.”
I worked round the clock to adjust to take care of both of us, fill out paperwork, talk to doctors. Unexpected medical bills arrived like roaches. Ramon tripled the price of surgery. I called the insurance, but they didn’t care. The sight of Ted, our mail carrier, now made me nauseous. Bills. Bills. Bills. I needed answers. Something was wrong, but no one would admit to anything.
I hired Veronika, a bubbly woman with a smile that heals as well as her hands, to give Tucker a weekly massage at the house. The bodywork momentarily helped to alleviate tension in the rest of his body, but not in his gut. He breathed, visualized, and chanted, but didn’t improve. This medical device had cruel effects on my husband.
