by Wendy Wax
“She wouldn’t even be here if it weren’t for me.” Zoe’s tears began to fall more quickly. “I was so mad that she wouldn’t let me be in Teen Scream that I ran out of the restaurant—like some stupid character in a crappy movie.” She looked up through her tears. “She would have never been on that street if she hadn’t had to come after me.”
“It was an accident, Zoe. Mothers and daughters argue. I think it might even be a requirement,” Serena tried to reassure her. “God knows, most of my teenage years were spent either in a shouting match with my mother—and you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a real southern belle let loose—or not speaking to her at all. Sometimes after a skirmish, physical distance and a little breathing room are crucial.”
“But she wouldn’t have been hit by that van if she wasn’t chasing after me,” Zoe whispered. “You know she wouldn’t.”
“I promise you your mother wouldn’t see it that way. Any one of us could be mowed down by a van on any given day.” Mackenzie smiled softly. “As soon as she can speak, I’m betting she’ll be the first person to tell you that.”
Zoe’s tears hadn’t stopped, but they did slow.
Tears prickled at the back of Serena’s eyelids. She felt like she might cry a damned deluge at the moment if she wasn’t careful. She ordered them to cease and desist as she looked Zoe in the eye and said, “I agree with Mackenzie. First your mother will reassure you that this was not your fault. Then she’ll undoubtedly give you a ton of shit for what sounds like some serious overacting.”
Five
It was well after noon, when Mackenzie thought she might hyperventilate if she didn’t breathe some real air, that she took the elevator downstairs, practically sprinted through the lobby, and emerged onto the sidewalk, where a crowd of reporters and photographers jostled each other, Emma’s name on their lips. She sidestepped the lot of them, relieved when no one noticed her. It wasn’t the first time she was grateful not to be famous.
She left the crowd behind and breathed in great gulps of New York, including the gas fumes from the vehicles that clogged the surrounding streets, the scent of roasting meat from a gyro cart on the corner along with the scents of warm bread wafting from a nearby bakery. The faint scents of summer floated on the breeze from the flower stand across the street. Even the garbage smells seemed preferable to the medicinal, hermetically sealed air of the hospital. The horn honks, shouts, and tumult of the city were a reassuring antidote to the mechanical sound effects and hushed voices of the people inside.
Turning her face up into the midday sun, she headed south on Madison then cut west on Ninety-seventh toward Central Park. Stretching her legs, squaring her shoulders, drawing in deep lung-filling breaths, she speed-dialed Adam and lifted her cell phone to her ear. There’d been no answer when she’d tried him last night. No call back yet this morning. She was preparing to leave a voice mail, when he finally answered. The murmur of voices and the subtle clatter of cutlery sounded in the background.
“You’re up and out early,” she said by way of greeting. She drew a deep breath, needing to tell him what had happened.
“I just happen to be taking a meeting with Michael Gold at the Polo Lounge.” For a moment Mackenzie thought her own panic over Emma had caused her to misunderstand. Michael Gold was at the top of the food chain at Universal Studios. The Polo Lounge was, of course, even more iconic than the production head Adam was breakfasting with. “We’re in booth one,” he added. “The booth that was always kept open for Charlie Chaplin.” He paused to let this sink in. “There was a text waiting yesterday when I landed at LAX asking if I could make it.”
Her mind cleared, processed what Adam was saying. “Oh, my gosh. That’s wonderful.” Even being seen at the same table with Michael Gold could be a serious game changer. “I just needed to . . . we can talk later if you’re tied up.”
“It’s all right. Michael had to leave to take a call—some emergency on location in India.” She heard the relish with which he pronounced the production titan’s first name, his delight in now being entitled to use it. “But I’ll have to go when he comes back.”
“Right.” She could picture her husband’s face lit by his even, white-toothed smile and engraved by the dimple. She had no doubt he was drawing all kinds of attention in his Hollywood-go-to-meeting clothes, much of it female.
“It’ll take a lot more acting talent than I’ve got to appear only mildly interested in whatever he has to say.”
“I’m so excited for you,” she said because it seemed something else should be offered. And because it was true. All she’d ever wanted was for him to be happy.
“So, how’s the reunion going? Is everyone behaving herself? How’s the lake?” he asked in high good spirits.
“There was only a partial reunion,” she replied, drawn back into her own far less glittering reality. “And there is no lake. I take it you haven’t been watching the news.”
The mouthpiece was covered briefly, background voices became muffled. “What do you mean?”
“Emma was in an accident. We’ve been at Mount Sinai Hospital since yesterday afternoon.”
There was a moment’s hesitation and then, “Sorry, did you say you’re in a hospital?”
“No. I mean yes. We spent the night at Mount Sinai. But it’s Emma. Emma was hit by a van.” She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. “She’s in a coma.”
“Jesus.” She heard movement and then the background noise faded. “What happened?”
It was a relief to pour it all out without having to censor her reactions or even the words she used.
“Adam?” She heard his name called in the background.
“Damn.” Adam’s curse was whispered. “I’m sorry, Mac. I . . . I have to go back in.” There was a brief hesitation and then, “If you need me to come to New York I’ll . . . well, I’ve got another meeting at the studio tomorrow. But I can check on flights right after breakfast.” She could hear the disappointment in his voice, but Emma was his friend, too—or used to be. She had no doubt he would come today if she asked him to. Adam always did the right thing when push came to shove.
“Thanks for offering,” she said even as she chastised herself for wishing he’d insisted on dropping everything to come to New York. There was nothing he could do here other than hold her hand. It would make no sense whatsoever to leave LA at such an important time. She turned resolutely back toward the hospital. “But Serena and I are handling things and trying to take care of Zoe. If we don’t get ahold of Emma’s agent or manager, you might come in handier out there.”
“Okay then. Keep me posted.”
She heard the relief in his voice and tried not to feel hurt by it. “I’m going to go back in and, hopefully convince them they can’t live without A Man for Many Reasons. Or me.”
Her steps slowed as she neared the hospital entrance. “I know I couldn’t live without you,” Mackenzie said. A life without Adam in it was something she refused to even think about. “And I told you when I read the first draft that screenplay was completely kick-ass.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence, Mac. But I don’t think the studio people out here are anywhere near as discerning as you are.”
“Well,” she said. “I think that goes without saying. After all, who is?”
Emma:
My brain streams video I can’t control. It comes in fits and starts. Bits and pieces. My triumphs. My mistakes. A twisty road paved with good intentions. I hope they count.
Really, darling. I promise you there are no gatekeepers to the afterlife. It’s more like getting into an “it” nightclub—you simply walk right in as if you belong.
I see Gran. At Sardi’s. Arm in arm with Elizabeth Taylor. Flirting with Richard Burton. Vibrant. Glittering.
Quite right. Gran’s sigh of satisfaction echoes inside me. Those really were the days.
Like the video I come and go. In and out. Enveloping darkness. Shimmering light.
There is no time. No now. No then.
Zoe’s tears mix with new voices.
“Everything’s going to be okay, Em. But if it’s all the same to you, this would be a really great time to go ahead and wake up.” It’s Mackenzie’s voice. Nervous but clear. “You know, so we can head on out to the lake like we planned.”
“That’s right, Mom.” Zoe’s voice wobbles. “We’re all packed and everything. We’re just waiting for you.”
“Now there’s an understatement.” Mackenzie again. “Serena has packed everything she owns as usual. Her things are spread all over the family lounge.”
“It’s true. You should see all the stuff she brought.” Zoe’s voice catches.
There’s a flash of light. The words fade. Somehow it’s 1986. I’m coming out the door of my apartment building on Bleecker Street, watching Serena Stockton move in. She’s tall and big boobed with smooth white skin and elegant features, and whatever she’s saying has the cabdriver smiling despite the huge pile of luggage and boxes that he’s pulling out of the cab. Everything about her is curvy and slightly oversized: the red-lipsticked mouth that seems to be constantly moving, the long dark curls she tosses over a shoulder.
She says something—using a whole lot of syllables that don’t seem to have anything to do with each other. She peers at me and I’m afraid she’s going to recognize me. But she pats me on the shoulder and repeats herself as if I’m a little slow and she’s not the one speaking a foreign language.
“I say-a-d,”—almost four syllables there—“Ah’m goin’ to need some muscle. Do y’all have any frie-nds”—two syllables—“in the building? You know. Anyone who might like to help?” She motions to her possessions, which have eaten up the entire sidewalk. She sighs, long and put upon. “I guess I should have listened to Mama about the movers. Or maybe let Daddy pay so I could get a place with a doorman.” There’s a satisfied smile as she flashes her left hand; a diamond sparkles on her ring finger. “But my fiancé and I are absolutely determined to make our own way.” She turns her charms on the driver who can’t seem to take his eyes off her chest but who in the end is not willing to leave his cab to carry her stuff upstairs.
“Well, I neveh . . .” She huffs as he drives off still watching her in his rearview mirror. But in less than a minute she’s stopped two guys who are walking by. I watch with amazement as they start lifting the boxes and suitcases. She rounds up a third and his friend. And the next thing she’s herding them toward the door saying all kinds of complimentary things about how strong they are, how gentlemanly, how she’d had no idea they had such good-looking men in the North (two syllables). I don’t think they have any idea what she’s talking about but it doesn’t seem to matter. She has them under some sort of spell and I can see in her eyes that she is not about to let go of them until her things are in her apartment.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” she calls gaily. “I believe I’m on the fifth floor and to the left.” She’s smiling and fanning herself with a plane ticket as if she’s Scarlett O’Hara eating barbecue surrounded by admiring men in those opening scenes of Gone with the Wind, one of Gran’s all-time favorite movies even though she was no fan of Vivien Leigh. I can see the hint of perspiration on the southern belle’s upper lip, but there is not a hair out of place and her makeup is still perfect. She smiles and places her hand in mine. “I’m Serena. Serena Stockton. Formerly of Charleston, South Carolina.”
“Em . . . Amelia,” I say, almost forgetting the name I’ve adopted and all I’ve done to disguise myself. “Amelia Maclaine. I’m on the fifth floor, too.” I have no intention of telling anyone my real name or where I really came from.
“Well, I don’t know a single person in this town, Amelia,” Serena says to me. “Not till Brooks gets here, anyway.” She gives me a wink. “What do you say once you get back from wherever you’re headed, and I’ve got a few things put away, we go downstairs for pizza or out somewhere to have ourselves a drink?”
Mackenzie escorted Zoe out of Emma’s room and found Serena down the hall talking with Dr. Brennan. She’d left to take a phone call, and Mackenzie sincerely hoped it had been the anticipated one from California.
“Did somebody find what we were waiting for?” Mackenzie asked cryptically.
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” Mackenzie said. “Talk about in the nick of time.”
The doctor nodded. “How long will it take them to get here? Or shall we set up a conference call?”
“The conversation can take place pretty much anytime,” Serena said.
“Oh, good.” Mackenzie felt her shoulders relax slightly. “They’re in New York?”
“Yes, they are.” There was an odd note in Serena’s voice as she added, “The papers are being faxed to Dr. Brennan’s office right now.”
“Do you know the person whom Ms. Michaels named as health care POA?” the doctor asked.
“Pretty well.”
“Serena,” Mackenzie said. “Enough with the suspense. Just tell us what’s happened and who Emma named.”
“Well, it appears that Emma had an appointment with her attorneys to go in and update things after our week at the lake. But as of this moment, it’s still me and you. Me first and you as backup.” There was both fear and relief in her eyes. “It’s going to be up to us to understand the options and make informed decisions.” She whipped out Georgia Goodbody’s imaginary fan and tapped the doctor lightly on the shoulder. “And the sooner the better, Dr. B. We need to get Emma well as quickly as possible. We have plans for a trip to the lake.”
Six
They left Zoe in the cafeteria staring without interest at a hamburger, a huge mound of French fries, and a Coke and joined Dr. Brennan in a small conference room just off the ICU. Pictures of Emma’s brain along with graphs and charts and printouts of what looked like every breath and beat of her heart since she’d arrived were spread out before them. Mackenzie hadn’t slept the night before her flight out of nervousness; last night fear for Emma and the ridiculously uncomfortable waiting room chairs had left her wide eyed. The caffeine she’d been ingesting all day surged through her bloodstream and sped up her heart, but it didn’t seem to have clarified her thoughts. Serena didn’t look any more rested. Not an optimal state for absorbing life-and-death situations.
“Ms. Michaels came in with multiple contusions including a small one to the lung, a bruised heart, a large laceration on her left thigh, and a deep gash on the right side of her head.” He paused. “Initial scans show a two-millimeter shift from right to left and a Glasgow scale of eight. The bruising on the brain here”—he pointed to a section of what looked like a large gray cauliflower—“has caused swelling and increased intracranial pressure.”
Mackenzie couldn’t catch her breath as she tried not to picture Emma’s brain all bruised and swollen.
“Look, Doctor, I’m an actress,” Serena said. “Mackenzie is a fashion and costume designer. I’ve avoided maths and sciences as much as possible my entire life. You’re going to have to explain this stuff in terms we have a shot at understanding. You know, I’m thinking fourth- or fifth-grade-level science, tops.”
“This is not an elementary school kind of situation,” Dr. Brennan replied quietly.
“We know. But you’re going to have to dummy this down to a level we can understand.”
Unable to speak, Mackenzie nodded her agreement. This was Emma’s brain they were talking about. Emma’s life.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “Traumatic brain injury causes the brain to swell—just like the swelling that happens when you injure a knee or an elbow. But the brain is trapped inside the skull and as swelling increases, it can raise the pressure inside the head. If it gets high enough it can cut off the blood flow to the brain. That results in brain death.”
They nodded carefully.
“Steps have already been taken to alleviate the pressure. Dr. Markham, her neurosurgeon, has inserted an external ventricular drain, or EVD, which is inserted through a hole in the skull.”
Bile rose in Mackenzie’s throat at the thought of a drill piercing Emma’s skull. She saw Serena swallow. A hand fluttered to her throat. Mackenzie prayed she wasn’t going to make some sick joke about the use of power tools. Serena remained mercifully silent.
“What happens next?” Serena asked.
“For now our best course is to continue doing everything possible to reduce the swelling and to keep the brain as inactive as possible while we monitor everything carefully.”
“And what are her chances of a full recovery?” Serena asked the question Mackenzie was afraid to.
He studied their faces. “Every individual and every set of injuries responds in a different way. Many people with coma from head injuries do make a full recovery.”
They sat for a few long moments trying to absorb all that Dr. Brennan had said.
“Can she hear us?” Mackenzie finally managed to ask. “Even though she doesn’t react, can she hear what’s going on?”
“We don’t know. There are reports of patients waking after coma and mentioning things that they heard or even saw, though often in some sort of skewed way or as part of what they experienced as a nightmare.”
He looked at them and added, “If you want my advice, I suggest you leave. Have a shower, some real food, and a better night’s sleep than you can get in the family lounge.”
“We don’t want to leave Em alone,” Mackenzie said. “I mean, what if something happens and we’re not here?”
“We’ll call you. Her vitals are good. She’s relatively stable. And I promise you she’s in good hands. If she worsens in any way, the nurse on duty knows to call you right after she beeps Dr. Markham and me.”