Control

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Three years ago, I’d rushed Robert to the hospital when he’d been having chest pains. We’d feared a heart attack, but we’d learned that he actually had a gas bubble in his chest that was causing the pain.

“Like the last time,” I said.

“Yes.” Again, Robert chuckled. “Just like the last time.”

“Well.” I planted a kiss on my husband’s soft cheek. “Thank God it wasn’t a heart attack. I really freaked out, Robert. All the way driving here, I was…”

“I’m sorry about your weekend.”

“Don’t apologize. Of course I had to come home.” I gazed down at him, once again feeling guilty for thinking that he and I might be headed for divorce. Biting back that thought, I said, “Look, I’ve got the kettle on. Would you like some peppermint tea?”

“Oh, that would be nice.”

“All right. I’ll be back up soon.”

Downstairs, I prepared tea for both of us, and arranged the cups on a silver tray, along with two spoons and a jar of honey.

“Here you go,” I said, setting the tray on the large night table closest to Robert. We had a four-poster bed, with oversize nightstands and dressers. I’d thought the tables too large when I’d first seen them, but the marble surface did come in handy when extra space was needed.

Robert eased himself up and reached for a cup. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t put any honey in it.”

“Oh, it’s fine like this.”

“By the way, how did you get home?” I asked.

“Pardon me?”

“From the hospital. You called for an ambulance, right?”

“Oh. Right. Yes, yes I did.”

“So how did you get home?”

“I…I took a taxi.”

“You could have waited for me at the hospital. I would have picked you up.”

“It was no bother.”

I glanced at the bedside clock. “You made it through the E.R. in very good time.” It was a little after 2:00 a.m., and Robert had called me just before ten. Sharon and I had wasted no time in checking out, but it still took us about three and a half hours to get home.

“A man my age who goes to Emergency with chest pains…The doctors don’t want to take any chances.”

“Of course not. And I’m glad. I just wish I’d been here for you.”

Robert sipped more of his tea. He finished about half of it before putting the cup back on the tray. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’m very tired. I’d like to get some sleep.”

“It’s very late. We both need to get some sleep.” I gave my husband a lingering kiss on the lips. I collected the tray and cups and took them down to the kitchen.

By the time I came back upstairs, Robert was asleep, his lips parted as he snored quietly.

I went to the master bathroom. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, I groaned. I looked awful. The worry had had its effect on me, but that was to be expected. Thank God the crisis had passed.

The last time Robert had gone to the hospital for chest pains and learned it was gas, the E.R. doctor had given him a prescription for lactulose—a thick, sugary liquid that he’d complained about taking, though it had worked wonders.

I didn’t see a bottle of lactulose on the bathroom counter, or any other prescription bottle. I searched the medicine cabinet, but once again saw nothing other than the regular medicines Robert was already taking.

Something made me head downstairs to the kitchen again. I couldn’t remember if the prescription Robert had been given last time was supposed to be stored in the fridge. But there was no lactulose in our refrigerator, either.

Was Robert lying?

“No,” I replied aloud to my silent question. “Robert wouldn’t have lied about something so serious.”

But he was in and out of Emergency so quickly.

The time we had gone to the hospital for the same issue, it had taken more than four hours, what with the myriad tests he’d gone through. They’d given him an EKG, X-ray, blood tests. Breathing tests.

Even if I could understand him getting through Emergency in under three hours, I found myself wondering about his current physical condition.

When he’d had the heart attack scare the first time, there had been shortness of breath and intense pain every time he inhaled. The agony had lasted for hours before the medicine kicked in. But this time, Robert wasn’t exhibiting any of those symptoms.

What if this whole incident was an elaborate scheme to get me to come home?

I’d been wary of broaching the subject of going away. Robert didn’t like me to leave him, and definitely not for a few days. In fact, I’d been a little surprised that he’d been so agreeable to the idea of me and Sharon taking off for the weekend.

But then there had been the constant phone calls. Him paying our bill at the restaurant. I hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that that was Robert’s way to check and see if I was actually there…

Maybe I was overreacting.

“Or maybe I’m not,” I whispered. It wasn’t the first time he had done something to subtly—or not so subtly—convince me to change my mind about something.

Like the time a year ago when my father had invited me to Texas for a visit. After my mother took me away when I was fourteen, I didn’t see my dad for four years. There were no cell phones back then, so no easy way for me to sneak a call to him without my mother finding out. But I’d called my father collect from a payphone on my first day at my new school. I’d been relieved to reach him, and quickly told him where I was so that he could come and get me. I’d been stunned to learn that he already knew where I was. My mother had called him days after we’d arrived in Philadelphia. I didn’t understand why he hadn’t come for me, but he explained that he’d wanted to do exactly that, that he’d contacted the authorities to try and find me. But my mother had convinced him that she was in a better position to take care of me. My father worked long hours as a janitor at two different office buildings and didn’t make a ton of money. Who would see me off to school in the morning, or make dinner for me when he worked late? He also explained that while his desire was to fight for custody of me, he knew that the courts favored the mothers the majority of the time. Besides, going to court would cost money—money he didn’t have. He promised we would stay in touch via phone calls and hopefully visits when the opportunity arose.

I’d had to accept what he’d told me—I didn’t have any other choice. But I secretly believed that he hadn’t pushed the issue of custody because he didn’t want to fall out of favor with my mother. That after everything she had done to hurt him, he still hoped she would come back to him one day.

Their relationship may have been dysfunctional, but he’d loved her.

True to his word, my father and I did stay in touch. We talked on the phone about once a week in the beginning, then tapered off to about once a month. When I was eighteen and legally an adult, I borrowed money from a friend to go see my dad. I thought maybe I could live with him. But a week into the visit, I knew it wasn’t going to work out.