by Lisa Daily
I spot him first, leaning casually against my car in the dim light of a streetlamp, holding a bouquet of pale pink roses and looking better than any man has a right to. Jesus, this isn’t fair. His sea-colored eyes are searching mine, the color so intense I can still discern it ten paces away. I stop dead in my tracks just a few feet from him. His tailored suit hangs perfectly on his lean body, and I will myself not to be swayed by his obvious physical charms. Deep breath. I remind myself of this morning’s humiliation, and in particular, the look on the face of the woman who surprised the two of us in bed. There’s no way I’ll let myself be responsible for causing that expression of hurt again. I know that feeling of betrayal. I know it as well as anyone.
“Why are you here?” I ask, sounding tougher than I feel.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I had to speak with you. If you’ll just let me explain…”
“Daniel, I asked you to go. I’ve had a very long day, and a very long night, and a long day planned for tomorrow. I will listen to what you have to say tomorrow. Not tonight. Tomorrow. I’ll be at Boudreaux at ten in the morning.”
“And we can talk then?” he asks, his voice tinged with melancholy.
“It’s your dime,” I say cruelly. “Can I go now?”
He steps away from my car door, and I hit the button on the key fob to unlock it. Once it clicks, Daniel opens my door. I stop myself from glaring at him in response. He’s a client, and I just have to make it through one more day.
I fling the go-bag and the garment bag in the backseat, and slide my tote and my tired body into the driver’s seat. It’s hard to believe that I was in bed with this man less than twelve hours ago. Now it seems like a lifetime.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” says Daniel.
“Tomorrow,” I reply coldly. He hands me the bouquet of pink roses, which are beautiful and delicate and surprisingly fragrant. I toss it in the passenger seat, and he gently closes my car door. I pull out of the parking space and drive away, never looking back.
65
It’s never good when the phone rings at two o’clock in the morning. Someone has almost always died.
“Alex, can you come right away to the hospital? There’s been an accident.” It’s Fred, Michael’s father. “Sarasota Memorial.”
“I’ll be right there,” I say. Fred won’t tell me what’s happened over the phone, which leads me to fear the worst. As quickly as I can, I get dressed, putting on jeans and a T-shirt, and pulling my hair up into a ponytail. My hair is still slightly damp from the long shower I took before bed. I finally got the tension knots out of my neck after almost an hour, and now I feel them coming back. I drive to the hospital in silence and darkness, my brain generating dozens of gruesome scenarios, the worst of which is that my best friend in life has died without me by his side. I am too numb to cry, too numb to call anyone. I feel like the only soul on the road.
I hardly slept at all before Fred’s call, my mind shadowed with imaginary arguments between Daniel and myself where I scream at him over and over again, How could you do this to me? My brain produces no answers, of course, just the same heartbreaking questions over and over again on a cruel loop.
Pulling into the ER parking lot at Sarasota Memorial, I search in vain for Fred’s car. I find an open spot and pull in, and rush inside the emergency room as fast as I can on wobbly, slow-moving legs. My heart is pounding so hard I think it might explode. Can you have a heart attack at thirty-one?
“Michael Miller,” I say to the nurse at the front desk. She checks something on her computer and then waves me over to the waiting room.
“Are you family?” she asks.
“I’m his wife,” I lie.
“Someone will be out to speak with you shortly.” She gives nothing away, which I guess is probably a job requirement.
“Is he alive?” I blurt out.
The nurse’s face tenses but her voice remains exactly the same, “Please be seated, someone will be out to speak with you shortly.”
66
I close my eyes and pray silently, something I never do. I cannot bear the thought of living my life without Michael. We were supposed to grow old together. Even though we aren’t still married, I think we both assumed that was how it would work out.
I call Fred, Michael’s dad, and his phone goes straight to voice mail. Leaving a message, I tell him I’m in the waiting room. Next, I try texting, having no idea if Fred even knows how texting works. Again, I let him know where I am, just in case the message gets through to him.
My worry-addled brain spits out disastrous possibility after possibility of all the terrible things that could have happened to Michael. Car accident, poisoning, hotel bathtub electrocution. I remember a time not so long before when I halfheartedly wished for Michael’s demise, and now I’m filled with guilt over the possibility that I somehow had a hand in whatever tragedy has befallen him.
I check my phone every few seconds searching for a response from Fred. An infomercial about prostate health blares from the television bolted to the wall overhead. The waiting room is like a collection of walking dead that time of night. Strange, quiet people with dark circles under their eyes and looks of despair, filling out endless paperwork. A small dark-haired child, who looks to be about three, snuggles with her mother while trying to get comfortable against the hard plastic chairs.
In twenty minutes, no one has come to get anyone. I walk to the nurses’ station again.
“I’m here for Michael Miller,” I say. “Can someone please tell me what’s happened to him? Where is he?”
As the nurse checks her computer screen, Fred appears through the large double doors that lead inside the hospital. His large body appears older than his years; his eyes are bloodshot and his skin is ruddy from crying. I’ve never seen him look so distraught, not even when Michael’s mother died.
I rush into his arms, “Oh my God, Fred. What happened? They haven’t told me anything.” He hugs me tightly, not letting go for a long time, sobbing into my shoulder. It must be bad, very bad.
“Michael was in a car accident coming home from the airport tonight. A drunk driver broadsided his car as he went through an intersection,” says Fred. His emotions overtake him again and he sobs without being able to speak for a few moments. “The police found syringes in the back of the woman’s car.” I feel myself going woozy and struggle to say focused while Fred attempts to regain composure.
“He’s in surgery now,” Fred continues, and I let out a breath of relief. Michael is alive; no matter what else might have happened, he’s still alive. Relief floods my body and I begin to cry. “He’s got a shattered pelvis, four broken ribs, his arm is broken, his hip was dislocated, one of his lungs is bruised, his spleen ruptured, his sternum is fractured … concussion … he was impaled by a piece of metal in his abdomen … there’s more but I can’t recall exactly,” he trails off.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask. Jesus, with all that, Michael is lucky to still be alive. I can barely bring myself to ask the next question. “Is he going to live?”
“The doctors won’t say,” he cries. “They’ll know more once he’s out of surgery.”
“Do they know how long it’s going to take?” I ask tearfully. “When we’ll be able to see him?” I’m paralyzed with disbelief. How could this happen? What was that driver thinking? Why did it have to be Michael? Fred takes my hand and leads me through the double doors to the surgery waiting room. It’s significantly smaller than the ER waiting room, with soothing art that looks like it came off an assembly line, and small brown sofas instead of hard plastic chairs. It’s empty except for one person, a man with dark hair, crying into his hands. He looks up as soon as Fred and I enter the room, and instantaneously I feel like I might throw up.
It’s Santiago, the man Michael made a sex date with on the night of our divorce party.
“What’s he doing here?” I say under my breath. Fred squeezes my hand.
“Santiago and Michael are
together now,” he says.
“We’re in love,” Santiago says defiantly. This is too much for me to process, with Michael in surgery, fighting for his life. I collapse onto the sofa opposite the one where Santiago is sitting. Fred gingerly sits down beside me.
“Were you with him when it happened?” I ask Santiago. It doesn’t seem likely; he doesn’t have a scratch on him.
“We were talking on the phone when he was hit,” says Santiago. “He just landed at the airport and was calling to tell me he was on his way over.” My stomach lurches. It still stings to think about Michael with anyone else. I hate myself for it, but I feel defensive and angry that Santiago is here. Who is he to Michael? A hookup? What right does he even have to be here? Fred and I are Michael’s family, not him. He’s just some … interloper.
“I heard it happen,” Santiago weeps, “I heard the crash, and I heard Michael screaming, but he couldn’t hear me.” He sobs and his whole body shakes with grief. Without thinking, I move to the sofa where Santiago is sitting and put my arms around him. And before I know it, I’m sobbing with him.
A petite, red-haired woman enters the room carrying a clipboard.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says in a quiet voice. “I just need to complete some paperwork.” She comes to sit down next to Fred and asks him, “Do you have Michael’s insurance information?” Fred shakes his head no. He’s devastated, barely functioning.
“I have it,” I say. “I think I might still have his card in my purse, let me check.” Santiago looks surprised as I dig around in my wallet and fish it out.
She asks the usual medical history questions, nearly all of which I know because I’ve been there all his life. Broken arm when he was eleven. Concussion at seventeen. Exercises every day. Moderate drinker. Doesn’t smoke. Allergic to penicillin. Fred stares numbly at the wall and lets me handle the paperwork and the questions. It feels good to help in some small way, and for me, doing something, anything, is better than just sitting here helplessly waiting for bad news. Santiago watches me quietly as I speak with the hospital worker, and for the first time I wonder what this nightmare must be like from his perspective.
“Do you know how long it will be before we hear something?” I ask her, once the paperwork is completed.
“I’ll try to find out something for you,” she says kindly. She leaves the room, and Santiago, Fred, and I sit in silence. It’s unbearably tense. The waiting room is too warm, and it smells weird, like feet and antiseptic.
“Can I get anyone some coffee or water from the cafeteria?” I ask.
Fred nods. “Thanks, Alex. Coffee would be nice.”
“Santiago?” He shakes his head no and buries his face in his hands again. I pick up my purse and go off in search of the cafeteria. The hospital halls are dim and eerily quiet. After some wandering around, I locate a sign that directs me down a large hallway to the cafeteria. There are a few people clustered at tables, and one quiet worker sits at the cash register, reading a magazine. Coffee is self-serve, and I get some for Fred, with cream and two sugars, just the way he likes it. I pick up a couple of bottles of water for Santiago and myself, and select three turkey sandwiches from the refrigerated case. I’m not hungry, but Fred or Santiago might be. I pay for the food, and the cafeteria worker is kind enough to set me up with a carrying tray for the drinks, and a bag for the sandwiches. She dumps in a handful of condiments and napkins. I thank her and quickly make my way back to the waiting area, where Fred and Santiago are sitting silently.
“Any word yet?” I ask. Fred shakes his head no. Handing the coffee to Fred and a water bottle to Santiago, I ask if anyone is hungry. Santiago nods yes and I pass out the sandwiches.
“Eat something, Fred,” I say. “You need to keep up your strength.” He nods obligingly, unwraps the sandwich and bites into it. Santiago follows suit.
Eventually the hospital worker returns. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much of an update to share.
“He’s still in surgery,” she says. “His surgeons are doing everything they can to repair the damage. His doctor will come to update you as soon as they know more. He’ll likely be in surgery for several more hours. The best thing you can do is try to get some rest.” She pats me on my shoulder and leaves the room.
“Rest is a good idea,” I say. “Fred, why don’t you stretch out on that sofa, and Santiago, you can take the other one. I’ll take the chair over here. There’s nothing we can do for Michael right now.” Fred finishes his sandwich and I go to the nurses’ station in search of a few spare pillows. Fortunately, the cranky nurse who was at the desk when I arrived has been replaced by a young male nurse. When I explain why we’re there, and ask him for a few extra pillows, he disappears into the back and emerges with three small, flat pillows. I thank him and take them back to the surgery waiting room, giving them to Fred and Santiago. Fred decides to take my advice, reclining his large body on the small sofa with his legs draped over the side. Santiago, a much smaller man, lies down as well, on his side with his feet poking forward. He fluffs the small pillow and stuffs it under his head.
Swigging half my bottle of water, I scan the doorway of the waiting room in search of a light switch. There’s no way any of us are going to be able to rest with the fluorescent lights glaring overhead. Once I spot the switch, I flip it off. There are still a few small emergency lights illuminated, but the absence of fluorescents makes the room much dimmer and the slim possibility for sleep a bit more likely. I take my spot on the chair in the corner, propping the pillow under my head against the wall like you’d do on a crowded airplane. Closing my eyes, I know I won’t be able to sleep. My mind runs a loop of memories of Michael and me. First day of kindergarten. Laughing so hard we lost our breath, perched in the tree house in Michael’s backyard. Michael’s mom’s funeral. Our first kiss. The day we got married. The day Michael broke my heart. Snuggling on the couch under a blanket watching old black-and-white movies. Cooking steaks on the grill on our very first night in our new house. All of it, going round and round my mind like a carousel.
I love Michael. I always have and I always will. And I promise the Universe that I’ll be a better human being if Michael survives.
I thought I was still awake, but I must have finally dozed off at some point because I’m startled when someone flips on the light switch. It’s a doctor, midfifties, in blue scrubs. His gray hair pokes out from under his surgical cap. Fred springs up off the couch to his feet. Santiago rises more slowly.
“Michael’s still in surgery, but it looks like he’s going to pull through. He had some internal bleeding, which we were concerned about, and we’ll have to keep him here for the time being, but he’s made it through the worst part and we think he’s going to be okay.”
Fred hugs the doctor tightly, and I thank him over and over again. Santiago still looks like he’s in shock. The doctor runs through the list of Michael’s various injuries and the resulting treatment, but I’m so relieved I barely register a word of what he’s saying.
Michael is going to be okay. He’s bruised and broken, but he’s alive, and that is all that matters.
The doctor excuses himself and Fred, Santiago, and I stand together in the center of the room, holding on to one another and weeping with relief. We laugh, we cry, we hug, and we cry some more.
Fred and Santiago decide to get some breakfast while we’re waiting for Michael to get out of surgery. I stay behind to send Daniel a text to let him know I won’t be at Boudreaux at ten this morning as planned. The hard setup for Daniel’s restaurant was completed earlier in the week, table clusters and items that impacted traffic flow. All that’s left are the “soft” items, tablecloths and floral placement, which Daniel’s waitstaff will be implementing anyway. I would just be there to supervise. Daniel’s head waitress, Tina, and I have already gone over the plan, down to the smallest details, and the entire staff has copies of my event notebook, complete with photos of finished looks, tabbed and indexed in their own three-ri
ng binders. And while the control freak in me hates to miss the setup for Boudreaux’s opening night, I know everything will be exactly as I’ve planned it. And there is just no way I’m leaving the hospital before I have a chance to see Michael, hold his hand, and know he’s going to be okay.
It’s not even 5:00 A.M. yet, way too early to call. Next, I text Darcy, Sam, Carter, and Grandma Leona to let them know that Michael has been in an accident and is in surgery, but that he’s going to be okay. I try to think of whom else I should contact. Michael’s boss? My parents?
I have so many feelings. Loneliness, sitting there in the stillness of the empty waiting room. Relief, I guess, knowing Michael is going to pull through. Sick to my stomach, probably because of the cocktail of adrenaline, fear, and stress hormones circulating in my system. I have the oddest urge to call Daniel, just to hear his comforting voice with its gentle lilt. And then the memory of yesterday and the screaming woman comes roaring back into my consciousness, reminding me why that isn’t possible. The Boudreaux opening-night party will be the last time I’ll see him. At least on purpose. In a town this size, it’s impossible to avoid someone forever. After the restaurant opens that night, my work with him will be finished. I feel a surge of melancholy mixed with relief that it’s only one more night.
Grabbing my purse off the chair where I left it, I wander down the hallway toward the cafeteria, where Fred and Santiago have gone. I’m not really hungry, but in search of comfort instead. I hope they have pastries.
Fred and Santiago sit together at a table in the center of the room, eating what looks like breakfast sandwiches and talking like old friends. A twinge of jealousy hits me like an electric shock. When did they get to be so close?
Waving to them as I enter the room, I head to the cafeteria line to see if I can find something that looks appealing. Nothing much. I pour myself a glass of orange juice to give my blood sugar a jolt, and select an almond Danish from the case. Almonds have protein. Protein is healthy, even if said almonds are glazed in icing.