“She’s been on a rampage, dude.”

His brother is staring out the window at the river, hair brushing his shoulders like a broom. He needs a cut.

“What do you mean?” Mike runs his fingers through his own shaggy locks, stares at the St. Johns.  Three days here, and the view from the hospital is much the same as the one from their bedroom.  Well, Mallory Street is about three minutes away.  He could walk home from here. If they’d let him.

Nothing doing. The hospital mandates he be wheeled down and handed into a car like an invalid.

“What do you mean,” Mike repeats, since Max (as usual) has started something and not finished.  In this case, a conversation about Fairfax.

His brothers turns, stretches his arms overhead.  He’s wearing an old white undershirt.  Mike can see yellow stains under the arms.  If Fairfax saw those, she’d tear that shirt off him and attack it with bleach.

“Ahhh, well you know.” Max sighs.  “The contractor guy—she’s yelled at him every day.” He checks behind him and then slowly lowers his bottom to sit on the metal air conditioning unit/window seat, flip-flopped feet fanned out in front. “But hey, it worked, he showed up.”

“Well, good. She can be, er, persuasive.”  That’s the least of it. His wife is a force of nature once she gets angry.  God help anyone in her way then.

Max says, “She threatened to get a lawyer, sue him for personal injury.”

“What?” Mike’s not sure he heard his brother correctly because it makes no sense.  But, yep, that’s what Max said.  Personal injury.  Maybe Fair has gone off the deep end this time. She weathered her own disease with her mind intact, but his broke her.

All the more reason for Mike to get home.  For things to return to normal.  Just like his blood pressure was now, thank God.  The meds were working.  Dr. Imani would see him in his office next week.  Fairfax was none too pleased—she wanted him to use the PCP Peter Redmond recommended—but Mike decided to stick with his hospitalist. After all, ‘Dr. I.’ was quick, wasted no time, in and out of the room.  Mike hoped his appointment would be the same.  No need to dwell on the body so much. Seventy-two hours of IVs and monitors and tests were enough.

Enough.

Where was the discharge nurse?  The day shift nurse had told them, “Not long now.” That had been two hours ago. People keep shuffling down the hallway outside his door, but no one comes in.

Max is chuckling.  “Listen to this.  She was blaming the contractor for your high blood pressure.”

Mike turns to face his brother.  “No!”

“Something about not having a kitchen and eating takeout food with tons of salt for months.  How you all had no choice but to eat crap, putting you in the hospital, because he wouldn’t finish the work.”

“That’s crazy.” Mike shakes his head.  Personal injury, indeed. Fairfax’s mind—it’s always been fascinating.  Her reasoning had all the traits of an evil genius.  The spin she can put on situations!  He smiles.

“Hey, man. It worked!” Max grins.  “You have a kitchen now.”

“It’s finished?” Holy cow.  That’s something of a miracle. “Completely? Um…” Mike tries to remember.  There’d been a gaping hole in the assemblage of counters and appliances.  Oh, yeah—the oven.  “Did that GE double cook thingamajig come in?”

“If you mean the oven, yeah it’s there.” Max glances at his phone.  “But I wouldn’t be looking forward to the meals coming out of that thing.”

“What do you mean?” Mike digs his own phone out of his pocket.  He’s been checking work emails, though Fairfax made him promise not to.  He really should go in to the office today, but she made him promise not to do that either. And as Mike sits there waiting, minutes ticking by, the possibility fades away.  Still, he worries about his Gulf Coast team—the Panhandle folks mostly. Hurricane Michael was a bad one.  Record-setting bad.  For days, coverage of the storm’s aftermath flickered from the hospital room’s ceiling mounted TV, a constant reminder that things could be so much worse.  Sure, Mike has high blood pressure and a clutch of new meds to ingest, but at least he doesn’t have to contend with flood waters.  And another ruined kitchen.

His brother sighs, then pitches forward from the window seat onto his feet.  Max towers above Mike, and his expression softens. “It’s the ‘no salt life’ for you now, bro.”

Mike grimaces. How well he remembers Luce’s low sodium meals!  She had seasoned everything with Mrs. Dash for their father’s sake. Mike remembers the odd tang of the flavor, off kilter.  Not quite right.

Unfulfilling.

“Tasteless?” He peers up at Max.

“Bingo!” his brother replies. “Do you want to bring all this stuff with you?” He motions to the cards and flowers lined up on the window sill.

Mike was amazed that so many people had acknowledged the blip in his blood pressure.  Though the biggest bunch of flowers was from work, everything else was from Fairfax’s cohort.  Nancy had brought an expensive box of chocolates that Fairfax had tried to steal away, claiming they were bad for him.  Mike stopped her.  He had her read the sodium content from the label, and the chocolates, provided you didn’t scarf them down in one sitting, were acceptable.

“Just the chocolates,” Mike replied.  “I’ll take those, leave the rest of it.”

Max casts an eye at the gold foil box.  “Ooh, fancy.” He reaches for it.

“Hands off.  They’re from Nancy. And probably the only good thing I’ll be eating.” Mike sighed. “I’m going to enjoy every one of those.”

“Fancy Nancy.”

The edge in his brother’s voice gets Mike’s attention.  He shifts his gaze from the Godiva box to Max’s unshaven face.  Yep, Mike knows that look. Max’s lips twist in that unique way of his; as a toddler, he’d done this when he wanted something and had been told ‘no.’ It was Mike’s experience that his brother usually found a way to get what he wanted anyway.  Max maneuvered around obstacles.

What had Fairfax called Max? Oh, yes.  Slippery.

His brother looks at his phone screen again.  “Man, they sure take their time here, don’t they? Well, good thing you don’t want to bring all that crap with us.  I didn’t put the saddlebag on. Forgot it.”

It takes Mike a second to get the gist of his brother’s comment. “Are you kidding me? The Harley? Come on, she would have never allowed it.”

Max lips shift back into a full-fledged grin, straight white teeth (thanks to Lucinda’s love of orthodontics) on full display. “She doesn’t know, man; thinks I took your car. She’s too busy planning your homecoming.”

Ah, well that explains it—Fairfax outsourcing his hospital discharge and transportation back home.  Only a party could take her attention away from loved ones.  Divide up her mind with details.

Mike groaned.  Suddenly, the hospital wasn’t looking so bad.  The last thing he wanted right now was forced socializing.  Can small talk raise blood pressure?  Could he possibly text his wife and order her to scrap her celebration?

“Hey, it’s really not a big deal.  Those friends of hers, you know, Angela and her guy. The kid.”

“The Sykes.”

“Yeah, and another neighbor chick, don’t remember her name.”

Mike sighs.  It was sounding like a big deal. He isn’t ready for anything more than his own family. “That’s probably Janey.  Fetner.”

Max nods. “Yep, that sounds like what she said.” He re-pockets his phone, then extends his arms in front all the way.  When he clasps his hands together, his knuckles crack.  Mike notices white paint underneath his brother’s nails.

“And Nancy, of course. With what’s his name.” Max examines his hands, digs at one nail with another.

“Peter Redmond.”

Hmm. Well, now. Maybe this get-together could be interesting. Again, there’s nothing like someone else’s trouble to make you feel better about your own. Fairfax’s story about those two made Mike want to get a better look at them together.  He had mulled it over in the hospital, during the kidney scan, the cardiac stress test, both passed with flying colors, thank God.

Mike chuckles.  Poor Redmond.  Man, there the good doc is, middle-aged, and grappling with teenage things all over again.

Do we ever really grow up? The whole situation, because it was happening to someone else, made Mike feel young again.

“Knock knock.” A pretty blonde nurse is at the door.  “I’ve got the discharge forms. Quick review, then out you go.”

Max raises his eyebrows, shoots Mike a smile—shorthand between brothers for “babe alert.”

Mike clears his throat. “Hallelujah, I’m ready to ride!” He laughs.  “I get to go home on a motorcycle,” he explains then feels silly. Like a ten-year-old kid bragging to his teacher.

The nurse widens her eyes, nearly the same blue-green as his wife’s. “Good,” she chirps and perches beside him on the bed. “Let me just go over a few things.”

Max is already moving out the door. “I’ll be in front, bro, on your chariot.”

A wave of euphoria hits Mike.  Oh man.  Going home.  No better phrase in the English language.

****

And the homecoming is something he’ll never forget.  How he and Max sped down Mallory Street, zooming into the driveway to the cheers of the crowd standing on the front steps.  How they screeched to a halt, and Mike tore off his helmet. (Max wasn’t wearing one; apparently, he never carried a spare, so he made sure his sick brother’s noggin was protected instead of his own.)

Thank goodness he did that, because when Fairfax ran up to them, aqua eyes wide with terror, the first words out of her mouth were “what the…?” and the second were, “at least he gave you a helmet.”

She wrapped Mike in a hug all the tighter, he knew, from her fear of Max’s motorcycle.  And Mike clutched her to him.  They had made it through another trial!  There had been many since they met at the dawn of the 1990s.  This time it was Mike’s ordeal—he didn’t like that, was ashamed that he could ever cause her any stress—but still, here they were.

At home. Safe together.

“If he had crashed with you on there…,” Fairfax whispered in his ear and kissed him instead of finishing the sentence.  Kissed him for much longer than usual.  In fact, it was difficult to break away from her. He didn’t want to, she smelled like orange peel, her mouth pure citrus.  Their friends continued to cheer, now adding catcalls into the mix.

When they finally separated, Fairfax grabbed Mike by the hand and led him past the familiar faces through the front door.  “The kitchen!” she exclaimed, pulling him toward the smells of paint and fresh wood.  Mike smiled at everyone as he moved through the house.  Angela, her husband Nate.  Beth Anne and Forrest, old friends with the hard-to-pronounce last name.  Janey Fetner, with her daughter Nora, who lived nearby.  And Tom Tavares, his co-worker who drove him to the emergency room.  How did Fairfax track him down?

On into the bright light-struck kitchen to his son Jack, and older boy Will too, home for the weekend from UF.  Their children.  Mike’s heart raced, but he didn’t worry, knowing joy was the reason this time.

And then he saw Nancy and Peter, standing near the fridge.  She caught his eye and smiled, started moving towards Mike.  Over her shoulder, Mike saw the red-headed doctor give him a smile, a quick wave.  Then he walked away, back towards the front hall.

Nancy squeezed Mike’s hand, then tilted her head, appraising him. “She’s been so worried, but you look good. You really do!” She hugged him tightly for a good five seconds, then let him go.

“Thank you for the chocolates.  They’re in my hospital bag.” Mike said to her, looping his arm around her shoulder.

“Don’t let Fairfax hide them.”

“Over my dead body,” he quipped.

“Don’t say that!”

Mike noted Nancy’s eyes had moved away from him, back to Peter.  He was just within their sightline, standing beside the funky hallway mirror Fairfax loved. There was a distant rush of air as someone else came in the front door.  Probably Max.

Yep. Max breezed past Peter, hand slinging the plastic hospital bag filled with Mike’s belongings.  His mouth was set in a wide grin as he made a beeline for Nancy.

And it looked like poor Nancy did not need Max’s particular brand of charm right now.  She was, Mike could tell, absolutely worn out.  Her eyes, usually so warm, looked faded.  He felt a twinge of guilt—maybe it wasn’t so funny what was going on with her and Redmond.  You take it for granted that all that should be easy, second nature really, but not necessarily.

Something that should be the ultimate comfort could tear you asunder.

“Hi, Nancy,” Max said breathlessly. The wan smile she gave in return increased Mike’s sympathy for her.

“Mike!” Fairfax called from deep inside a throng of friends.  “Come see this, you are going to love it!”

So Mike moved away from Nancy and his brother, leaving them to have whatever kind of conversation would ensue, comfortable or awkward. The latter, he expected, should Peter Redmond come back.

But Mike couldn’t worry about Max or his wife’s friend or her would-be lover right now.  He was being pulled by the tide of his wife, to the miracle of her double oven and refinished floors and a (surprisingly good) low salt buffet.

Home, renovated, revised, edited.  Better than ever, because of his wife.  Comfort made flesh.