by Beth Aldrich
“Mrs. Ryan.” A doctor in a white coat taps my shoulder. Dr. Abbot, his tag says. “Do you have a second?”
I stand to meet him and shake hands. “Of course.”
“I’ve been taking care of your husband, Steven, and I wanted to get you up to speed.”
“Yes?” was all I could muster. At this point I want to get the story directly from Steven—or whomever that was talking in my head. Hurry up, doc.
“Steven experienced several internal injuries due to the taxicab accident…”
A cab? Why didn’t he let me or Dad come pick him up at the airport? We should have offered. Hindsight is 20/20, I guess. I visualize a huge Mack Truck smashing into his yellow cab.
The doctor clears his throat. “Mrs. Ryan? Did you hear me? I said, I’m keeping him here under observation in the ICU all day. Currently, he’s unconscious, although we didn’t discover injuries to any major organs. The deep lacerations on his head and body were tended to, so be forewarned that he looks pretty banged up. Until the swelling in his brain goes down, we need to just be patient and wait. He’s being monitored around the clock. I will contact you once we know more. He’s heavily sedated, so he won’t be waking up anytime soon.”
“Okay. Thank you, doctor. I’m just going to sit here with him a little longer and then head home.” I write my information down on a piece of paper. “Here’s my cell phone number and email. Please contact me with updates.” I reply quickly so he’ll leave me alone with Steven. My heart is pounding with the prospect that I will hear him again. I’m craving more silent interaction—at least some form of communication with my husband. I need to know that he’s okay.
Dr. Abbot walks away, his stethoscope springing with each step as it dangles around his neck—the tool that confirms life. It must be arduous for doctors to deal with families of sick people, delivering bad news day in and day out. It takes special people to take on the roles of healers and doctors.
In the stillness, the throbbing in my back and calves takes center stage, while the cold space around my heart fills with more hope than it has in the last twelve hours. The hum-buzz of the machines around me creates a backdrop for a private connection with my spouse. The white noise blank canvas will give the words spilling out of our hearts a page to land on and take shape.
Silence.
Steven, I’m here.
Silence.
Honey, it’s me, and our baby.
Silence.
An hour passes in the dimly lit room with no further connection. My butt is numb, and my eyelids are getting heavy. I could turn on brighter lights but don’t want to draw attention to myself. Maybe the first time I connected with Steven, my mind was playing tricks on me? I look back at the many times I’ve nonverbally communicated with Barney about whether he wants to eat or go outside, or not, without even thinking about it. I wonder if this is similar?
The force of my sigh propels me to push myself up from the chair and walk away. I’ll try this again later.
Betsy! I love you. Steven’s whisper stops me.
Leaning back on my heels, I pivot and jump back in the chair. I get in a square meditative pose, one I learned in meditation class, and begin my balanced breathing. I close my eyes and pray. Dear God, please don’t let this turn out to be my imagination. I need to communicate with my husband. I do love him, despite our problems. I want our marriage to work.
The vanilla-colored walls in Steven’s room are devoid of windows and fresh light so I rely on the blinking screens for illumination. The beeping machines remind me I’m in a place where your name and favorite color don’t matter. It’s about curing disease or prolonging a dance with death. Impersonal or not, this room is sustaining his life. The gentle wisp of his breath is steady, as he says, My girl, Betsy.
I’m here, Steven… please let me know if you are going to be okay.
I don’t know, my love. I’m very tired. I don’t have the energy to move my arms or legs right now.
Silence.
The sandbag on my heart is more than I can bear, but I’m hopeful that tomorrow will bring good news and more communication with him.
“Dad, Mom, I have something to tell you,” I announce, as I enter the side door of my house—a door Steven and I stepped through together so many times before—an entrance to our family and our home together.
We spent over a year and a half going back and forth on the layout and size of the rooms; and negotiated paint colors and trim. After living in a rental home a few blocks away, we were eager to move in and add to our family of three. Our sweet puppy Barney was the perfect child. We’ve celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, and even losing a tooth or two. A collage of memories, define what this home means to me… to us.
“What is it? Tell us.” They reply almost in unison as they leap up to greet me. I’m guessing many years of marriage have that effect on people. When you’re married to a person for so long you start to take on their characteristics in some ways. I almost think they’ve started to look like each other. Now they dress alike in the grandparent uniform: white T-shirt under the requisite button-down shirt, with khakis and white sneakers. It’s the perfect traveler’s outfit, too, which suits their love of adventure these days.
“First, thanks for waiting here for me,” I say. “As you know, Steven is still in the ICU and unconscious.” I can’t believe I’m saying this about my husband. Just last night I was flirting with him, hoping to patch things up. Now, he’s unconscious in the ICU.
“What did the doctor say?” Mom is always so direct and to the point.
“Dr. Abbot told me he’d know more later today, but they didn’t find any damage to any organs, just swelling on his brain due to the accident. He’s being monitored by machines around the clock with the staff all nearby. But Steven told me he could hear me and that he loved me… I mean… I felt that.” My face turns red as I realize how crazy I must sound.
“What?” They have fixed expressions as they pull out chairs to join me at the kitchen table, a table Steven thought would look great in our adjoining living room/kitchen area. A table I thought wouldn’t fit; I was wrong. I was mistaken about many things when it comes to my husband. Was this God’s way of giving me a glimpse into what life would be like without him? Like in A Christmas Carol, when the angel takes Scrooge around town to see how he’s impacted other people’s lives—to see how he could change. Well, it worked. I could change; heck, I am changing. I’m trying to talk to my dog and transmit messages to a comatose husband!
Taking a huge breath and getting centered for what I know won’t be an easy thing to describe, I exhale and begin. “Guys… to clarify, let me explain what happened this morning that, I think, is related to my communication with Steven.”
The look on their faces indicates they’re at least willing to listen.
“I’ve discovered that Barney actually understands me. English, I mean…” They continue to stare at me, gaze unchanged. “Just this morning, after the call from the hospital, I felt such a strong connection to him. I believe he comprehends much of what I’m saying and feeling. He replies with the typical tail wagging and dog-type sounds, but I know he comprehends more.”
“Wait. Stop.” I can’t tell if my dad is being serious. “Can you back up that sentence and explain further? People don’t talk to dogs, Betsy. Get serious. You have a husband in the ICU. Shouldn’t you be focusing on that?”
“Dad, I understand all of that, but there’s nothing I can do about Steven except sit and wait.” I wiggle in my seat and shift my focus from his narrowing eyes to Mom’s more sympathetic gaze. “As far as Barney goes, I’m just telling you what I’m experiencing. Maybe it’s the stress of the stalker, the accident, or the threat of losing the baby. I’m not completely sure. All I know is that my dog seems to react to specific things I say to him, and it’s somehow connected to what’s happening with Steven—I think triggered by the chain of events over the past few days.”
“But—”
My da
d tries to interject, but I continue. “At first I decided that it was just my wishing that he understood me, but then at the hospital, it happened with Steven, too. I understood him. Maybe it’s different than what’s happening with my dog, but both situations seem like ESP.”
They stare at each other for a moment, not saying a word, until my mother finally turns to me and says, “Go on.”
“After I spoke with the doctor, I sat quietly in the room and began zeroing in on Steven. Out of thin air, he told me, in an inside-my-soul kind of way, that he could hear me and that my heart was beating quickly—which it was—and most of all, our baby was there with us and she was fine.”
“Oh, my goodness, you’re having a girl? That’s wonderful!” Dad jumps off his seat to come over and hug me—forgetting about his frustration with me earlier. Right now, he doesn’t care because he’s having a granddaughter. Mom, who shares his enthusiasm, leaps up to join in the hug. After a couple of minutes filled with smiles and cheers, we sit and get back to the story.
“I was excited about my baby girl and wanted to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. But then it was quiet again, almost as if the weird connection with our souls broke off. I thought I was making it up or maybe the trauma of his accident actually did trigger my subconscious mind, and now I have this unusual gift.”
Since they haven’t laughed me out of the room yet, I continue. “I sat there for another hour trying to communicate further, but I got nothing. And then just when I had given up and was leaving, he sent another message to my soul. He told me he loved me.”
“Wow, that is some story, Betsy,” Mom says finally. “It must’ve felt extraordinary communicating with him like that.”
I’m not sure they understand what I’ve just experienced, but they’re trying to respond positively. Just like they’ve done my entire life. How could they understand? Washed with frustration, my heart chills like a glass of cold water is flowing over it—an ache that doesn’t leave. I want my parents to realize what I’ve just experienced, and I want another chance with my husband. I need to work things out. Why is it that when we’re on the brink of death, we finally start to become humane towards each other? Except for Mom and Dad, of course. They’re the only two people I know who can get along after over forty years of marriage.
The Cranstons, on the other hand, always bickered at work. Sure, they loved each other, but bicker, bicker, and bicker. I could hear them from my workstation in the kitchen. It was annoying. Steven and I bicker, too, and it’s just as annoying. Interesting how this tragedy has shined a light on that aspect of my relationship with my husband. I never really looked at it that way. I grab my to-do list from my purse and add Stop bickering with Steven to the top line, and I also add Fix the cracked paint in the powder room lower down the list. Steven is a priority right now.
“Betsy, I’m not sure what to say about that soul business right now, but I want you to know that Steven has been an important part of our family for a long time and we love him. We will pray for him.”
“Thank you, Mom, I appreciate you saying that.”
“Honey,” my dad chimes in, “I want to let you know this morning when we were having breakfast with the boys, they mentioned the police were here last night.” He waits for confirmation I don’t offer up right away. “What happened?”
Mom and Dad listen and watch, intent on making sense out of every word I say, while I fill them in on what they missed yesterday—the spotting, Dr. Deller’s visit, Misty and the pizza party, the new pink slip, and, oh yeah, the police visit.
“This stalker business has to stop, Betsy. What did they say?” My dad slams his fist into his open hand. He didn’t have anything else to say about my communication with Steven, so I’m not going to bring it up again. I have bigger fish to fry.
Knowing that my father is angry because I didn’t share this news with them sooner, I quickly reply, “They said they’ll see what they can do, which won’t be much given we don’t have any physical descriptions of the stalker’s face except for what’s on the video from my surveillance camera. It showed he was wearing a mask, is left-handed, and his approximate height, but that’s it.”
The three of us share a frustrated sigh as I continue. “The officers took the envelopes to the station to see if they could pull any fingerprints or other clues from them, and they told me they would interview some of the neighbors to see if they saw anyone poking around.”
“There has to be someone in this neighborhood who saw this guy grabbing your hidden key or jumping your fence.” The lines on my father’s forehead crease deeper.
“I was planning on going over to the village today to see if their cameras caught anyone on tape, but now with Steven in the ICU on top of everything else, I haven’t had time. I’m sure the police have already checked them, but I want to double check.”
Dad asks, “Did you tell your doctor about the notes while he was here? Or that you received one at his office?”
“No, I didn’t even think of asking, I was more concerned about the baby when he was here. And until I know for sure that the staff in his office are off my suspect list, I don’t want to fill him in, anyway. My main concern while I’m there is to make sure my baby girl is being taken care of.”
“Oh Betsy, I hope your intuition is right… a granddaughter, just imagine! And Steven, well, he will be fit as a fiddle before long, I’m sure of it.” Mom makes everything all right. She always says that fiddle phrase when someone gets sick or has an operation. I remember when Dad had his heart surgery, she would shake off tears and say, “Your father will be fit as a fiddle before you know it, mark my words.” And he was.
“By the way, have you guys talked to Brenda lately?” I change the subject to my sister to lighten my emotional load before I leave to run some errands and pick up my sons at school. “Last I heard she was in Africa, photographing animals for some magazine.”
“Not a peep. I got a text message from her when she was in Tanzania two weeks ago, so I’m due for another text or call from her soon.” Dad reassures me, “I won’t tell her about Steven, unless it’s bad news.” He quickly adds, “Which it won’t be.”
Little do my parents know, last year Steven hit on Brenda at our holiday party. He was a little tipsy; she wasn’t. She doesn’t drink at all, so when her brother-in-law hit on her, it was disgusting. A week later, on New Year’s Eve, she canceled on our family party. Mom and Dad were upset, but I knew something was up. I went into my room and called her, and after endless prodding, she spilled the beans about the unwanted flirting episode. She assured me nothing happened and he’d put a fire extinguisher on it immediately after she told him to back off, but still, it was awful. The heat that rose from my stomach spurred the green-eyed jealousy monster. My resentment from that incident lasted for quite a while, but then I realized nothing happened and eventually I got over it. Steven knows it hurt and he hasn’t gotten drunk or tried anything like that, at least that I know of, since.
I love my sister and I miss her, especially right now. At least I have my parents here for me.
Together we leave the house through the side door and double-check the lock.
I blow them a kiss. “I’m taking Barney with me to run some errands and get the boys. I’ll call you later.”
Carpool pickup line is always a dream. I listen to the radio, something I don’t get to do often, and enjoy privacy in my Lexus’ extremely comfortable bucket seats. When Steven bought me this car, he was so excited about all the research he’d done on what would be the safest and most reliable vehicle, at least according to his findings in Consumer Reports. His top pick was my Lexus. As a busy suburban mom, I need giddy-up—and this bad boy had it. Plus, I love the back cargo hold with the extra space. As I sit in comfort, I realize there have been many Lexus moments with Steven. He’s thoughtful and caring. That side of him gives me hope he, too, will want to work on our fractured relationship.
Barney adores this car as well. He loves rid
ing around with his head sticking out the window. I look over and see him sitting in the passenger seat, panting with his doggy smile as he pops his head out. Together we watch the kids file out of school. It’s warmer than it has been in days, so most of the kids are carrying their jackets and hats. We crazy moms—yes, I admit it—seem to always think they need their jackets, hats, boots, gloves, and scarves if the temperature dips below fifty degrees. In the sea of children, Morgan and Kyle bob over in our direction as I start the ignition. “What should I tell them, Barney?” Not expecting him to answer, I look over at him anyway.
Without hesitation, he replies. Ra-Roo Roo Ruff.
Catching me off guard, but not as stunned as I should be, I smile at him and scratch behind his ears, then push the unlock button for the boys. If dogs could laugh, I would guess Barney is doing that right now—with his tail wiggling and mouth wide open.
As the boys get in the car, they call out, “Hey, Mom.” Kyle takes over the questioning. “How was your meeting?”
“It was fine. How was school? I hope it was awesome!” That’s the best diversion I’ve got. I want to avoid discussing anything about Steven with them. They’re too young to handle it; if they were to see him in the hospital, they’d have nightmares for weeks. Steven looks like one of those guys beaten up in those action movies he loves to watch. The story will be, he’s still out of town. Got it, Betsy?
“Fine, fine,” they reply. Fine, Barney wags.
I casually turn up the radio, and sure enough a song about getting signs from angels comes on the radio. I look over at Barney, then back at the road. My best friend looks at me almost as if he’s admitting that he’s chosen this song specifically for our ride home, and flashes a big, toothy canine smile.