The clerk at check-in is typing furiously on her keyboard, which is ridiculous with the kind of line that waits in front of her.  This chick needs to notice Fairfax and notice her now. She’s second in line!  Hurry up–she needs to get to Mike!

Cruel, just cruel—to make people queue up in the ER. Maybe you get better service if you arrive in an ambulance, soaked in blood.

“Ma’am?” Fairfax, leans forward, tapping the counter with her fingernail, pressing into the back of the man in front of her.

“Excuse me?” he snaps, flinching away from her.  “Step back, please.”

She ignores the man, old-gray faced thing, doesn’t even say she’s sorry.  “Ma’am.” Fairfax’s voice is loud now, with a shrillness she hasn’t heard since Jack dislocated his knee, and it had to be repositioned in this very hospital. Fun and games in the ER. Not.

Slowly, the receptionist lifts her gaze, and Fairfax forces every ounce of appeal into her eyes and words.  Please pity me, Ms. Receptionist. Please. “My husband, is here, in the ER.” She points to the sealed double doors.  “Back there, may I go?”

The man in front of Fairfax starts coughing and doesn’t stop.  The receptionist rears back so far, her chair creaks on its hinges.  The lacquered black bun topping her skull doesn’t budge one bit.  A fashionable look nowadays, caulking on a top-knot.

“Sir, you okay?” The girl sounds like she doesn’t care one way or the other, just as long as nothing airborne reaches her.

“Mike Figueroa!” Fairfax says.  “Where is he and may I go back? It’s urgent!” It wasn’t really urgent, according to the text Mike had sent her.  She’d tried to call him but it went to voicemail—she remembered that from the last time they were here.  The ER is a cell phone desert, you can’t reach anyone here for love or money.

Still, her husband always downplays any emergency.  During Jack’s knee episode, Fig’s face was a blank.  Their son was writhing there in tears. Fairfax was about to vomit in sympathy. Yet Mike simply held Jack by the shoulders, calm as the eye of a hurricane, until the ER doc nudged the knee back into place.

So, who knows what was really going on back there with her husband?  He could be having a heart attack at this very moment! Or a stroke!  That’s what happens with high blood pressure, right? Oh, Lord!

“Ma’am!” Fairfax repeats.  “Figueroa.  F-I-G-U-E…”

“Pneumonia.  Dagnabbit, I think I have pneumonia again.” The man ahead starts another coughing jag, this time more liquid than dry.  At least now he’s covering his mouth with a wad of tissue.

Fairfax starts over.  “F-I…”

“Room 3.  Your husband is room 3. You may go back now.”  The clerk says this with no eye contact.  Fairfax notices a mask next to her keyboard.  Yep, I would slap that on if I were you, she almost says, or give it to Mr. Pneumonia, but the double doors to the right unclick and she’s off and running.

****

Later that night, in Mike’s hospital room on the fifth floor, Fairfax feels her chest muscles relax.  She slumps into the uncomfortable recliner, uses the control bar beneath to extend the runty foot rest.

Fig is fine.  Well, he is going to be fine.  They will figure this episode out together.  Thank goodness, his co-worker insisted on checking his blood pressure at the office.  Mike’s heart had been racing, and, for some reason, he kept coughing to stop it.  The guy in the next office (Ted? Tim?) heard him, forced the BP cuff on his arm just to be safe, and boom! Sky high pressure.  The fellow had wanted to call the paramedics, but Mike refused (loudly, Fairfax can just imagine), finally agreeing to go to the ER if someone would drive him.

She stretches out in the chair as best she can.  So tired.  But so thankful. The hospitalist just left their room, after announcing Mike’s list of meds as a perfunctory punch list.  The blood pressure, dangerously high mid-day, has fallen to normal, so the doctor (Imani is his name—or was that the PA?) says they are on the right track.  He’s called in nephrology and cardiology (“Just to be safe,” he added cryptically), so there will be more tests while Mike is in the hospital.

And that’s become the problem now, Mike doesn’t want to be in the hospital.  He wants to go home, get back to work, to normalcy.  Their conversation in the curtained-off ER cubicle went from simmer to boil as Fairfax tried to convince her husband he was in the right place, the doctors would figure all this out. What’s a little hospital stay? Apparently, the whole idea frightened him, though: Mike’s crankiness and BP intensified as they argued, so she shut her mouth.  Literally bit her tongue.  Didn’t ask Fig why he hadn’t seen a doctor since they lived in Atlanta.  Didn’t he care about her, about the boys? How could they live without him?

Nope. Don’t say that. One crisis at a time, sweetheart.

But 220 over 160. Lord have mercy! Thank you, Lord, for the nosy co-worker.  He might have saved Mike from a stroke.

Fairfax had prayed there in Cubicle 3, as nurses and nurse practitioners and lab techs and cleaning staff came from behind the curtain, fiddled with this or that, then vanished, like some sick one act play.  (She’ll have to remember to tell Nancy that—she’d understand! Once a Theatre Major, always one.)

The unbelievable thing was she and Mike didn’t see a single doctor down there in the ER.  All the PAs and nurses and NPs were nice enough, but come on!  Let’s see an MD, or at least a DO. At one point, Fairfax was so fed up, she had her phone out of her pocket, ready to race past the tangle of desks and staff, through the double doors, back to where she came in.  Grab a bar or two of signal.

To call Peter Redmond.

And she almost did it, had one foot past the curtain, into the hall when Mike called her back. “Fairfax, do not, I repeat, do not call Peter Redmond!” She noticed a spike of a measure on the multicolored monitor by his bed, so she squelched her exit in an awkward hitch step.  That was Mike’s pulse, his heart rate, or something. Fairfax had tried to pay attention to the monitor’s graphs and digits, she’d even asked the cute young nurse, but her memory couldn’t, wouldn’t hold onto anything new.  Or disturbing.

“Okay, okay,” she replied, reversing course. The monitor pattern leveled off, peaks turning to blips.  “But why not?” Sometimes Fairfax just couldn’t help herself.  It made sense to call Dr. Redmond, and Mike was not being sensible.

Her husband sighed, and the little lines went wavy.  They were pretty, almost like a flame stitch.  For pillows on their bed, maybe.  Classic yet modern. Yes, it would work.

“Because he is a hematologist, for God’s sake.”  Fig’s voice grew louder. “He deals in blood, you know that.” He scoffed.  The cuff on his arm started whirring, time to do its thing. Squeeze for a reading.

Okay, calm down, babe, Fairfax willed Mike in silent concentration. Blood pressure time.  Let this reading be good.  She lowered herself into the only chair available, a stiff-backed thing with a stain on the seat which she tried to avoid with little success.  She closed her eyes, crossed her fingers, her legs.

Please Lord, help his blood pressure.  Blood, back off.  Blood is Peter’s thing.  He would help them. How could he not?

Fairfax shook her head.  No, pray properly. No extraneous thoughts mixed up with prayers.  Start over.

“What does it say?” Mike interrupted.  He couldn’t see the monitor—staff had positioned it behind his head.  Fairfax has thought about rolling it closer, turning it so that he can watch it like television but decided not to.  They must keep it out of the patient sight line for a reason.  Maybe people get obsessed with their own data.

“Um…” Fairfax squints, leans forward.  “150 over 114.” She shrugs her shoulders and shifts back into the chair.  “It’s better.”

“Shit.” Mike closes his eyes.  “They are going to keep me here, I just know it.”

“Yes! Of cou…” She swallowed the rest of the sentence.  Don’t stir him up again.  Mike hated hospitals, medical care, in general, which is the ultimate irony, him working for a health insurance company.  Well, maybe it’s not ironic at all.  Fairfax has tried to understand her husband’s state of mind. Being exposed to the underbelly of a business would bring on distaste for it.  Extreme distaste.  Hatred, even.

Not to mention the fact that they’ve had more than their fair share of hospitals with her own illness and treatment.

“Let’s not think about that now.  What we need to do is speak with a physician, that’s first,” Fairfax said in a voice once reserved to placate angry toddlers.

“But not Peter Redmond.  Don’t bring him into this.”

Fairfax bit her lower lip.  “He’s our friend.”

“He’s Nancy’s friend.  And he’s your doctor.” Mike rolled his head to the side.  Fairfax heard his neck crack.  Ouch.  “Let’s keep him out of this.” He closed his eyes and rested his head against the pillow.

“Well, I think he’s more than Nancy’s ‘friend.’” Fairfax used air quotes, though her husband couldn’t see. “They’re going away to Amelia together.”

Mike’s eyes popped open.  “Really?” He smiled. “Good for Dr. R.”

“If he gets lucky.” The words were out of mouth before Fairfax realized it.

“What?” Mike was smiling now.  Well, this topic had his interest.  Good. She needed to redirect his negative thoughts.  “They haven’t done the deed yet?” he asked.

“Don’t call it that.” Yet, Fairfax can’t keep a grin from blooming on her face either.  “Why call it that?”

“Alright, call it whatever you want to call it.  I was just assuming they had.  Isn’t that the way it works nowadays?”  He winked at her; her heart sprang to meet this lightness.

Thank you, Lord, he’s feeling better!

“I’m not really sure how it works nowadays.” Fairfax widened her eyes, winked back.  Who’dve thunk it, flirting with your husband in the ER?  Whatever works to get his mind off his troubles. “What makes you so sure?”

“Sweetheart, we both left that scene three decades ago.  I don’t know anything about it anymore.” Fig lifted his arm, the one without the IV.  He pointed a finger straight at her.  “Thank goodness.”

Fairfax stood up, walked over to the bed, if you could call it that.  It was more of a gurney.  Mike scooted to one side, and she rested her bottom along his upper thigh. His flesh felt cool (way below 98.6 degrees) through the thin sheet.  You know, what they need in here are some of those hypoallergenic fleece throws.  They wash easily, have an antibacterial (or is it called anti-viral?) coating on the thread.  Maybe she’d mention this to someone here, or include it in a post-visit patient survey.

Brrr! Fairfax pressed closer to her husband—she’d warm him up.  The power of two is strong, even in the ER. “It’s actually kind of funny.  I’ll tell you a secret.”

“I should have known that you would find a way to have pillow talk in the hospital.”

“Shh.  Let me tell you.”  Fairfax leaned in for a whisper as someone swished into the room. Fairfax felt a cold breeze touch her back and turned to see who’d come in this time.

“Hey, hey, we noted a rapid pulse.  Just once, mind you, but we need to check it out,” It was the nurse practitioner.

Fairfax stayed put, but Mike’s arms, which had clasped her to him, dropped away, landing on the mattress in double thuds.

“Okay? So definitely going to admit you.  I’ve started the process.”

Fairfax scooted away from Mike to get closer to the nurse. The guy had one eye on his phone, the other on the monitor.  He wasn’t even looking at either of them.  “Admitting will be in shortly.” He thumbed at the phone then shoved it back in his pocket.  “Any questions?”

“Yes, can you shoot me now?” Mike grumbled.  The NP looked up, a half-grin on his face fading away.

Well, at least Mike now had the guy’s attention, Fairfax mused.  The NP was an alright fellow, just busy.  The ER was packed with people (Fairfax heard one patient, perhaps two, vomiting by the nurses’ station).

Overworked staff, ruled by rigid protocols.  Check this before this, don’t skip steps, this form requires this waiver, uses this algorithm. How she remembered a slow motion version of this exercise from her cancer experience!  Fairfax observed the emergency room staff for hours as Mike waited for a room to become available, the NP checking in every so often, once bringing Mike orange juice, a small coffee for her. (She had caved in to her body’s need for speed—an ER visit was not the time to give up caffeine).

After nearly four hours, a tech wheeled Mike up to a fifth-floor room where, Fairfax realized, they would continue to wait.  The hospitalist visit was the goal—when Dr. Imani (yes, that was the name!) arrived around 11 p.m., Fairfax felt like falling at his feet.  Finally, a doctor!  They could learn something solid, after a day of maybe and perhaps.

Yet he offered nothing definitive either.  Just the promise of a stress test the next day.  (Probably tomorrow but maybe not.  “Cardiology will confirm, and they are very busy right now.”)

Of course, Mike wanted to know the reason for the stress test, though it would be crystal clear to anyone seeing him there in the bed, knowing the occasional stampede of his heart.  Caught by the ER monitor.  The hospitalist, one eye on his watch, stated in a monotone that they need to check cardio function due to the supraventricular tachycardia noted.

Then Mike asked why he couldn’t have the test done on an outpatient basis, since his blood pressure was now fine.  The doctor had smiled like the Sphinx and said, “Yes, but we need to monitor the blood pressure.” He bowed and left the room.

“And what’s with the kidney test?” Mike shouted after the vanishing white coat.  He looked at Fairfax.  She shrugged, brain so tired after this day.

Yes, what do the kidneys have to do with blood pressure?  Or maybe it was the heart?  The hospitalist had given a brief explanation, but Fairfax hadn’t understood. She couldn’t wrap her mind around the vocabulary.  If she weren’t so exhausted, she would hop onto Google for answers.

Fairfax sighed. “I guess it’s routine with high BP.”

Mike looked at her.  “You know I hate this.”

“I know, dear.  It’s a puzzle that he didn’t really explain, did he?”

So, that was the hospitalist visit.  All day spent waiting for that!

Well, the main thing was Mike’s BP has been corrected, the meds are working. Cardiology and nephrology hoops to jump through, but they will make it through.

And Fairfax must be strong for Mike, like he was strong for her.

There is a light at the end of this tunnel, dear Fig, and I’ll help you see it.

Ouch! The chair is going to be a bear to sleep in, Fairfax realizes.  She’s not going to leave Fig alone here.  She’d heard horror stories of loved ones being neglected in the hospital, going thirsty or hungry, getting the wrong meds.  She herself had been lucky with uncomplicated hospital stays, but she cannot take the chance that Mike will have the same experience.

Nothing will go wrong on Fairfax’s watch.

Her phone dings with a text.  Ah! So welcome, a message from her youngest.  Mike hadn’t wanted Jack to know he was in the hospital, but how could you hide something like that?  When Jack came home for dinner and found the house deserted, with no takeout Chinese like she’d promised, the jig would be up.  So, Fairfax carefully phrased what was happening, that this stay was just precautionary, and added several smiley faces.  She got Mike’s approval, and sent it to both sons.

And neither boy seemed that concerned. Honestly, the coolness of Generation Y scared her sometimes.  Both had responded with the same variation of “K, hope dad feels better.”  Fairfax hadn’t expected such nonchalance from Jack—he was the son who had taken her cancer to heart, worrying, crying.  But he was older now, a high school senior.  He must have toughened up.  Boys do eventually.

She settles in to read Jack’s text:

Uncle Max is here. We got kung pao. Wants to know about dad.

Uh oh. She glances at Mike in the bed; his eyes are closed and he looks sunken, crumpled.  He has aged ten years in a day.  Forty seven years old, and he looks nearly sixty.  All he needs now is a visit from his brother.

Leave it to Max to show up at the worst time!

Though Max had been more responsible this year, helping Lucinda care for her father.  Staying in one place for longer than a month. Fairfax had noticed a softening in Mike’s attitude to his younger, wilder sibling. Less resentment, more affection.

Still. The last thing blood pressure needs is a stimulus.  And Max, his lack of follow through, his favorite child status, is certainly that.

Fairfax’s fingers fly in reflex to her chest, that plateau of scar and skin which once bloomed full.  She probes into the void, which has its own topography, to the spot under her right arm which so worried her last year.  She’d felt a lump one day, and none the next.  Fairfax couldn’t believe the miracle.  She kept questioning the spot, calling on Mike to feel it, Dr. Simpson to check, but it remained clear.

No lump.

It must have been a miracle, but Fairfax couldn’t help calling it a mistake. It’s why she keeps waffling on breast reconstruction—she wants nothing to interfere with a clear search of her own skin. Despite researching the techniques and timelines required to rebuild a pair of breasts, the clinical assurances, she just can’t commit to the procedure.  It’s taken two years to learn to navigate her ridges and valleys.  Adding a mountain range will only confuse her fingertips; her probing digits, looking to catch her body in a lie.

You weren’t healthy after all, Fairfax imagines her cells saying.  Look what we just made!

In the hospital room, the ceiling-mounted television flickers over Mike’s feet.  They should turn that thing off and get some sleep.  Still, Fairfax’s eyes are drawn to the news anchor’s cherry- red lips which tell a tale of destruction. Images follow of planks of wood strewn on a beach. Piles of building material. Drywall? A door?

Detritus.

Mexico Beach erased. Gone.  Unbelievable what Hurricane Michael did. They were lucky with Irma—Fairfax thought she’d never say this, but it was true.  They got off easy.  The flooding in Jacksonville was a cake walk compared to the bulldozing that town has just received.  The St. John’s receded, people ripped out the water-logged, and replaced with materials clean and dry. Structures stayed alive—no ghosts.  At least in Avondale.

On Mallory Street.

Her eyes flick over to her husband.  His breathing is measured, easy.  The lines on his face have smoothed away.  Asleep at last! He must be exhausted from this day, this awful day.  But sleep, and medicine, and tests, yes even tests, were going to build him back up.  Restore Mike.  Renovate him.

Fairfax chuckles.

Oh my Lord. Aren’t we just a mess? Don’t we all need a little reconstruction, a bit of intervention?

Her last thought before passing out in the recliner is that she must finish telling Mike about Nancy and Peter.  Their funny situation!  Of how she, Fairfax, was going to fix everything for them.

Make them into a love story if it was the last thing she did.