I hear Phillip tell Cookie, “Thanks for the ride.”
Shit. Here we go.
We get out of the car and walk through the emergency room doors. I see Phillip’s dad right away. He’s pacing, waiting for us, and he doesn’t look so good. Truthfully, he looks terrible, like he’s been crying. His shirt’s untucked and dirty, his hair’s a mess and—Oh, God, it’s not dirt. It’s blood all over his shirt.
He was there, I remember.
“How are they?” I ask immediately, as he takes my hands in his.
He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, opens them and says somberly, “JJ, honey, your mom didn’t make it.”
Didn’t make what?
Oh.
God, no!
That can’t possibly be.
There’s got to be some kind of mistake!!!
But I don’t have time to think because he drags me down the hall.
“Come on. Hurry. You need to see your dad. He’s been asking for you.”
We’re riding up the elevators to Intensive Care when he adds, “He’s not doing well, JJ.”
I cannot even handle this.
He rushes me into ICU and lets the nurse know I’m here. She leads us to Dad’s room.
Oh my.
All my self-talk in the police car did nothing to prepare me for this.
Shit!
Saying Dad doesn’t look good is a major understatement. He looks, well, like he’s going to die, and I am instantly petrified. His head is wrapped in bloody bandages. The majority of his face looks swollen and bruised. There are tubes and wires hooked up to him everywhere, and the room is filled with all sorts of beeping monitors.
Part of me thinks this can’t possibly be my dad.
I mean, Dad is big and strong.
He’s invincible. My very own superhero.
I can’t handle seeing him like this. He looks . . . helpless.
I stand frozen in shock in the doorway. I am totally unable to move. Mr. Mac puts his palm across my lower back and gently guides me closer to Dad’s bed. Then he turns and walks out of the room.
I stand there and stare at Dad for a minute, not quite sure what to do.
“Daddy?” I finally say.
Dad slowly blinks open his eyes and looks at me.
He’s okay! He’s awake!
I grab his hand and pull it up to my cheek. I feel relief. It’s going to be okay. He and I, well, I don’t know what we are going to do without Mom, but at least he’s okay.
I close my eyes and feel warmth go through me as his hand touches my face, even though his fingers feel cold.
That’s weird. Dad’s hands are always so warm.
“Angel,” he says and smiles a little smile at me. I mean, really only the corners of his mouth go up a bit, but I know it’s supposed to be a smile.
“Daddy, everything’s gonna be alright.”
He looks straight at me with eyes that seem to say, No, it’s not.
Not unlike the look he gave me when he told me that Pookie, our beloved dog, had died when I was nine.
Wait. He doesn’t think they will be alright? Or is it just because he knows about Mom? Does he know about Mom?
Is Mr. Mac even sure about Mom?
He looks very tired and closes his eyes, so I sit there, holding his cold hand to my cheek, staring at his swollen face, trying to think positive thoughts, and praying like I have never prayed before.
His eyelids flutter open for a second, and he whispers softly, “Love.” Then he takes a shallow breath. “My Angel.”
His eyes close again.
I keep his hand on my cheek and let him rest.
I’m sure he will need lots of rest.
But I can take care of him for a while. I mean, he has taken care of me for my whole life. I don’t know what we are going to do without Mom. It’s going to be horrible, awful, but I’ll figure it out. He and I will get through it together, somehow.
Then I look at his chest.
Is he breathing?
My eyes get big and I feel panicked as I watch his chest, waiting for it to rise again, for him to take another breath. I wait for what seems like forever.
Come on!
The monitors start screeching, an alarm sounds.
Nurses and doctors come tearing into the room. I hold my breath, as I sink down into a chair in the corner, pull my legs up on the seat, and wrap my arms around them. A nurse grabs me and hustles me out of the room.
I say a new prayer. Don’t leave me, Daddy. Don’t leave me, Daddy.
Please don’t leave me. You can so not leave me!!!
I say it over and over in my mind, while I sit in the ICU waiting room.
I think that’s a horrible name. Waiting room. Sitting around and waiting for someone to live or die. It’s terrible. And I will never in my life forget the smell of it. It smells like hospital disinfectant and microwave popcorn. Someone has just made some, like they’re having a party. I see two people over in the corner eating it and watching TV. They’re even laughing!
Which, quite frankly, is something I might never do again. I may very well be devoid of emotion.
What is wrong with me?
My mom’s dead and my dad could be, and I have not shed a single tear.
My mom is dead. I can’t believe I just thought those words.There really has to be some kind of mistake. Can they mix up people in the hospital? Don’t they do that with babies sometimes? Maybe in all the commotion, they mixed up Mom. Maybe she’s going to walk down the hall and tell me she’s okay, that everything is okay, that it was all just a big mistake.
But I don’t think that is going to happen.
I feel so, I don’t know, twisted.
Speaking of twisted. You know the movie, Twister?
I know, not my typical romantic comedy genre—but when you live in the Midwest, tornados are scary fascinating and in the spring that movie plays on basic cable every other weekend.
So, in the movie, Jo, played by Helen Hunt, keeps saying, They had no warning. And that’s why she’s out chasing dangerous tornados.
Anyway, I think that’s what has happened. An invisible F-5 tornado has just plowed straight through my life—sucking up everything important to me.
And I had no warning.
No menacing clouds, no rain, no hail, no debris.
And I’m the freaking twisted-up cow that goes flailing in front of Jo’s truck. Like, I got picked up way over there and was tossed out of the tornado, landing clear over here, shaking my head and wondering, “What the *#!$ just happened?”
How fitting. I’m the debris.
I look around for Mr. Mac. Did the F-5 suck him up too?
No. He probably went to get Mrs. Mac and Phillip.
Phillip.
Oh crap.
I am such a freaking idiot.
Phillip was really mad at me.
And even though some of the stuff he said pissed me off, as usual, Phillip always has the situation figured out, and I hate to admit it, but he’s usually right. Which is why I do get mad at him sometimes. I hate not being right.
Phillip and I never fight. I mean, yeah, I get mad at him sometimes, but we never fight. And that was like a fight. And I said some mean stuff to him. Like, I told him I didn’t want to be his friend anymore.
Why in the world did I say that? I didn’t mean it.
I’ve got to tell him I’m sorry.
But what if he won’t forgive me? What if he hates me now?
He barely spoke to me in the police car.
He probably does hate me.
Regardless of the fight, I mean, he is my best friend, and I don’t know what I would do without him.
Especially now.
I mutter another prayer.
Please don’t let him hate me. Please don’t let him hate me. Please don’t let him hate me.
The elevator dings, and I stand up in front of my chair and watch the doors open. Standing inside the elevator is Mr. and Mrs. Mac and Phil
lip.
I try to read Phillip’s face as he steps off the elevator, but I’m unable to judge what he’s thinking. I do notice that his eyes don’t look angry anymore, so maybe there’s hope.
Phillip doesn’t say anything.
He rushes to me, wraps me in a one-armed hug, and pulls me close.
I close my eyes and whimper in his ear. “I’m so sorry, Phillip. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean what I said. Please forgive me, please forgive me.”
“Princess,” he whispers back, “you know I could never stay mad at you.”
And that’s when the tears come.
Standing there in Phillip’s arms, this whole nightmare becomes, well, real.
Nothing is ever real until I tell it to Phillip, I think; why should this be any different?
“She’s dead, Phillip.” I sob into his shoulder. “I think he might be dead too.”
Mr. Mac says loudly, “What?”
“He might be dead too. He talked to me, well he said my name, and he sorta smiled at me. I thought that meant he was going to be okay. But his hands were so cold, and his hands are just like Phillip’s. They’re never cold. Then he stopped breathing, I think. A bunch of alarms went off, and they made me leave. But no one has come out to tell me anything.”
Because Phillip is smoothing down the back of my hair with the palm of his hand, I actually manage to get the words out.
Mr. Mac drops into a chair, runs his hand through his hair, hangs his head down and keeps it there. He’s changed out of his, you know, dirty shirt and is wearing a green scrub top. It looks really out of place on him, because he’s always a very polished suit and tie kind of guy.
Mr. Mac has known my dad longer than I have, I suddenly realize.
We sit in uncomfortable waiting room chairs and wait, and wait, for what seems like an eternity.
Everyone handles the stress of waiting differently. Mr. Mac paces up and down the hall, jingling some change and keys in his pocket. Mrs. Mac plays hostess. She makes us all coffees and then cleans up a mess that isn’t really there. Phillip sits next to me and holds my hands. I just stare into space, my mind in overdrive, trying to figure out how I am going to deal with this.
Finally, a nurse comes out. She tells us they revived Dad. I feel hopeful, but then she quietly adds that his outlook isn’t good, and a doctor will be out to talk to us soon.
Shit!
“Is there a chapel here?” I blurt out, feeling a sudden need to have a chat with God.
“Down the hall and to your right,” she tells me.
“I’m gonna go down there, okay?” I tell the Macs.
“Can I come with you?” Phillip asks me. “Or do you want to be alone?”
“Come with me. I may need backup,” I tell Phillip hastily, as I march off.
“What do you mean?” he asks, as he follows me down the hall and to the right.
“I’m pissed, Phillip. I’m mad at God, and I want him to know it!”
Phillip follows me into the empty chapel.
I walk to the front and hold my arms in the air.
“Okay, God?” I say to the sky. Not that I expect an answer, but I need to get this out.
“I mean, what in the hell did they do to deserve this? Why them? Why me?”
“JJ! You can’t say stuff like that in here. It’s totally disrespectful.”
“You know what, Phillip? He pretty much took my parents away from me tonight in one fell swoop. I think I earned the right to say a few bad words. I mean, jeez, could it get any worse?”
Phillip sighs. “You know God doesn’t cause accidents. They’re just that. Accidents.”
“So, what happened, Phillip? Who or what caused this accident? And like God couldn’t have saved them if he wanted to? Haven’t you ever heard of miracles? Don’t you think he could’ve even spared just one?” I yell at both Phillip and God.
Phillip studies my face and begins, “Well, a woman lost control of her car. Crossed the median.” He gulps. “They collided head on.”
“Oh, figures. And I suppose she wasn’t even hurt. Probably walked away without a scratch, while my mom is dead and Dad is . . . oh, I don’t know what he is exactly.”
“Actually, they were on the interstate going 75 miles per hour, when they collided. They say she was killed instantly.” He looks at me intensely and continues in a measured tone, “Her four-year-old daughter was in the backseat and miraculously only has a few cuts and bruises.”
Oh sure, throw my miracle request back in my face.
“So, it could be worse. You could be a four year old with no mom.”
Leave it to Phillip to find the one damn ray of sunshine in my whole dark life.
“Fine,” I sigh. “So it could be worse. Regardless of my age, Phillip, I can’t handle this. How am I supposed to handle this?”
I am starting to freaking freak!
“I’ll help you.” He grabs my wrists and leads me to a pew. “My family will help you. You know our parents agreed to take care of each other’s kids if anything happened to them. Your being eighteen doesn’t change how they feel about you.” He runs the back of his hand across my cheek, and then holds my chin, forcing me to look up at him. “We love you. I love you. We’ll get through it together.” He breaks a little smile. “You know, Grandma Mac used to say, God never gives you more than you can handle.”
“My grandma used to say something like that, except hers was, What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I shake my head. “It looks like I’m about to get a whole helluva lot stronger.”
“Jadyn,” Phillip says, stroking my cheek again.
Jadyn? Phillip has never called me that.
“You’re the strongest,” he smiles, “and most stubborn person I know. I think maybe you’ll realize just how much strength you already have.”
I don’t know if it’s thinking about Grandma, or what Phillip said, or the way his touch relaxes me, or just having it out with God, so to speak, but I feel a little better.
I say another silent prayer. Sorry for yelling, this is just such a shock. Please help my dad, and please help me.
Maybe I can get through this. I mean, let’s face it, do I really have a choice?
No. I have to.
For my parents, I suppose.
“Thanks, Phillip. We better get back. I don’t wanna miss the doctor.”
He holds my hand as we walk back to the waiting room and that gives me strength somehow.
Mr. and Mrs. Diamond must’ve just arrived. They are crying and hugging the Macs.
They see me and hug me too.
“Oh, JJ. We’re so sorry, honey. I just can’t believe this,” Mary says tearfully.
We update Chuck and Mary, and I complain that we still haven’t heard from a doctor.
“That’s ridiculous!” Chuck tells us and marches straight into ICU. Danny’s dad is an attorney and a lot like Danny, a very take-charge kind of guy. I’m glad he’s here, because I don’t think Mr. Mac is going to be able to take charge of anything. He’s not dealing so well.
While Mr. Diamond is in the ICU, Mrs. Diamond is on her cell trying to reach Danny. “Straight to voicemail,” she complains. “I can’t,” she starts crying again, “I can’t just tell him this on voicemail. And I talked to him right before Julie called. He said he saw you guys at a party in town.”
Phillip nods at her.
Jake. Danny. The party. It seems like a lifetime ago.
“Why he didn’t bother to stop and see his mother while he was in town, I have no idea,” she mutters. “Anyway, I know his phone’s not dead. Why have one if you’re not going to keep it on and answer it?”
“He’s probably back at his dorm by now. Why don’t you try there?” Phillip suggests.
“Why don’t you try?” she says to Phillip. “Maybe he’s just avoiding his mother.”
Phillip takes out his cell and punches in Danny’s number. I hear him leave a message.
“Hey, it’s Phillip. Your mom’s be
en trying to reach you for a reason. Call me as soon as you get this. It’s Jay’s parents. Um, there’s been an accident and it’s . . . uh, not good. Call me—no matter how late.”
Mr. Diamond walks out of the ICU. He’s lost his swagger.
“The doctor will be out in a few minutes,” he announces. Then he walks over and sits down beside me. He puts his big hand on my knee, but I’m not sure if it is meant to comfort me or bolster him. “You need to prepare yourself, JJ. The news isn’t going to be good.” He swallows hard and tears well up in his eyes, and he starts to cry as he says, “They don’t think he’s going to make it and want to talk to you about organ donation.”
“Jesus, Chuck! Don’t you think they should try to save him before they start auctioning off his body parts?” Mr. Mac yells, throws his coffee cup in the trash madly, and storms down the hall.
We all ignore his outburst. We know he’s very upset.
I watch him walk down the hall, sigh and say to Mr. Diamond, “I think he wanted that.”
“He did. I took care of your parents’ estate planning. You’re going to be okay, JJ.” He looks at me with worried eyes and adds softly, “Well, at least financially.”
I sort of roll my eyes because, I’m sorry, finances are the least of my worries right now.
The ICU doors part, and a doctor walks out.
I stand up and rush toward him.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
“Jadyn Reynolds?” The doctor asks me. I nod my head yes.“Let’s sit down.”
I cringe at the Let’s sit down. On TV, bad news always follows that saying. I sit down next to Phillip, who grabs my hand and squeezes it tightly.
“Your father suffered severe brain trauma, and his body is shutting down. We’ve revived him once, but we need to discuss what you want done when it happens again. Did he have a living will?”
I look at him kind of puzzled because I’m not exactly sure what that is.
Danny’s dad stands up and says, “Yes, he did. Here. I brought a copy.” He hands the living will to the doctor.
“What’s that for exactly?” I ask.
Chuck turns to me and says very slowly, “Well, your parents didn’t want you, or each other, to ever have to make difficult decisions about medical care should something like this happen. So they put their wishes in something called a living will. Your dad did not wish to be held in a vegetative state.”
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