Waking Up in Dixie by Haywood Smith

clearly impaired, I think we could do that. As long as I tell him afterward, when he’s more rational.” He patted Elizabeth on theshoulder, a gesture she read as patronizing. “Your husband’s stroke occurred in the area of his brain that controls emotions and personality. His filters may have been damaged by the stroke. Many patients with injuries in that area of the brain experience similar problems, but they usually respond well to therapy and practice, over time.”
    That was some comfort, at least, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to risk being ravaged in the meantime. “I just need to be safe. We can’t exactly keep him in a condom, and you said sedatives weren’t a good idea.”
    “We’ll do another scan. If he continues to be so sexually agitated, I’ll consult with an endocrinologist and see if we can regulate that,” he offered. “Meanwhile, I’ll order some restraints for the staff to use, if necessary.”
    “Thank you.” Howe Whittington, chained to his bed because he lusted after his wife? Elizabeth sensed laughter from the cosmos, but she wasn’t sure if it was coming from heaven or hell. Or if the joke was on her or Howe.
    The doctor motioned for the Greek chorus to leave. “Your husband will probably sleep for several hours before waking up again,” he said as the others filed out. “If he continues to improve, we may not need another treatment. Most patients start with shorter waking periods that gradually increase in length as they grow stronger.” He sounded scripted, detached. “Physically, your husband’s going to need lots of good nutrition and PT before he’s strong enough to go home. Mentally, he’ll need long-term behavioral therapy to help him retrain his responses to the world around him. Do you have anyone you’d prefer to use?”
    “No,” she said. As if any of his family would ever consent to “air their dirty linen,” even to a therapist. “Whoever you recommend. We can come to Atlanta for that.” She didn’t trust anybody in Whittington, HIPAA or no.
    “I’ve been really impressed with the work Glen McAfee’s done with our coma patients. Good man. We’ll contact him and start that right away.”
    She wondered if she’d be included in any of those sessions or kept on the outside, the way she’d been kept on the outside of Howe’s thoughts and feelings since they’d argued over the way he spoiled Patricia when she was just a toddler.
    “If Mr. Whittington is hungry when he wakes up,” the doctor concluded, “we’ll remove the feeding tube and start him on some broth and Jell-O.” He left her standing there to wonder who Howe would be when he next came to.
    But thank God, he had woken up and didn’t seem impaired. Just horny.
    She needed to call the family.
    Charles. She needed to tell Charles. Elizabeth retrieved her cell phone and speed-dialed his, even though he was probably still at work, clerking for one of Howe’s favorite judges downtown.
    “Mom?” he answered, concerned. She never called him at work. “What’s happened?”
    “Your father woke up.” She wasn’t going to be a perpetual caregiver to a coma patient. She wasn’t going to be sentenced to widowhood under her mother-in-law’s disapproving scrutiny. “I let them try the treatment, and he’s out of the coma. It’s amazing.He just woke up. He seems to have all his faculties.” And then some.
    No need to mention his temporary aberrations. Surely, those would pass.
    “Mom, that’s fabulous!” their son said with genuine relief. “Great. When can I see him?”
    “Not right away,” she hastened to say. “He’s still not quite himself.” That was an understatement and a half. “But you can see him soon.”
    Howe moaned again. “Lizzie?” He stirred. “Where’s my Lizzie?” he murmured without opening his eyes. “I need my Lizzie.”
    Lord. Again with the Lizzie. Elizabeth lowered her voice. “I have to go. He’s calling for me. The doctors said he’d be napping a