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“Louisette Martin. She’s probably in the cardiac unit.”
With a few taps, the woman brings up Maman’s record. “She is in the east wing, room 881.” She writes something on a card and hands it to me. The room number, in case I forget. Then she detaches two badges that proclaim us visitors from a cardboard sheet. Yannick and I clip them on our shirt pockets.
“Don’t take these off until you return them to this box at the end of your visit.” Pointing to the side, she says, “Take that bank of elevators. On the eighth floor, turn to the right and stop at the nurses’ station to sign in.”
By this time, there is a short line of tapping feet behind us, so we slip off toward the lifts. Slow lifts. Dilatory, as if passengers are holding the doors open so they can finish their conversations as they leave. Most of the little lights that show the floors are off. Only one of the eight cars seems to operate. Finally, after it has gone all the way to the top and down again, we can ride up. Several other people turn up.
“Hold the door, please,” a man calls out. Yannick mutters as he pushes the button. Every time he removes his finger, someone else runs up. By the time the doors close, we are ten people and stop at every floor. Could have walked up faster.
The corridor is long and my hands clench and unclench at the prospect of the doctor’s report and trying to talk to Maman. I don’t know what state she is in, and I’ll have to be careful not to lose my temper and upset her.
The nurses’ station is a brightly lit island with nurses, doctors, aides, and technicians milling around the counter. Phones shrill, beeps sound from electronic equipment, and there is constant chatter over the commentary that is a constant undertone from the PA system.
Room 881 is the last one on the corridor and is the only private room at this end. Maman sits up listening to the doctor. I regard her for a long moment, then lean against the jamb, not wanting to interrupt, but I must make some sound because both the doctor and Maman turn to the doorway.
“JL, mon chou. I wasn’t sure you would come.” Her eyes are heavy, lids half closed, voice gravelly with relief.
Not knowing what to say, I just walk over and kiss her on the cheek. The doctor holds out his hand. “ Nice to meet you, Mr. Martin. I’m Dr. Fitzroy. Glad you could get a plane out so quickly.” We shake.
“Sit down.” Maman’s voice wibble-wobbles. “I can’t see you without straining my neck.” Even in her frail state, she attempts the authority of a lion. “Dr. Fitz was just explaining what happens when I’m released.”
I settle in a blue vinyl chair and Yannick is able to get into the room. No more chairs, so he leans against the doorjamb. “Bonjour, Tante Louisette.” He flutters fingers in a little wave. “You look lovely.”
Maman beams, then leans back, face white, lines bracketing her mouth. “You are such a charming liar, mon cher. I look just revived from the grave.”
Fitzroy breaks in smoothly, “Madame Martin. Perhaps you may go home tomorrow now that your son is here to take care of you. I’ll check you out in the morning, and if all is well, the nurse will give you printed instructions, prescriptions, and a schedule for rehab. Your son can then bring you back in a week for further evaluation.”
“Thank you.” We strain to hear Maman’s whisper. “ I think I’ll have a little nap.” A nurse comes in to help her lie down, taking her blood pressure after slipping an oxygen monitor on her finger.
“I’ll walk you out, Doctor.” I give a little wave to Maman, but she doesn’t see.
When we reach the lounge, he turns to me. “Did you have some questions?”
“How feasible would it be to move her closer to me?”
“You’re in Chicago?”
I bob my head. “I’m looking into the immigration process. But will her health permit a move?”
“Yes, but not for at least a month.”
A month. That’s twenty-nine days too long. “Can’t she travel sooner?”
“That’s not advisable.” He frowns, trying to head off any insistence on my part.
“I can’t stay here for a month,” I protest.
“Does she have other relatives who could help out?”
“No.”
“She could move into a nursing home, where she’d get good cardiac care.” He pulls out a pad of Post-it notes from his shirt pocket, makes a note, and pulls the top one off, affixing it to the sheet on the clipboard he’s holding.
That would be a possibility. Then I could get her house on the market and make arrangements for transportation.
“Once she agrees, try to set up a health team before she arrives. And you will need to understand the insurance there for visitors since she will probably have to come as a tourist, then apply to stay. Not that I am an expert on the subject.”
“I’m consulting some specialist lawyers about how all that would work. I might be able to add her to my insurance as a dependent. And arrange some home health care once she arrives.”
