Of Stillness and Storm

by Michele Phoenix

  I felt bile rising in my throat and bent over the toilet to retch. My empty stomach convulsed in dry heaves. Tears. Burning tears. And sobs that strangled me.

  Sam knocked softly on the door. “Lauren?”

  I slid down the wall to the floor and covered my mouth with my hands, trying to stifle the overflow of my terror.

  “Lauren.”

  “Give me a minute,” I said on a forcefully settled breath. I heard him walk away.

  He was sitting on the bench just inside the front door when I left the bathroom. The bench where Ryan would drop his backpack after school. The bench under which his cleats still lay, their bright green laces trailing on the tile floor. I walked past Sam without a glance in his direction. “Lauren,” he said again.

  I didn’t know who or what to hate. Sam. Or his job. Or this godforsaken country. Or God himself. I went to the laptop on the dining room table. Sullivan answered after just one ring. Her voice rough with sleep.

  “This had better be good,” she said. Then she saw my face. “Chickadee …”

  “Ryan …” I said. Then new sobs choked my words.

  “Lauren. Lauren, honey. What’s going on?” I could hear the fear in her voice. “What’s happened to Ryan?”

  I forced myself to breathe. Ordered my lungs to stop their quaking. After several moments, I said, “He …” The words I needed to say bruised me in an unimaginable way. “He’s in the hospital. In a coma. He—”

  “What? What happened?” I saw her reach for the light switch next to her bed and turn it on. She was disheveled and as awake as I’d ever seen her. “Was he in an accident? Was he hit by one of those taxis?”

  “He jumped off a crane.” Saying it made it more real.

  “He … what?”

  “He threw himself off the top of a crane, Sullivan. He’s …”

  “Oh, my Lord. Tell me what I can do.”

  I wasn’t sure why I’d called her first, instead of my parents. But her quick, practical response soothed me in ways I didn’t understand. “Nothing. Not yet.”

  “Does he need to be medevaced? I can arrange it, Lauren. Say the word.”

  “I don’t think we can do that yet. He’s got crushed vertebrae. And his leg is broken. They took out his spleen and cut out a piece of his skull because his brain’s so swollen.”

  “Oh, Lord. What are the doctors saying?” Her question was firm and unflinching.

  “Just to wait, I guess. He’s stable right now, but … we’re just home long enough to make a couple calls, then we’re heading back.”

  “Well, don’t waste time talking to me! I’m going to put out a few feelers so I’ll be ready the minute you need anything. You hear me? Whatever it is—medical help or evacuation. You call me the minute you need anything.”

  Her words lent me courage. “Okay. I will. I just … I just wanted you to know.”

  After we’d hung up, I stared at my contact list and tried to find the energy to call my parents. They’d be devastated. They’d want to fly over. They’d smother me with questions and concern. I didn’t know if I could do it. I didn’t know how long my sanity would last.

  “Do you want me to call your parents?” Sam asked from the dining room doorway.

  I shook my head.

  “Water’s heating for coffee. I’ll be in the bedroom packing a bag.”

  I heard him climb the stairs. His step was slow and heavy.

  I called my parents and listened as their tiredness yielded to clear-minded horror. All I told them was that Ryan had fallen from a crane in the construction zone next to his school. They assumed it was an accident and I didn’t contradict them. They said they’d be on the next flight out, and I made them promise to stay put. I’d tell them if and when we needed them to come.

  “Then we’ll pray,” I heard my mother’s shell-shocked voice say. “We’ll get the church praying too. You let me know the moment anything changes, okay?” Her voice caught.

  “We’re there in spirit, sweetie,” my dad said in a broken voice, bringing fresh tears to my eyes. “Tell our grandson we love him.”

  I assured him that I would, though I didn’t know when he’d be conscious to hear it. I sat in silence after we hung up. The mere thought of moving exhausted me. Though my mind seemed to be functioning again, my body still rebelled against the reality of Ryan’s condition. My fingers directed the laptop’s mouse almost in spite of me. It hovered over the browser’s icon. Then my bookmarked pages. Then Facebook’s blue F. I clicked and saw a new message from Aidan.

  Aidan.

  If we hadn’t found each other again. If Ryan hadn’t overheard the end of our call.

  I caught myself. If Sam had been more present. If we’d stayed in Indiana. If I’d protected my son from his father’s fanaticism …

  There were too many ifs. I clicked the browser closed and shut the laptop’s lid.

  Ryan was still in intensive care two days later. It was a far cry from American ICUs, but enough to keep our son alive. Eveline arranged for meals to be delivered to us while Sam and I stood vigil. Steven took in Muffin so we wouldn’t be tied to his feeding schedule. Pastor Justin came by to offer his support. He went to Ryan’s bed and laid a hand on his leg. “Father,” he said, eyes closed and eyebrows drawn. “Father, please heal this young man.” Sam glanced at me as if he knew I wanted to leave the room.

  We hadn’t said much to each other in the two days since Ryan’s fall. We’d spoken to our son as if he could hear us, assuring him that we were near and that he was in good hands, trying to lend him a hope we often didn’t feel. The reflexes in Ryan’s legs and feet weren’t good. We’d been told a hundred times that we wouldn’t know the full extent of his injuries until the swelling in his brain went down and he returned to consciousness, but I knew both of us were bracing for the worst. Paralysis. A protracted coma. Brain death.

  Eveline came by early that afternoon, took one look at me, and declared that I needed to go home to rest.

  “I’m okay,” I said, but I heard the exhaustion in my voice.

  “You’re dead on your feet, luv,” she said. “And this boy of yours is going to need you even more when he comes out of the coma. So why don’t you give yourself a little break? Go home. Get a few hours of sleep in your own bed. You’ll feel much better in the morning.”

  I looked from Eveline to Sam and back again, craving the reprieve but afraid of what might happen when I was away.

  “You go home,” Sam said. “I’ll stay with Ryan and give you a call if anything changes.”

  I conceded. “I’ll go after Nyall’s visit.” Eveline seemed satisfied with that.

  We settled into quietness again after she left. I wondered when we’d lost our words. It was Sam who finally lanced our silence. “I know you blame me,” he said.

  I looked up, startled. “What?”

  “For Ryan. I know you blame me.”

  I knew what I should say. Comforting words. Wifely words. It’s not your fault, Sam. He was upset and not thinking straight. I don’t blame you. But the fact was that I did. And I didn’t know when I’d begun. Looking back, I saw the slow build of my resentment like an inexorable force, fueled by disappointment and duress. But none of that mattered much with Ryan still unconscious, the outcome still unsure.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said to Sam. I hated the petulance in my voice. But not as much as I hated the beeping and whirring of the machines attached to our son.

  “If he hadn’t been drinking …” Sam said.

  “If he hadn’t been drinking? That’s what you’re focusing on?”

  “His alcohol levels were … No one can make wise decisions with that amount of liquor in their system.”

  I shook my head, torn between amazement and disgust. “You go ahead and blame the liquor, Sam.”

  “While you’re content to just blame me.”

  “Boys need fathers,” I said, not caring if my words hurt him.

  “Lauren …”


  “And kids need stability.”

  I could hear him breathing. I could feel his eyes on me.

  “I …” He stopped himself and expelled a long breath. “If I had known how unhappy he was …”

  I felt resentment turn into cold fury. “If you had known? How could you have missed it?”

  “Lauren.”

  “What kind of sign did you need, Sam? What kind of unhappiness would have convinced you that our son wasn’t doing well?”

  He held up his hands. “Some of that is just normal teenage stuff.”

  “Look where you’re standing!” I barked, pointing at the boy who lay in a coma. “It was more than normal teenage stuff! But how were you supposed to know when you were gone more than half the time?” I took a breath and landed a satisfying blow. “I’ll bet you’d have done something about it if one of your villagers has been as despondent as Ryan!”

  “Lauren … what are you saying?” Shock sharpened his words.

  I shook my head in revulsion at his ignorance. “How many times have I tried to tell you that your ideal life was killing us? How many times have you sat in our home having forced conversations with a boy who hasn’t really spoken since a year before we left the States? I used to marvel at your ability to see the best in things. The optimism! The faith! The single-minded pursuit of God’s purpose for your life! Oh, please.” I heard the sneer in my voice and didn’t try to silence it. “If this,” I said, pointing at our son, “is God’s doing, you’re just the type of father he is.”

  I saw his face go pale. He grasped the edge of Ryan’s bed and lowered himself into the chair next to it, eyes averted, jaw set. He had that look again—the one that told me he was seeking solace from a higher place.

  “I’ve tried to play along—you can’t fault me for that. I’ve struggled and I’ve wanted to get out of this place. I’ve made all the right excuses to our son. ‘Your dad’s doing good work.’ ‘Your dad loves you and he shows it when he’s home.’ I’ve told myself to buck up and take one for the kingdom. I’ve tried to be quiet when you needed me to be and supportive when you wanted me to be. I did my best to help Ryan as long as he’d accept it, then I told myself that this work couldn’t really harm him because, after all, the call came from God.

  “I’ve got to tell you, Sam, I’m done. I’m done ignoring and excusing the damage your … your vision has done! And if this,” I cried, pointing again at Ryan, “if this was part of God’s big plan to reach the remote villages of Nepal, you can have him! I will not trust a God who would want this to happen, nor the man who sacrificed his child to a highfalutin, egocentric calling. You’re on crack, Sam! God’s mission is your crack, and you can’t see your own addiction.” My entire body was shaking with my fury. “I wanted to love you and him enough to stomach the collateral damage, but … I’m done. I am so completely and utterly done.”

  While Sam sat by Ryan’s bed, his gaze on nothing and his shoulders slumped, I gathered my things and picked up my bag. Then I leaned over Ryan and told him I loved him in a voice roughened by my diatribe, hoping he hadn’t heard the hate I’d just spoken. “I’ll be back soon,” I said.

  I left Sam sitting in the hospital room and instructed my legs to carry me down the hall. They felt leaden and unsteady. My mind did too. And my heart—my heart felt atrophied. The truth was, my own guilt was eating me alive.

  seventeen

  THERE WERE TOO MANY E-MAILS WAITING FOR ME TO READ them all. Some names looked familiar, but others I’d never seen before. Our families must have put the word out about Ryan, and friends as well as strangers were reaching out to offer their support. I read a note from Sullivan—short and sweet—telling me about a private medical group that was willing to evacuate Ryan as soon as he was stable. I hit reply and froze. The date at the top of my message stunned me.

  Though the past few days had given me more reasons to grieve than I dared contemplate, I felt a fresh wave of anguish wash over me. It was Monday. In my focus on Ryan, I’d lost track of passing time.

  I closed my e-mail to Sullivan before I’d begun writing it and quickly opened Facebook. The number of notifications waiting for me surprised me. Nearly a hundred posts on my wall and forty-three messages. I clicked on the message icon, then on his name. His words unfolded in a series of notes sent hours apart across the span of my lost days. I skimmed what he’d written, unease gnawing at my mind. I paused on the last message, written just that morning.

  finally asked one of your facebook friends about what i’ve been seeing on your wall … she filled me in. geez, ren, i’m so sorry. i wish i could do something—anything—to help you. i hoped i’d get to hear your voice one more time before they stuck that scalpel into my head again, but you’re caring for your son. there should be no other thought in your mind.

  might be out of touch for a few days starting tomorrow. but you’ll be here, ren. you’ve been … you’ve been everything these last few weeks.

  attaching something i’ve been working on for months. probably years, off and on, and just finished this morning. consider it a parting gift. just in case. you know me well enough to understand.

  praying for ryan. really. and for you.

  I felt my spirit’s backbone bow under the weight of Aidan’s need, and I wondered how much more my heart could take. My mind flashed lightning fast through snapshots of our lives. The shed, the garage, and Mom’s old bench under the tree.

  The light in Aidan’s living room was on when his face came up on my screen.

  “Hi,” I whispered, hoarse from self-restraint.

  He stared hard into his screen. I tried to school my expression into something resembling serenity, but knew he’d see right past it. He didn’t mention the circles under my eyes or my dirty, unkempt hair. I saw him take a breath and smile his Aidan smile. “Ren …”

  I didn’t trust myself to speak.

  “Tell me about Ryan.”

  I hung my head. “He jumped off a ninety-foot crane,” I said after a few moments had passed.

  “Wait … jumped?”

  “He was drunk. He was …” I rubbed a hand over my face. “Sam tried to stop him but … he just … jumped.”

  “Ren …”

  The horror lashed me again. “I was there when he jumped … next to the crane.”

  “Good God.”

  “He was so … so angry.” I bit my lip to contain an overflow of terror. Then I took a deep breath and gave him an abbreviated version of all that had led to Ryan’s leap. I told him what Nyall had said to us, and Aidan’s eyes grew somber. “We won’t know any more for a while. Sullivan’s working on getting him back to the States, but Sam wants to keep him here. He insists the medical care is just as good, but …”

  “How are you coping, Ren?”

  “I’m not.” I laughed.

  “Of course you’re not.”

  I shook my head to clear it. “And here I am telling you about Ryan when you’re heading into surgery in … how many hours?”

  “Eight and a half. But who’s counting?” He paused. “I’m going to be fine. Don’t waste any energy worrying about me. I’ll get through this unpleasant bit and then we’ll know.”

  “Then we’ll know,” I repeated, trying to unfasten my brain from Ryan long enough to focus it on Aidan’s plight. Within a couple of days, he’d know if he would live to see another season.

  I wondered how much more my disintegrating soul could take. Then I chastised myself for making this about me.

  “I didn’t open the attachment,” I said, trying to inject some hope into my voice. “I’ll wait until you’re well enough to Skype. You can explain the new painting when I see it for the first time.”

  “No, open it now.”

  I shook my head, suddenly certain that I needed to wait. As if the unrevealed art could seal Aidan’s survival. “When you’re well enough to Skype,” I said again.

  He didn’t say anything. I wanted to offer hopeful words. Certain words. To pray as I might have we
eks before. But my optimism and my faith had both been crushed in Ryan’s fall.

  “Ryan’s going to make it,” Aidan said. The conviction in his voice was a welcome, solid certainty. “He’s a tough kid, and if he’s got your stubborn streak …”

  “He does.” The battle waged in doubts and accusations and empty promises raged on inside my head. “You need your sleep,” I said into another lengthening silence. “I’ll check in again when it’s all over.” I smiled and hoped it spoke of hope.

  “I love you, Ren.” His voice caught. “You know I always have.”

  I stared at his face, shamed by the emotions that clawed at my resolve and stole from the well of strength I had to save for Ryan. “Good-bye for now, Aidan.” The words felt anemic. I wanted to say more, but wouldn’t let myself. “We’ll talk soon, okay? I promise.”

  Tears clouded his eyes. His smile was deep and soft. “Good-bye for now.” I felt the emptiness of the words when he said them back to me. He stared at me a moment longer. Then he reached forward and disconnected the call.

  I woke just past dawn, checked the clock, and threw back the covers. I had to get back to the hospital. What if Ryan had woken during the night? What if something in his condition had changed?

  The laptop lay beside me. I’d called Sullivan before surrendering to sleep and had left it there in case of an emergency. “You keep me up-to-date, okay?” she’d said before I hung up. “And leave the rest of the details to me. It’ll all be lined up the minute you give the signal.”

  I knew she was the right person to oversee Ryan’s evacuation. But we weren’t there yet. I reached for the laptop to write a quick update to our parents, eager to get back to the hospital where my son maintained his tenuous grip on life. When the browser opened to my Facebook page, I felt myself coming undone—raw from the heart-wrenching trauma of Ryan and rent by the numbing uncertainty of Aidan.

  His face swam into focus and I tried to blot it out. Ryan. Only Ryan. I pushed the laptop away as if it were an evil force, the physical evidence of my deceit. Guilt in successive waves washed over me. It stole my breath and redoubled my agony. I blustered to myself about love’s purity and motherhood and fear and shame and need. I begged for the opiates of serenity and certainty. I could not endure whatever lay ahead while torn in my attention and my loyalty.