The Grown Ups Page 17

“Once a month?” Peter said.

  “Man.” Sam shook his head. Not at the revelation that Peter was content to continue screwing the girl who had treated him like shit since forever, but that he had no one else and a pretty low sex drive. Despite Sam’s allergy for attachment, he was horny all the time. “Where is she?”

  “Grad school, Sarah Lawrence.”

  “Huh.”

  “What?”

  “You could buy a coffeemaker.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  It occurred to Sam that maybe Peter was enacting his own revenge for how Mindy had treated him all those years by refusing to buy the coffeemaker. “I have an idea. Come into the city and hang out with me some night. I can introduce you around to the group I work with now.” Briefly, he thought of Clara the pastry chef and the tattoo on her lower back that had been revealed to be an owl sitting in the branches of a tree. For a few nights they had burned fast and furious and then it had died to a simmer when her shift had changed, and he hadn’t minded at all. “Maybe you need to get out of here.”

  “Why would I do that, Sam?” Peter looked around. “I have everything I need. I like routines. You know me, I’ve never been a seeker.”

  Sam closed his eyes and leaned back against the couch to enjoy his buzz. He realized he had no argument for what Peter had said.

  Two days later, after a morning in court, Sam’s father had a heart attack in the lobby of his office building. The security guard whom he had greeted moments before watched Hunt crumple to the floor as if he were, as the guard put it, “taking a knee.”

  Sam was the last to arrive at the Mount Sinai ER. He saw Michael and Marguerite in the hallway, but no sign of Suzie, for which he was first relieved, then ashamed. Shouldn’t he be thinking of his father, not Suzie Epstein?

  Marguerite was standing with her back flattened against the wall. Her eyes were closed and her chin tipped to the ceiling. Sam had no idea if she was religious, but it seemed like she was praying, so he approached mutely. Michael’s head was bent over a clipboard. He was wearing his white doctor’s coat, a stethoscope draped around his neck. When Sam joined them the first thing he noticed was the gray tint to his brother’s skin. He was either terrified or exhausted.

  “Where is he?” Sam asked too loudly, feeling a cold sweat break across his back and in his pits.

  “Upstairs for tests.” The muscles in Michael’s jaw pulsed furiously. “The surgeon is on his way down here now. He’s the guy we want.”

  Sam nodded. “As in the best?” Marguerite had yet to open her eyes or to acknowledge his arrival.

  “Yes, I told you. He’s the guy we want.”

  Sam nodded again. He wished Marguerite would look at him. “Do you know about Saturday?”

  Michael narrowed his eyes at Sam. “Yes, I was told. Today. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Sam thought he heard Marguerite whimper, but he couldn’t look at her. He tilted his head in her direction and then shook it from side to side. “We were listening to Dad. He seemed fine. He ate his usual lunch.”

  Michael frowned. The pulse throbbed again in his jaw. “Well, he shouldn’t have. Technically, Dad has atherosclerosis. Three arteries are almost completely blocked. He presents as a classic case; naturally, his blood pressure is off the charts, that’s worrisome but not a surprise. Bypass surgery is the most likely course of treatment.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “I did, but it was quick. He was lucid, though. So that’s good.”

  Sam stared hard at Michael. “What did he say?”

  “That he loved us.”

  “Fuck.” Sam bit the inside of his mouth and stared down at his feet. He was still wearing chef pants, an apron, and his food-splattered clogs. He had no recollection of leaving the restaurant or getting in the cab. He had thought when he got to the hospital his father would be dead. But Sam wouldn’t admit that now. He still didn’t know if he was going to pull through, and he was afraid to say out loud what they were all probably thinking. It was childish, he knew, but if he didn’t ask the question it meant everything was going to be okay.

  In the surgical waiting room Sam avoided the faces of the other people waiting for news and went to get coffee. Michael disappeared for half an hour, saying he needed to check in on his patients, but then he was back waiting with them. He had a stack of folders on his lap, a pen in one hand poised and ready. Sam noticed for the first time that his brother moved his lips ever so slightly as he read.

  Sam extended a cup of coffee to Michael and he reached up and took it, wincing through a sip before he set it on the empty chair to his left and returned to his charts.

  Sam had too much energy to sit. He stood before his brother and Marguerite and rocked back and forth on his heels. He stared at the clock on the wall behind them. A bad idea, he thought, for a waiting room. By his estimates, their father had been in surgery for two hours. Michael had said it could take three to six hours.

  “Maybe you’ve had too much of that,” Michael said.

  “What’s that?”

  “The caffeine.”

  “Impossible.” Sam drained the last of the cup. “Have you ever noticed that we both wear white to work?”

  Michael squinted at Sam as if he might not be human. Marguerite, for the very first time since Sam got there, smiled. Sam shrugged. “Just an observation.”

  Marguerite stood and smoothed the creases from her tan trousers. “Would either of you like to accompany me to the cafeteria? I think I should stretch my legs and check out the Jell-O options.”

  “Sure,” Sam offered, eager to have something to do. He followed her from the room and kept his head down until they reached the elevator bank.

  “You need to remember to breathe, Sam,” she said as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the elevator. “Go on,” she urged. “I mean it, take a deep breath. You’ll feel better.”

  Sam inhaled and held it too long and then felt light-headed on the exhale. Marguerite was wrong. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  In the cafeteria they fell into line and slid their damp, steamy trays along the counter. At the table Sam looked at the food between them: two Greek salads, a bowl of tomato soup, macaroni and cheese, a fruit cup, and a yogurt. He wondered how it had gotten there and which one of them had been drawn to the fruit cup.

  Marguerite opened the clamshell lid on a Greek salad and eyed it suspiciously, poking an olive with a plastic fork.

  “Are you mad at me?” Sam whispered.

  “No!” She dropped the fork and leaned forward. “No, Sam, no. Absolutely not.”

  “I’m mad at me.” He felt a flush of heat that started at his chest and rose to his face. The back of his throat felt scratchy. He thought of all the crappy dinners he made his father that he was so grateful for; every order of takeout; the sweet cereals, cookies, and candy that Sam was happy to purchase once his mother left.

  Marguerite pushed aside her salad and put her hand out on the table, palm up. Sam put his hand in hers and she folded her fingers over his.

  When they got back to the waiting room Suzie was seated next to Michael. Their heads were together and they seemed to be whispering in each other’s ears. Sam looked at the clock behind them on the wall and was shocked to see that he and Marguerite had been gone for only forty minutes.

  Suzie jumped up as they walked in and held her arms out to Marguerite. Sam quickly stepped aside, surprised by her display of affection.

  Marguerite hugged her back. “How’s your mother?” she asked.

  Suzie frowned. “It’s hard to tell. She’s there because she has no other choice.” She paused. “If it’s not one thing . . .” She trailed off and shrugged.

  “You never leave the hospital,” Marguerite added, and made a sympathetic sound. “And your brothers?”

  Michael looked over at Suzie, and then up at Marguerite. “Trying to be helpful.”

  Suzie laughed softly. “Nothing much gets done if I’m not there. And
I can’t be, but yeah, Michael is right, I guess they are trying. The house is empty, so that’s a start.”

  Sam wanted to ask what they were all talking about, but he was caught off guard as Suzie turned to him. Sam gave her the classic one-armed hug of avoidance, patting her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Hunt is strong,” Suzie said brightly to Sam, as if he were a child and yet to understand that sometimes life turned out like shit. She picked a backpack off the floor by her feet and slung it over her shoulder. “I have to get back. But I wanted to see how Hunt was doing.” She addressed Marguerite more than Sam, which he was grateful for.

  “I’ll walk you out.” Michael gathered his folders and put his hand on the small of Suzie’s back.

  Suzie ducked her chin to her chest and her hair fell forward, big, loopy tendrils that she swatted away from her eyes and tucked behind her ear. Sam’s gut tweaked and he had to look away.

  By midnight their father was out of recovery and in a bed in the cardiac ICU. Michael was the only one allowed in with him, so Sam was surprised when Michael returned to the waiting room and beckoned to him from the doorway. Marguerite had fallen asleep curled in a chair, her head resting in the crook of her arm, and Sam felt bad leaving, but Michael shook his head when Sam leaned down to wake her.

  Michael greeted the nurse at the desk as they passed. He led the way into a room where he directed Sam to dress in gauzy scrubs, covering even his head and his feet. It was noisier than he expected in the ICU, with the constant click, whoosh, and beeping of machines. There was a faint smell of chemicals and burning plastic. The lighting was low, and as Sam’s eyes adjusted to the forms in the beds he couldn’t help but think of a horror movie. The hoses, tubes, and bandages rendered the bodies nearly anonymous and Sam panicked that he wouldn’t be able to recognize their father.

  Michael suddenly stopped at a bed, then turned and motioned for Sam to come closer. Hunt was hardly recognizable, adding to Sam’s panic. He had tubes coming from his nose and a hose in his mouth that was taped on either side. Other tubes jutted from his chest, his arms, and his hand. A sheet covered his father from the waist down. Sam could see purple and green cauliflower-like blooms on his father’s chest and arms. Even though it was warm in the ICU he had the urge to cover Hunt with a blanket.

  Michael flipped through the chart and then looked up at the monitor that was beeping above his head. He exhaled with such force it was as if he had been holding his breath his entire life. “Looks good. Everything looks really good, Sammy.” His voice caught when he called Sam by name.

  “Except Dad,” Sam whispered back.

  “Yeah, I know. It’s a lot to take in. But he’s pretty heavily sedated now, and any pain is under control. If he’s on track by tomorrow they’ll take him off the vent and really wake him up. He might be out of bed by tomorrow night.”

  “It’s a miracle.”

  “It’s science.” Michael slipped the chart back into the slot at the end of the bed. “I was thinking we should call Mom.”

  It took Sam a moment to register what his brother had said. When he did, he shook his head so hard his paper hat nearly flew off and he had to reach quickly to grab it. “Why?”

  “He was her husband. She might want to know.”

  Sam shrugged. “I think if she wanted to know anything about Dad she wouldn’t have left.”

  “Come on,” Michael said, his voice scratchy.

  “I don’t think you should, but I can’t stop you.” Sam kept his eyes trained on his father’s sleeping form. He felt Michael shrug beside him and then he turned and began to walk away from Sam and back toward the door. Sam stayed by the bed a moment longer. He knew Michael was going to call their mother whether Sam agreed or not.

  Carefully, he inched his hand across the sheet until he was touching his father’s leg. Sam was careful to apply only the slightest pressure. He just wanted him to know he was there. He couldn’t think of anything to say except don’t go.

  Marguerite’s house was in Tarrytown, New York. The place had originally belonged to her grandparents and when Marguerite’s husband had died, her brother offered to split the house into two separate apartments. She lived on the first floor and her brother on the second.

  Their father moved in with Marguerite to recuperate. Michael, as well as Hunt’s doctors, stressed the need for more sleep, more exercise, and a better diet. Sam offered some dishes that Marguerite could freeze and was surprised when instead she asked him to teach her how to cook healthier food.

  Tarrytown was a thirty-one-minute express train ride from Grand Central Terminal. Sam got on the train with two minutes to spare, found a seat, and jammed his iPod buds in his ears to discourage his seatmate from making conversation. Over the past couple of days he’d had three missed calls from Michael, which was unusual but not necessarily alarming. Sam had been in daily contact with his dad or Marguerite, so he knew it was nothing about them. Sam should have used the train time to call Michael back, but he put it off. He didn’t have the energy to have a serious conversation with his brother.

  That morning Sam had woken after only a few hours of sleep next to someone he barely knew. He’d had another dream in which he and Suzie were sitting in her basement with the box of photos: he was about to lift the lid when Bella came into the room and surprised them. He’d startled awake, panic in his gut that had only been compounded when he realized he was in a strange bed. But luckily the girl was a heavy sleeper, and Sam had easily extricated himself without waking her.

  Sam had been feeling increasingly claustrophobic, even at work. The kitchen he’d grown fond of was closing in on him ever since his father’s heart attack and he wasn’t sure why. Sam wondered if people who had a real life plan ever felt this way, or if it was just a symptom of his own life.

  Marguerite picked Sam up at the station in a red Honda hatchback. She honked and waved out the driver’s side window. Her hair was back in a ponytail and she had on large sunglasses. She wanted to go to the grocery store first, she explained, which was why she hadn’t brought his father.

  She was an efficient shopper, armed with the list Sam had scribbled on the train, and they were back at her house in under an hour. As he reached for the bags from the trunk Sam’s gut twitched. He was nervous. He hadn’t seen his father since the day he was discharged from Mount Sinai, although they’d had a daily phone conversation while his father was enjoying a juice drink after his doctor-approved walk. It had been a month and he had yet to return to work. Sam knew he was restless.

  “Sammy!” Hunt appeared on the porch. He was wearing his weekend summer outfit of madras pants and an untucked white oxford-cloth shirt. The pants looked funny at the waist and hips and Sam noticed Hunt was wearing a belt that he’d tightened a couple of extra notches.

  His father held open his arms, and Sam lifted the grocery bags like he was lifting weights. His father took one from him and they hugged. Sam was shocked to feel so much less of him in such a short time.

  Sam followed Hunt to the kitchen and they deposited the bags on the table. On the window ledge over the sink there was a row of orange prescription bottles. His father caught Sam looking at them. “Yes, I am officially an old man.”

  “Dad—” The word caught in Sam’s throat and he couldn’t go on.

  “Aw, Sammy, I know.” Hunt put his arm around Sam’s shoulder and pulled him against his chest. They were almost the same height and the engagement of limbs was awkward. “I’m fine,” he whispered. “Good as new.”

  Sam pulled back and wiped his face with the back of his hand. He was as surprised as his father that he’d had this reaction. He focused on unpacking the groceries while his father took a seat at the table, watching.

  Marguerite entered the room just as they were done. “Sorry about that,” she said, smiling and holding a plate aloft in one hand. “The neighbors, checking up on you.” She showed him plastic-wrapped brownies and Hunt’s face brightened. Marguerite shook her head and flipped the lid on the trash, sliding
everything into the can but the plate. “You can say they were delicious,” she called over her shoulder from the sink as she ran water over the smear of chocolate.

  “That might have been worse than the heart attack,” Hunt said.

  Marguerite snorted and handed him a glass of water and two of the pill bottles. “It’s noon,” she said quietly.

  Sam leaned back against the sink and watched the two of them. After Hunt swallowed his pills, Marguerite stood behind him and rested her chin on the top of his head. He reached around and patted her ass and she jumped, her cheeks flushing a deep red. “Hunt!” she said, but she was laughing, they both were, and Sam realized in that moment something his father must have known the entire time he was married to his mother: he had loved her more than she had ever loved him. Seeing him now with Marguerite, the difference was obvious.

  “Well, I think I will leave you two to cook this food, if that’s what we are calling it,” his father said. Marguerite stepped away to allow Hunt to push back the chair. “Sam, watch her with a knife.” He laughed at his own joke as Marguerite swatted his retreating form with a dish towel.

  Marguerite turned out to be an excellent sous chef. By the time Sam’s father had risen from his nap they had a quinoa salad with roasted vegetables, black bean burgers on whole grain rolls, a green salad, and new potatoes with lemon laid out on the table in the backyard underneath the grape arbor. When they were all seated at the table Sam admired the age of the gnarled vine, in some places as thick as his forearm. Marguerite said, “My grandfather and uncles used to make their own wine and sit at this very table drinking it out of jelly jars, eating shaved slices of Romano from a tremendous wheel they kept covered on the center of the table. They would be out here for hours at a time, and at night, sometimes when it’s quiet, I can still hear their voices, a hybrid of English and Italian, even though all of them are long dead.”

  Hunt smiled, as if he’d heard the story before and enjoyed it in the retelling. He lifted a fork of the salad, a thread of eggplant poised on the tines. “This is really good, Sam. Really.”