“Fascinating,” Frank said. A compliment, I thought, from one who had so many captivating stories of his own. I thought of asking him to tell one of my favorites—about the deceased prostitute whose friends came and re-did her makeup before the public viewing, or the family who propped up their embalmed grandpa for one last reunion photograph. But for once I didn’t want to stay very long at the Galiganis’. I kept trying to remember the exact text of MC’s bute email.
Matt had been very quiet during Jake’s stories. I’d looked over a couple of times and thought I saw closed eyelids. Another of his naps, but the first time at a dinner table.
Now I thought maybe I could use his fatigue as an excuse to get us home early. I wanted to share the new insight about bute with him, and then to make a trip to the Galigani Mortuary and MC’s computer. I hadn’t worked out how to help her get away early, too.
I looked back and saw Matt sway, a small circular motion from the waist up. Fortunately Rose’s dining set was an old, sturdy kind with arms on the chairs, or Matt would have fallen to the floor.
As it was, he was unconscious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The sight of Matt in a narrow hospital bed, looking pale and weak, frightened me as nothing before in my life. It was more terrifying than being run off the road in the Berkeley, California, hills, or being trapped with a double murderer in the Galigani Mortuary prep room. Certainly worse than being cooped up in my car for ten minutes with Wayne Gallen.
The time between seeing Matt slumped onto the arm of Rose’s mahogany dining room chair and now, in his thin white gown with tiny polka dots, was a blur. I knew that Frank had taken over, calling a number probably only morticians had, and an ambulance arrived in an instant. I remembered getting into Rose’s car, and then waiting outside Matt’s hospital door, refusing coffee from MC and Jake. I thought I’d never be able to drink from a Styrofoam cup again without thinking of Matt’s disease.
Matt looked at me now, the tiny smile on his lips forced, like a stretched spring that would snap back as soon as it was released. He was attached to the bed by tubes of three different sizes; a green display followed the pulses of his heart. I realized I was angry at someone or something. I’d dutifully gone through all the literature Matt had brought home, plus my own on-line research, and could not recall a side effect that occurred before the treatment started. This did not make sense; therefore it had no place in my life.
Matt pulled at the neck of his gown. “Silly, huh?” he said.
“You look fine, really. How do you feel?”
What I meant was—What happened to you? Are you going to live? Please do not leave me. I felt as though my entire Texas dinner was at the edge of my throat, the taste of chili powder and bell peppers overwhelming my senses.
“I’m not ready to run the Boston Marathon. But when was I ever?”
“What did the doctor say?”
“A confluence of medications. Nice term, isn’t it? Apparently the two medicines I’ve been taking are incompatible, and I had a reaction.”
A reaction. Good. Not an attack or a stroke, both of which had a finality to them. Reactions were temporary, fixable, like a harmless rash or an upset stomach. Or at least I hoped so. I held that thought as the door opened and a young woman with a dark ponytail and a clipboard entered—a candy-striper?
“I’m Dr. Rosen,” she said. “How are we doing here?” She looked and sounded too much like a cheerleader to suit me, but I realized that professionals seemed younger and younger to me as my sixth decade was coming to an end. MC was a skilled chemist, I reminded myself, and probably no older than this woman.
“We’re doing fine,” Matt said.
Young Dr. Rosen looked at me. “Are you his wife?”
“This is Gloria Lamerino,” Matt said quickly, introducing me politely even as he seemed to struggle for breath. “She’s my fiancée.”
This night was full of surprises. It had begun with bute—I hardly remembered why the word mattered—and now I was pseudo-betrothed to a man in a hospital johnny.
“Well, if it’s all the same to you, and even if it isn’t …” Dr. Rosen laughed. Perhaps lightheartedness was a new technique taught in medical school these days. “We’re going to keep you at least overnight. You can stay another five minutes, Ms. Marino, then lights out.”
Marino, close enough for someone with a name as simple as Rosen. Ordinarily, I’d be tempted to call her Dr. Rose, but not tonight. I followed her to the door and asked if I could talk to her privately in the hallway. She looked at her watch and nodded.