"Hallo?" he called, as he opened the front door.
"Hallo, dear!" she replied, from the direction of the kitchen. Her voice was strong and energetic – she had had a good day.
Rudy slung his trench coat on the coat rack and made his way to the kitchen. There he found his wife seated at the table, peering at some sort of chart, pencil and highlighters in hand. Louise had always said her spirit animal was the raccoon, and in recent years it had become truer than ever. Her once curly brown hair had turned completely grey, and she wore it in a pixie cut. She had the darting, fine hands of a raccoon, and as her figure had rounded out after menopause, she took to wearing tunics and skirts, giving her the appropriate raccoon-like girth. Her dark eyes were as keen as ever, (when he was angry with her they became 'beady') and to complete the picture, those eyes now looked through a pair of very large, black rimmed glasses.
Ohhh, honey…" she said, rising out of her chair, "you look beat." She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. He was wearing that tragic look he got when he was overwhelmed. "Let me get you a glass of wine."
"I won't refuse." Rudy sighed, throwing himself down. "What's this?" he asked, pulling the chart toward him.
"That's a schedule I'm putting together for Oscar. I want someone with him every night during treatment to make sure he's eating and taking his medications. I'm calling friends to take shifts, and I'm counting on Steve and Jaime and Russ and Callahan as regulars, along with me, of course. I thought I might try Jim and Kate to see if they could manage it. I don't want them going over with the baby, because I think it will be too much for him."
"Might be too much for him anyway." Rudy chuckled. "Is he in favor of this plan?"
"Oh, he has no say at all." she said brusquely. "And you're off the hook too - you're too busy."
"Do you think you could ASK before you decide people's lives for them?!" Calm one moment, up a tree the next – this was one of Rudy's patented explosions. They were a regular occurrence these days. "You're deciding for ME if and how I'M going to help my best friend!" he added in furious disbelief. "Patronizing!"
Louise took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling for a moment before fixing him with 'the look'. Only years of training taught her to keep her mouth shut. He could be downright nasty in these moments, and it had taken her a long time to see through her own indignation to understand the guilt and hurt in him that always caused these things. He was a sensitive soul, her Rudy, prone to feeling as though he should fix every problem that crossed his path – and when he couldn't, he blew like the fiercest geyser.
He was right, of course - she knew that too. She did herd him (and everyone else), but she wasn't going to change now. For one thing, Rudy wasn't capable of making normal everyday decisions without dithering to distraction, and she wasn't going to sit around and watch that particular agony when she could be getting things done.
He huffed out of the room and returned some minutes later, having changed his clothes, and slumped into a kitchen chair.
"I want to help." he said sadly. "I can't save his life, but I want to help somehow."
"It's too much, Rudy, you know it's too much. You're not in the first bloom of youth, you know, and you'll be no help to anybody if you take on more. Besides, I need you." This was Louise's ace in the hole. She did need him, and his first responsibility was to her.
He nodded, resigned. "Sorry." he sighed.
"Darling, look, he'll just get twitchy, because he would rather you were in your lab, where you're supposed to be..."
"I suppose." Rudy sighed. If he were honest with himself, he was in some part relieved. Between his new found fame in medical research circles, Oscar's cancer diagnosis, and most taxing of all, Louise's Parkinson's Disease, he hadn't had a peaceful moment in some time.
Louise sat down next to him, pulled the chart back under her nose and regarded it through her bifocals. Rudy watched closely as she reached for her wine glass. Though the tremor was slight and had not gotten worse, he still felt that familiar wave of terror and sadness. He took a large mouthful of wine and set down his glass too forcefully.
She started and looked up, her eyes flicking over him, likely reading his every thought. She knew what he was going to say, and he knew exactly what she would say in return.
When she had been diagnosed with Parkinson's, Rudy immediately contacted every friend he had in medical research to see if anyone anywhere had even a whiff of a breakthrough in treatment. Remarkably, as it turned out, Dr. Michael Marchetti, whom Rudy had not seen in years, had achieved some very promising results through surgery. When he came home that evening in a high state of excitement, full of hope, Louise shut him down.
"No." she said, in no uncertain terms. "I think there are some people ahead of me in line – that Michael J. Fox, for instance."
He had begged – he had even wept, but she hadn't relented, and he knew she never would.
"Darling, I am seventy six years old. Likely something else will kill me before the Parkinson's does. Besides, I'm fine."
Fine now. Rudy thought again as he looked at her.
She smiled at him, and lifted her glass in a toast. He smiled ruefully, and lifted his glass to meet hers.
"Here's to Oscar." she said.
In a few short days, Louise successfully implemented her plan. The color coded chart was emailed out to Oscar's friends. Every participant was given an evening, and they were to make sure he was fed if he was hungry and well looked after if he was sick. The younger participants (anyone under fifty, in this group) expressed optimism, encouraging Oscar to think positively, vowing that he would be the exception to the rule. Older friends kept their own counsel. Some hoped tentatively for the best, others prepared for the worst.
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As usual, Jaime spent the last few minutes at her office puttering. Sometimes she sorted drawers, or dusted, or rearranged the dried flowers in the waiting room. It was an important ritual, as it helped her ease out of her workday and back into her private life. Right now, Mrs. Z. was still rolling around her brain.
"You know what really gets me?" Mrs. Z said, her face purple and puffy from copious tears, "Not only do I run the whole show and look after every damned thing, on top of it all I have to make sure he feels like a man. It has to appear that he's in control. In exchange, he might cut the lawn occasionally. Otherwise, he does as he likes, and I do everything else."
So many divorces! Jaime sighed to herself. They were taxing and tiring and difficult to resolve satisfactorily – especially when there were children involved. Right now it seemed like half her practice was divorces.
As she rearranged her books according to height, she contemplated what to serve Oscar for dinner. This was her first night on duty. He had started chemo two days earlier; Louise had seen him through the first day, and Russ attended him through the second. When Russ called to give her the lay of the land, he reported that Oscar was almost unfazed by the treatment, and embarrassed by what he perceived as unnecessary babysitting.
She had done some research into foods that fight cancer, and had several good dishes in mind. She just wasn't sure he would like them, and as his stomach might be delicate, it could be a tricky balance. Somehow she had to find the right combination of tempting and healthful.
When Steve called her name from the front door, she nearly jumped out of her skin – she hadn't been expecting him, or anyone else, at this hour.
"Why isn't the door locked?" he demanded as he entered the room, wearing that knotted expression that usually went with his safety concerns.
"Well, because I was hoping somebody might barge in and rape and murder me." she replied coolly, carefully disguising her shock of a moment earlier.
"Not funny." Steve replied, his frown deepening. "Sweetheart, you've got to protect yourself. Bionics won't help you against men with guns."
"And I'm not going to let fear dictate my life." she replied. Every now and then they acted out this little script, word for word. Unless someone opted to stop saying their lines, it usually ended in a spat.
He sighed and looked her over, as though he were sizing up a formidable opponent. "I don't want you to be fearful." he said carefully. "But could you be… cautious?"
This was a diversion from the script, and it appeased her. "Yes." she conceded, giving him a hello kiss, "I can do cautious."
It appeared he had forgotten Jaime's assignment at Oscar's house for the evening. He thought she might be tired of cooking, and wondered if they might go out for dinner at Lucio's.
When she reminded him of her date, he decided to come along. Though Jaime agreed, she feared it was a mistake. For one thing, she had never enjoyed the company of both men at the same time – she wasn't quite sure why. She had also thought she might be able to talk to Oscar about his diagnosis, and that wouldn't happen if Steve were there. He was very upset and deeply rattled by Oscar's illness – and the way Jaime could tell was that he flatly refused to talk about it, or even acknowledge it. He was not a man who could be pushed into expression of his feelings, especially on very deep and painful issues.
Unfortunately, as it turned out, she was right. The evening was uncomfortable from beginning to end. The food was good – she made a mild chicken curry with turmeric (a known cancer combatant), but the company was terrible. Oscar was darkly silent, and Jaime suspected that if he might have been able to tolerate the company of one person, two people tipped him over into ill humor.
They left immediately after dinner. Oscar clearly was well enough to look after himself, so they were not needed, and apparently not wanted either. Jaime decided right then and there that all her future visits would be made solo.