“No. I can’t leave.” She held Maddy’s jacket that Vanessa had left, patting the fleece as though it were her daughter.
“You can’t stay forever,” Ben’s father said in his slow measured tone. “We’ll take this shift.”
“Nobody needs to take a shift. Maddy won’t be alone.” Ben ran a hand over his scratchy chin, surrounded by his own rankness. “I’m here.”
“Of course,” his father said. “But you must clean up. And you need to check on the children.”
“The kids are fine. They’re with Vanessa and Sean. And I already spoke to Emma.”
“Then you and I must go somewhere. Away from this waiting room. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
The Judge glanced over at Anne and stood. Even at seventy-six Ben’s father appeared taller than his actual height. Somehow the Judge always appeared patrician, despite his immigrant roots, while Ben carried the mark of their Roma ancestors in every feature. “There are issues to discuss.”
“My only issue at this moment is Maddy.”
His mother tapped his wrist with two fingers. “Don’t be difficult.”
Ben pulled away, exhaustion and hunger battling inside him. He looked around to see if his parents had brought anything practical: a donut, a muffin, even a glass of juice. Nothing. Just the Judge’s counsel.
Ben followed his father into the hall. The moment they separated from Anne and Ben’s mother, his father’s demeanor went from mannered and concerned to controlled vehemence. “I spoke to your brother. He made some calls. He thinks you could be charged with reckless driving. Driving to endanger.”
Between Jake using his connections to indict Ben and his father calling on his brother Andrew’s second-rate legal skills to help him, he’d be squashed like a bug.
“Under what auspices did you have Andrew speak for me?” When he spoke to his father, Ben became a ridiculous imitation of to-the-manor-born, matching the Judge haughty word for haughty word.
“He’s simply your temporary counsel.”
“If I needed counsel, I would have arranged it.”
Before his father could respond, Jake came toward them, carrying a cardboard box divided into four spaces. Giant white cups took up three of the notches; a grease-stained bag was balanced on top of the fourth. Ben opened the door and followed his father-in-law and father back into the waiting room.
Jake placed the overstuffed box on one of the side tables, then pecked Ben’s mother’s cheek and shook hands with the Judge.
“I am sorry that you must go through this terrible time, Jake,” the Judge said. “Whatever you need, we’re here.”
“Sure, sure. Sorry I didn’t know you were here. I’ll go back and get you both a coffee. Wait. No. Frances, you take mine.”
“We’re fine.” Ben’s mother pressed her hand to her chest—the nervous gesture familiar. “We already reached our limit.”
Anne lifted the cups from the cardboard box. “You didn’t go to the cafeteria?”
“I know you like the Dunkin’s. I figured you’d want a bagel, even if it was from there. I brought Ben an egg-and-cheese.” He turned to his son-in-law. “You didn’t eat last night, right?”
“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.”
He was famished.
Anne ripped open the bag and made a flat paper surface for the food. “Eat.” She put three napkins under the egg sandwich and brought it to Ben. “I’ll get your coffee.”
“He can get his own coffee, Anne.” Jake reached over and grabbed a cup, ripping the lid off with a pop. Anne placed a coffee next to Ben.
Gloom regained control of the room. Anne ignored her bagel. “Oh, God. What are we going to do?”
In answer, Jake put an arm around her. No one else picked up the question.
At the moment when Ben thought he’d suffocate from the stuffy quiet, when the likelihood of his bashing his fist into the wall simply so he could feel the pain seemed imminent, a sober-faced man in his early fifties walked in, carrying charts and authority. Probably Jake’s top doctor. The neurologist.
“Mr. Greene?” The man looked around the room.
Jake stood. “Dr. Kaplan?” The sought-after specialist had pink scrubbed skin. Thick white hair, combed a little long in the back, gave him the look of a symphony conductor.
“How is she?” Jake asked. “Sid told you that nothing should be spared? Nothing?”
Ben put his hand out. “I’m Maddy’s husband. Have you seen her?”
“I spoke to the surgeon,” the doctor began. “Dr. Gordon.”
Anne joined the tight circle. “I’m Maddy’s mother.”
The doctor backed away from the three of them and moved to a center chair, where he commanded the small room. “Everything I say is preliminary. We can’t be sure of anything yet.”
Anne twisted a napkin until paper knots popped. “What do you know?”
“Mrs. Illica’s head trauma caused brain swelling.” Dr. Kaplan opened the chart, ran his fingers along the pages, read some, stopped, and then looked up. “The surgeon removed a blood clot and repaired the damaged blood vessels. She shouldn’t have further bleeding. He inserted a pressure-monitoring device to let us know if her brain starts to swell again. This will look intimidating, but it tells the ICU team if there’s a problem.” He looked around. “Stop me if you have a question.”
“What happens now?” Ben asked.
“We wait.” He paused, perhaps to let them catch up with him, to take it all in. “We won’t know the extent of her injury until she wakes up, which isn’t waking up as you and I know it. Waking from a brain injury is a slow process; we call it emerging. At this stage, I can’t tell you when, or if, that will happen.”
Ben looked at the doctor’s face closely. “Maddy’s in a coma?”
“Your wife had an injury to the temporal lobe. The left side. Right now, yes, she is in a state of coma.”
“State of coma. Coma. Is there a difference?” Panic crept in one limb at a time.
“It means that it’s early and there’s hope.”
Hope. The doctor’s words, meant to be reassuring, terrified Ben. Why did he feel the need to tell them there was hope? Analyzing those words told him that some would say there wasn’t hope. One only said “there is hope” when perhaps there wasn’t. When one possibility was “hopeless.”
“You can see her now, Mr. Illica,” the doctor said.
• • •
He couldn’t take in the whole picture when he finally saw Maddy. For many minutes, Ben could only look at one part of her at a time.
Had they drained too much blood during the operation? Her skin was the color of oatmeal. Tubes snaked in and out of her; machinery surrounded her. There was no place to touch her. Thick elastic stockings and white plastic boots hissing in and out with air covered her feet. Finally, Ben touched the end of her pinkie. How could he let Anne come in? Or, God forbid, Emma? Maddy’s head wrapped in gauze—Jesus, had they shaved her head?
Her hair was so fucking beautiful, even though she always complained about it. Too frizzy. Too curly. But Ben loved her hair. Had he told her? In the last ten years, had he even mentioned it?
He sensed someone behind him and turned. “I’m Bernadette,” said the woman. “Your wife’s nurse.” She wore pink scrubs. “Do you have any questions?”
Ben searched for the right words, wanting her to know that this woman, this object lying here in the bed, held his vivid Maddy. That she had people, family all around her who would ask questions, who cared, who’d pummel the staff with questions until they answered. Did Ben have a question? How could he possibly pick one out of an entire Bible of hopeless queries?
“Is she okay?” Ben made a half circle over the machines around Maddy. “I mean . . . I know she isn’t okay. But is she comfortable? Is she in pain?”
“She seems peaceful, Mr. Illica.”
“Ben. Please. Call me Ben,” he said. To his shame, a tear leaked out. Bernadette put her
hand on his back.
“Please . . .” He couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell her not to be nice, certain that her kindness would bring on more tears.
“It’s okay, Ben. When you can’t cry, that’s when you have a problem.”
He had no idea if that was true or just some sort of nurse bullshit, but it soothed him. Each time he looked at Maddy, he noticed another horrifying piece of equipment attached to her that struck him cold. “What’s that?” He pointed at a cuplike disc attached to Maddy’s head, thick tubes coming out the top.
“That’s the one that always scares people. It looks terrible, I know, but at the moment it’s your wife’s best friend. It’s an intracranial pressure monitor.”
Ben nodded, vaguely remembering the doctor’s words. Pressure monitor. Sweet Jesus, look at her. He held the tip of her pinkie again, rolling his fingers over the rubbery flesh. What were his last words to Maddy? He’d been so angry with her. Jake had hit it on the head: Ben was a fucking putz. A perfect definition of someone who paid more attention to his clients than he did his family: a fucking putz.
“. . . it will beep if that happens. She’s intubated to guarantee an airway until we know she’s breathing on her own.”
Ben nodded. “Right.” Sharpen up! He hadn’t heard a goddamned word.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” She touched him again—they must learn that, the soft touch, the nod. “It’s only ten minutes to each visitor.”
Right.
“And Ben, here’s a little advice from someone who has worked in ICU for fifteen years.”
Ben, wary of her words, eager for her help, leaned in. In the last ten minutes Bernadette had become his world.
“Go home.” Bernadette placed a hand on his arm. “Take a shower. Sleep. This isn’t going to be an overnight crisis. You’re in shock. You’re hurt yourself; you were also in an accident—”
“Caused an accident,” he said, spilling to this nurse confessor.
Bernadette took his hand. “Never assume she can’t hear. She may be taking in every word you say. So don’t raise your voice. Don’t speak without thinking. She’s here to heal. Now say good-bye, let your in-laws in, go home, and get rest so you can be strong for Madeline.”
“Maddy.”
“Thank you.” She placed a hand on Maddy’s thigh. “Maddy. I’ll let the other nurses and doctors know.”
• • •
Ben couldn’t handle any more caffeine; his stomach already felt as though it had been corroded by sulfuric acid. He glanced at the cafeteria offerings, wondering how sick people were supposed to get healthy while being offered this shit: donuts, cookies, greasy pressed mystery-meat sandwiches. Finally, he grabbed a carton of milk, paid, and looked for his father.
The Judge sat at a corner table, sipping his own carton. The Judge had ulcers. No doubt Ben’s were waiting twenty years from now. Ben sat at the none-too-clean plastic table.
“You’d think they’d keep a hospital cafeteria cleaner.” Ben brushed away crumbs with a napkin. Conversations with his father came in fits and starts, if at all.
“Look at this.” The Judge shook a copy of the Boston Herald in his face. No wonder his father had dragged him to the cafeteria. A photo of the accident scene took up a quarter of the page. Reading the headline made him want to flip over the table.
Accident on Jamaicaway: Senior Public Defender Driving to Endanger?
“Jesus fucking Christ. Bastards.” Ben pushed the paper away and slammed back in the cafeteria chair. “What if the kids see this?”
“Are you surprised?” the Judge asked. “It’s August. Slow news month. Didn’t you realize this would happen? Do you think that your actions have no consequences?”
Ben wanted to belt his father in the chin. “You think lectures will help me? Maddy? Or the kids?”
His father sat up even straighter. “Can we deal with realities and duties? Leave the drama for later?”
“Listen, Dad. I need—”
His father placed his hand hard on the table. “Enough. It doesn’t matter what we need. We need to keep you from a court case. That’s what we need.”
• • •
Ben’s house was just as he’d left it twenty-seven hours ago. Hot. Airless. Windows shut against rain, Gracie’s book on the hallway bench. Breakfast dishes littered the kitchen table. An inch of cold coffee sat on the bottom of the carafe. Ben picked up a crumpled napkin, stepped on the garbage can lever, balled up the paper, and threw it in. Hunger gnawed, and he grabbed the peanut butter out of the refrigerator. The fucking bread tore when he tried to make a sandwich. He took only a few bites of the cold peanut butter spread on stale bread before he tossed it on the table.
An individual pack of chips Maddy used for the kids’ lunches caught his eye, no doubt left on the counter during the morning rush. Yesterday. A thousand years ago. Had one of the kids’ lunches been short a snack?
He ripped open the small package and ate the greasy chips in three handfuls. Then he put his mouth under the faucet, drank, washed days of filmy residue from his mouth, and went upstairs.
Files were scattered across the unmade bed where he’d left them. He pushed everything over and forced his shoes off with his toes. As he fell across the bed, he tore a loose page, a file escapee.
Visions of the accident looped. He probed for every mistake he’d made, where he should have gone faster, slower, moved up, back. Headline: Husband Puts Wife in Coma.
Lying on his stomach wasn’t tolerable. He rolled over. The number 23 blinked on the base of the phone unit. Twenty-three messages. He struggled up to get the phone and then fell back. Screw it. The hospital had his cell. The kids had his cell. He took it out of his pocket, flipped it open, and ran through the calls. No hospital. Kath. He’d call her later. Emma twice. He listened to the last one. She wanted to talk to him, but she was okay. He’d call her soon.
His head was killing him. His ribs were killing him. Visions were killing him. He’d just close his eyes for a minute. Please live, Maddy. Please be okay. Oh, dear Jesus up above, please, please, please, please, please.
CHAPTER 11
Emma
Emma called her father. Again. She slouched at the table, picking at a dried cereal flake stuck to Melody’s high chair, listening to her father’s cell phone ringing in her ear until his voicemail picked up for the tenth time.
“Daddy. Call me back. Where are you?” She closed her phone and held it, not wanting to let go of her only connection.
The kids were watching television.
There was no one to talk to, no one to answer her questions. Uncle Sean went to work after all, needing to cover for Grandpa, who was at the hospital with Grandma and Aunt Vanessa, who’d dropped Ursula at nursery school. Some old-lady babysitter was here, but just for baby Melody—Emma was in charge of Gracie and Caleb.
She opened the phone, hating to do it, and dialed her aunt.
“Aunt Vanessa? It’s Emma.”
“What’s wrong?” Aunt Vanessa asked. “Do you need anything?”
“Is Dad there?”
“No.”
“Can I talk to Grandma?”
“Who is it?” Emma heard her grandmother in the background.
“Just Emma.”
“Give me the phone,” Grandma said.
“Hold on, hon.” Aunt Vanessa sounded tired.
Emma put her feet up and leaned her head on her knees. The small pink mark where she’d picked off a scab, the one her mother had told her to leave alone, was turning silvery.
“Emma, it’s Grandma.”
“Grandma, where’s my father?” Emma choked out the words around her tears. “He didn’t answer the phone.”
“It’s okay. Daddy went home to sleep. He’s exhausted.”
“Is Mom awake?”
“Not yet.”
“Is she going to wake up?”
Emma heard an intake of breath, but her grandmother didn’t answer.
&
nbsp; “Is she in a coma?” Emma looked over at the notebook she’d placed on the kitchen table. “Did they do a Glasgow score yet?”
“A what? Tell me.”
Emma cleared her throat and read her notes aloud: “Listen. The simplest bedside clinical exam performed in TBI—that means traumatic brain injury—is the Glasgow coma score, evaluating eye opening ability, vocal or verbal ability, and best movement ability. Do you want me to read the rest?”
“How long is it? Shush, Vanessa. Sorry, darling.”
“There are only a few more lines.”
“Go ahead.”
Emma blew her nose, cleared her throat, and continued. “The scores range from 3, which indicates no detectable function, to 15, which indicates fully alert. A score of 8 or less indicates coma. A single score cannot predict an outcome or prognosis, but a series of scores over a period of time indicates a trend. That’s it.”
“And that’s called what?”
“Glasgow coma score.”
“Glasgow like in Scotland?”
“I don’t know. I guess. But it says it’s the main test.”
“Glasgow. Okay, Grandpa and I will ask. Did you find it on the computer?”
“I want to come to the hospital. I can take the train. I know how to get there.”
“Daddy doesn’t want you to come here, sweetheart. It’s not a good place for you.”
Now Grandma wasn’t even trying to hide her tears.
“It’s okay,” Emma said. “I just got scared for a minute. But I’m okay.” She stood and walked in circles, running her hand over the stove, the counter, picking up the fresh box of Oreos that Uncle Sean had put out for them and then putting it down.
Grandpa’s voice replaced Grandma’s. “Emma, Grandma is upset, baby. She can’t talk anymore.”
“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”
“No, no, it’s not you, darling.” Emma heard his slow deep sigh. “She’s just worried about Mommy. You need to be a brave girl and take care of Caleb and Gracie. We’re counting on you, darling.”
“Okay. I’m okay, Grandpa. Don’t worry.”
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