by Amy Miles
TEN
Checking In
Timothy paces the hall, the sound of his boots echoing around him. This wing of the hospital is eerily quiet in the early morning hours. Only the sound of breathing machines and the steady drone of heart monitors keep him company as he waits.
She’s been gone far too long. He turns to make another lap and sees Claire emerge from the stairwell.
When Claire sees him, she rushes up to his side. Her face looks drawn, her eyes reddened and puffy from crying. “Anything yet?”
He shakes his head and forces himself to sink into one of the waiting room chairs. She quickly follows suit. “Nothing.”
Her hopeful expression wanes as she slumps in her chair. The memory of telling Hannah that he didn’t want to be the one to bring grave news to Claire plays on repeat in his mind as he watches her aunt’s shoulders curl inward with grief. “I knew something like this would happen someday.”
“Ma’am?”
She offers him a weak smile. “Hannah. She’s always been the first to leap in and help people. Drives her parents nuts, but it’s one of the things I love most about her. Problem is, people with big hearts get stomped on every once in a while.”
Timothy nods, fighting hard not to think of how much his Abby was like that. Wasn’t that why she went out late that night, so close to Christmas? When she received a call in the wee hours of the morning from an elderly woman in their church who had fallen and needed help, Abby hadn’t thought twice about going out, despite the foul weather. Timothy had to be on a job site early the next morning. He should have gone with her. Driven her to make sure she arrived safely. Instead, Abby made the decision to let him sleep. He’d awakened to the pounding on his door by a policeman and a handwritten note left beside him in bed...the last communication he would ever again have from his wife.
“Thank you,” Claire whispers and reaches out for his hand, drawing him away from his morose thoughts. He’s startled when she clings to him but places his hand over hers. “I heard how hard you worked to save her.”
A lump begins to form in his throat as he nods, knowing that words have escaped him. Claire squeezes her hand and then withdraws.
“Andrew is in recovery. Doctors feel hopeful that they mended all of the bleeding. He’ll be here for a while but I’m praying he’s going to make it.”
“He will,” Timothy says with no hint of the doubt that he feels in his voice. “Nothing can keep him down.”
Claire smiles. “I sure hope so.”
They fall into a silence, not exactly awkward but not comforting either. Each one of them is lost to their thoughts and prayers until a set of double doors halfway down the hall swing open and a doctor emerges. Timothy helps Claire rise.
“How is she, Dr. Martin?” Claire asks, wrapping her arms tightly around her waist.
Timothy holds his breath as the doctor pulls the paper covering from his head. “She pulled through better than we’d hoped. We were able to repair much of the damage. If she’d arrived here any later her prognosis might not have turned out the same.”
Claire grabs Timothy’s hand and squeezes hard. “Will she have a full recovery?”
The doctor’s gaze lowers slightly and Timothy knows that his worst fears have been confirmed. “Her internal wounds will heal and her bones will mend, but I’m afraid we just can’t say about her legs. We’ve reset her pelvis and put casts on her legs, but there’s a lot of swelling in that area. Only time will tell, I’m afraid.”
“And if she does improve?” Timothy asks.
“Well,” Dr. Martin dips his head, crossing his arms over his chest. “If she does recover she will have to undergo some major therapy to get her up and walking again. I don’t want to get your hopes up though,” he warns. “She’s a broken girl and that’s not going to change any time soon.”
Claire juts out her chin. “She’s tougher than you think.”
The doctor smiles. “I hope so. She’s going to need that strength before all of this is over.”
“When can we see her?” Timothy asks.
Dr. Martin hesitates and looks over at Claire. “She will be in recovery for a bit longer until we can be sure that she is adequately stable. Visiting hours aren’t for a few hours, but considering the extent of her injuries, I’m going to recommend only family see her. I’m sorry, Tim.”
He hangs his head but nods in understanding. “Sure.”
“Come on, Nathan,” Claire says to the doctor. “You know Tim is the only reason my niece made it at all. Surely you can bend the rule for him.”
A weary smile tugs at the doctor’s lips as he shrugs. “I’ll leave it up to you. Just make sure you let the nurses know ahead of time.”
He turns and leaves them in silence, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. “You don’t have to do that,” Timothy says, hating the defeated tone is his voice. He’s being shut out. Maybe that’s for the best. Being around Hannah only brought this misery on her.
“Nonsense. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Tim attempts at a smile but it falls flat. “I should go check on Iris. I’ll be back a bit later.”
As he starts to walk away, Claire reaches out and pulls him back. “You need to get some rest. You look like you’re barely standing.”
“I’ll be fine.” He pats her hand and heads for the stairwell. The doors close heavily behind him. He lumbers down the first flight before sinking down onto a step. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes as the tears come. Hannah is alive, just as I asked, but why did you have to strip away her life? How is she supposed to go on without the use of her legs? How can this plan possibly be for the greater good?
It takes several minutes before he is able to gather himself together. Finally, Timothy rises and finishes his descent. He sneaks down the darkened third floor hall and slips past the old man’s bedside and around the curtain to find Iris sleeping peacefully in her bed. Although she still looks frail, she also boasts more color in her cheeks.
He smiles and gently pulls the covers over her. At least I was able to help one.
Wearily, Timothy retreats from the room and heads for the first floor. The ER is still a manic rat race of people flooding in with injuries. The flashing lights of ambulances line the curved drive of the hospital. Timothy walks past all of them. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Doesn’t stop to offer any help, for there is none left in him to offer.
“Hey, Tim!” He turns at the call and sees Charley rushing toward him. His shirt is splattered with droplets of blood left over from his most recent patient. “You need a ride home?”
“Nah.” He shakes his head. “I’m just going to walk.”
Charley looks beyond him to the sea of darkness. “I can’t let you do that. It’s too dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His friend clasps him on the arm and steers him toward his waiting vehicle. “I insist. It’s the least I can do after the day you’ve had.”
Timothy finally agrees and climbs into the back of the ambulance. He sinks down onto the bench seat, careful not to let his filthy clothes brush up against the wheeled stretcher. As Charley and his partner climb into the driver’s seat for another run, Timothy leans his head back against the wall. He knows that the memories of this day will haunt him for months to come. How could they not? But as the first fleck of light begin to appear on the horizon, Timothy lets his eyes fall closed and slips into a blissful void.
ELEVEN
Moving On
Hannah notices the monitor hanging on a silver pole beside her when she opens her eyes. It beeps every once in a while, not so fast that it drives her mad but enough to remind her of where she is. A large window consumes the wall to her right, letting in copious amounts of natural light. The pale green curtain that separates her from the other patient is drawn around to give her privacy.
The TV mounted on the wall remains void of life just as it has these past few weeks. The remote hangs beside her, the c
ord wrapped twice around the handrail, but she makes no effort to reach for it. Instead she sits, staring out at the world around her.
From the fifth floor she can nearly see the ocean. The hint of blue on the horizon calls to her. She longs to feel the waves crashing against her shins, to feel the sand between her toes, but she feels nothing. Nothing at all below the waist.
When she awoke from her surgery, she was groggy. Memories of her time spent buried under the church came flooding back over the first couple of days. The doctors kept her sedated for the first week to help her body heal and her mind to begin to accept the changes. It was a very emotional time for her, though much of that stress was brought on by the sudden appearance of her parents.
She doesn’t blame Claire for making the call. It was the right decision, but that doesn’t stop Hannah from wishing that she hadn’t. Her mom was beside herself when she first walked in to find Hannah strung up in traction, her entire lower half wrapped in plaster. Her father had been grim faced right up until he boiled over and began shouting at the nursing staff for being incompetent.
No number of apologies could make up for her father’s appalling behavior. All the while Claire stood to the side, her shoulders slumped and her head drooped. She was exhausted and rightfully so. For days she had pulled around the clock vigils, switching out between Hannah’s room and her husband’s.
The only bright spot in Hannah’s week came when Claire announced earlier that morning that Andrew was ready to be released. There is to be a small gathering today in Hannah’s room to celebrate, but she has no doubt the party will be less than cheerful. Her parents will see to that. They always manage to remind everyone who enters the room that Hannah is disabled and should be treated as such.
Anger simmers deep in her chest as she stares up at the clear blue sky above. I don’t consider myself to be disabled, but even if I am, it doesn’t change who I am. Why can’t they see that?
Despite her attempts to convince her parents otherwise, Hannah isn’t distraught over her diagnosis. Sure, it hurts. She wouldn’t be truthful if she didn’t admit to that, but if given the chance to go back and change her actions, Hannah knows she would make the same choice. It’s who she is. Who God created her to be. To deny that would be a grave injustice.
But knowing who you are and accepting a fate like this isn’t so easy. Hannah spent several days in willful seclusion, embracing the dark, wallowing in self-pity. It’s not like her to do so, but this once she felt it justified. After a week she began to come to terms with the loss of her legs, though even then she’s not entirely sure that the truth of her paralysis has fully sunk in.
When a knock sounds at her door, she turns away from the window as the door swings open. She holds her breath, hoping that Timothy will have finally come to visit her. He has yet to do so but she has felt him watching over her. Claire says that he comes to check on her daily but guilt holds him back. If only she could have the chance to tell him that she doesn’t blame him. That she is grateful for how hard he fought to save her life. Surely he knows she wouldn’t be here today without him.
Hannah tries to hide her disappointment when Dr. Martin steps around the curtain. “Ah, you’re awake. Good. I was hoping we could speak for a moment if you are up to it.”
Hannah smiles and presses the button on her bed to help raise her head up so that she is seated. “Of course. It’s always nice to see you.”
Dr. Martin winks at her and drags a wheeled stool closer to the side of her bed. “I wish all my patients were as positive as you.”
Hannah’s smile freezes for a moment before she lowers her gaze. “I have my moments when I don’t feel very cheerful.”
The doctor places his hand upon her forearm. His gaze is kind as she turns to look at him. “It’s ok to admit that you’re afraid, Hannah. No one will think less of you for it. You’ve been through a lot these past few weeks.”
She nods, knowing all too well what she has been through. She doesn’t like to talk about it with anyone. Especially not with the therapist that comes to see her each morning. Mrs. Henna seems like a very nice lady but Hannah would rather keep her thoughts to herself. Even Claire has sensed her need to hold back and has made every attempt to give Hannah the space she needs.
“So how am I doing?”
“Well,” he leans back and flips through her chart, “your last scan shows that the swelling in your lower abdomen and around your spine has improved. It looks like you’re starting to heal nicely. In a few weeks, we’ll be able to remove some of this casting. In time, we’ll start you in therapy to help rebuild your muscle tone.”
“And if I don’t regain feeling in my legs?”
He closes the folder and places it across his lap. “I won’t lie and say that this is a very great possibility. We are still unsure if this paralysis is permanent. All we can do is pray for the best.”
Hannah looks down at her toes poking out from the ends of the plaster. No matter how hard she focuses on them she can’t make them twitch. The effort is maddening, and yet to not try is even more so.
“Do you think I will ever walk again?”
“If anyone deserves a miracle, I’d say it’s you.” Dr. Martin smiles as he rises to his feet and eases the stool back. “I’ll check in on you a bit later.”
“Thanks,” she mutters as he retreats from the room.
A miracle? What are the chances of that happening?
Hannah rests her hands on top of the plaster cast, feeling the scratchy surface against her palms. She touches the skin just above her hips and feels nothing. Tears escape from her eyes as she slowly prods her way up from her waist. It’s not until she reaches an inch above her belly button that she feels the first hint of pressure.
I don’t understand, God, she thinks as she lets her hand fall away. A single tear slips from her eye. I had so many things that I still wanted to do. I wanted to travel. To help people. How am I supposed to do that when you’ve allowed me to become so broken?
The rapid staccato of high heels reaches her moments before the door to her room swings open. Hannah’s arms fall to her sides as she closes her eyes and pretends to be asleep.
“Hannah? Are you awake?” her mother asks in a whispered tone.
She doesn’t move, instead she focuses on keeping her breathing steady. Her mother approaches and touches her arm. She allows herself to stir but appears to remain locked in her dream world, though she nearly gives up the ruse when she hears her mother’s sigh. The footsteps retreat again, but she doesn’t leave the room. Her mother pauses on the other side of the curtain.
“She’s resting,” Hannah hears her say. She can tell by the tension in her voice that her mother is upset. It doesn’t take much to upset Helen Green. She seems to live in a constant state of drama, most of which she manages to create for herself.
“Good. That’s what she needs most.” Hannah can hear the weariness in her Aunt Claire’s voice. “It’s best not to distress her with these matters anyways.”
“Distress?” Hannah’s father snaps. She hadn’t realized he had entered the room too. This can’t be a good sign. “What exactly is supposed to be so distressing about going home?”
Home? Hannah cracks her eyes open but can see nothing but a glimpse of her father’s shoes beneath the drawn curtain.
“Charles, you know Hannah needs to remain here. Her doctors are confident they can provide the best care for her.”
“There are plenty of qualified doctors in California,” he responds curtly. Hannah watches as he shifts with agitation. It doesn’t take much to set him off, especially when he senses that he’s not getting his way.
“I know,” Claire tries to soothe, “but Dr. Martin advised against moving her. She’s still in a very fragile state. The ambulance ride across the country is simply not an option.”
“Of course not. I intend to fly her home.”
“Fly? The poor girl is in a partial body cast. How do you expect her to make the journey?”
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Hannah can hear her aunt’s frustration mounting and is grateful for it. She doesn’t want to go home where her mother will dote over her with endless nagging and primping, and her father will drive her up the wall, hinting strongly that she needs to recover in time to be ready for the spring semester.
“I can care for her here. Once she’s recovered well enough she can come home with me. It’s only for a few months,” Claire reasons.
Months…it all sounds so terribly long. With each day that passes Hannah begins to wonder if the pain from her wounds will ever catch up with her. If it doesn’t, will that mean that she is fated to spend her life in a wheelchair?
“Out of the question!” Her father’s immediate rebuttal cuts into Hannah’s thoughts. “You have your own life and worries to attend to, Claire. Your husband needs your attention.”
Hannah watches as her aunt’s sandaled feet plant firmly on the ground. She grins, knowing that her aunt is not going to back down. “I know my limits, Charles. That girl in there means the world to me and I’m not about to do anything that will put her at risk. Being here, with these doctors, is what is best for her. I had hoped that you would be capable of seeing reason in the matter, but obviously you haven’t learned a darned thing about putting other people’s needs first!”
Her father splutters but Claire continues. “Have you even stopped to ask Hannah what she wants? Where she wants to be? If she is even physically or mentally ready to be moved?”
“Claire,” Hannah’s mother inserts, “this isn’t really her decision to make. We are her parents—“
“And she’s a grown woman, Helen, or have you failed to realize that? When are you two ever going to stop treating her like a child and let her make her own path in life?”
“This isn’t the time or place for this conversation—” her father’s heel lifts off the ground and turns slightly. Hannah can picture him leaning toward the door, peering out to see if they have been overheard airing this dirty laundry.