I soaked my jeans in the basin of the hotel’s bathroom, but the stain remained. I thought of the stained sheet at the Sinclair only four months ago and my heart ached from missing Carl.
Tomorrow night we would be together.
15
THE END OF PLAY
AT THE TD GARDEN, MOST of the players’ family members sit together. They appear animated, supportive, and they all know one another. I introduce myself to the wives on each side of my seat and they welcome me with wide smiles. “You must join us more often,” they chorus. Many of them never miss a game and they saw Carl’s concussion in February. Some of the wives are Americans, while others are fellow Canadians who married high school sweethearts.
Carol, who sits to my right, is about thirty with short hair and an overbite. She went to high school in Manitoba with Chris, one of the Bruins enforcers. They have three children.
“You can tell me what’s going on,” I say. “I’m not really up on it like a good hockey wife should be. I came into it late.”
Carol smiles her agreement.
There is the lining-up of the teams and the playing of the national anthem.
A catchy song accompanies the players as they troop in.
“It’s ‘Parée,’ a twenties’ show tune. They play it when they enter and at the start of each period,” explains Carol.
I watch them, listening to the loud cheers from the packed stadium as each player is introduced. Carl, number 10, receives a “welcome back” roar. He moves with the casual grace of the figure I remember from the Davenport arena, a grace that could be interspersed with dynamic bursts of frenzied speed. Carol’s husband, a Bruins enforcer, who appears huge, is number 36.
“He has to drop his gloves tonight.”
“What?” I ask, bewildered.
“They fight on the ice. The fans love it. Chris’s nose has been broken three times and he’s had two concussions. After ten years he’s made only four goals, but he’s spent hours in the penalty box and had dozens of suspensions.”
Seeing my look of horror, she continues, “He’s always such a quiet sweet guy, and gentle as a lamb with our kids.”
I’m confused: skill and planned hostility with Broadway music and complex staging.
My eyes never leave number 10, then all of a sudden he scores, a treacherous and unexpected play on the net, with the goalie sprawled in vain to prevent it. The crowd erupts and his team surrounds him. The air is electric. He must be so happy, I think, so happy.
Then the music starts again, a strange chant. I give Carol a puzzled look.
“‘Dirty Water,’” she explains. “They play it after every goal on home ice. It’s the Zombie Nation.”
Appropriate name, I think, but I say nothing. Carol is too good an interpreter to alienate.
At the beginning of the second period, Chris has his fight. His opponent is Veronikov, the Penguins’ giant Russian. They swing at each other for several minutes and then Chris goes down. The crowd boos as he is helped back to the bench. I look at Carol and she is scowling.
“They’re not booing Chris, they’re booing Veronikov. It’s a home crowd.”
I watch them as they rush around with their sticks at 30 miles an hour, colliding, slashing, the ice gladiators, out for the kill. It’s show business, I think.
The score is 4 to 6 in the Bruins’ favour when, early in the third period, Carl scores his second goal of the night.
“He’ll be the night’s First Star Player,” predicts Carol, “wait and see.”
I watch Carl as he skates around to the resounding cheers, his stick held high with both hands over his head, while his team nudges their approval. And then I hear the chant of the Zombie Nation.
The tension is building. I cannot stand it. Why is he on the ice so long? He has done enough. He has done more than enough. Then, almost at the end of the third period, it happens. An elbow from the bastard Veronikov from behind. Carl is down, down on the ice. He lies still. His helmet is off. I see the maroon stain under his head. It spreads slowly. I hear someone say, “Career ender” from the row behind. It is announced that Veronikov has been exiled to the Siberia of the penalty box. I cannot breathe. My eyes are fixed on the motionless figure.
Carl is carried off on a stretcher. The crowd is hushed. Then they stand and applaud. The final act for number 10 is over. He can’t hear you, I tell them silently.
I stand up to leave.
“Probably the Mass General’s Trauma Center. Sorry, Sonja,” says Carol.
My taxi follows the ambulance.
“Boyfriend?” asks the driver.
“Husband,” I reply.
“Rough game. That’s why they get the big bucks.”
16
DÉJÀ VU
I HAVE BEEN HERE BEFORE. THE smell of antiseptic and menthol, the shining neon-lit corridors, manned from the little stations by the nurses with their modulated and controlled voices. Then the sparse room with its one chair, but this time the lights are on. Carl is not conscious; the lights cannot hurt him yet. He is unknowing, but he knits his brows. Is he racing toward an invisible net and does he hear the crowd?
They slide him into the bed so gently, so gently now, no more crushing, pushing, hitting; now is the time for gentleness. Be tender, the brain floats in its amber liquid, naked and battered.
There are two doctors, thin and bespectacled, in white coats. “You are the wife of the patient?” asks one.
I nod my head: I am cocooned in fear, my mouth is dry, and it is hard to speak.
Last night I was his wife in every way, his naked wife, opening up to him, savouring his intensity and smell, now gone, wasted on the shouting crowd.
I must stop these thoughts.
“Have there been previous concussions?”
“I think there have been several.” I do not say he is a warrior and plays through pain. It sounds, and is, ridiculous—but true.
I force myself to continue. “Perhaps a series of sub-concussions, but the last concussion in February was severe, a complex grade three. They suspected a second brain bleed from two days prior to that, and then a post-concussion syndrome, followed with symptoms lasting for months. But he was cleared to play. He said he passed the ImPACT test. Dr. Folkes—I’m sure you’ve heard of him—they flew him to Toronto to examine Carl, and he viewed the MRS, which showed brain damage, as did the MRI.”
“Of course we know Dr. Folkes. We didn’t know your husband was his patient. You’re a pre-med student or nurse?”
“No, I’m a university student.”
I would like to add—but I’m reasonably intelligent—although I may lack judgment in many ways. A serious lack, I think. I should have been more emphatic, stronger, so stupid to back down because of his anger.
“Well then it’s best you wait and talk to Dr. Folkes. Your husband has a nasty contusion here that needs some stitches, so we’ll do that without further disturbing him. He may have had another brain bleed. We won’t know until we re-do last February’s tests.”
“Dr. Folkes seriously recommended that he withdraw from hockey, but my husband couldn’t be persuaded. I really tried.”
I feel guilty. Although I know it’s not my fault, I still feel guilty.
“It’s difficult to persuade a young professional athlete to withdraw from all the adulation and excitement—and money—that goes with the game. And it’s that abominable team spirit, we’ve seen it here before. Why not go and get yourself some coffee downstairs while we sew him up and check his vitals.”
I am being dismissed, politely but firmly.
Downstairs at the cafeteria, I order a Coke and a bagel. My birthday dinner: twenty candles on a bagel. I take a nibble, but it sticks in my throat. I drink the Coke, which releases its pleasant bite. My head aches and I take an Extra Strength Tylenol, washing it down with the Coke. I must phone Mutti. She, Ma and Carl Sr. were all watching the game. I need to share my panic and pain and perhaps that will dilute it. She would not help me to
dissuade him; now her precious son lies unconscious—stupid, stubborn, silly woman, never listening.
I hear her voice, high-pitched and tremulous. “How iss he?”
“He’s still unconscious,” I tell her. “There may be another brain bleed. It’s as the doctor warned us.”
He may have listened to her but perhaps not. But she could have tried. Instead, she blocked out everything but what she wanted to hear.
“I have to go. I’ll phone when I know more.” I want to cry, but I will not cry in a hospital cafeteria.
“WE ARE MONITORING him, Mrs. Helbig. We can phone you when he regains consciousness.”
They do not say “if,” they say “when.” Surely that is a good sign. They expect him to wake up. They have attached tubes and apparatus to his arm, to prevent dehydration and blood clots, I suspect. The contusion is closed by black spider legs. Now he will have matching temple scars, but the left will be just a thin white line, while the right will remain a pink smudge that shines. I do not question these nurses. I know they want to be rid of me, but I am staying. The two doctors have gone. Carl Helbig is the designated patient of Dr. Dennis Folkes.
“When will Dr. Folkes be here?”
“We’ve put a call in, but he may wish to do an MRI and MRS before speaking to you. We’ll contact you with any developments.”
“I’m staying,” I inform them. “I’ll try not to be a bother, but I won’t sleep if I go back to the hotel.”
They shrug. I know they want me gone, but I won’t go. I sit in the one chair, watchful. When they leave, I go over and rub my finger on his forehead, gingerly ironing the frown between his brows.
“You mustn’t frown,” I whisper, “I’m here, and someday we’ll be together.” Then I trace his mouth with my finger and think of last night.
I see his eyes flicker, so slightly, almost not at all, and then I touch his hand, the hand not attached to the arm with the tubing. It feels warm and rough and I look at the square nails, cut short, and the index finger, the sizing finger, and think of where it’s been.
“Sweetheart, it’s me, Sonja.”
His eyes flicker again. This time he half opens them but shuts them fast.
“The light . . . hurts.”
I turn on the adjustable light near the bed and direct it away from him and then turn off the room light.
“Where am I?”
“In the Trauma Center of the Massachusetts General. You got hit, that bastard Veronikov. Remember?”
“Nope,” he whispers.
“You got two goals, and when they carried you from the ice everyone applauded.”
“Good of ’em.”
He remembers nothing. Does he know me? I am afraid to ask.
“They’re getting Dr. Folkes, he’s based here.”
“Who?”
“The last doctor you had. The specialist from Boston who flew in to examine you at Toronto General. Remember?”
At that point one of the nurses enters, the one with “Donnelly” on her name tag, one of the nurses who’d been urging me to leave some thirty minutes earlier. A grey-haired woman with a pronounced, jutting jaw.
“He’s conscious. Good. I thought you would have advised us, Mrs. Helbig. Carl, we’ve been trying to persuade your wife to leave, but she doesn’t trust you with us. Now, tell me how you feel. How’s your head? And I guess your eyes are bothering you, that’s why your wife turned off the lights.”
“My head’s poundin,’ poundin’ like crazy.”
“Then we’ll give you some painkiller and a nice drink. Would you like to urinate, Carl? I’ll just pull this curtain around you.”
“No need for that,” I say. “I’m familiar with his anatomy. Dr. Folkes—”
“He may or may not be in. Doctors have lives too, you know, although our staff is very dedicated, more so than most. It’s after eleven, so he may wait until tomorrow. He’ll order an immediate MRI, that much I know, and a MRS. Carl’s probably best resting right now anyway. Dr. Stockey has ordered him Coumadin, it’s—”
“I know what it is and does,” I say. “It prevents blood clots.”
“I guess you’ve picked up quite a lot of medical information married to a hockey player. It’s the same with the football wives. They talk like osteopaths. You can stay here, but he’ll be sleeping. He won’t know you’re here. Dr. Folkes comes in early. There’s an Express Holiday Inn near here that may be more convenient. If you sleep, you may be more alert to what Dr. Folkes says. You’ll be the smart one now.”
I was always the smart one about hockey, but no one listened. Pointless to be smart in such a case. Walking around with unlistened-to smarts. It was a waste of time.
“I’ll go,” I say. “I know he’s in good hands.”
This is a lie to ingratiate myself, but it’s no good to alienate all the nursing staff, especially Donnelly.
Donnelly walks over to where I’m standing. I wonder when her shift started: her breath smells tired and her eyes are a blurred and foamy pale green.
“How old are you?” she asks.
“Twenty,” I reply. “I was twenty today. We were married in June.”
“Not a good birthday for you. Nice you are married, though. Many young people today don’t bother. My daughter won’t get married and she’s got two little kids. She says she’ll marry him when he changes, but that won’t happen.
“I’ll be gone when you come back, but he’ll be here for a while so we’ll see each other again. Good luck on Dr. Folke’s diagnosis. He’s the best there is.”
No good if you ignore what he says.
I give Carl a light kiss on the forehead. He does not speak again.
As I leave the room, Donnelly squeezes my arm and says, “Take care, my dear. Have some sleep for your birthday. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
She likes me now and I like her. It can’t be easy going through life with a jaw like that, yet she’s had kids and is a nurse, an assertive one. It’s like going through life and “not doing normal” and being smarter than everyone else, which I doubt more every day. My judgment is defective, obviously so. I engage in plagiarism, too arrogant to see the implications; then I marry Carl so he can support my education. But now I will be missing all my first term and will be going through life with a chest full of cut glass because of my concern for him. I did not expect I’d love him like this.
The room at the Holiday Inn is clean and quiet. It is after midnight.
Mutti is waiting by the phone. Ma is asleep on the sofa. The chemotherapy, which is supposed to give her additional time, drains her.
“He woke up, but he’s in pain. The doctor’s coming tomorrow and there will be tests, tests like before. I’ll phone again. No, you must not come. Carl’s in his own world, he doesn’t need you here.”
Mutti sounds relieved.
I am so tired I ache from it, yet my mind is full of questions. I should write out a list of them for Dr. Folkes. He will be disgusted that Carl went back and with me for not prevailing against his going. I did try, but perhaps not hard enough. It wouldn’t have made any difference. In my heart I know this, so why am I torturing myself?
I turn the television on to Jon Stewart. He is making fun of some Republicans, but I cannot focus. I leave a message at the desk for a seven o’clock wake-up call. Then I lie here, alone in the Holiday Inn, wishing Carl were beside me. I don’t cry. If I cry, I won’t stop. I merely lie here, my eyes burning, feeling grasshoppers jumping in my head and with Jon Stewart turned down low for company. I must have finally slept. At seven, the wake-up call rings. I still lie here, wishing it were all a nightmare, now ended.
“WELL, SONJA,” SAYS a smiling Dr. Folkes, “we meet again. As intelligent as you are, I did not wish for another meeting.”
It is eight o’clock and I am sitting in Carl’s room. Dr. Folkes has already been here and gone, but now is back again. The tests have been given and he has read them. I do not wish to hear the results. The room is dim and I go over to
Carl.
“How are you, luv?” I ask.
“My head is killin’ me.”
“I’ll ask the doctor for stronger pain pills.”
Dr. Folkes beckons me outside and I follow him down the corridor and into a small office.
“Carl did not keep in touch with me so you must fill me in. What’s happened since his discharge last February?”
“He seemed fine. We got married in June and spent a week in Paris. He may have suffered from headaches, but he didn’t mention it, although he seemed to tire easily. One thing I noticed was he became quite anxious once when I left the hotel without him, really insecure, but he got over it. I attempted to persuade him not to go back to the Bruins, but he became very angry with me, almost hostile. It was impossible to get him to change his mind and he left for training camp in August. He seemed fine and told me he passed his ImPACT test with the team doctor.
“Last night he played in his first game here against the Penguins. After two goals he got an elbow to the head and went down. He was unconscious . . . it must have been at least an hour. He has no memory of what happened and has no memory of you. I think he knows me, but I’m not sure.”
Dr. Folkes sighs. The serious stupidity of his patients, and of their so-called caregivers, appears to pain him.
“All concussions are different. As I recall last time, there were indications of damage, and I suspected Carl suffered a second concussion during his critical recovery period from the first. He had the usual physical symptoms and as I remember became angry when confronted with his condition. He was fortunate to have survived so well, and to have been fit enough to enjoy a honeymoon in Paris.
“You were both warned as to the hazards of his returning to play. Toronto General has, through the wonders of technology, sent me the results of his former MRS and MRI. I have compared them with today’s tests. Now the damage is more widespread and there is frontal lobe involvement, which could result in memory loss and even dementia. No more warnings are necessary. Carl will not be able to play again even if given clearance by team doctors, which won’t happen. I fear this time his previous and present symptoms may linger and prevent normal life functioning. You are . . . ?”
Sonja & Carl Page 18