Rules Get Broken

by John Herbert

  I smiled but shook my head. “I can’t do that.”

  “Yes you can. Enjoy the day for both of us, and tell me all about it on Monday.” She reached out for my hand and squeezed it. “Go. It’s okay.”

  She closed her eyes, and a moment later she was asleep.

  We stayed in Peg’s room for over half an hour—my mother in the one chair, my father and I leaning against the windowsill—watching her sleep, not talking for fear of waking her. And when we were finally certain she was asleep and resting comfortably, we tiptoed out of the room, retrieved our car and began another trip home to Long Island.

  Twenty-Nine

  The telephone rang at ten minutes after seven on Sunday, August 17th, as I was about to leave my parents’ house to meet Beth and Dave at the yacht club.

  “Who in hell could be calling at this hour on a Sunday morning?” I asked out loud as I ran to the desk next to the refrigerator, trying to answer the phone before either my folks or the kids woke up.

  “Jesus, maybe it’s about Peg.”

  I picked up the receiver on the third ring, suddenly afraid to put it to my ear. The voice at the other end asked for Mr. Herbert.

  “Which one?” I replied automatically, knowing with a sinking feeling that I recognized the voice.

  “Mr. John Herbert,” the caller answered.

  “Is this Dr. Werner?”

  “Yes, it is,” the caller replied.

  “You’ve got me, Dr. Werner. John Herbert. Is something wrong? Has something happened?”

  “Mr. Herbert, I’m afraid Peggy’s taken a turn for the worse. I think you should come to the hospital right away.”

  My throat tightened. My heart began to race. My pulse pounded in my ears. And in the space of a second or two, question after question rose up in my mind, demanding answers.

  What’s he mean by ‘a turn for the worse’? How bad a turn for the worse? What’s ‘right away’ mean? How much time have I got to get into the city? Is Peg dying?

  But I asked no questions, and Dr. Werner offered nothing more. “I’m on my way,” I heard myself saying instead.

  “Good,” Dr. Werner replied. “I’m leaving for the hospital now and should be there in about thirty minutes. I’ll see you there.”

  He hung up. I stood next to the desk for ten, maybe fifteen seconds, staring at the phone, trying to collect my thoughts. The house was totally quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator next to me. Then, aware that seconds were passing, I turned and ran across the kitchen, through the family room and down the hall to my parents’ bedroom. I knocked hard on the door and after the third knock heard a sleepy response from my father.

  “Yes?”

  “That was Dr. Werner on the phone, Pop. He says Peg’s taken a turn for the worse, and he wants me to come to the hospital right away. I’m leaving now, so can you call Dave and Beth and let them know? Tell them I won’t be sailing with them this morning?”

  There was silence for a moment, then the rustling of sheets and the sound of slippered footsteps walking across the floor. “Mom will do that,” he answered from the other side of the door. “I’ll go with you.”

  “What’s the matter, Bill?” I heard her ask before I could reply.

  “Dr. Werner just called John and asked him to come to the hospital right away.”

  “Pop,” I called through the closed door, “I appreciate the offer, but I’m dressed and ready to go now. I don’t want to waste time waiting for you. All right?”

  “I’ll only be a minute,” he replied. “Just give me a minute.”

  “A minute, Pop,” I agreed reluctantly.

  He was true to his word. In just about a minute, he opened the bedroom door—gray stubble on his cheeks and chin, his hair barely combed, but dressed—and came out into the hall, followed by my mother. He gave her a kiss, looked at me with sleepy eyes, and without a word to either of us, began walking down the hall.

  “Drive carefully,” my mother said as she reached up to give me a kiss. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  I gave her a hug and hurried to follow my father. I caught up with him in the kitchen, and we went into the garage. He hit the door opener, and we stood side by side watching the garage door roll up. We stepped out into a picture perfect August morning—cloudless blue sky, light breeze gently ruffling the leaves overhead, surprisingly cool—a day that would have been a great day for sailing or anything else.

  “Want me to drive?” my father asked when we reached my car.

  “No. This is going to be a fast trip, and I’ll feel more comfortable behind the wheel than next to it.”

  He looked at me over the roof of the car and shrugged. “I won’t press it, but take it easy, will you?”

  I nodded, unlocked the doors and slid behind the wheel.

  At seven-twenty we turned onto an empty Oyster Bay Road, the first of several winding, tree-lined two-lane roads that we would be taking and which were typical of Long Island’s North Shore. Within seconds I was approaching sixty miles per hour, as fast as I dared given the curves and far in excess of the posted thirty-mile-per-hour speed limit.

  Oyster Bay Road to Chicken Valley Road. Chicken Valley Road to Wolver Hollow Road. Wolver Hollow Road to Route 25A. Four and a half miles in just under six minutes.

  We turned right onto Route 25A—straight, four lanes wide, almost empty—heading west towards New York City. I increased our speed to seventy-five, easing up only when we approached intersections, and even then only to fifty-five or sixty. If the traffic lights were red, I drove through them as fast as cross traffic allowed. Dr. Werner’s “right away” kept sounding in my head.

  A left on Roslyn Road towards I-495, the Long Island Expressway, also known as the LIE to hundreds of thousands of weekday commuters. I was down to fifty now, and traffic was starting to build. We had been on the road twelve minutes.

  A right off Roslyn Road onto the service road for the Expressway, then up the access ramp and onto the LIE, again heading west into New York. I left the acceleration lane at over sixty, moved into the inside lane, the center lane, then the outside lane and was quickly up to seventy-five, then eighty, then a little faster. My father looked over at me as we inched past eighty.

  I turned my headlights on and started switching my high beams on and off as we overtook other cars in the outside lane. Most people sensed something was wrong in the car that had suddenly appeared behind them from out of nowhere; they seemed to know its speed had a purpose. A flash of our high beams and these drivers quickly moved over to the center lane. But if a driver didn’t move over immediately, I passed on the inside, refusing to be delayed. Outside lane to center lane to outside lane to center lane and back again. At times there was almost a rhythm to it.

  As we got closer to the city, the traffic continued to build, and in spite of my best efforts our speed began to drop, not down to the speed limit, but slower nevertheless. At one point I found myself half hoping a patrol car would see us so he could run interference for us if the traffic got too bad. But then I realized if a patrol car saw us, he’d pull us over; and we’d have to explain our speed, perhaps successfully, perhaps not, and we had no time for that. I stopped hoping for a patrol car.

  From the Long Island Expressway to the Grand Central Parkway to the Triborough Bridge to the toll plaza at the city end of the bridge. Incredibly, it was only five minutes to eight as we paid our toll and drove down the curved exit ramp to the southbound lanes of the FDR Drive. Three minutes later, we got off at the 96th Street exit, headed west on 96th to Second Avenue, and then left on Second and south to New York Hospital.

  And then we were there. Our first left off Second Avenue brought us onto the hospital’s main drive. Our second left, halfway down the drive and past a permit-only staff parking area, brought us into the deep shadows of the cobblestone courtyard in front of the hospital’s main entrance. In a few hours this courtyard would be packed with cars, clogged with visitors coming and going. But right now at six minutes
after eight on Sunday morning, the courtyard was empty. No cars. No people.

  I stopped in front of the hospital lobby’s revolving glass doors, and we got out of the car. In sharp contrast to the conditions out on Long Island, the air in the courtyard was hot and heavy and still. High above us and all around us, a thousand air conditioners in a thousand windows roared, keeping the heat and the humidity at bay.

  As we got out of the car, a parking attendant came out of his booth at the end of the courtyard and walked towards us. “Visiting hours don’t start ‘til one o’clock,” he declared aggressively when he was still several feet away.

  “I’m afraid this is an emergency,” I replied. “My wife’s doctor called and told me to come to the hospital right away.”

  The attendant looked at me for a long moment. “Well, you gotta have a claim ticket if you’re gonna leave your car. Wait here.”

  He turned, walked back to his booth and a few seconds later was back, claim ticket in hand. He tore off my part of the ticket and handed it to me, this time without eye contact. “How long you gonna be?” he asked.

  A simple question, but that morning a hard one to answer.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “I guess we could be a while.”

  He seemed to soften, to understand, and wrote something on his half of the ticket. “Well, whenever you’re ready, I’m here. At least ‘til four, and then I’ll let the night man know.”

  Before I could thank him, he got into my car and drove out of the courtyard, leaving my father and me standing there, separated by what had been the width of the car.

  My father looked at me. “You okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I guess. How about you? You ready?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be, son. You lead. I’ll follow.”

  Thirty

  We walked across the lobby to a bank of elevators along the opposite wall, our footsteps reverberating on the granite floor. The lobby was cool and quiet and devoid of any sign of life except for a yellow plastic “Danger. Slippery When Wet” sign in the middle of the room. No one at the information desk. No one on either side of the counter in the coffee shop. No one sitting on any of the sofas. The lobby was empty. At this level, the hospital was still asleep.

  Two of the eight elevators stood with their doors open. We entered the closest one, punched the button for the ninth floor, and the doors closed silently. The time was ten minutes after eight.

  A moment later my father and I stepped out onto Peg’s floor. We had walked only a short distance down the hall when a nurse, hearing our footsteps, peered around the corner of the nurses’ station to see who the intruders were. When she saw my father and me, she immediately came toward us and intercepted us before we reached Peg’s room. From where we stood, I could see that Peg’s door was closed.

  “Mr. Herbert?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad you’re here. Dr. Werner is expecting you. He’s with your wife now, but he should be able to see you shortly.”

  “May I go in?” I asked as I looked down the hall towards Peg’s room, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

  “I think it’d be better if you waited here,” she replied. “Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? Juice?”

  I ignored her offer. “I’d really like to see my wife. I’ll behave. I promise.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Mr. Herbert,” she said.

  She looked at my father to give him the opportunity to agree with her, but he didn’t respond, and his expression gave no indication of what he was thinking.

  “Please,” I repeated, surprised that I was almost whispering. “I won’t get in the way, and I won’t make a scene. I promise. I just want to see my wife.”

  She sighed, started to say no again, and then seemed to think better of it. Several seconds passed. Finally she gave me a tight smile and a barely perceptible nod and reluctantly turned towards Peg’s room, indicating that I should follow her.

  “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Pop,” I said, turning away from the nurse. “Okay? There’s a bench down by the nurses’ station,” I continued. “Why don’t you sit there until I come out?”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that,” he agreed. But he didn’t move. Instead, he remained where he was, looking at me.

  “I’ll be all right,” I told him. “Really. You just wait for me on the bench.”

  Reassured, he reached out, softly patted my arm and started to walk down the corridor. I turned back to the nurse, let her know I was ready, and fell into step behind her as we walked to Peg’s room.

  The nurse opened Peg’s door without knocking, and one of the people inside looked up and started to say something. She put a finger to her lips, signaling silence, shook her head dismissively, and entered the room. I followed her and stepped into chaos.

  Peg was lying on her back, no pillow under her head, naked, her legs apart. Her arms were at her sides, palms up. An intravenous line ran into each arm and a third ran into the right side of the base of her neck. Her shoulders and chest were smeared with blood, and she had numerous large purple bruises on her arms, legs and stomach. A catheter tube ran from between her legs to a urine bag that hung off the base of the bed at her feet. She was staring blankly at a spot on the ceiling, blinking only occasionally and then slowly, almost patiently, as if she were no longer involved in what was going on around her.

  Eight people were in the room, not including Peg or me or the nurse who had met us, all of them clad in white. Dr. Werner was on the far side of the bed, preparing to inject something into the intravenous line in Peg’s neck. He was standing just behind a man on the telephone giving someone numbers describing levels of potassium, calcium, oxygen, carbon dioxide and the like. An orderly was trying to lean past Dr. Werner to draw blood from Peg’s arm, while a nurse standing on my side of the bed was taking Peg’s blood pressure and calling out the results to everyone in the room. A nurse at the foot of the bed was in the process of hanging another IV bag onto a second stand at the bed’s corner post. In the far left corner of the room, one technician was adjusting knobs and pushing buttons on a large instrument on a cart, while a second technician uncoiled its wires and cables. Still another nurse was adjusting Peg’s oxygen.

  Litter was everywhere—rubber gloves, bandage wrappers, bloody gauze pads, pieces of adhesive tape, paper towels, needle covers, IV packaging, a broken syringe, cotton swabs—all over the floor, the night table, even the windowsill.

  I stood just inside the door, taking it all in, trying not to panic.

  This is unbelievable, I thought as I surveyed the room and the people. All these people. All this equipment. What the hell’s going on?

  Several seconds passed, and then came understanding.

  We’re in trouble. She’s dying.

  Dr. Werner looked up and saw me. “Mr. Herbert, you shouldn’t be here,” he said with obvious annoyance. “Please wait outside.”

  I shook my head no.

  “Mr. Herbert, please. There’s nothing you can do here except get in someone’s way.”

  The tone of his voice broke through my shock. “I won’t get in the way,” I said as convincingly as I could. “I’ll stay out of the way. Really.”

  He started to respond, but before he could, Peg stopped staring at the ceiling and turned her head towards me. “Hi, hon,” she said softly.

  For an instant, all activity in the room stopped.

  “Well, well,” Dr. Werner exclaimed. “Good to have you back.”

  “Hi, sweetheart,” I replied, looking from her to Dr. Werner, then back to her. “How’re you doing?”

  “I’m okay,” she whispered, “but my feet are cold.”

  “Want me to rub them for you?” I asked.

  “Mmmmm, yes,” Peg answered groggily.

  Dr. Werner looked like he was about to say something to me, but instead, he turned away and directed his attention again to the IV line in Peg’s neck.

 
The decision had been made. By Peg, not him. I was allowed to stay.

  I took the chair that had been pushed into the corner of the room, positioned myself at the base of Peg’s bed where she could see me, and began to rub her feet. I tried to ignore the catheter tube running past her instep and focused on rubbing first one foot, then the other, blocking out everything else happening in the room around us.

  Almost immediately, Peg went back to staring at her spot on the ceiling while the doctors and nurses and technicians continued to work on her. I didn’t talk to her because I was concerned that I would interfere with communications between the rest of the people in the room, so rubbing her feet was my only way of letting her know I was still there. I didn’t look at her face because her stare was frightening, and I was unnerved by the blood on her shoulders and chest, her nakedness in front of all these strangers, and by all the paraphernalia to which she was now connected. Instead I kept my eyes down; and when I needed to change focus from her feet to something else, I looked at the clock on the wall and watched the second hand glide silently around its face.

  The minutes passed, and gradually the level of activity declined as Peg’s condition stabilized. The man on the telephone hung up and started to fill out a form on his clipboard. The two technicians in the far corner of the room turned off the instrument on the cart, recoiled the wires and cables, and wheeled the cart past me and out of the room. The orderly said something to Dr. Werner, and then he left too, followed by two of the three nurses. Only the nurse who had been taking Peg’s blood pressure remained. She walked over to the far side of the bed where Dr. Werner and the man who had been on the telephone were still standing and adjusted one of the IVs hanging from a pole attached to the headboard. She wiped off most of the blood on Peg’s shoulders and chest and then pulled a sheet over her. While she was lifting up the side rails of the bed, Dr. Werner came over to where I was sitting and indicated with a nod of his head that he wanted to see me outside of Peg’s hearing.