Behind the Veils of Yemen Read Free Page B

apology as he slowly pulled himself from the bed. “I’m okay. I didn’t think I would fall back asleep,” he admitted sheepishly.
    I quickly helped him dress, glancing at the bedside clock. I could feel the heat from his feverish body as I buttoned his shirt. I stashed our schedule packet into my purse and helped Kevin put on his tie and sports jacket. We shuffled slowly down the corridor, Kevin’s six-foot body leaning heavily on my five-foot-three frame.
    We inched our way through dead leaves in the parking lot and found the rental car that Kevin was supposed to drive. I settled him into the passenger seat and sighed as I got behind the steering wheel.
    I waved the map at Kevin. “Can you help me find the road where we are supposed to turn?” I asked in a growing panic. “I don’t mind driving, but you know how I am with directions. Do I go straight on this street and then turn left, or do I turn first and go straight at the light?” I screeched out of the hotel parking lot in what I hoped was the right direction.
    Kevin took the map slowly from my waving hand and tried to focus on it. He steadied his head against the headrest and turned the map crosswise, but he could not seem to read it. He mumbled something I could not understand. I was growing more frustrated.
    “Honey, I need to know where to turn!” I pleaded.
    “I’m sorry, sweetheart.” He spoke slowly and with effort, then handed the map back to me. “I can’t make it out. My head is all foggy.”
    He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry you’re having to handle all of this.” His words were drawn out and labored. “I’m no help, am I?”
    In spite of my inclination to agree, I patted his arm. “That’s okay, honey. You just rest and take it easy. I’ll get us there.”
    I’ll get us there, I repeated to myself. I can do this. I took a deep breath, willing myself to focus.
    Kevin dozed in and out as I made one wrong turn after another. I finally delivered us to the psychiatrist’s home, twenty minutes late for our appointment.
    As we got out of the car, I whispered to Kevin, “I hope being late isn’t rooted in some deep psychiatric problem.” He smiled weakly in response.
    Entering the psychiatrist’s home office, I tried to appear calmer and more collected than I was. I apologized sheepishly for getting lost.
    The psychiatrist looked closely at Kevin. “It’s a good thing your next exam is at the hospital clinic,” he said.
    Kevin was coherent throughout the interview, and we completed it smoothly together, answering a barrage of questions about our childhood and adolescence. We apparently passed the evaluation in spite of ourselves.
    Outside we were joined by another candidate. I was only too glad to relinquish the car keys. I climbed into the backseat as Kevin slept in the front. We passed oak trees denuded of once abundant leaves. They stood resolute between the quiet old brownstones of Richmond and lifted pitiful limbs to the sky, as if they knew their nakedness was necessary before thick foliage could grow.
    We arrived at the hospital clinic on time for our appointments. I sighed with relief as I seated Kevin and myself in the reception area and began filling out registration forms. I completed mine and worked on Kevin’s while he slept, slumped in the chair beside me. I was trying to remember his family information when Kevin uttered a guttural moan, interrupting my concentration. I glanced from my clipboard to Kevin. He was leaning forward, his pupils like tiny black dots in his opened green eyes.
    I sent the clipboards flying as I lunged for the registration desk. “Something’s wrong with my husband!” I shouted at the receptionist.
    The startled clerk jumped in irritated surprise. But when she saw Kevin slumped in his seat with his eyes open and unseeing, she hit the intercom immediately.
    “Code Blue, Admissions. Code Blue, Admissions.”
    Everything whirred together in a blur of white