Remember Who You Are

Ch 28-31

Chapter Twenty-eight





“Any luck?” She asked the same question every day of the week when he came home and had asked the same question every day of the week for the past six weeks.





“All bad.” He had replied the same way every day of the week when he came home and had replied the same way every day of the week for the past six weeks.





“What are we going to do?” He could hear her voice cracking and he knew her chin was quivering. He also knew that she blamed him for their situation.





“The best we can. I still have a couple of weeks to make a sales. Obamacare is killing me. And the economy isn’t helping. But it is not time to panic. Not yet anyway.” Tutweiler had left the house that morning at seven and had not eaten all day. He sank wearily onto the bed where his wife lay.





“I’ll let you know when to panic. Until then, you will have to trust me.” Tutweiler was tired, his back hurt, and he was hungry.


“Maybe this thing at the salon will become permanent.”





He whirled around to face her. His face contorted with anger, fear, self-loathing, and betrayal. “That’s temporary. Don’t ever forget that. I have told you a thousand times,” he spat through gritted teeth, “if I permanently change jobs now it will be that much harder to find a good job later. I still have a few weeks.” He cupped her chin. “Try trusting me for once. I damn sure don’t want to manage a hair styling salon the rest of my life. I’d rather blow my brains out.” He turned back around and spoke without looking at his wife. He rested his forearms on his knees to relieve the pressure on his back and said, “Don’t assume that I will fail. And don’t worry. Before the health insurance runs out, I will take whatever shitty job is offered. Then you will be happy.”





“That is not what I want darling.” She inched closer and started finger-combing his hair; her pregnant belly pressed against his lower back. “I know that you are doing your best and your best has always been good enough. I am just afraid for the baby.”


At that moment, the baby kicked his dad in the back. The change in Tutweiler was immediate. Tension, anger, and frustration melted away as he turned and rested his head on his wife’s very pregnant belly.





*****


“It’s not supposed to be this way.” John and Summer Tutweiler lay in bed spooning. Summer had been restricted to bed, because of abnormalities related to her blood pressure. The baby was due at the end of September and her obstetrician did not want to take any chances this close to term. He had spent his morning meeting with the Asheville Small Business Owners Group trying to sell them insurance policies for their employees. Since the passage of Obamacare business owners were less inclined to offer dental, eyewear, or accidental insurance for their employees. His afternoon had been spent at Rosa Lee’s salon trying to referee an argument between a pink haired stylist and a purple haired stylist who seemed to be arguing over putting towels in the dryer.





“We don’t have a picket fence or a dog. I don’t golf on Saturdays and we don’t have friends over for bridge on Friday nights.”


“We don’t know how to play bridge silly.”





“You know what I mean.” Midnight, and Tut had finally been able to rest. With his wife’s bed confinement, Tut assumed all of her duties, which included cooking dinner and doing two loads of laundry. Ironing was particularly burdensome although he set the ironing board up in living room so he could watch television.





Now it was midnight, and they were in bed.





“We have each other and a beautiful little Tut, Jr on the way.”





“The world just, just presses you down. Until you are beaten. Too tired to go on, you go on anyway because you’re out of options. They feed us this crap about the American dream and they make it more impossible every year to reach it.”





“It’s not that bad, darling. Business will turn around or you will find a different job. Tut, Jr will be a joy and after the first of the year, I will return to work. We just have a rough couple of months to get through.”





Tut rolled away from his wife and out of bed. “I can’t sleep. You go on and get some sleep. I will be back later.”





“Try meditating darling. I love you.”





Tut left the room without speaking.





 


Chapter Twenty-nine





“Amazing Grace” played from Wes’ cell phone. Startled from studying committee assignments for the next year, he glanced at the screen and saw the name “Doc.”





Wesley grabbed the phone, grateful for the break, punched in his security code, and said, “What’s up Doc?”





“You at the church?” Doc’s voice was hurried and sharp.





“Yeah. In the office. Why?” Wesley knew when to joke and when to be serious. Doc Kirby sounded serious.





“I’ll be there in five minutes. Be out front.”





*****


“What’s all this about?” asked Wesley as he snapped his seat belt into place. He sensed Doc’s urgency so he skipped his usual banter.


“Mamie called me. Seems like Simon’s kids have descended on him this morning in full force and are trying to convince him to let them put him in a nursing home. They are talking about power of attorney, living wills, DNR’s, that sort of thing.”





“Sonuvabitch. Well, we saw this coming.”





Doc glanced at Wesley. “That is what we call appropriate cussing.”





*****


Simon’s driveway was filled with SUV’s. Wesley counted four strange vehicles as he and Doc parked and walked through the yard and to the house. That meant all four of Simon’s kids had agreed to gang up on their father to force him to their way of thinking. Wesley did not see Simon voluntarily surrendering his freedom without overwhelming pressure. But anyone can be worn down.





Doc knocked on the door which opened at once. Simon’s youngest daughter, who Wesley met at Thelma’s funeral and then immediately forgot her name, must have been standing at the door. Doc slid his way into the house as he said, “Goodness gracious, looks like a family reunion. Me and the preacher here, Wesley, usually come by once a week or so to check on our patient and his nurse,” Doc shot a wink a Mamie who sat in a chair against the far wall. The look she gave him spoke volumes. She was not happy with how things were going. Simon’s four children had positioned themselves, deliberately or not, spread out throughout the den – in effect, surrounding their father.





Wesley wondered what game Doc was playing. Suddenly, there was a quiver in Doc’s voice that Wesley had never heard before and Doc looked old.


“We appreciate you coming by but we are in the middle of something here. Family business. So maybe you could come back later…” The speaker was Simon’s youngest son, whose name Wesley could not remember, but who, if Wes remembered correctly, was better educated and worked at a better paying job than his siblings. Like his father and his older brother, he was a large man, taller than Wesley and much heavier. Unlike his father, he and his brother, had led soft lives and had gotten fat.





“Oh, we won’t be a bother,” Doc’s voice quivered and Wesley assumed he had reasons for acting old and decrepit. “Let me check Simon’s vitals and see how he is doing and after we’uns set a spell and visit, we’ll jus mosey on out of here. Right preacher?”





“Sure Doc.”





“Look, we appreciate everything…”





“Wait a moment Stephen.” Simon’s oldest daughter placed her hand on her brother’s arm to stop him. Both of Simon’s daughters took after their mother, neither were as pretty, but this one was decidedly less attractive than her sister. Wesley had a fleeting thought wondering how it must feel to be the ugly sister. There was something about her face that was off. During the preparation for Thelma’s funeral Wesley caught himself staring at her trying to identify what it was exactly that made her ugly. The reason eluded him then and it eluded him now.


The ugly girl continued speaking. “Maybe the good doctor and the minister could help Dad see the wisdom of our idea.” She paused and took a breath, “As wonderful as Mrs. Black has been in taking care of Dad these past couple of weeks, this cannot be a permanent solution. It isn’t fair to Mrs. Black. We, the four of us,” she motioned to include her brothers and her sister, “feel that Dad would be better served in a facility that offered round-the-clock professional care designed to meet his specific health needs.”





“They want to lock him away in a nursing home,” blurted Mamie.





Simon’s oldest son, Simon, Jr., the one of Simon’s children whose name Wesley remembered, pointed his finger at Mamie and growled, “Old woman, I told you to shut your damn mouth and stay out of this. It’s none of your business!”





Chapter Thirty





A cold chill ran down Wesley’s spine. He moved to place himself between Junior and Mamie, who were on opposite sides of the room, stopping only inches from Junior’s outstretched arm. Between clenched teeth he said, “If you ever speak to that lady again in any tone that is not gentle and sweet, I will stomp you beyond recognition.” The two men stared at one another for a moment; Junior, three inches taller and a hundred pounds heavier than Wesley said, “You think you can take both of us?” He nodded in his brother’s direction.





Wesley glanced back before replying, “The fact that you already think you need help and since I know I have faced greater odds than two overgrown spoiled brats, well, let me just say, if he wants his ass kicked too I will be happy to oblige. But for right now, this is between us.” At that moment, Simon started laughing. His harsh dog-like barking laugh grated on Wesley’s ears but warmed Wesley’s heart.


Wesley turned away from Junior and walked over to Simon. Gradually, Simon was improving. His color was better and his face did not seem to sag as much. Still, covered in a shawl and sitting hunched over in a recliner, he looked weak and old.





“Hey buddy.” Wesley held out his right hand to shake Simon’s hand. Simon’s grip was firm but missing the bone crushing strength that Simon possessed before stroke. Wesley then held out his left hand for Simon to shake. Simon’s left hand lay cradled, useless, like the rest of Simon’s left side, against his chest. Simon raised his face to meet Wesley’s eyes. “Shake my hand, Simon,” whispered Wesley.





“B-an’t,” whispered Simon.





“I don’t think…,” started Simon’s youngest son.





Without removing his gaze from Simon’s worn face, Wesley whipped his right arm in that direction and pointed accusingly at Simon’s youngest son – who stopped talking.





Wesley knew that the physical therapist and Mamie had been both massaging Simon’s left arm and left leg and manipulating both to facilitate circulation and forestall atrophy. He also knew that the physical therapist felt like Simon had surrendered and simply chose not to move his arm and leg. Wesley had planned to confront Simon about this but he had not planned on such a large audience or such high stakes.


“Shake my hand, Simon.” Wesley waited and stared into Simon’s eyes. “Remember who you are.”





Wesley saw Simon clench his jaw and then he saw a finger twitch. Wesley smiled a little. Only Simon saw the smile. “Korean War vet. Vietnam War vet. A man who somehow convinced an angel to marry him. You built a business from scratch. You helped raise four ungrateful children,” Simon’s harsh barking laugh interrupted Wes’ litany. “Remember who you are, dammit. Remember. You want to go out like this? Shriveled and dried up in a chair? Staring out a window wondering if your kids will ever visit? Remember who you are.”





All five of Simon’s fingers twitched like he was making a fist, and slowly, excruciatingly slow, Simon lifted his hand from his lap. His entire body was trembling from the exertion and Simon’s face exploded in sweat from the effort. But his hand and arm slowly lifted enough to grip Wesley’s. The grip was weak, very weak. But it was present. Wesley wanted to scream and shout and dance and cry all at the same time but he kept his composure because he was not finished.





Mamie gasped and said, “Praise the Lord.”





Wesley disengaged from Simon and took a step back. “Now stand up.”





Simon looked up at Wesley and said, “B-nough.”





“What did he say?” whispered the ugly daughter.





Ignoring the question, Wesley said, “Bullshit.” Stand up on your own two feet.” He added, “Remember who you are.” Louder he added, “Don’t make me cuss you again.”





Simon barked a laugh and Wesley saw him brace his good leg and his good arm against the chair. Gathering his remaining strength and courage, Simon used his good leg and his good arm to force himself out of the recliner. Teetering, he planted his left leg on the floor to keep his balance. Holding the chair for support, Simon was bent over and still looked like a shell of his former self. He looked old.





“Stand up tall. Be a warrior. You used to be a Marine. Remember who you are.” Wesley knew that if Simon thought he was beaten then Simon was beaten. So, these baby steps were, literally, victories.





Simon met Wesley’s gaze and grunted. Slowly, he straightened, stretching himself to his full height – dwarfing his children with his courage, tenacity, and will.





“C’mon.”





Simon leaned onto his bad foot and slid his good foot forward a little. Planting his good foot, he swung his bad leg forward a few inches. The two friends stood only a few inches apart. A silent understanding passed between them. Wesley nodded. Sliding back a little, Simon sat – with Wesley’s help.





Wesley knelt. “Simon, do you want to go to a nursing home?”





Simon half lay in the recliner, exhausted from the effort of standing. Moving his mouth like he was chewing his words before he spoke, he said, “Hell. No.”





Wesley smiled and stood. “Um, that was a ‘Hell no’ for anyone that might have missed that.” Wesley turned back to Junior. “He said ‘Hell no.’ We will fight any and every attempt to force him into a nursing home against his will. Look, I get it.” Wesley moved back to Doc Kirby so he could see all of Simon’s kids at the same time. “I really do get it. You lock him away, swing by for two hours at Christmas, maybe pick him up for dinner on Thanksgiving or his birthday and you salve your guilt by telling yourself that he is better off there. You know, because of professional help. You know what though? What would be better than abandoning your father to the care of strangers? Visiting him. You four could rotate weekends. Mamie could take the weekend off if she wanted while you cared for the man who raised you and put you through college. For God’s sake people. It’s September in Asheville. For the next six weeks, this will be the most beautiful place on earth. How hard would it be to take your dad for a drive on the parkway to see the leaves change colors? To stop and get him an ice cream cone? But no, you have to bully him into letting you lock him away. Just so you don’t have to feel guilty or have to take care of him.” Wesley ended his guilt trip, hoping he achieved his desired goal – at least he had shamed them into silence. The two girls had even shed a tear or two. Junior still wore a defiant look on his face but he had been intimidated into silence.





“Mamie,” said Doc Kirby, breaking the uncomfortable silence and the tension, “I know you have something sweet and delicious in the kitchen.”





Mamie smiled and said, “Probably the only reason you came by, old man. She shot Wesley a wink and stood, smoothing her apron in an automatic gesture. “I have a fresh peach cobbler. I can heat it up and add some vanilla ice cream.”





“That sounds good,” said Doc Kirby.





Simon was grinning a lop-sided grin and nodding his head.





“That man loves his ice cream.” Mamie turned and hustled into the kitchen.





“Extra crust for me please,” called Wesley.





“I know, preacher man,” Mamie called back.








 


Chapter Thirty-one





An hour later, after the children had left, Mamie, Doc and Wesley settled in for a visit. Simon was exhausted so Wesley and Doc helped him into the bedroom for a nap.





“Let me start by thanking both of you for coming. I don’t know what I would have done if you had not shown up.”





“Our pleasure, Mamie,” said Doc Kirby. Looking at Wesley he said, “What got into you?”





“Me?” What was with your act? Pretending you had Parkinson’s or something?”





“I often find,’ said Doc, “that people underestimate a doddering old fool.” They all laughed. “Now you. Would you have really started something with those boys?”





Wesley laughed. “Spoiled brats. Probably never been in a fight in their lives. Got through life by being bigger than everyone else and just bullying whomever got in their way.” Wesley shook his head. “No one messes with my Mamie.”





Mamie smiled. “I can take care of myself preacher man. I would scratch their eyes out.”





Wesley laughed. “Mamie, a leaf could knock you over.”





Mamie looked hard at Wesley. “I would still go down scratching.”





Doc looked hard at Wesley. “Are you feeling ok?”





Wesley took a drink of coffee and said, “I guess. Why?”





Doc absently stroked his chin and said, “That is the third time I have seen or heard of you losing control. I wonder.”





“Third time?” asked Mamie.





Doc held up his fingers and counted them. “One. At the hospital with the cardiologist. That one I put down to exhaustion. Two. With Simon at the hospital. That I put down to a fairly effective technique to snap him out of his funk. And today, three. We could have handled this without threats, I think.” Doc paused for effect. “So, something going on? Any other bouts of temper I don’t know about?”





Not if you don’t count the screaming fit I pitched in the sanctuary, though Wesley. He asked though, “What are you suggesting?”





“Not sure. Are you sleeping ok?”





“No. terrible, actually. I can only sleep when I take one of my remaining pain pills. And when I do sleep, I seem to have nightmares I cannot remember.”





“This started after you got shot?”





“Hmmm. I guess so.”


“I ain’t no highfalutin city doctor but it sounds like PTSD.”





“Me too,” said Doc. “And I am a highfalutin city doctor.” They all laughed.





Wesley rubbed his eyes and forehead. He was tired and it was only eleven o’clock. “I don’t have time for this. Can’t you just give me some more pain pills until this passes?”





Doc Kirby just looked at Wesley. Mamie hooted with laughter.