In fact, I’ve hardly ever been into a hospital before, unless you count ER and Terms of Endearment. As we walk along, past scary signs like “Oncology” and “Renal Unit,” I realize yet again how sheltered my life has been.
We arrive at room 465 and Luke stops.
“This is it,” he says. “Ready?” He knocks gently and, after a moment, pushes the door open.
Michael is lying asleep in a big clanky metal bed, with about six huge flower arrangements on the table next to him and more around the room. There’s a drip attached to his hand and another tube going from his chest to some machine with little lights. His face is pale and drawn and he looks… vulnerable.
I don’t like this. I’ve never seen Michael in anything other than an expensive suit, holding an expensive drink. Big and reassuring and indestructible. Not lying in a bed in a hospital gown.
I glance at Luke and he’s staring at Michael, pale-faced. He looks like he wants to cry.
Oh God. Now I want to cry.
Then Michael opens his eyes, and I feel a swoosh of relief. His eyes, at least, are exactly the same. The same warmth. The same flash of humor.
“Now, you didn’t have to come all this way,” he says. His voice sounds dry and even more gravelly than usual.
“Michael,” says Luke, taking an eager step forward. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Better than I was feeling.” Michael’s eyes run quizzically over Luke. “How are you feeling? You look terrible.”
“I feel terrible,” says Luke. “I feel absolutely…” He breaks off and swallows.
“Really?” says Michael. “Maybe you should have some tests run. It’s a very reassuring process. I now know that I have angina. On the other hand, my lymph is fine and I’m not allergic to peanuts.” His eyes rest on the fruit basket in Luke’s hand. “Is that for me?”
“Yes!” says Luke, seeming to come to. “Just a little… Shall I put it here?”
He clears a space among the exotic flower arrangements, and as he does so I notice one of the attached cards has a White House heading. Gosh.
“Fruit,” says Michael, nodding. “Very thoughtful. You’ve been talking to my doctor. They’re extremely strict here. Visitors who bring candy are marched to a little room and forced to jog for ten minutes.”
“Michael…” Luke takes a deep breath, and I can see his hands gripping the handle of the fruit basket. “Michael, I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. About our argument.”
“It’s forgotten. Really.”
“It’s not. Not by me.”
“Luke.” Michael gives Luke a kind look. “It’s not a big deal.”
“But I just feel—”
“We had a disagreement, that’s all. Since then I’ve been thinking about what you said. You do have a point. If Brandon Communications is publicly associated with a worthy cause, it can only do the company profile good.”
“I should never have acted without consulting you,” mutters Luke.
“Well. As you said, it’s your company. You have executive control. I respect that.”
“And I respect your advice,” says Luke at once. “I always will.”
“So. Shall we agree to bury the hatchet?” Michael extends his hand, all bruised from where the drip needle goes into it — and after a moment, Luke gently takes it.
Now I’m completely choked.
“I’ll just get some… water…” I mumble, and back out of the room, breathing hard.
I can’t burst into tears in front of Michael. He’ll think I’m completely pathetic.
Or else he’ll think I’m crying because I know something he doesn’t. He’ll think we’ve seen his medical charts and it wasn’t angina at all. It was a brain clot that is inoperable except by a specialist from Chicago who’s turned down Michael’s case because of an old feud between the hospitals…
OK, look, I must stop confusing this with ER.
I walk to a nearby reception area, taking deep breaths to calm myself down, and sit down next to a middle-aged woman. There are people sitting on upholstered seats and a couple of patients in wheelchairs with drips, and I see a frail old woman greeting what must be her grandchildren. As she sees them, her whole face lights up and suddenly she looks ten years younger — and to my horror I find myself sniffing again.
“Are you all right?” I look up and see the middle-aged woman offering me a tissue. She smiles — but her eyes are red-rimmed. “It gets to you, doesn’t it?” she says as I blow my nose. “Is a relation of yours in here?”
“Just a friend. How about you?”
“My husband, Ken,” says the woman. “He’s had bypass surgery. He’s doing fine, though.” She gives a half-smile. “He hates to see me upset.”
“God. I’m… really sorry.”
I feel a shiver go down my back as I try to imagine how I’d be feeling if it were Luke in that hospital bed.
“He should be be OK, if he starts looking after himself. These men. They take it all for granted.” She shakes her head. “But coming in here… it teaches you what’s important, doesn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” I say fervently.
We sit quietly for a while, and I think anxiously about Luke. Maybe I’ll get him to start going to the gym a bit more. And eating that low-fat spread stuff that lowers your cholesterol. Just to be on the safe side.