by T. D. Jakes
“To the hospital, baby. We got to get your leg fixed.”
But she must have been addled from the pain, because it was like he hadn’t said anything. “Where we going, David? Where we going?” She kept saying it, over and over, like she was talking in her sleep.
Dave patted her hand and wished the ambulance would hurry up and get moving.
Chapter Two
Clarice didn’t remember much about the ride to the hospital; in her mind, the half hour or so after the wreck was a pain-fogged blur of fleeting images and sounds. She didn’t really know much of anything until she was lying on a hard table in the trauma center and two overweight nurses in blue scrubs were bustling around her, talking to each other in terse phrases.
“We’ve got to get that dress off you, honey,” one of them said. “I’m just going to snip it down the front, okay?”
Clarice wondered for a second what they’d do if she told them it wasn’t, but by the time the thought had formed, she felt the pull of the scissors down the bodice of her Ann Taylor dress, felt the cold air of the ER hitting the flesh of her chest, stomach, and thighs.
“Honey, I need to roll you on your left side for a second, okay?” the other one said, then proceeded to lever up Clarice’s right shoulder and hip, like a weight lifter doing curls. She felt something sliding beneath her, then the nurse eased her down. “Okay, now the other side.”
When Clarice’s weight settled on her right leg, she almost passed out. A long, low moan escaped her lips, though she didn’t realize at first she was making the sound. For those few seconds, the pain shooting through her damaged leg was the whole universe.
“I’m sorry, honey,” a nurse said. “I know that hurt, but we’ve got to get this gown on you, okay?”
“Ya’ll need to find something to say besides ‘okay’ when you do something like that to people,” Clarice said through clenched teeth. “It’s not okay.”
“I know, honey. I’m sorry. Now we need to get that bra off.”
At least they unsnapped it instead of cutting. It was her favorite, from Victoria’s Secret. Feeling its lace against her skin always reminded Clarice that she was special, that there was more to her than met the eye.
She started to recall some of the sounds and images from the ambulance ride, from the moments immediately following the collision. Though the impressions were faint, like echoes heard through gauze, she knew the first face she had seen when she regained consciousness was David’s; the first voice that called to her was his. He hadn’t left her side for a moment until the nurses came along and shooed him out of the room while they prepped her for the attending physician. “Reesie,” he’d called her, and “Boo.” The worry was as plain on him as a neon sign blinking on a dark street. Clarice started to feel the beginning twinges of guilt. Just before the wreck, she’d been lecturing him, hadn’t she? She’d been trying to talk him into selling the janitorial business.
Wait a minute, sister! Who’s got the busted leg? Whose best dress just got turned into somebody’s windshield rag? Why are you feeling guilty? What did you do wrong, except ride in a pickup that was running late because of something that wasn’t your fault?
Clarice heard her mother’s voice ringing in her memory: “You got to take care of yourself, girl, you hear me? Ain’t a man in this world gonna give you what you want; you got to get it for yourself. You find something you want, you go and get it, and don’t wait for anybody else to hand it to you, ’cause you liable to be waiting a long time . . .”
Somebody wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her left upper arm. As the cuff began to tighten, one of the nurses held aside the partition to the cubicle and David came in, the anxiety still pasted all over him.
“Boo? How you doing, girl?” He took her hand and stroked it.
“I’m all right, David. Don’t worry. Has the doctor gotten here yet?”
“He’s right in the next room.” He looked up at the nurse. “How’s her blood pressure?”
“Just one thirty-five over seventy-eight. Not bad for somebody who was just in a car wreck.” She patted Clarice on the arm. “Just lie still, honey. Doctor’ll be here in a minute.”
“Like I’ve got a choice,” Clarice said under her breath.
David grinned at her. “There you go. You got some fight left, don’t you?”
Clarice pulled a wry face and stared up at the ceiling. “If I was going to fight, I’d have made somebody pay for that dress they just cut off me.”
“Oh, baby girl, don’t worry about that now. I’ll get you another dress; we got to get that leg taken care of before we think about anything else.”
She looked at him. “David, do you . . .” She gave her head a little shake and looked away.
“What is it, Reesie? Do I what?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really, baby. What?”
She kept her face turned away and let the words come out in a low voice, as emotionless as she could manage. “I was supposed to get the Achievement Award tonight, David, at the dinner.”
“The what?”
“I was the outstanding agent for my office this year. I listed and sold more houses than anybody else in the agency, and just about more than anybody in town, too.”
A few seconds passed, and she wondered if he was going to say anything.
“Well, baby, that’s . . . that’s just great. I’m real proud of you.”
“I was really counting on this dinner, David. And now I’m missing it.”
Another silence. She thought about looking at him, but decided against it. Most likely, she’d be able to read the lack of understanding in his face, and that would just infuriate her, especially now.
“I’m sorry, baby, I really am,” he said finally.
Now he’ll say “but.”
“But . . . don’t you think you ought to spend a little time being thankful you got out with nothing but a broken leg?”
Maybe as many as a hundred thoughts flashed through her mind. Easy for you to say. If you hadn’t been late— This isn’t about me, David, it’s about your complete failure to understand what’s important to me . . . But he was right, of course, wasn’t he? In the end, all she could say was “Mmm-hmm.” But her answer didn’t convince anybody, she was sure.
The doctor came in, a young man with a neatly trimmed beard and blond hair. He smiled at Clarice and David as he picked up the chart the nurses had left on the small stand beside the examining table.
“Well, Mrs., uh, Johnson, it looks like you’ve got a banged-up leg,” he said, taking a stethoscope out of the side pocket of his coat and warming it on his palm. “Take a couple of deep breaths for me,” he said, positioning the scope just beneath Clarice’s left collarbone. “Again . . . one more time.” He moved to the other side and repeated the process, then had David support her shoulders as he placed the scope in a couple of places on either side of her backbone.
He undid the Velcro straps on the inflatable cast and carefully laid it open without moving her leg. He nodded. “Yep, that’s a dandy. I’m going to write an order to get you straight over to orthopedics so they can assess this leg. The way it looks, they may have to pin it.”
“What does that mean?” David asked.
“They won’t know for sure until they get back an X-ray,” the doctor said, “but I’m guessing this leg is fractured in several places. It’s likely a simple cast won’t hold the bone fragments in place for proper healing. If that’s true, they’ll either insert pins above and below the break and stabilize the bone with external rods, or they’ll screw plates into the bone to hold it all together for healing.”
David looked at her, and Clarice knew what he wanted to see: need, helplessness, and a longing for reassurance. Instead she shot him back the strongest, most determined face she could muster. “Well, let’s get on with it then,” she said to the doctor without taking her eyes off her husband. “The sooner, the better.”
She saw David’s shoulders sag, and even t
hough he gave her a sad little smile and a thumbs-up, Clarice knew she’d just taken something away from him. Why couldn’t she let herself need him—even with a broken leg?
“The good news is, there’s no broken skin, so infection shouldn’t be as great a problem,” the doctor said. “But my guess is you’re going into surgery before you get out of here. Sorry,” he said, giving them a little smile. “Still, you’re pretty lucky, Mrs. Johnson. It sure could’ve been worse.”
“Yeah. It’s a good thing we were in the pickup, instead of your Accord,” David added. Clarice pinched her lips together, even as she gave him a tight little nod of agreement. He knew she didn’t like riding in that pickup.
They wrapped the inflatable cast back around her leg and propped her leg up on some pillows. David followed behind as the nurses wheeled Clarice down a succession of hallways and through several swinging doors until they reached the orthopedics area. An orderly with “S. Khan” on his name badge took her orders from one of the nurses and went through a doorway. He came back a few minutes later and wheeled her into a dimly lit room with a metal table in the center of the floor. Hanging above the table like some torture device from a medieval dungeon was the boom and mortar-shaped lens of an X-ray machine. When the orderly and two nurses moved her from the gurney onto the table, Clarice wasn’t sure which was worse—the pain in her leg as they moved her, or the shock of the cold metal table against the skin of her back.
The nurses draped a lead blanket over her torso and the orderly positioned the X-ray machine over her right shin. They removed the splint and everyone disappeared behind some kind of barrier. She heard the X-ray machine hum and click. They repeated the process two more times as the orderly took X-rays from both sides of her leg. Then the nurses came back and moved her back onto the gurney.
They wheeled her back into the hallway and David fell in beside them.
“You okay, baby?”
“Yes, David. I’m fine.”
By now, the small of her back was aching from lying flat all this time. When they reached the waiting area, David got the orderly to raise the gurney so she could sit up just a little; they propped her leg with pillows again. After about half an hour, a doctor came in holding three glossy black X-ray negatives. He clipped them onto a light box and the orderly dimmed the room’s lights.
Despite knowing what she was likely to see, Clarice still couldn’t help sucking in her breath when the image came into view. Her right shinbone was in three pieces; the jagged edges of the breaks were visible on the screen, like tiny saw teeth inside her leg. The pieces of bone were angled back and forth, like wrecked cars after a multiple-vehicle accident. And the side views showed the smaller bone of her shin was broken as well.
“Your right tibia is fractured in three places,” the doctor said. “Here, about an inch below your knee; here, about four inches farther down; and here, about two inches above your ankle. And your fibula is snapped about halfway down. Fortunately, it’s a cleaner break.
“You’re really lucky your knee and ankle joints are unharmed. But it’s still going to be a long haul, most likely.”
“How long?” David asked.
“Well, it all depends on how serious you are about your follow-up therapy,” the doctor said. “But I’d guess we’re looking at, minimum, four months to let the bones knit thoroughly and then probably eight months to a year to regain full use of the leg.”
David looked at her. Clarice felt herself wilting inside. A year? She tried to picture herself showing houses from a wheelchair or hobbling around on crutches while her buyers watched. This was going to set her back on her goals . . .
And then she hardened herself. Fine. If the doctor said it would be a year, she’d be back to full speed in six months. If there was an award for fastest healing, she was getting it. When the going got tough, the tough got going, right? Excuses were for somebody else. What was that phrase from her motivational CDs? “Loser’s limp.” No loser’s limp for her—figurative or literal.
“How soon can we get into surgery?” Clarice said in her most businesslike voice. “Seems to me like we’re wasting time here.”
Even the doctor looked surprised. She saw the look that passed between him and David. “Well, I can get a surgery team prepping right now,” he said. “But don’t you want a little time to at least talk this over?”
“Doesn’t seem to me like there’s any choice,” Clarice said. “Let’s get it on.”
The doctor looked at David again, then shrugged. He turned to S. Khan. “Let’s get Mrs. Johnson prepped for surgery. I’ll write the orders. And find out who’s the anesthesiologist on call.”
The orderly nodded and started wheeling Clarice away. David laid a hand on her arm. Her husband was looking at her with that sad look of his, halfway between a little boy trying to find his mama and a man whose favorite team is down by two touchdowns with only a minute left to play. “Reesie? You sure about this? You don’t want some time to kind of, you know, brace yourself?”
“What is there to think about, David? The sooner we get started, the sooner I can finish.” She looked up at S. Khan. “Let’s go.”
The gurney moved away and, though she expected David to follow her to the room where they’d prep her for surgery, he didn’t. Her husband stayed behind and Clarice could see him in her mind’s eye standing in the hospital hallway with his arms hanging at his sides, his eyes staring after her until she turned the corner and was gone. For a second or two she wanted to have S. Khan stop the gurney. She wanted to call him and have him with her until the medical people pushed him out. She wanted someone there to call her “Boo” and tell her everything was going to be fine, just fine—even though she already knew it would be.
But she didn’t hesitate. She let S. Khan push the gurney ahead and through the wide, swinging doors. Somebody would send David to her when it was all over. She’d wait until then. There’d be time for David after she’d taken care of what needed to be done.
Dave felt someone move in beside him as he watched Clarice go.
“Your wife seems like a pretty determined lady,” the doctor said.
“You got that right. She’s the strongest woman I ever met. Nothing gon’ get in her way.”
The doctor clapped a hand on Dave’s shoulder. “Well, don’t worry. We’ll take good care of her. I’ve seen worse breaks.”
Dave nodded and tried to smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”
The doctor left him and one of the nurses pointed him down the hallway to the waiting room. The room was empty and Dave slumped down at the end of one of the green vinyl couches. He sorted through the dozen or so dog-eared magazines piled on the end table beside the couch. He found a Sports Illustrated and held onto it a few seconds, before realizing it was over a year old. He tossed it down and leaned his head back against the cushions of the couch, putting his hands over his face.
He pulled in a deep breath and let it out slowly, trying to clear his mind. He glanced at his watch; just two hours had passed since the wreck. It seemed like a week. He thought about all the paperwork they’d get, all the bills that would have to be paid. Somehow, though, none of that mattered so much—or at least it was easy to let go of right now.
The big thing on his mind was Clarice. He knew his wife. She was already fretting about the loss of independence imposed on her by the broken leg. If you wanted Clarice to do something, all you needed to do was let her think you didn’t believe she could. Her sales manager had used this technique on her more than once, Dave guessed.
Dave wondered if she knew how much he wished he could just take her in his arms and rock her like a baby. He wondered if Clarice had any sense of his longing to protect her, to guard her like a pearl of great price. When they were first married, he’d been able to find that soft place in her that wanted to feel safe and cared for. That place was getting harder and harder to find, though. Maybe it was gone. Dave tried to imagine living the rest of his life with a woman who didn’t need him—and who c
ertainly didn’t approve of him as he was. The prospect stretched before him like a long, straight highway into the desert.
They’d gotten married in the church Dave grew up in; he’d attended with his grandmother every time the doors were open. Dave’s main regret was that Granny hadn’t lived long enough to see him happily married.
The minister who performed their service wasn’t the one he remembered from his childhood, but this younger man did something during the ceremony Dave would never forget. He’d draped one end of a gold cord around Dave’s shoulders, then draped the other end around Clarice’s shoulders before reading some verses from Ecclesiastes:
* * *
There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet is there no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good? This is also vanity, yea, it is a sore travail.
Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up.
Again, if two lie together, then they have heat: but how can one be warm alone? And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not [easily] broken.1
* * *
“Dave and Clarice,” he’d said, looking at them, “this cord I’ve just draped across you represents the cord in this passage. I believe the threefold cord the writer mentions is two people, plus God. Sometimes we hear about a ‘love triangle’—we know that means trouble. But I promise you this: A triangle that’s made up of the two of you and God is the best thing there is. As long as you both put God first, your marriage will be a threefold cord that nothing can break.”
Dave remembered turning around, Clarice’s hand in his, at the end of the ceremony. Just before the minister presented them to the audience as Dave and Clarice Johnson, Dave’s eyes had fallen on Clarice’s mother, sitting in the front row. Her arms were tucked up under her elbows and she was as dry-eyed and somber as a judge. She was looking right at him, Dave remembered, with an expression that said, “I hope you’re sure about what you’re doing, boy, ’cause I’m sure not.”