In the afternoon before Gladys’s scheduled surgery, Con drove to Brooklyn to wish her good luck. Mike came home from the showroom an hour after Con’s arrival, and he was in a foul mood. A sale had fallen through because of a financing problem. As he made for the refrigerator he barely noticed his son. First things first, Con mused with disgust, then with satisfaction as he saw the opportunity to make his escape undetected. With a wave of his hand he headed for the door just as his father opened the beer can. Mike returned the gesture without a word, and Con’s fear of having to deal with yet another apology vanished. Before leaving he turned back to the refrigerator and grabbed two cans of beer himself, expecting that they’d come in useful later. He opened one when stopped at a red light on Ocean Parkway.
Traffic was still heavy on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway and all the way across Staten Island. At that stop-and-go crawl Con saw no need for a seatbelt. Being able to reach the beer on the passenger side was more important. But he needed to stay focused until, thirty minutes later, he entered the New Jersey Turnpike. Then cruising with the traffic at sixty-five miles per hour, he gave himself up to his anger, and to his second beer.
How did his mother put up with his father? How well did she know him before she married him? Had she seen the picture of the Klan meeting and, if so, had she been comfortable with his disclaimer? Had he even offered a disclaimer? Was he an alcoholic then?
Con searched in vain for love toward this man whom in fact he despised. Far from looking to him for guidance in the most fundamental values of life, he saw himself constantly struggling to free himself from beliefs and behaviors that clung to him like a briar patch. He was well aware of his failures. Had he not almost got himself killed driving under the influence those many years ago? Had he not tried to rationalize his mediocre performance on an examination by that Asian instructor’s supposed favoring of Asian students? Goodness, Debbie, then a student like he was, had called him right away on that excuse. Had he, by laughing the episode off, really convinced Debbie — convinced himself! — that he had been joking? And many years later, had he not taken umbrage at having to put the welfare of his son in the hands of a female Indian orthopedic surgeon? A black hematologist?
Was he any better than the father he despised? No, he wasn’t; he just had different opportunities to demonstrate his own despicable impulses. Angry at himself, and at his father for making him what he was, he floored the gas pedal and shot past the traffic exiting at the Garden State Parkway. He paid no attention to the flashing lights in his rearview mirror. The next exit was his, and it was only a couple of miles down the highway. As the quarter-mile marker flashed by, he cut off a driver in the right lane barely in time to make the exit. Too late he realized that the traffic on the ramp had slowed down for an intersection. He was still moving at forty miles an hour when he rear-ended the panel truck. The state trooper screeched to a halt behind him.
Visions of the seat belt he had neglected to fasten flashed before Con’s eyes as he saw the truck too late to slow his own vehicle down. His body continued its forward motion for a second after the impact, his abdomen all but impaling itself on the steering column as the upper part of his body was propelled against the windshield. The car was totaled. The trooper jumped out of his car and rushed to Con’s door. Forcing it open he saw, in addition to Con’s slumped-over form, two empty beer cans on the floor of the passenger side.
The ambulance arrived shortly thereafter. Alarmed at his falling blood pressure, the emergency medical technician hooked up an intravenous drip of saline. The ride to the hospital took only five minutes, and on arrival Con was clearly in shock. Luckily for him, a trauma surgeon was in the hospital and immediately sized up Con’s injuries as life-threatening. After six hours on the operating table his condition had stabilized and he was moved to intensive care. The surgeon’s report was: Multiple rib fractures, rupture of abdominal aorta, contusion of heart, laceration of liver. Continuous massive bleeding during surgery. Blood replacement 16 units. Prognosis poor.
Yet once again Con beat the odds. When he regained consciousness he found Debbie hovering over his bed. The boys stood silently behind her. She bent down and kissed his cheek. “Thank God you’re alive. Doctor Kravitz — the surgeon who operated on you — told me about the accident and how it took him six hours to put you back together. He wasn’t sure you were going to make it. I was so scared, I didn’t know what I’d do if you . . .”
Con reached for her hand and held it. “I’m so sorry. All the time I was on the turnpike I was thinking of what a louse my father is. I was so mad at him I just couldn’t control myself. I shouldn’t have got into the car in the first place.”
“When the police called,” Debbie said, “they said they found a couple of open beer cans in the car. They couldn’t get your permission to do a blood test, the state you were in, so they just did it. It was .09, I don’t know the units, but they said it was enough to make you DUI.” Pause. “They also said you weren’t wearing your seatbelt, said it would have saved you from your injuries, that’s what it’s for, blah blah, as if we didn’t both know that. Well, right now the only thing that matters is for you to get well.”
“I guess the summons will come soon enough. I hope they don’t suspend my license. I probably deserve it.”
At that moment Doctor Kravitz came in. “How’re you doing?” he asked Con.
“Not bad, doctor. My chest hurts like the dickens if I try to take a deep breath.”
“You know, you’re lucky you can breathe at all. No wonder it hurts, what with those rib fractures. But you have to work at it, expand your lungs, else you risk getting pneumonia. I’ll have the nurse bring you a device to help you deep-breathe. How are your legs?”
“They don’t hurt. As a matter of fact, I don’t even feel them. Is that good or bad?”
“At this point, neither. There’s always a risk of damage to the spinal cord, because its blood supply could have been impaired, and that could be serious or just transient. Don’t worry about it right now.”
“How long do you think he’ll have to stay?” Debbie asked as the doctor turned to go.
“Too soon to say. But it’ll be a while. Even if the surgical wounds heal without complication, there are aftereffects to worry about. Remember, the aorta carries blood to the entire lower half of the body. That includes the legs, the abdominal organs, and, like I said, the lower part of the spinal cord. It may take a while before we know for sure.” Turning back to Con, he said: “Call the nurse if you notice any change, like pain or tingling in your feet. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Debbie followed the doctor out, motioning to the boys to stay, and walked with him around the corner of the hallway. “It’s serious, isn’t it?” she said when they were well out of earshot.
“Very, very serious,” he answered. “He’s lucky to be alive. You can’t imagine how blood gushes out of a ruptured aorta. It’s like an extension of the heart, the left ventricle, itself. More than ninety percent of people bleed out before any help gets to them. Part of the reason is that the bleeding is invisible outside the body, so the diagnosis is delayed. But then, blood in the chest or abdominal cavity is useless. I’ve only had half a dozen aortic ruptures in all the years I’ve been operating, and he’s the first that woke up after the operation.”
“I can’t tell you how grateful I am,” Debbie said. “It’s so good to know he’s out of the woods.”
“That’s a relative concept, Mrs. Flynn. He’s no longer bleeding to death, but time will show how much damage has been done by the absence of circulation to the lower part of his body. All those things I mentioned in there. And by the way, he needs to know what could be in store. It’d be a disservice to give him false hope of complete recovery. You understand?”
“Yes, I do. Is there anything I should be doing to help him?”
“Be a good wife. And pray.”
Debbie went back into Con’s room. During her absence, Con’s parents had arrived. The boys, at a loss as to what to say to their grandparents, were happy to be rescued by their mother. Gladys gave Debbie a warm hug and Mike signaled recognition with a nod. “Thanks so much for calling us,” Gladys said. “We’d have been here sooner if the traffic hadn’t been so heavy.” Turning back to Con, who was beginning to tire of the visit, she said, “We’ll let you rest, and we’ll come back this evening if the doctor allows, otherwise in the morning. We’ve checked into a motel for the night. Rest well, honey.” She kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave.
On their way out, Mike stopped at the foot of Con’s bed. “When are you going to learn to drive?” he asked, shaking his head and closing the door behind him.
Safely out of Con’s sight and hearing, Gladys turned to Mike, as angry as she had ever been. “Our son was practically killed,” she hissed. “He’s still in critical condition. Is that the most comforting thing you could think of to say to him?”
He looked at her as though she hadn’t paid attention. “I believe in telling the truth. That’s what he needs to hear.”
“The truth!” she fired back. “The truth is we’re lucky he’s alive, and God knows what condition he’ll be in when they’ve done all they can here.”
“It’s his own fault. Speeding down the ramp.”
“And two empty beer cans on the floor.”
“That’s his fault too, drinking and driving.”
Gladys had had enough of her husband’s ranting. “And where did our son learn to drink and drive?”
Mike declined to take responsibility. “Not from me.”
“Sure, right.”
“And let me tell you something else,” Mike continued. “Con almost bled to death because of that Jewish wife of his. She’s the one who brought in the hemophilia.”
“Oh shut up!”
“And who’s the surgeon? I saw the name: Kravitz. There’s another one.”
They were approaching the elevator, but Gladys was determined not to make a public display for other visitors going down. “Are you stupid, spiteful, or both?” she flung at him after she had pulled him aside. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Which part don’t you understand?” he flung back.
“Understanding isn’t the problem, Mike. You’re blaming our daughter-in-law — who’s a lovely person, by the way, regardless of what your warped mind makes her out to be — for something she couldn’t possibly be responsible for. Her genes went straight to her son, not her husband. Biologically he’s not related to her, in case you didn’t know.”
“I told you we shouldn’t have let him marry her,” was the most logical comeback he could muster. It was also the closest he could come to admitting that what he’d said didn’t make any sense. But he was not finished yet.
“And we shouldn’t have let that Jewish surgeon operate on him either.”
“Let’s get something to eat,” Gladys said. She knew he’d embarrassed himself, he knew it, and there was no point in rubbing it in. “We’ll stop in again tonight, and after breakfast you can go home and back to work. Come pick me up whenever you can. I’ll stay at the motel until then.”
Con was asleep when they returned to the hospital later that afternoon. On the nurse’s advice, they did not wake him. The next morning they found him awake and in good spirits. Debbie was already with him, and she and Gladys shared a desperate embrace.
“So, how are things? Did you sleep well?” Gladys asked, her tone as upbeat as she could make it.
“Fine, Mom. But I need some pain medication. My belly, and my back.”
“Do you think it comes from lying in the same position all night?”
“Could be, I guess. But I can’t turn. I don’t have use of my legs.”
“I guess that bruise on your side is from the surgery, don’t you think?” Debbie ventured.
“Well, the doctor can tell,” Gladys said. “When’s he coming?”
Con shrugged. “I thought he’d be here by now. Maybe he’s operating.”
“That could take hours, like yours did,” Mike said. “I can’t wait that long. Jerry’s on vacation and Al’s wife’s having a baby, not to mention the Jewish High Holy Days coming up. Al won’t be there. I’ve got to get back to the showroom. Hope your pain goes away.” And he left. Ten minutes later Doctor Kravitz entered the room. After greeting the visitors he turned to Con.
“So how’re things, Con? Having any pain?”
“A lot, doctor, and getting worse.”
“Let’s take a look,” the doctor said, opening Con’s pajama jacket. “The suture line seems fine, but I don’t like the look of that ecchymosis — that’s doctor-talk for bruise — it’s gotten bigger since last night. Let’s send you down for a scan. Stat. I’ll meet you in x-ray.”
“I’m not feeling good,” Con said. “It’s not just the pain.” Doctor Kravitz noted Con’s pallor and perspiration.
“We’ll wait for you here,” Debbie said, wiping his moist forehead. The two women stepped back to allow Con to be transferred to a gurney and wheeled out of the room.