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The Schuyler Fortune V: Rose Down, Rose Home-7
Blossom went over to the hospital window and opened the blinds. Bright sunshine filled the room, painted a light yellow. She opened the window a crack for fresh air and heard birds chirping outside. An agent stood guard in the garden below.
Returning to the bedside, she told Jack again that she had heard about the accident and said again that this part was over. Her attitude was kind and firm. Her tone implied that he was in charge under her close supervision for now.
"We are going to clean you up and this bed too. Do you think you could sit in a chair for me for a few minutes?" He nodded quietly. "Is it OK to touch you and assist you to a chair?"
Again, he nodded. She drew down the sweat and blood-soaked sheets, helped one leg over the side, waited for him to bring the other leg down and gently helped him stand.
"Stand here to get your bearings for a minute. I won't leave you. How are you feeling?"
No answer was forthcoming. Blossom thought about that for a bit while she looked at him. What had happened to him in the last two days? Her patient had been surprised by a bomb in an airport and knocked to the floor, had heard a very loud noise—-ah, that was it.
He was probably half-deaf from the noise. She would ratchet up the volume a little and test the hypothesis.
"Jack," she hollered, "I am going to assist you to the chair by the wall. Take your catheter with you, step down, the floor is cold, and we'll walk over to the chair."
Talking to him a little louder now, she easily got him over to the chair and he sat down. "I'm going to clean up the bed. Are you warm enough? Would you like some water with a straw in it or maybe a little orange juice?"
A nod this time. "Which sounds good?" A small, cracked voice replied which hadn't been heard since the explosion.
"OJ please."
Blossom's heart threatened to explode inside of her and her eyes started to become a little moist until she straightened back up and blinked them. This was no time to be sentimental. She had work to do.
This was the husband of the President of the United States. Considerably more important, this was Carol's son-in-law and her patient.
A half hour later, the door to the room opened and Barbara, followed by Carol, slipped in the door. They stood shocked and delighted.
Jack was in a chair, dressings off, silvadene cream on his scrapes and minor burns, hair combed, blood gone, floor clean, a glass of orange juice half drained with a straw in it, water pitcher filled with a glass of water half-full, fresh bed linens in place and folded back properly. Jack sat still and quiet, staring at the floor.
"I wouldn't do that." A quiet command from Blossom warned Barbara not to step closer or say anything. "Why don't you have a seat, Madam President, while I finish here."
Madam President and her mother had a seat.
"I think he has begun to get better," Blossom opined, "and I think he'll need some time with Carol in Hillsboro tending the roses for a while. He's had a shock and needs some time away from his other pressures."
Barbara looked at her like she was nuts. "You can't think..."
"Yes, I can. Healing for the mind and body comes as a gift from Jesus, who doesn't have the same concept of time that we have. Jack will need the time. Don't fail me on this, Barbara."
The President wasn't used to the tone or being given an order of any kind.
"You won't think kindly of me if I don't give you my best advice. If Jack sits at a hospital or clinic, even one as prestigious as Walter Reed or the Mayo Clinic, he won't get back in touch with the ground.
He can get well. He's that kind of guy."
The commanding officer of Landstuhl Medical Center Army was having an angry discussion with himself in his office. His commander-in-chief had ordered him to release the First Gentleman to the care of a private psychiatrist in Portland, Oregon who, as far as he knew, was an unknown from an unknown school who had no academic or political ties and his main claim to fame was playing the cello.
He, himself, had `pick-up-the-phone-and-call-me' rights to a handful of the world's best centers for PTSD treatment for veterans (and First Gentleman, he scoffed) and the President herself was devaluing him.
"Herself," he thought. What a laugh. As if a woman could handle that office and command him to do anything more than tie his shoes. She had never fired a gun in her life, he thought. She never had commanded anything more than a troop of ants before becoming President of his great nation, which he was proud to serve, and had sworn to protect, preserve and defend.
"What good decisions could come from that White House?" he grumbled to himself.
He grabbed the phone and asked for the Army chief of staff. "She's not going to send him to Walter Reed." he explained. "I tried to convince her, to change her mind and she's as stubborn as a mule. In fact, I've had mules more cooperative than this bitch. I can't imagine this White House keeping us out of a dog house, let alone war."
An antenna at the NSA, routinely assessing Army traffic, passed the conversation to supercomputers for analysis and the supercomputer caught the phrases in juxtaposition and identified the voices. Bells went off somewhere inside the Cray supercomputer database and a feedback loop established which directed the message to the White House Signals Office, the FBI, the CIA and the Director of Homeland Security as a possible threat from a higher-echelon Army source.
Within fifteen minutes, Barbara received a call from the National Security advisor who informed her of the conversation, now flagged up.
The President asked an aide to summon the commander of the post to a small room near the canteen. She asked him if she might speak with him if he had time for her.
Not seeing the juggernaut headed his way; he smiled a patronizing smile and turned on the Southern charm. "Absolutely, Madam President. My time is your time."
"Yes." she replied, "It certainly is."
"I am your commander-in-chief. Where my family is concerned, I am very much a bitch. Please don't ever forget it."
The Captain paled and braced himself.
"You may keep your post for now. While I am President, you may forget any opportunity for advancement. I will not fire you for having a personal opinion about me."
"I would and will sack your ass for insubordination, however, if you repeat this behavior. You are an officer and a gentleman presumably."
"You may resign your post and be a private for the duration of your career without your benefits or you may speak with and apologize to the Army Chief of Staff for putting him in a difficult position."
"He must now answer to me for entertaining that conversation with you without immediately calling me. You may not understand how he may feel about that conversation, but you must remember the following: You are directed to ask him to place a memorandum of that conversation in your Army personnel file.
An electronic copy of your call to him is already headed for your file should another President consider a promotion for you in the future."
"Good day and thank you for the care that my husband received here. You are dismissed."
"Ma'am, yes ma'am!"
Jack was discharged an hour later. As the physicians were members of the Armed Services, they readily agreed to the discharge, compiled discharge instructions, noted their minority opinion about follow-up treatment and sent a copy of all labs and films with an aide.
Air Force One was usually ready for sudden changes in flight plans, including a flight home to Andrews Air Force Base, so within minutes of the arrival of Marine One, Barbara took Jack, her team and her family back to Washington.
Rainier, together with fresh crew, fueled and provisioned, was ready at Andrews. Jack said goodbye to his crying kids, tenderly held them and told them that he loved them and would come back.
He then boarded Rainier along with Carol and Blossom and left for Hillsboro.
Late afternoon rays of sun shone on the downtown Portland area when they arrived over five hours later.
A Schuyler Sikorsky painted light tan with the Schuyler `S" finished in gorgeous dark-red magenta rose gracefully into the sky from Hillsboro then heeled gently over to the south in an arc into rural Washington County to the eastern slopes of Bald Peak, one of the highest of a high string of hills, the Chehalem mountains, running roughly north-south.
The evening summer sunlight highlighted Mt. Hood in the distance, still snow-covered and pink-tinged.
Hazelnut orchards, grape vineyards, wheat, oats, hayfields, wholesale nurseries, truck crops of vegetables for the city's farmer's markets and grocery stores and large stands of Douglas fir forest covered much of Bald Peak and its surrounding area.
The Schuyler estate was enormous, and the Sikorsky landed on the heliport near the house. Some fifty feet down a meandering path lay the vast rose garden, the collection that Carol had built.
Dozens of workmen labored through the day to weed, water, fertilize, prune, graft, inspect and catalog the results of their labor.
Carol thought she was happiest here. She had left behind the baggage of Flourtown. Michael had inherited the land and the house there. Neither Barbara nor Michael visited the Flourtown estate, however.
It had been stripped of the Caravaggio, the other priceless artifacts including the 1750 Savonnerie carpet both of which now graced her suite on the fourth floor of the Schuyler Museum.
Her treasures were her hybrid tea roses now. She enjoyed quiet, almost non-existent neighbors who valued their peace as she valued hers. She remembered her upcoming birthday, thought about her first social security check due soon, knew about how much it would be and was determined to spend the first one on someone else
She had recently done something her father had never done. She made a telephone call to a Foundation near Seattle that battled disease in Africa, among other causes, spoke to the young man who answered the telephone and asked him to have one or both of the foundation principals call her at their convenience. To be on the safe side, she mentioned that she had spoken to her daughter, Barbara Darnell, in Washington who had recommended that she call the foundation for more information.
Within twenty-four hours a kind, efficient, even brisk, matter-of-fact, man called her to ask what he might do for her.
"I want to know if your foundation accepts gifts for projects in Africa."
The answer was a qualified `Yes'. If the grant or gift was unencumbered, available and compatible with foundation goals, they would be happy to accept donations and issue tax documents to sweeten the gift.
"Should I know you?" he asked.
"Probably not," she replied, "but I think we may have met at Davos last year, but if not, perhaps at the State Dinner for outgoing German Chancellor Merkel last spring.
"How did you come to be invited?" he asked.
"My daughter Barbara Darnell lives at the White House."
There followed a long silence and she imagined that wheels were spinning and that his attention was fully engaged now.
"Ah," he said quietly, "I have heard of the Schuyler trust... of course. Didn't your son Michael inherit it?"
"He did indeed." she said proudly. "He inherited it from me. It passed down from my father Frank."
"How is Michael doing?" he asked. "Does he have time to serve on any Boards? Microsoft, Dell and Intel are looking for good men and women with sound judgment and come to think of it, Apple and both Harvard and Yale are looking."
"I know he's on the Board at Grinnell and he is pretty focused on strategic planning there. But you'd have to ask him, of course and I know he would welcome the conversation. He has admired you all of his adult life."
"I should have heard from Warren that Michael was helping at Grinnell. I'm losing touch, Mrs. Schuyler,"
"Now that I doubt. Please call me Carol. It's been a pleasure and I won't keep you. How can I reach your gift coordinator?"
"Before you go Carol, please know that Mel would want me to invite you to visit any time at the lake house, so we can become better acquainted," he said, "and please make that an open invitation. Just let us know when."
"Your family fortune has a pedigree a mile long and comes with respectability which means we'd love to develop a personal and business working relationship good for both parties. I want to give you the cell number for my special projects coordinator that I see every day. It's a private number so we can talk whenever you like. Thank you so much for thinking of us. I think our relationship can benefit both of us and, more importantly, many others."
She loved the Museum in Manhattan and often flew Rainier back to spend time at the Metropolitan Museum when they had an exciting exhibition and at the Metropolitan Opera.
She was a member of the Riverside church, a progressive community church in Morningside Heights in Upper Manhattan that still kept to its high church roots with excellent choral and organ music offerings during the season.
She preferred to spend Christmas and Thanksgiving in New York since entertaining was genuinely fun at the Museum.
While in Hillsboro, she attended services at the Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Portland with its fabulous Rosales pipe organ, splendid choir, great acoustics and open community approach to the city. She was fond of the gracious Dean and enjoyed his thoughtful, energetic homilies. She attended the Portland Opera sometimes, the Symphony on occasion and loved the street vendors and food carts downtown. She wasn't unknown at the Spaghetti Factory on the shores of the Willamette River.
Blossom quietly pulled her back to the present. "Let's get Jack into the house, dear."
Blossom asked Jack if he was ready to see his new temporary quarters in the house. With now vacant eyes, he looked near her face and nodded slightly. Without touching him, she led the way into the guest quarters on the great southeast side of the house. The maids had freshened the suite with clean linens and aired it out. Blossom closed the windows and drew the curtains slightly.
"Jack," she said, "I am going to ask you to take a shower tonight before you jump in bed. The soap is antibacterial. It's for the scrapes, cuts and bruises. Take all of the dressings off before you shower, and I will replace them. Fresh dressings will be easier on the sheets if you do some sweating tonight. I wanted to tell you again some things that people sometimes feel after a shock."
"You will be able to tell me if you notice any of these things. Nightmares, waking up yelling, difficulty getting to sleep, aches and pains, jumpy at certain stimuli, reliving what happened, being irritable, feeling alone, anger, feeling down or depressed, excessive sweating, trouble with being not hungry or excessively hungry are just some symptoms that some people have."
"You might waken during the night feeling a confused about your surroundings, Blossom went on. "Anyone would. This is new territory to you and if you switch your bedside lamp on, you will see where the bathroom is. If you want to, you can look out the windows or read or just lie there and think. That's OK too. If you choose to leave a light on, that's fine."
"My room is just down the hall. This is the call button and I want you to call me day or night for anything. If you are just lonely and want to talk, you are out of luck at night. I get my beauty nap at night and you can just be lonesome without me nodding off at three a.m. trying to stay awake."
Jack actually grinned at this briefly. He couldn't help but like her and the care she had already given him. After she left, he picked up the phone and called Barbara and said, "Good-night dear" for the first time in some days.
His first night was long and rough.
Blossom knocked the next morning at nine a.m. and entered without waiting for an invitation. Jack was starting to move in bed, rumpled, unkempt, tormented. Clearly, the night had not been kind. Cool, pure Oregon air wafted through the windows as Blossom set out to straighten things. She asked Jack first if she could do that and he gave his permission. A maid knocked, and Jack answered. The chef had sent a breakfast tray. There was a note on it.
The note was from Carol who wished him good morning and placed no demand on him. She mentioned that he had a follow-up doctor's appointment in one week. She asked him to make himself comfortable.
It was Blossom that gave him his marching orders for the day. "The maid won't be around until about one p.m., so you and I are going to make the bed. You have two hands and I need the help." They were flinging sheets, blankets and comforters around in proper geographical position on the bed.
When the last item was on, Blossom reached over and yanked every item off the bed.
"Who taught you how to make a bed, anyway." she grumbled. "This is how to make a bed. Who supervises the White House but you? If King William comes to stay or even the Prime Minister of wherever, the bed ought to be made like this."
She demonstrated proper bed-making skills with taut sheets, tucked just so, right side down so the upper fold showed the front side of the sheet over the blanket and comforter. Then she demonstrated mitered sheet corners.
"Now you do it."
She tore them off again.
"Do it again."
Jack was shaking, nervous now and Blossom knew she had pushed enough for one day. "We're going to watch Jesus put you back together," she said quietly, "and you will know when you're ready. You will be the first to know. You did good today."
Lunch, then a nap. He just wanted to take a long nap for a long time. He felt better when he slept, that is, he felt nothing. The rest of the week consisted of Blossom lessons, as Jack later recalled. Someone was teaching him lessons as if it mattered what he did and how he did it.
That was something new for him, a kind of fast-track reprise of a better childhood.