Falling

by Jane Green

  Stacy seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. She sent Dominic a couple of texts when she first got back to Florida, and said she would come back toward the end of October. But October is almost gone, and there has been no word from her. Emma is starting to relax into the routine they had before.

  “Well, we could live here, I suppose,” she says to Dominic. “But you don’t really want to live here. It’s much smaller than your house. We’d all be on top of each other. You just want to live somewhere stylish.”

  “Who’d’a thunk it?” Dominic laughs, shaking his head. “Me, wanting to live somewhere stylish.”

  “I could redo your house, you know,” says Emma. “All you have to do is say the word and I will gladly take on the project.” She smiles. “No charge, of course.”

  “You’re hired!” Dominic says with a laugh. “I want you to, of course, but I also kind of like it the way it is. Maybe in the spring, when you move in officially, we can do it.”

  Emma stares at him. “What?”

  “We can do it in the spring.”

  “Hang on. Did you say when I move in?”

  “I did.”

  “I’m moving in? Since when? Am I part of this decision?”

  “I’m telling you now.” He moves over to the sofa and sits. “Unless you don’t want to?”

  “I just hadn’t thought of making it official. I thought things were pretty good as they are.”

  “Things are great. But you’re sleeping at my house every night anyway. And you’re already using this house as your office. Why not move in for real? When we get married, you’re going to be living there anyway.”

  Emma can’t breathe. “What did you say?”

  Dominic speaks very slowly, as if he were talking to a small child. “I said, when we get married, we’re going to be living together anyway, so we may as well live together now. Or in the spring. Whatever.”

  A slow grin spreads itself on Emma’s face. “Are you proposing?”

  “No!” Dominic frowns. “When I propose it won’t be like this. I’m going to have champagne, flowers, a ring . . . the whole damn thing.” He watches her face, nervous now. “That is the plan, though, isn’t it? We are doing this, aren’t we?”

  “Doing what?”

  “This. The whole thing. Living. Together. Marriage. All of it. This is it for me, Emma. Do you feel the same?”

  Emma never wanted to marry Rufus. She hadn’t thought she wanted to get married at all. But in the past few months, she has been happier than she has ever been.

  “Yes,” she says now, twining her arms around his neck as she kisses him. “I feel the same.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Snow!” Jesse bursts into their room, waking them up.

  Dominic groans, turning over in bed. “Jesse, it’s six thirty-nine in the morning. Go back to sleep.”

  “But it’s snow, Dad! It’s really snowing outside.”

  Emma rolls over with a stretch. “They did say snow was coming.”

  “But not a lot, right? Just a couple of inches?”

  “There’s tons of snow!” says Jesse, running to the window and opening the blinds. “Look!”

  Outside is a blizzard of white. Emma puts her feet on the floor and shivers, wrapping her arms around herself. It’s late November, too early, surely, for a serious snowfall.

  Jesse grabs her hand and drags her to the window. As she stands there, a huge smile creases her face, and she’s filled with childlike joy at the sight of the fat, fluffy flakes swirling outside. She squints at the pots in the garden. There’s probably at least eight inches already.

  “This is serious snow, Dominic,” she says, turning to him.

  “Three inches?”

  “At least eight. Maybe more. And it’s coming down fast.”

  “Aw, shit,” he groans, covering his face with the pillow. “That means serious work.”

  “Work?”

  “Who do you think is going to be shoveling and clearing the snow? We had a huge snowstorm a few years ago and the roof collapsed. I’ll have to clear it off the roof if I don’t want a repeat of that experience. Maybe I’ll call my buddy Glenn. He has a snowplow on his truck, and he can do the driveway. So much for a lazy day.”

  “Dad? Dad?” Jesse dances up to his side of the bed. “Can we build a snow fort? Please? You said you would build a snow fort with me the next time it snows.”

  “I never said that,” says Dominic. “When did I say that?”

  “You did. You always say that. Will you? Can you get up now? Can we build a snow fort now?”

  “We can’t build a snow fort until it stops snowing,” says Dominic as Jesse’s face falls.

  “Can I go and play in the snow, though?” he says finally. “Until it stops snowing?”

  “Sure,” says Dominic.

  “Do you have snow boots?” asks Emma. “And snow pants?”

  “I have boots!” says Jesse. “And jeans.”

  As Jesse runs out of the room, Dominic pulls Emma in for a cuddle. “He’ll be fine,” he says. “He’ll come in when he’s wet and cold.”

  “You’re tough.” Emma snuggles against him. “I really think he should have a hat and gloves, though. And snow pants. I don’t want him to get too chilled.”

  “I know. We have the hat and gloves, but we don’t have snow pants that fit him. We’ll get a pair this weekend, okay? Look, don’t worry. I guarantee he’ll be back inside asking for hot cocoa in about five minutes.” Dominic groans. “Oh God, I hate the snow.”

  Emma is shocked. “How can you hate the snow? I love the snow! It’s the best thing about living here. Look at those gorgeous fat flakes. It’s magical!”

  “Yeah, the first snowfall is cool, I’ll give you that, but then there’s the work, and the weeks of filthy snow and gravel and sand piled up on every sidewalk. Ugh. Give me summer anytime.”

  “I can help you,” says Emma. “With the shoveling.”

  “Nah. You can make the cocoa, though.” Dominic smiles, pulling her in for a kiss. “Do we have time for . . .”

  Emma laughs softly as she moves a hand down his thigh, behind him to cup his buttock and pull him in. “We always have time for that.”

  • • •

  “Where’s Dad?”

  Jesse played in the snow for almost exactly five minutes, just as Dominic predicted. He has had his cocoa, made popcorn, helped build a fire, and is now watching a movie. He’s itching to go out and build a snow fort, but the snow has not yet stopped.

  “Dad’s shoveling snow,” Emma says. Like he’s been doing the past three hours, she thinks to herself. She has to admit that she had no idea how much work this involved. They don’t have snow in England, not proper snow, like here. She remembers the occasional light dusting when she was young, and going sledging—sledding, they say over here, she reminds herself—on flattened empty salt bags, feeling every bump as they careened down the hill, shrieking with excitement.

  “Want me to get him?” she says, pouring the leftover cocoa in a travel mug to take out to him.

  “Yeah,” says Jesse, already reimmersed in his movie. “Tell him to come help me build a snow fort.”

  “It’s still snowing.” Emma laughs. “He did say not until the snow stops falling. But I’ll tell him.”

  Emma puts her coat and boots on, and finds a hat lurking in the back of the hall closet. The only gloves she can find are Dominic’s yellow deerskin work gloves, so she puts them on and steps out the front door, pausing to take in the sight.

  The blanket of quiet takes her breath away. The snow is still falling—smaller flakes now, not as wet and heavy—but they’re swirling in the wind, and there is absolute silence. The roads have been plowed, but the tracks have long since been covered over, and every tree branch has a thick duvet of white.

 
Dominic has shoveled the path to the driveway. He has been meticulous, leaving straight lines on either side. Emma walks up the path, stepping over the short picket fence dividing their two houses, following footsteps in the snow around to the back.

  Through the garden gate, she pauses for a minute, her eyes trying to adjust to what she sees. Everything is white, apart from a black shape on the ground, covered in a thin dusting.

  She moves closer, her brain not computing what that shape is, the only thing that shape can be. It is only when she reaches it that her heart stops, and she sinks to her knees next to Dominic, lying still, in the soft, soft snow.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be fine.

  How could it be anything other than fine?

  Emma rocks back and forth in the snow, waiting for the ambulance to arrive, holding Dominic’s hand, an unnatural calm coming over her; this is not how she would ever have expected to react in the face of something so potentially terrible, but she is almost numb.

  She had phoned Sophie, her voice shaking with fear, to ask her to come and take Jesse. She told her briefly what had happened. Dominic must have been shoveling snow from the roof; he must have slipped and fallen. No, there was no blood. Yes, she was sure he was just unconscious; he was breathing. The ambulance was on its way. Jesse shouldn’t know anything, not until they knew what was going on.

  Emma keeps rocking, keeps murmuring.

  Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay.

  She senses a movement, and her heart leaps as Dominic stirs, then opens his eyes. Emma sinks with relief before bursting into tears.

  “Ah, damn it,” he says, struggling to sit up. “That’ll show me, climbing on the roof in this weather. I slipped. Thank Christ it’s snowing. It cushioned me.”

  They both pause at the sound of sirens. “I called an ambulance.” Emma is almost giddy with relief. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “We can tell them to leave.” Dominic stands. “I just have a headache. I’m fine.”

  The ambulance workers arrive and check his vitals. He seems fine. They declare him possibly the luckiest man in the world. He has what they describe as an “epic” bump, and just to be on the safe side they’re going to bring him in to the ER. Just in case.

  “I don’t need to go to the ER,” says Dominic.

  But Emma insists. He must go, she says. He should let the experts check him out, check to make sure everything is fine. Reluctantly, he allows her to lead him to the ambulance.

  Sophie pulls up just as they are about to close the ambulance doors. She can hear Dominic arguing with the paramedics from inside. She leans her head inside.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be dead?” Sophie asks him.

  Dominic extends his arms. “It’s the second coming.”

  “That’s funny. But not really. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But your friend here”—he looks at Emma with a tender, if exasperated smile—“is making me go to the ER, just to be sure.”

  “So I’ll take Jesse?” Sophie looks at Emma for confirmation, and Emma nods from inside the ambulance as they close the doors.

  Despite the snow, they get there in no time. The roads were empty, and the ambulance had four-wheel drive. There is no wait today. Dominic is brought straight into an examining room, where he’s looked over and declared to be extraordinarily lucky.

  “I do want you to have a CAT scan,” says the doctor, a young man, too young, thinks Emma, to be a doctor. “Just to be on the safe side. We want to be certain we’re not missing anything. I’m sure everything in there is absolutely fine, but let’s not leave any doubt.”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you that nothing in there is fine,” says Dominic, “according to my girlfriend.”

  The doctor laughs.

  “I really do feel okay, though,” says Dominic. “Can’t I just leave? I can come back to the hospital if the headache gets worse.”

  “We need to make sure the headache isn’t a sign of anything more serious,” says the doctor. “With any luck, after the CAT scan you’ll be good to go.

  Emma sits in the waiting room as Dominic is taken upstairs, scrolling through her phone, exhausted suddenly from the surge of fear, adrenaline, and relief that has swamped her system.

  There is a knock on the door. It is the young doctor.

  “Mrs. DiFranco?”

  Emma is about to explain they are not married, that her last name is Montague, but it is irrelevant. His face is serious, far more serious than it was earlier. She nods, more terrified than she had been before.

  “Your husband is out of the CAT scan, but now he’s being seen by the neurosurgeon. During the scan we found a small tear in one of his arteries, and some bleeding around the outside of the brain.”

  Emma stares at him. “What does that mean? You can stop the bleeding, can’t you? He’s going to be fine. Isn’t he?”

  The doctor’s face is grave. “He’s going to need surgery, and the neurosurgeon is on his way down to come and see you. He’ll explain the procedure in more detail, but essentially it involves drilling a hole in the skull to try to evacuate the hematoma and relieve the pressure.”

  Emma nods, numb. “Can I see him?”

  “He’s being prepped for surgery. But he’s not conscious.” He takes a deep breath, as if he doesn’t want to convey more bad news. “I’m afraid he lost consciousness during the scan.”

  The surgeon speaks to Emma briefly, but as soon as he walks away, she realizes she hasn’t heard anything he said. Words flutter around her brain like confetti. Hematoma. Herniation. Burr hole.

  But then a fragment of their conversation comes back to her. He mentioned—she is sure of it—that the prognosis was better given that Dominic had had a lucid period. Hadn’t he? Had she imagined that?

  She is shivering, so she puts Dominic’s coat on to keep her warm, and in his pocket she finds his phone. She scrolls through his contacts, looking for his parents’ number. Dominic may not be close to them, may only see them sporadically, but they need to know what’s happened.

  They arrive an hour later, moving slowly down the hallway, fear in their eyes. They seemed so intimidating the one time she had met them, but here, under these fluorescent lights, walking so tentatively down the corridor, they look frail and frightened.

  “Mr. and Mrs. DiFranco.” Emma gets up from her chair in the waiting room. They turn to look at her blankly, with clearly no idea who she is.

  “I’m Emma. I’m the one who phoned you. We met a few—” She stops. It’s not important. “Dominic is about to come out of surgery.” She explains what the doctors are doing, removing the hematoma, drilling a hole in his skull to relieve the pressure, while his parents stare at her like rabbits caught in headlights.

  She doesn’t tell them that she has spent the past hour looking up epidural hematomas on her phone. She doesn’t tell them that she is terrified. She keeps thinking of one phrase that loops over and over in her head: Without prompt medical attention, an epidural hematoma carries a high risk of death. What does prompt mean? she has asked herself over and over. The ambulance came as quickly as it could, given the snow. Was it prompt enough? Please, God, let it have been prompt enough.

  She has no idea how long Dominic had lain there in the snow before she found him. Had it been five minutes? Had it been longer?

  She won’t think about it. She can’t.

  “Is he going to be okay?” says his father.

  “They haven’t said. They did tell me it was good that he was conscious after his fall. But I’m sure he is going to be okay,” says Emma, as tears spring into her eyes. “He’s so strong.”

  His mother nods, just as the surgeon strides down the hallway. “Are you the parents?” He walks over and shakes their hands, then gestures to all of them
to follow him into a tiny private curtained space off the main waiting room.

  “The operation went well,” he says, as Emma closes her eyes in relief. “We drilled a hole in his skull and seem to have successfully removed the hematoma and brought down the swelling. Mr. DiFranco has been taken up to the ICU and we will be giving him medications called hyperosmotic agents, which will further reduce any residual swelling.”

  “Can you tell yet whether there will be any brain damage? Any seizures, or paralysis?” Thanks to her iPhone, Emma knows enough to ask this.

  “It is too early to say,” he says. “The next twenty-four hours are crucial.”

  He offers a few more details to Dominic’s parents—what a hematoma is, how it happened—as Emma sinks back onto the hard seat, drawing her knees into her chest and hugging them. She rests her head on her knees, and turns away from Dominic’s parents and the doctor, as silent tears trickle slowly down her cheeks.

  • • •

  The ICU is quiet. There is a different doctor on the floor now. Emma wanders around the hospital corridors, eventually circling back to the waiting room. Dominic’s parents sit there numbly, nursing cardboard cups of lukewarm coffee, which they aren’t drinking.

  In the early hours of the morning, a nurse pushes the door of the waiting room open.

  “He’s awake,” she says. “Would you like to see him?”

  Emma jumps up, then hesitates. His parents should go first. She’ll accompany them if they invite her.

  But they don’t invite her.

  Emma sinks back into her chair, stung. They don’t know me, she tries to reassure herself. They only met me once, and so briefly. They have no idea what I mean to Dominic, what we mean to each other.

  She stops the nurse by placing a hand on her arm as she is about to head out of the waiting room. “May I go in afterwards?” she asks, so quietly that Dominic’s parents won’t hear.

  The nurse nods with an understanding smile. “Of course.”