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gained as much weight as
I’ve lost.”
    Dr. Stein gave him a strange look, as if
she thought he was blind. “I’ve ordered some tests. Unless the results tell me
something I don’t expect, I’m going to recommend bariatric surgery, since from
what you say, I doubt diet modification will help your wife. With her
out-of-control hypertension and uncontrolled diabetes, she isn’t a candidate
for appetite-suppression medications, and she’s in no condition to undertake a
regimen of strenuous physical activity. If I’m not mistaken, tests will show
she’s also suffering from sleep apnea.”
    “You’re serious. You think Keisha’s going
to die, don’t you?” Matt’s chest felt tight, as though someone had tightened a
noose around his heart.
    “I don’t think it, I know she will unless
she changes her lifestyle, although I can’t give you an accurate estimate of
when she’ll have a fatal episode. What happened today was a stern warning that
she can’t go on as she has been. You realize she’s more than a hundred pounds
over her optimum weight, don’t you?” The doctor sat back in her chair and gave
him the once-over. “You’re a big man, yourself, but you look as though you’re
in pretty good condition.”
    “I play football for a living. I have to
keep my body conditioned. I also have to carry what would probably be too much
weight for the average guy. What does that have to do with Keisha?”
    “You live with her. You eat what, five or
six thousand calories a day, which you burn off in the weight room? Am I
right?”
    Matt didn’t like Dr. Stein’s accusatory tone.
“During the season, yes, but I’ve cut back this offseason, and I’ve lost over
thirty-five pounds. Keisha’s been dieting with me.”
    “And she’s also cut down on her physical
activities and gained some weight. Right?”
    “Yes.” Matt hadn’t thought to relate the
two facts, but the doctor made sense. “What do you propose I do about it?”
    “I spoke with your wife briefly about her
condition, but she wasn’t receptive to my suggestions. I propose that you talk
Mrs. Rubin into having a gastric bypass or laparoscopic banding as soon as it’s
physically feasible. I’m going to call in Dr. Carl Sheldon—he’s one of the best
bariatric surgeons in Savannah—to take a look at her and make his
recommendation.”
    When Matt walked out of Dr. Stein’s office,
his head was reeling. He was Keisha’s slave, not her Master or even her husband
in the sense the doctor probably assumed. He couldn’t imagine she’d take well
to him suddenly telling her he wanted her to make any changes in her lifestyle,
much less a change so extreme as to require surgery.
    * * * * *
    Matt ran into Charlie Harris, the Rebels’
defensive coordinator and Keisha’s dad, as he was coming out of the CCU.
    “What’s the matter? What did Keisha’s
doctor say?” Charlie grabbed Matt by the shoulder and propelled him into the
tiny waiting room that mercifully was empty for the moment.
    “I have to go talk to Keisha,” Matt said,
resisting his father-in-law’s effort to shove him into one of the gray plastic
chairs that lined the walls of the little room—one that sat next to a corner
that held a small, black-lacquered table. A stack of out-of-date magazines sat
beside a chrome-and-steel gooseneck lamp, as though anybody waiting for word
about a critically ill loved one might want to read about fashion, football or
home decorating.
    “She’s sleeping right now, so the talk can
wait. You sit down, boy, and tell me why my girl’s lying in that bed with tubes
stuck into her like she’s a pincushion.”
    Matt let out a sigh but gave Charlie a
summary of what Dr. Stein had told him. “I dread telling Keisha,” he said,
swiping at the sudden pulsing ache in his forehead with one hand. “She’ll ask
me who the hell I think I am, trying to act like I’m her husband instead of her
slave.”
    “Here’s what I think, boy. It’s about time
for you