Our First Christmas

by Lisa Jackson

  “It won’t do any good,” she said, and his eyes flared. There was nothing Adam Newell liked better than a challenge. “Look I’ve already tried.” But her words were ignored as Adam was on his feet and making a beeline toward the unsuspecting woman who handed out the patient numbers. “Adam, please—”

  Too late. He didn’t push to the front of the line, but waited impatiently, hands in his pockets, as an older man who was in front of the desk and obviously hard of hearing was asking the information clerk to speak up for the sixth time.

  A redhead seated across from Megan peered over the top of her beat-up fashion magazine, her eyebrows elevating a fraction as she watched Adam shift from one foot to the other.

  Pushing forty-five Adam was still a handsome man, one who could turn heads. Though there was a bit of gray at his temples and he’d filled out a little over the years, and his face showed a few lines, he was good-looking and cut a striking figure in and out of the courtroom. He realized it and carried himself with the pride of a person who knew his place in the world, a place he’d worked hard to carve for himself.

  This evening, though, his persistence and glib tongue didn’t pay off. The woman behind the desk didn’t and wouldn’t tell him anything more despite the fact that he peppered her with questions.

  “No luck?” Megan guessed as he returned to her side and dropped into the chair he’d recently vacated.

  “Zero.”

  “I just don’t think there is any more information to be had.”

  “Maybe.” He said it as if she’d expected something more from him, as if he thought she believed he could move immovable mountains. Perhaps that had been the crux of her interest in him. Not only had she had girlish fantasies about him in her youth, but she’d seen a man who tried his best, though sometimes his methods weren’t effective or the best choice. Years before, Megan had witnessed Adam try to save his marriage to a woman who had left him abruptly as she’d chased after her own dreams and a college professor who had convinced her to leave her “stick-in-the-mud” husband. Yep, that had been Natalie, ever flighty. Despite having thought she was marrying the love of her life not ten years earlier, she’d packed it in, left Adam a note saying it was over, and taken off for Paris, the city of light or love or whatever and where she now resided long after the college professor had turned his attention to another, younger student.

  Adam, always stalwart, when he’d finally realized his marriage to Natalie was over, had remained single, throwing himself into what had become a successful career and dating a string of girlfriends, not one having lasted more than nine or ten months. And then he’d bought into the law firm where Megan worked just as her own marriage was crumbling. Even though she believed he was a confirmed bachelor, there had been the office flirtation with her, the rekindled fantasy when her own marriage had become rocky. Oh, geez, they were both idiots, she thought, leaning back in the stiff chair. They’d never dated, never kissed, never touched, but there had been an old spark that kept igniting, and, once her divorce was final, she’d thought she might just see what would happen between them. It would be messy, of course, probably too messy, with Adam still Chris’s cousin and her kids remembering him as having been married to Natalie years before, but Megan would be lying if she said she hadn’t considered what it would be like to be with him. To cut loose. To let the wild child within her free, if only for a few short nights.

  Now, however, under the harsh glare of the waiting room lights, with Chris fighting for his life, she wondered what she’d been thinking. What kind of dangerous fantasies had she let grow in her imagination? All because she’d been unhappy. All because the romance had seemed to disappear from her relationship with her husband. All because she’d become lonely once the kids had moved out.

  Foolish, foolish woman.

  Did it really take a tragedy to wake her up?

  How sad. How clichéd. How downright stupid.

  “I don’t suppose you called Natalie?” he asked. From the corner of her eye she saw the furrow of his brow.

  “Texted,” she said. “Time difference.”

  “Your dad?”

  “Not yet, but I did send a quick note to Chris’s parents.” She glanced at Adam. “I’m surprised they haven’t called. As for Dad”—she sighed, not looking forward to that conversation and all the questions—“I’ll deal with him later, once I know more . . . oh!” She looked at the chart again and saw that Chris’s status had changed from the blue square of surgery to the green of recovery. Her heart did a little leap. That had to be a good sign, right? Her husband was on the right track? “He’s out of surgery.”

  “Thank God.” Adam’s phone beeped as he gazed at the chart. He yanked the phone from his jacket pocket, his eyebrows drawing together as he read the number on his phone’s screen. “Looks like I’d better take this.” As he pressed the phone to his ear, he answered. “Hey.” Then he obviously saw the sign indicating that cell phones were banned in the room. With a nod to Megan he made his way to the hallway, his voice barely audible, the words indistinguishable.

  Surprisingly, she was relieved that he was gone and she was alone again. She didn’t need to deal with Adam Newell and how he’d woven his way in and out of the periphery of her life. Not now.

  “Mrs. Johnson?”

  Megan looked up to find a woman in scrubs in the doorway searching the faces in the room. On her feet in an instant, she said, “I’m Megan Johnson.”

  “Dr. Atwood.” Probably in her late forties, she was a trim woman with serious blue eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a dimpled chin. Her hair was hidden as it was pinned beneath a surgical cap, and she didn’t smile.

  Megan’s stomach knotted. “How is he?”

  “It’s serious, but he’s stable,” she said. “We can talk in one of the consultation rooms.”

  “He’s going to make it?”

  The doctor didn’t immediately answer, but led her down the hallway and around a corner and through another waiting area to a small office not much larger than a closet. Dr. Atwood took one of the chairs by a slim table and Megan sat in the other, facing the woman as she pulled off the cap, letting it dangle at her neck, her ash-blond hair still restrained by bands.

  “Your husband hasn’t regained consciousness and might not for a while,” she said, leaning her elbows on the table. “He suffered a head injury along with several broken bones in his pelvis. Both femurs were broken, his left more substantially, and he had some internal bleeding. . . .” She went on to describe Chris’s injuries in medical terms and even showed Megan several X-rays, all of which caused Meg to cringe inside. Dear God, the extent of his injuries was phenomenal, but then, though the doctor didn’t say it, Chris was lucky to be alive. “. . . To sum it up, he’s in for a long haul.” She left out the if he does survive. “Possibly another surgery to his pelvis, and with head injuries a lot is uncertain. When he is well enough to leave here, he’ll probably need to spend some time in a rehab facility for intense physical therapy, then once he transfers back home, he’ll need in-home care, if that’s possible.”

  “Absolutely,” Megan said without so much as a blink. “Whatever he needs.”

  “Good. Good. He’ll be in ICU until he can be transferred to his own room, and I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you exactly when that will be. If you have any questions, please, call the office.” And then she was gone, leaving Megan alone in the small room. She closed the door behind the doctor and slid back into the chair. Alone for the first time since storming into the hospital, she dropped her head into her hands and let the tears flow, feeling the release and hoping beyond hope that Chris would survive. She’d been selfish, she thought, and possibly he had, too. Now, it was time to heal, not only his broken body but both their scarred hearts.

  If it was possible.

  Two hours later, in the intensive care unit, Megan stared down at the broken body of her husband and reached for his fingers. He was hooked up to tubes and wires, and an IV hung over his bed to drip f
luids into his body, with computer monitors recording his heartbeats and other information she didn’t pretend to understand. He wasn’t alone, but cordoned off from the other patients by long curtains, the beds in the unit fanning out from a central nurses’ station where each patient’s vital signs and needs were accessed and controlled.

  “Chris?” she said softy, all too aware of the lack of privacy. Five of the seven beds were occupied, a few other loved ones visiting for the allowed ten minutes per hour, nurses moving quietly from one patient to the next. “Honey, can you hear me?” She touched his fingers and expected some response, a change in the beeping of his heart rate, the miraculous fluttering of his eyes opening, the monitors strapped to him going as crazy as a million-dollar slot machine payout. But nothing happened, and the man on the bed, his head bandaged, his legs wrapped and elevated, didn’t move. At all.

  Nothing changed.

  Invisible bands tightened over her chest.

  “Chris, honey, it’s Meg,” she said, her throat thick and those damned tears she swore she was through shedding burning her eyes again. “I’m here, and I want you to know . . . I want you to believe that . . . that I love you. I always have.” She blinked, trying not to dwell on the past two years, the way they’d both faltered and fallen away from each other. “I know that we lost our way, but that’s over. Get well, darling, please,” she said, and then, spying a nurse heading in her direction, gave his fingers a squeeze. “I’ll be back.”

  She left wishing that he’d heard her, hoping somehow her words had pierced the unconsciousness, but of course, his condition hadn’t altered in the least. Her allotted minutes had passed, and numbly she left his bedside.

  When she reached the waiting area outside the intensive care unit, Adam was leaning against a heat register near the windows and looking outside to the view of the parking area at night. Several other people were waiting as well, a teenager slouched in a chair, his feet propped on a table as he played some game on his iPhone, his mother nearby reading a Bible. Another woman was knitting, and the harried mother of a squirming two-year-old was pale and wan, brightening when a man in his twenties hurried from the area near the vending machines, a package of crackers in his hand.

  Adam turned, catching her reflection in the glass.

  Before he could ask, she said, “He’s still unconscious. No change.” Reading another question in his eyes, she added, “No one’s giving me any clues as to when he might wake up. They just don’t know.”

  He nodded slowly, processing, then looked at her intently again. “So how’re you holding up?”

  “Not very well,” she admitted, her voice cracking a bit. Too late she realized he intended to embrace her, but she was too exhausted to care; she needed the support. Thankfully the hug was only brotherly, compassion for another person who was suffering, two people holding each other up as they worried about a loved one. “You should go home, get some rest,” he said, his breath moving her hair. Vaguely she was aware of the woman who’d been knitting watching them. Who cared?

  “Not yet.” She shook her head. “The kids texted. They’re on their way. And . . . and I can’t. I just can’t. They’ll let me see him in another hour, and I want to stay.”

  “But you need to keep your strength up. When was the last time you ate?”

  When had it been? “Lunch, I guess.” She stepped away from him. “Don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I’m tougher than I look.”

  “If you say so.” He hesitated, still close enough that she noticed the shadow of his beard darkening, then said, “Natalie’s coming back.”

  “What?”

  “She called earlier. From the airport. Flying standby.”

  Megan couldn’t believe it, but felt a moment’s ray of hope. God, she’d missed her sister.

  “She’ll be here in a few hours. I’m picking her up at the airport.” He smiled then, a smile she hadn’t seen in years, the one that had been reserved for his wife.

  “Good.” Megan gave him another hug, and he held her a second longer than necessary. Pulling away, she caught a glimpse of a man heading in their direction, a scraggly-looking dude just getting off the elevators and then, with a jolt, recognized Brody. He was striding purposefully, his gaze focused on his mother.

  “Brody!” Her emotions collided in her chest at the sight of her firstborn. No longer clean-cut and military, he now sported long hair, an unkempt beard, and an army jacket that seemed to swallow him.

  “Mom?” he asked, sending his ex-uncle a sidelong look as she quickly crossed the distance between them and threw her arms around her son. “What’s going on?”

  She’d cautioned both her children against coming, against risking the weather and traffic, but now she was grateful to hold him close. He smelled of cigarettes and something more, but she didn’t analyze it, was just thankful to hug him. “Thank God you’re here.”

  “Is Dad—?”

  “Doing as well as can be expected, I think,” she said, blinking quickly and clearing her throat, her thoughts turning to Chris, lying unmoving on the hospital bed still in critical condition, as she released her son.

  “Can I see him?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. Family is allowed, but only for a few minutes every hour and . . . brace yourself. He’s still unconscious and has so many injuries and—”

  ”And I can handle it,” Brody cut in, and held her gaze for a moment, his back stiffening; beneath the scruffy beard and long hair she glimpsed the army medic who had witnessed more death and injuries than anyone should.

  “Oh, right. Sure.” She managed a thin smile she hoped was encouraging.

  At that moment, Adam stepped up, his hand extended. “Hi, Brody,” he said, flashing a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He looked tired. Worried. Megan realized how much Chris’s accident had taken its toll on Adam. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” Brody’s voice didn’t hold a lot of enthusiasm, but he shook his ex-uncle’s hand, and if Adam noticed a coolness from the younger man, he didn’t comment, just said to Megan, “I’ll be back.”

  “Good.”

  As Adam made his way down the hall to the elevator, Brody’s narrowed eyes followed him. “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Your dad is Adam’s cousin.”

  “I know, but . . .” Brody said, disbelieving, “he works with you, now. Right?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said, not wanting to go “there” with her son. “And he’s off to the airport to meet Natalie.”

  “Aunt Natalie? Like, his ex? Haven’t they been divorced for like ever?”

  “Like, yeah.”

  “You were hugging him.” It wasn’t a question, and he was stone-cold serious, his tone almost militant as a soft chime indicated an elevator car had arrived.

  “We’re supporting each other.” And that’s all, she silently added, because it was the truth. No matter what she’d thought less than twenty-four hours earlier, she realized now how much she loved Chris and hoped with all of her heart that she would be able to tell him, to prove herself, to take another stab at their marriage.

  Somewhere behind her the toddler laughed.

  Since only one person was allowed to see Chris at a time and she’d recently been in the room with her husband, Megan walked Brody to the double doors of the intensive care unit and pressed a button. Seconds later the door swung open and, after a quick explanation to the nurse, Brody was escorted inside by one of the nurses.

  Megan tried to catch a glimpse of Chris in the scant moments the door was open, but the drapes surrounding his bed blocked her view, of course. Not that she would see anything different than she had. If there was any change in his condition, the staff had promised to let her know. So all she could do was wait.

  While Brody was with his father, Megan stretched her legs, walking to a vending area. Once there she saw the less-than-appetizing array of candy and crackers, then settled for a cup of coffee that she carried back to the area of couches, chairs,
and tables that would probably become her home away from home for a while.

  If Chris survived.

  Don’t think that way. He’s going to make it. He has to.

  In the few moments she’d been gone, the waiting area had cleared out. Now only one other person was there; the woman with her softly clicking knitting needles remained working tirelessly as she sat in a chair near a palm tree with skinny fronds.

  Brody had to still be beyond the double doors.

  Good.

  Carrying her cup to the window Megan, as Adam had earlier, stared out at the night. The sky was black, the parking lot now only scattered with a few vehicles. Snow continuing to fall.

  As she took her first sip of the awful brew she heard the elevator doors ding and footsteps moving rapidly from the hallway to the waiting area. “Mom?” Her daughter’s voice announced Lindy’s arrival. The knitting needles quit their quiet clacking as the woman looked up. “Mom!”

  Megan turned, sloshing the coffee at the urgent tone of her daughter’s voice.

  Lindy’s hair was caught in a stocking cap, her ski jacket zipped over a turtleneck and jeans, her face puffy as if from crying, anger and pain radiating from her.

  “Lindy!” Megan’s heart cracked. She stepped toward her daughter before she spied the fistful of papers clenched in her daughter’s gloved hand.

  “What the hell, Mom?” Lindy demanded, dropping her backpack to glare furiously at the woman who had borne her. Her lips barely moved as she said, “Are you really divorcing Dad? I mean, really?”

  Chapter 12

  “What?” Megan said, horrified, as her daughter wagged the crumpled papers in her face. “No!”

  “Then what are these, huh?”

  Megan’s heart sank. She remembered rushing from the house, dropping the papers under the tree when she got the news of Chris’s accident.

  “I just go home to leave my bags, even have the cab wait for me, and when I go inside, the Christmas tree is all lit up and . . . and these damned pages are scattered under it.” Lindy was crying now, tears running down her face.