Continued, The Correspondent
Rosalie Van Antwerp
Dear Rosalie,
Get yourself a nice brandy and take a seat because I have a story for you. I’m not joking now, Rosalie, pour the drink. Make sure Paul and Lars are sorted.
I fell. Please don’t panic, I’m fine, but let me tell you the story.
About five days ago I couldn’t sleep after I woke around four.
Typically I’ll switch on the light by five to read, but I was lying in the bed and feeling agitated.
It was like I’d woken to a sound but couldn’t reach back to it.
I lay there listening to the wind for a while, and you know I just decided to go outside and be sure everything was OK.
The moon was bright and it was that crisp February cold, so I put on a sweater and my coat, my boots, and I walked outside.
How strange it was to stand in the front yard looking up into the tall trees, all their limbs moving shadows like sticks under the moon, not a sound but the wind in the leaves, and the garden I know so well felt like somewhere entirely foreign.
Just beautiful. I wondered, have I ever come outside in the garden at this time of the morning in February?
Anyway, I decided to take the path down to the river and walk a bit, you know, it was just so lovely, everything lit by moonlight.
I did go, and I walked for a while, and then I sat out by the river for some time just thinking, really.
You know, just pondering. My age. The survey of my life thus far.
My career, things I’d have done differently (which for years I could not admit, and thinking about why that is.
Fear, I guess). I was thinking about the children, of course Gilbert, but moreover wondering what good reason there is that I get on fine with Bruce but cannot seem to have any sort of rapport with Fiona, you know.
I sat for some time pondering things of this nature.
When I walked back up the path it was just barely getting light, maybe around six, and wouldn’t you know Theodore Lübeck came down the path and scared me half to death, Rosalie.
Not half, 80% of the way. I nearly died.
He came from behind the magnolia that rather blocks the path wearing his cap and dark jacket and I screamed and jumped, and of course I tripped, went sideways on my ankle, which rolled and positively exploded in pain, and then I fell and caught myself on the right hand (mercifully not my left, God in heaven, can you imagine if I didn’t have my left hand?
Take me out back and shoot me). I felt it snap!
I know you broke your foot in ’94, wasn’t it?
But yours was crushed under that wheel, wasn’t it?
(Awful, I’m sorry, how vulgar) But my point is that my wrist snapped like a branch.
It was no good, my ankle and my wrist just throbbing, and then Theodore coming barreling down the path, getting down on his hands and knees just like when I killed his cat (the humiliations keep coming) and begging my forgiveness and trying to help me to stand, which I did, cradling the hand, so of course he brought me back to my house (it was only another hundred yards or so, wasn’t it, just there at the top of the hill) and he got me to the chair, and he was coming undone, trying to call 911 and I was chastising him, what a stupid fool thing to do calling the cavalry when one can simply get in the car, it’s not as if I was bleeding out, but then I was in a bind because I knew the wrist was broken, and I knew I’d need Theodore Lübeck to drive me to the ER.
So that’s just what happened. He put me in my own car because he drives a very low to the ground old Porsche and he said it would be hard for me to get in and out (which I thought was rude, as if I would have trouble where he is fine!) and he took my own keys right from the hook and he drove me to the ER there in Annapolis.
I was MORTIFIED, them assuming he was my husband at every turn, Rosalie.
So they are examining me, you know, the ankle, the wrist, but also pressing on my stomach and listening to my lungs, making a whole to-do and it’s not even time for coffee, I’ve got the night shift people, and I am howling like an idiot with none other than Theodore Lübeck sitting there, asking me if I want water, asking me if he should be calling the children to tell them (again, as if I’m dying and not suffering from a sprained ankle and broken wrist).
I ended up in an X-ray machine and an MRI machine to confirm what I already knew, and then a surgeon came into the room to talk to me about the possibility of surgery on my wrist if the bones don’t reset correctly.
This surgeon turns out to be the son of a friend, Helen Dittmyer, and then we had to have the whole conversation about his mother, and on and on.
Benji (now he’s Dr. Dittmyer) also said my bones look strong for a woman of my vintage, and that made me feel great I’ll say, but otherwise it was absolutely terrible.
They put me in a splint that looks like something a child makes in art class, and now I’m home, and going back again in a few days for another X-ray and seeing what is to come.
I dread if it’s surgery. I do. It would be one or two nights in the hospital, and I imagine I would have to ask Bruce to come help me, which I would really rather not do, not wanting to mess up his life.
By the time we were back it was nearly two o’clock and I was starving, so we went through the drive-through at McDonald’s and then we sat in the car eating the food, right there in my driveway.
That was funny. Theodore was very good about the whole thing.
He made me laugh. We were laughing about sitting there having lunch together for the first time out of bags in our laps.
He mentioned a bit about his wife who did die rather young—sixty-eight.
He has one daughter and she lives in California.
I also learned that he is Jewish. I told him, all these years he’s been bringing me Christmas gifts, and he said he celebrates both holidays (he lights his menorah) but it was sweet I thought.
And that’s the whole story! It was nice with Theodore despite the circumstances.
I will keep you posted on the wrist situation.
My ankle is wrapped in a bandage I remove at night, but it will just have to heal.
I’m using a cane for the moment, can you imagine?
I refuse to use it beyond the weekend. I’ll crawl on all fours if it comes to it.
Write me,
Syb