The Red Strokes

Chapter 16 - Mia

Mia stares out the double pane window, equipment lights reflecting in the glass. She stopped asking the staff what the variety of beeps mean or what the many numbers on the monitors indicate. Often times, she doesn't understand the answers, and even when she does; they usually end up making her regret having asked.

She turns from the window when she hears the click of the bathroom door behind her. Rowan struggles to make his way through the doorway wheeling his infusion pole alongside him with one hand while gripping the closure of his gown with the other.

"Here, let me help you with that." Mia takes the pole from Rowan and follows behind him until they reach the bed. She pulls down the stiff hospital sheet and fluffs the pillow between her hands, replacing it to the head of the bed. Rowan slides into the bed, his backside settling into the groove where the bed folds in the middle, and pulls the blanket up to his waist. He's been quiet. Too quiet, and it scares her.

She hands him the remote. "Do you want to watch television while we wait for the doctor?"

He lays the remote on the bed without answering.

"Would you like a snack from the vending machine?"

He glances at her and then looks away, again holding back any verbal reply.

Feeling frustrated and helpless, but determined not to let it show in front of her son, she picks the remote off the bed and clicks for power. "There has to be something on worth watching. Maybe we can find one of those racing shows you like." Mia runs a hand down the back of her skirt as she sits in the convertible chair by the window. It's not the cot Dr. Chaing was going to have brought up, but she prefers it. Less comfortable, but more practical. She hadn't been sleeping well the last few nights and thoughts of being caught with bed head and wrinkled clothing by the morning shift after tossing and turning all night are enough to keep her from sleeping at all.

"Why isn't Dad here?"

She sets the remote in her lap. "He's home with your brother, you know that. Besides," she motions to her makeshift bed, "can you imagine both of us trying to sleep on this?"

Rowan pays her attempt at humor with a half-hearted smile and she feels fortunate to have received that much.

"Honey, he wanted to be here, but they would only allow one of us to stay."

That's the truth. The hospital's truth, not hers. Her truth is that for reasons she thought were long behind her, she now has to manipulate every day of Rowan's treatment to keep her husband from getting too involved. It's been a delicate and tiring balance keeping him close enough to know what's going on, and far enough out of the loop to keep him from knowing too much.

Guided by love, her lie began as a means of protecting her husband. At the time, she believed the truth would have tortured him until it eroded the foundation of their marriage. There was no malice intended although she would never be able to convince him of that now. Almost instantly, and without warning, her decision grew into something resembling a cartoon fight, a huge dust ball complete with random limbs trying to break free: forged signatures and lies that became harder to remember; and from the day she learned of Rowan's condition, having to anticipate each new issue and perform damage control before suspicions arose.

But even worse than all of that was living as one with the truth. Opening her eyes day-after-day to find the truth staring back at her, waiting for its opportunity to destroy her life, waiting for her to make a mistake and ready to punish until it broke her, until she was stripped of everything she holds dear, is unbearable. The intensity of not being able to share it with another living soul makes her feel as if she's going mad on most days.

Sometimes, when she's alone, on those days when her subconscious takes over, what she did replays like an old movie, each lie, each decision an individual frame clicking through her mind. Then she begins to think about the possible outcomes, which always come down to two choices, tell her husband the truth or wait for him to learn it on his own. Either way, he'll walk blindly through the ensuing emotions: anger, betrayal, and eventually—hatred. Roger's ethics are as straight as a ruler's edge, his morals impeccable. He would never condone what she did, whatever the reason, which made her decision to do it that much more difficult.

"Good evening, Rowan, Mia. I see you're all settled."

Mia answers if no for no other reason than she knows her son won't. "I believe we are." Mia surveys the equipment, and asks, "So, what's going to happen next?"

"First, we're going to ask your mom to step out of the room while we hook you up to the machines that will monitor your kidney functions while you sleep. The worst pain was the prick of the IV needle, I promise." Dr. Chaing speaks directly to Rowan causing her to bite the inside of her cheek. Sometimes his dismissal of her causes her insides to clench until they cramp, and other times it causes more of a shuddering outward sensation that feels like the tines of a garden rake being drug across her skin.

Two nurses enter the room, both wearing the cheerful tops of modern-day hospital staff. Aside from their attire, they appear to be polar opposites. One tall, one short. One heavy, one thin, One dark, one light. One smiling, one not. The tall, heavy one has frizzy hair, the kind that has a mind of its own, and all the styling in the world won't tame. She wears the sourest expression, as if her white clogs have rubbed blisters on her feet with more than half her shift to go. The smaller of the two stands next to Dr. Chaing. She shows a toothy smile and holds some of the items they'll need.

"Hi Rowan. My name is Sherri and I'll be one of your nurses tonight," she says, through an unfaltering smile.

"Hi." His response is quiet and disinterested.

Dr. Chaing turns away from Mia, toward the largest of the bedside machines. Without turning back, he says, "Well, mom. If you'd like to get a cup of coffee or watch TV in the waiting room, someone will get you once we're finished."

She feels like the only child in a classroom of six-year-olds who didn't receive an invitation to a birthday party. She squeezes between the two nurses who have already begun their prep work, and leans down to place a kiss in her son's cheek. "I'll be back in a little bit. Would you like anything from the vending machine while I'm out?"

Rowan shakes his head, his eyes never leaving the array of tubes, patches, and wires crisscrossing on top of his lap. As she passes through the door, she hears the smaller nurse say, "Okay Rowan, I'm going to tape this tube to you." As annoyed as she gets over being excluded in even one-step of his care, sometimes she's inwardly thankful she's granted permission without guilt to miss the parts that cause him discomfort.

She turns the corner of the east wing and comes to an abrupt stop when she hears the words "Hey darling" spoken in the familiar drawl.

"Roger—" She bites back her surprise. "What are you doing here?"

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