Chapter 40 Hendrix
CHAPTER 40
HENDRIX
I fucked up.
With my rational mind, I know this isn’t my fault, but I can’t stop replaying a dozen things I could have done differently so Mama didn’t end up in the hospital. A litany of recriminations loop through my mind. How did I not know she has hypertension? Why didn’t I ask more questions? Why would Mama and Aunt Geneva keep it from me?
On the ride in the ambulance, Mama regained consciousness, but her blood pressure was alarmingly high. They couldn’t get it down. Now they’re running tests and working on stabilizing her vitals. Meanwhile, I’m pacing the waiting room, simmering on the back burner in this sterile limbo; a purgatory that smells of cheap coffee and antiseptic.
My phone vibrating in my pocket jars me from my jumbled thoughts. I glance at the screen and answer right away.
“Aunt G, hey.”
“You were supposed to call me,” she says, impatience and fatigue weighing her voice.
“Sorry.” I rub my temple and slump into the pleather sofa. “We got here and they took her back. I’ve been waiting for an update ever since.”
There’s a sniff on the other line.
“Aunt G, you sure you’re okay?”
“I am.” But her voice wobbles. “The one time I’m down and can’t do for my sister, and this happens. I feel guilty that—”
“Aunt Geneva, no. You are on bedrest yourself. I’m the one feeling guilty that I’m not here more. How could I not know my own mother…?” I swallow tears and steady my voice before going on. “Guilt isn’t serving either of us in this situation. Let’s get through this and talk about what needs to change once Mama is better. Please focus on healing, on you getting better.”
“Okay, Hen. Okay.”
As soon as we disconnect, I pull up the email with the meal train schedule Aunt Geneva had her church friends send me. Their contacts are all there, but I saved Mrs. Redmond, who dropped off the casserole earlier, as “Church Lady.”
Me: Mrs. Redmond, hi. It’s Hendrix. Sorry to bother you. I know you mentioned you had choir practice tonight. We have a situation with my mother and I’m at the hospital. I’m concerned about Aunt G being there alone. Could you or someone from the church just swing by to check on her? Make sure she doesn’t try to get up, doesn’t need anything, isn’t hungry?
She doesn’t respond right away and I’m about to move to the next person on the list when my phone rings and CHURCH LADY flashes on the screen.
“Hello,” I answer, forcing myself to stop pacing and sit down.
“Hendrix, hey. I hate texting so thought I’d call.”
“Yes, ma’am, thank you.”
“What’s going on with your mother?” she asks, her concern clear.
I take the next few minutes to relay what happened, trying to maintain some composure, when all I really want to do is beg someone to come sit with me, even a stranger I’ve only met once via casserole.
“We’ll be praying for your mama,” Mrs. Redmond says. “And I’m leaving choir practice now. I’ll swing by the house to check on Geneva.”
“Thank you so much.” I flop my head back on the seat and breathe out my relief. “Use the spare key under the potted plant on the back porch so she doesn’t try to get out of bed to answer the door.”
“Sure will.”
“And I left the casserole on the stove when the ambulance came, but I’m not sure I turned off the oven. Can you just check?”
“Sure can.”
“And if you don’t mind fixing Aunt G a plate? She was kind of groggy when we left and didn’t get to eat. I need to make sure she—”
“Hendrix,” Mrs. Redmond gently interrupts. “I got it, baby. Okay?”
My breath stutters and my eyes water. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You keep us posted on Betty. You staying there or coming home?”
I glance up the hall where they wheeled Mama away an hour ago.
“I’m not sure. I don’t want to leave Mama, but I don’t want Aunt G alone all night. Hopefully they’ll come tell me something soon.”
“How about I stay with Geneva till you get home,” Mrs. Redmond offers. “And if you need to stay there all night, I’ll stay here.”
“Oh, are you sure?”
“Baby, I won’t doin’ nothin’ when I got home but watching Law of her community. I’d never realized that I’ve built a community of strong, loyal women as my friends because Mama modeled that for me. I saw it in my mother’s friendships when I was growing up and replicated it in my way.
With Aunt G sorted, I’m back to waiting. I’ve texted Yasmen and Soledad, assured them I’m okay and will keep them posted. They’re both so busy. Yas with planning some festival and Soledad preparing to take the kids on the cruise tomorrow. The one person I want to talk to, to see more than anyone, is Maverick. He’d want to know what’s going on, but we’re still so new, and I’m going this deep already? Plus I know he’s in New York speaking at a business summit.
But… I have to call him.
He would want me to. I want to. I need to, and needing anything from a man… well, I’m still getting used to that like a brand-new pair of Manolos. Gotta walk around a bit. Gotta break this feeling in.
His phone rings four times, then rolls to voice mail. Instead of leaving it all as a message, I decide to text.
Me: Hey. Could you please call me as soon as you get this message? It’s important.
My phone rings a few minutes later and it’s him.
“Mav, hey!” I hear the relief in my voice, but can’t suppress it. “I’m glad you called.”
“It’s not Mav,” a male voice replies. “It’s Bolt.”
“Oh. Bolt, hi. Is Mav okay?”
“He’s fine. I wouldn’t usually answer his phone, but I keep it when he’s speaking. He’s literally onstage now addressing the audience. I saw your message come across. I didn’t mean to be… well, I thought it might be… I’m making sure it’s not urgent. Maverick would want to know that as soon as possible. Is everything okay?”
My knee-jerk response is to say everything’s fine, but I don’t. I need to talk to Maverick. Somehow I know he’ll make things feel better, even if they’re not.
“No, I’m… my mother’s in the hospital,” I say on a rush before I change my mind.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Bolt has always struck me as pretty stoic, other than the way he burns hot for my assistant. Now, though, his voice warms with sympathy. “As soon as he gets offstage, I’ll let him know.”
“Thank you, Bolt. That means a lot.”
“Can you give me details about where you are? Anything you need?”
“I don’t need anything, but…”
But Mav.
I don’t say it, but it’s all I can think about; how him holding me would be such a comfort right now. How hearing him call me Gorgeous and feeling his strong arms around me might trick my heart into believing, even if for just a few minutes, that everything will be all right.
I tell Bolt everything I know, which isn’t much. I don’t need Maverick to do anything. I just want to hear his voice.
“He has maybe another hour here,” Bolt says. “But I’ll tell him as soon as he gets offstage.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“It’s an understatement to say he’s made it clear that you are a… priority.” A hint of rare humor enters Bolt’s voice. “I like my job, so I’ll always get you through.”
My first smile since Mama collapsed lifts my lips and my heart, which has felt like a stone in my chest these last few hours. I glance up to see a doctor down the hall. I’m the only one in the waiting room and he trains his gaze on me.
“Bolt, the doctor’s here. I need to go.”
“Keep us posted.”
“Hendrix Barry?” the doctor asks, his brows raised.
“Yes, my mother’s Elizabeth Barry. How is she?”
“I’m Dr. Katz. We have her blood pressure down a little, but want to keep her for a few days.”
“Days? You said she’s stable, right? Can you tell me what’s going on?”
“I can tell you some, yes.” He clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose. “You’re not down as someone who has access to her medical records, so legally there’s a limit on what I can share with you.”
“What?” My eyes widen and I clench my fists at my side. “She’s my mother. I rode in the ambulance with her. Of course you can tell me everything. I need to know every single thing.”
“HIPAA laws—”
“You have got to be kidding me.” I grip my braids, hoping they’ll give me something to hold on to before I completely lose my shit.
“I can tell you that this was a hypertensive crisis. Her blood pressure was 180 over 120, which is very dangerous. Could have led to a heart attack or stroke.”
“But she’s better now? Normal range?”
“Still elevated.” He watches me over the rims of his glasses. “With her levels that high, we need to monitor her a few days to ensure there was no organ damage.”
“Oh, my God.” I shove my fingers into the pockets of my jeans, giving them somewhere to go.
“I can’t talk with you about specific medications or treatments. John Barry and Geneva Johnson are both down to have access to her medical records.”
“My father, John, is deceased,” I say sharply. “And my aunt Geneva is at home on bedrest recovering from surgery. So there’s only me. Are you aware my mother has Alzheimer’s?”
“I did see that in her record, but I don’t see where she has signed power of attorney over to anyone else. She is still legally in command of these decisions.”
“But she is not a reliable source for many of the answers to your questions, like if she has taken her meds or how she’s been feeling.”
“I hear you, but we don’t have legal paperwork on file indicating she is incompetent. Just because someone has been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s doesn’t automatically mean they’re at the stage where they can’t make decisions for themselves anymore.” He pauses. “And do you know those things for certain? About her meds or how she’s been feeling?”
Not only do I not know if she’s taken them, but I don’t even know what they are yet. Shame washes over me and I lower my eyes.
How do I not know everything?
“I suggest we go see your mother,” Dr. Katz continues when I don’t answer right away, his tone careful like he doesn’t want to rouse me again. “If she says it’s fine to speak freely in front of you, I’ll go through everything. She can even fill out the paperwork right there in the room giving you access. How’s that sound?”
“Yeah.” I nod and bite my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “That’s a great idea.”
When we open the door, I almost sink to my knees. Mama looks so frail in the hospital bed, tubes flowing from her arms, skin dull and eyes sunken.
“Henny,” she whispers and extends her arm.
I rush over and settle into the seat beside her, taking her hand.
“How you feeling, Mama?” I croak, but hold my tears until I can give in and let go.
“Been better,” she says with a weak smile. “Sorry I scared you.”
“No, no, Mama. I’m sorry. So sorry I… I didn’t know and you—”
“It’s okay. How’s Geneva?”
“She’s fine.” I smooth her hair, tousled and spread on the pillow. “Worried about you.”
“Mrs. Barry,” Dr. Katz says. “I wanted to go over a few things and ask you some questions. Can we do that with your daughter present?”
Mama looks from me to him, her expression perplexed.
“Of course,” she says. “Why wouldn’t you?”
“I’m not cleared in your paperwork, Mama, to be privy to your records.”
“Oh.” The confusion eases, loosening her brows. “Probably just never got around to it. You can tell us, Doctor.”
Mama is actually on two medications and was diagnosed with hypertension a few months ago. My irritation spikes to actual anger that Mama and Aunt Geneva have not been forthcoming about this, but I shelve that to be discussed once we’ve gotten through this crisis.
“Can you remember the last time you took your medications, Mrs. Barry?” Dr. Katz asks.
“Well, um.” Mama’s brow furrows and she licks her lips several times in a row. I don’t want her to become agitated because she can’t recall.
“I believe it could be as much as three days,” I tell him. “My aunt, who lives with Mama, had surgery three days ago. She mentioned that she usually helps monitor the medications and was out of it and groggy since surgery and hasn’t checked.”
“I don’t need Geneva monitoring nothing.” Mama’s voice pops like a whip in sudden irritation. “I can manage it myself.”
I don’t point out that we would not be here if that were the case, but Dr. Katz and I exchange a meaningful look.
“You’re also dehydrated,” Dr. Katz continues. “And there are signs of malnutrition.”
“Malnutrition?” I gasp. “What? Mama, you’ve been eating, haven’t you? I’ve seen you eat.”
Mama glances down and traces the ribboned edge of her blanket. “Of course.”
But has she been eating enough ? Mama’s been in her room so much while I was in meetings all day. I should have paid closer attention to her diet. Mr. Bell said his father-in-law had to be tube fed at one point because he wouldn’t eat. Several families in my online support group reported the same thing. The idea of this happening to my mother brings home the severity of our situation, how complex this diagnosis makes life. Not just the diagnosis itself, but all the capillaries that flow from this disease. I’m so ill-equipped. I’ve been negligent. Inattentive. I should have… I wish I had… Why didn’t I…?
I set a clamp over the guilty thoughts attacking me. Those feelings cramping my belly and squeezing my heart are for later. Right now is about Mama.
“This is something to help you sleep,” Dr. Katz offers as the nurse comes in and gives Mama a pill and some water. “You need your rest.”
When he leaves, I help Mama find the channel for her stories and where to watch the game shows.
“Thank you, Hen,” Mama says, studying the remote in her hand. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
“You got nothing to be sorry about.” I sit on the bed beside her and take her hand in mine. “We had a scare. A bad day, but it’ll be okay.”
She huffs and drops her eyes to our clasped hands.
“My life feels like one long bad day lately.” She looks at me and her eyes are as clear as I’ve seen them in a long time, despite today’s panic. “Imagine waking up and not knowing what day it is. Or where you are.”
My breath catches at this rare glimpse into how Mama is processing everything. She never talks about it. I keep quiet, afraid anything I say will slam shut the door she’s cracking open.
“Some mornings to wake up and for a few minutes, not even know your name. It’s like fumbling in the dark. You keep reaching, trying to find something to hold on to, but it’s just pitch-black. I try so hard to remember, and there’s just nothing there.”
Tears burn my throat and I force words out. “I’m sorry, Mama.”
“It’s terrifying,” she whispers, blinking at her own tears. “At first when I realized something was wrong, but I didn’t know what, I was so scared. When I started needing the Post-its, I figured it was… Well, I knew.”
I’ll never forget coming home and seeing Post-it notes all over the house.
Your name is Elizabeth.
Your daughter is Hendrix.
Your sister is Geneva.
Your husband John is dead.
Dozens of small yellow notes scribbled with the most basic information, glowing on the walls like pinprick lights to guide Mama through the dark.
“I can’t decide if I want to slow it all down.” Mama sniffs and raises her eyes to meet mine with breathtaking candor. “Or if we could skip all this hard stuff and the good Lord could just take me home.”
“Don’t say that.” I drop my forehead to her hand. “I want you here as long as possible.”
“Here?” she scoffs. “Where exactly is here? Some days I don’t know for sure.”
I shake my head, eyes closed tight even as tears slip over my cheeks and water Mama’s hand.
“Look at me,” Mama commands, some of the old strength in her voice compelling me to lift my head. “Don’t worry. God ain’t through with me yet, so I guess I’ll stay.”
Her smile is wobbly, but somehow it reaches her eyes. “You not getting rid of this old lady that easy.”
I let out a teary laugh and kiss her knuckles. “Good.”
“I just don’t want to be a burden to you, Hen.” She shakes her head. “Or to Geneva. All this fuss for me and—”
“Don’t even think like that,” I cut in. “We’re family. It’s what we do for each other. It’s what you’ve done in some way for everyone else through the years, especially me. It’s my turn.”
I lean forward to kiss her forehead. “And I love you. You’re never a burden, Mama.”
“Okay,” she says, patting my hand. “Well, if I’m gonna be in this place a few days like the doctor says, I’m gonna need my stuff.”
She goes through the list of things she needs brought from home. It ranges from her Velcro hair rollers to her special hand lotion she can only ever find at Rite Aid.
“And my devotional,” Mama mumbles, lashes fluttering closed as the meds kick in. “It’s on my nightstand.”
Outside her room, the nurse pulls the door closed and turns to me.
“She’ll be fine here tonight,” she says. “I suggest you go home and get some rest, especially since I heard you mention your aunt is still recovering there.”
I glance at my watch. It’s been almost three hours since Dr. Katz brought me back to Mama’s room.
“There’s nothing you can do here tonight,” the nurse adds.
“I’ll be back as early as I can tomorrow then.”
I mentally run through my schedule and the appointments I need Skipper to cancel as I head outside. When I reach the parking lot, I glance around for a few minutes, dazed and trying to remember where I parked.
“Damn.” I rub my eyes tiredly. “Girl, you rode here in the ambulance.”
I pull out my phone to call an Uber, which may take longer than I’m used to considering this isn’t exactly a booming metropolis. I’m punching in Mama’s address, wondering if I may have to find a taxi, when a set of headlights flare brightly. I put a hand up to cover my eyes, shocked to see a silver Maybach, fully tricked with five-spoke titanium rims. When it pulls to a stop and the door opens, I almost fall to my knees for the second time tonight.
“Mav?” I whisper, half believing this is some mirage and the fatigue and hunger have me hallucinating.
But then he says the words that only he would say.
“Wagwan, Gorgeous.”
In the middle of the parking lot, not caring who’s watching or what anyone would think, I fling myself into his arms. More like collapse, droop. And the tears I’ve managed to stave off all day, hell, for weeks, maybe months, break past the restraining wall, overflow my heart, and flood my eyes.
“She was on the floor,” I sob into the crook of his neck. “And I couldn’t… she wouldn’t… she wouldn’t wake up.”
Words are so inadequate to express my helplessness; the despair at not only what happened with my mother tonight, but what is happening to her and to all of us. And how this whole situation is a runaway train welded to the tracks with an inevitable crash looming. I’m being crushed. I’m already under the charging mammoth metal of this diagnosis. Trapped and being dragged beneath the wheels of an unavoidable conclusion to my mother’s life. It’s slow, but unrelenting. I’m tied to the tracks and hypnotized by the lights. It all comes crashing down and the tears are a deluge.
“I was so scared,” I say, barely able to get the confession out for the tears.
“I know.” Maverick kisses my temple and runs long strokes of comfort down my back. “I’m sorry, Hen. I got you, baby. I’m here.”
I sniff and nod, gripping the lapels of his suit jacket as if making sure he actually is here. I’m still getting used to needing him, and I already don’t ever want him to go.