by Joe Cassilly
Mid-way across California, the road started blurring and I pulled over, got in the back, and fell asleep. The lack of sleep for the past week must have caught up to me because when I woke, it was dark. I drove on to San Diego, to a motel, got a wheelchair accessible room, and slept soundly through the night—except for a quick bad dream where my ex-wife showed up and said she was coming back to me just as I was about to talk to Suzie. I used the coffee maker in the room and drank four cups of coffee
I got a city map at a gas station and found Suzie’s house. I parked in front. I sat in the van staring at the house. “This isn’t going to work,” I muttered aloud. I deserved a lot of blame for my divorce. My lousy temper, my cursing and swearing every time the frustration got too much. I went into a depression whenever I realized that the miracle I was praying for was not going to happen. My ex did not know how to handle me. I must have been a jerk to be with then.
I had not really changed. I was afraid that one day I’d be sitting there, fighting to pull my boot off of my swollen foot and drag myself out of the wheelchair. I’d start cursing and screaming and Suzie would walk out the door. When Suzie got to know me, it would ruin any chance we might have.
A man walked out of the front door, but I did not see him until he walked over and looked into my windshield. He walked to the driver’s window. “I noticed you parked out here awhile. Can I help you?”
“Are you Mr. Donovan?” He frowned and was hesitant to answer, suspecting I might be a Jehovah’s Witness, a process server, or a student working his way through college selling insurance.
“Who are you?”
“Sir, my name is Jake Scott.” I paused to see if that meant anything to him. “I’m trying to find Susan Donovan.” I could feel my pulse throbbing in my throat. The man was mentally reviewing all the photos he’d last seen in the post office.
“She’s at work,” he said. I had a reprieve.
“Could I call when she gets home if it’s not too late?”
“She works until eleven.”
“Could I call her at work?”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a friend. I knew her when she was an Army nurse.”
There was a long silence. “You’re the patient that wrote to her when she got out.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s in neo-natal intensive care at Mercy hospital.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I found my way back to the freeway and headed into the city. Cars whizzed past me. The closer I got, the slower I drove. I found a parking lot about a block from the hospital and pushed up the sidewalk. I entered the coolness of the hospital and got directions from a volunteer at the information desk. The woman traced the route on a small diagram of the hospital.
I came to the elevators, but I watched several cars come and go before getting onto one. The doors slid closed and I sat there. ‘Her father would have told me if she was married or dating or involved, wouldn’t he?” I mumbled. “Suppose she just politely shakes my hand, says it was nice to see me, and says good-bye.” The doors opened and two nurses started to get on but saw me and backed out of the way. “No, I’m going up.”
They got on the elevator. One of them turned to me. “You haven’t pushed a button.”
“Three, please.” I started mumbling to myself, “Maybe she can’t stop. There’s probably all these critical kids on the ward.”
“What?” one of the nurses asked.
“Nothin,” I replied. The doors opened and I rolled into the corridor. The lights were dimmer here. I rolled to a row of windows and looked through. My chin just cleared the lower edge of the window. I could see tiny bodies in plastic bassinettes. What marvelous creations we humans are. A nurse with short silver hair wearing a light blue scrub suit walked past carrying a tray and started working on one of the infants.
I turned and rolled back to the elevator. I should just go back to Tucson and realize you can’t turn back the clock and find things the way they used to be. “You can’t just leave now,” I muttered. For one thing, she would get home that night and her father would tell her I had been there. “Go on, you idiot,” I scolded myself. I turned back toward the windows. The nurse with the short silver hair was staring at me. “Oh my God!” I gasped.
She walked to the window and then turned and began walking to a door; the walk became a jog and the jog became a run. She emerged into the hall and, with me pushing toward her, the distance closed rapidly. She slid onto my lap as if she had been there yesterday. We hugged. It felt so wonderful to feel her hands pressing my back. We kissed, pressing our faces together. Then, she put her face into my chest to wipe her tears on my shirt.
“Where have you been?” she asked in a hoarse whisper.
I looked past her at the group of nurses that had gathered in the hall. “I’ve been afraid that if I found you that you wouldn’t want me,” I said into her ear.
“I want you, I really, really want you,” she replied. We kissed and I felt her hands gripping my shoulders.
Epilogue
Yes, we got married, but first, we went into therapy together for about a year and a half. Then, we spent the next eight years after the wedding in therapy. We would joke it was our honeymoon. When I realized how much good therapy did for me, I marveled that, as a professional in the field, I never realized how much I needed to heal myself.
Her father announced that since I was there to take care of Suzie (and she thought she was taking care of him), he was going to travel. He gave us the house and the mortgage. I found I liked being near the ocean and we bought a boat together and I got some special equipment for fishing.
Kara studied computers in college and got a job for Hewlett in England. It was a good excuse for us to travel to the British Isles. I had always wanted to see where the Scotts came from.
Ann and Hank ran the lumber yard and had six children, all girls, so the trucks had to be painted “Drier and Daughters.”
I went back to Richmond and the old hospital had been demolished and replaced with a modern, spacious building. It seemed sad that other patients would not be chased by food carts, or chase them with air horns.
We drove up to Washington D.C. and went to “the Wall.” It was a huge black magnet pulling our memories and emotions from us. We found the names of friends and we cried for a long, long time.
I looked at our reflection in the polished granite and closed my eyes in a softly spoken prayer, “Thank you, God, for this woman who loves me.”