Again, my body wants to flee. I know I will never be able to un-see the carnage, but at least I can escape. I’m afraid to move closer lest I faint or vomit or both.
God, where is Danny and why does freaking Caroline have to be in rehab? I did not sign up for this.
I close my eyes and try to call up my calming place. I expect to be propelled to the Empire State Building, but instead I find myself at the top of the embankment on PCH, staring across the Pacific Ocean at the blazing sunset.
McKenna’s guttural wail commands my focus, and my eyes pop open. Instantly, I steel myself and move to her bedside. I feel the grimace on my face and force myself to smooth over my features, which is almost fucking impossible the closer I get to that cavernous, bloody wound.
“I’m her aunt,” I tell the nurses in a surprisingly steady voice. They barely register this information as they work hard to calm McKenna without breaking any of her bones. I gently place my hand on her shoulder.
“McKenna. It’s me. I’m here, honey.”
Do not look at the wound. Look at her eyes. I do, but they are shut tight as tears ooze from the corners. Her chest heaves and she starts to cough and sputter and choke for air and her face turns a frightening shade of purple. I’m worried she’s going into shock.
“McKenna, can you hear me?” I raise my voice. “McKenna! It’s Auntie Meg! I’m here. I’m here, McKenna, and you’re going to be all right! Everything’s going to be just fine. McKenna. Open your eyes and look at me. Now, McKenna. LOOK AT ME!”
She slowly opens her left eye and peers at me. Her chest heaves rapidly a few times, and then she opens her right eye. Still sobbing, she claws at me with her hand. I reach out and grab it midair, then intertwine my fingers with hers and close my other hand around them.
“It’s okay, McKenna. I’m here.”
“I fell off the jungle gym, Auntie Meg,” she cries, her voice a raspy whisper.
“I can see that. But the people here are going to take really good care of you and fix you right up.”
“I’m s-s-scared.”
“I’m right here.” Tears slide out of my eyes and roll down my cheeks. But I don’t let go of McKenna’s hand to dry them.
“Don’t go away,” McKenna pleads and I squeeze her hand tighter.
“Ma’am?” One of the nurses touches me on the sleeve. “Ma’am, we need you to move so we can assess the wound.”
I shake my head emphatically. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Twenty
Meg: There is no such thing as an ‘ouch-less’ Band-Aid. I tried the ‘ouch-less’ brand. And you know what? It hurt like hell! What they should do is put those little airline bottles of booze in the box with the Band-Aids. That would definitely make them ‘ouch-less’.
Barry: What an interesting idea.
* * *
So. It turns out that baby poop is not the grossest thing about parenting. The absolute most disgusting aspect of parenting is witnessing your child get stitched up. The rational part of your brain knows he or she can’t feel it, as he or she has been numbed with lidocaine. And you also know you shouldn’t watch the actual procedure, as it will be burned into your memory forever and inspire nightmares for the rest of your life. But for some reason, you cannot look away as the doctor pierces the precious kid-flesh with his needle, tugging at the wound as he yanks at the nylon thread, then ties each stitch with the help of his scissor-like instrument only to puncture the skin yet again.
Your mouth hangs open and you almost forget to breathe and your stomach flip-flops, but watch, you do, because you’re right there and there’s nowhere else to look, and your child is watching you to see how it’s going, since they can’t see it for themselves. If you frown or grimace or look away in horror, your child will notice and he or she will likely get hysterical. Meanwhile, it is horrific, so you have to stifle the horror, push it deep within you where it will certainly do harm one day in the not-so-distant future.
But you do it. Because you have to. And that totally sucks.
* * *
Not surprisingly, Danny shows up after the doctor has finished, when McKenna is clean, bandaged and dozing comfortably. He appears at the edge of the curtain, his face ghostly pale in the fluorescent light save for the dark circles under his eyes. He glances over at me where I’m seated next to McKenna, still holding on to her for dear life. I lift my free hand and press my index finger to my lips.
He crosses to the other side of the bed and bends down to kiss his daughter’s forehead, stroke her hair, smooth her curly bangs, and whisper in her ear how much he loves her. He inspects the gauze and surgical tape adorning her chin, then meets my eyes, his expression tortured.
“She’s okay?”
I nod, then whisper, “Fourteen stitches.” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down a few times. “They gave her a low dose of Tylenol to help with the discomfort, but she can go home any time.”
“Daddy?” McKenna croaks.
“Hi, pumpkin pie,” Danny says, smiling down at her.
“Hi.”
“How are you feeling?” my brother asks her and she stifles a yawn.
“Okay. I fell down and broke my chin. The doctor sewed me up.”
“He sure did.” Danny’s eyes shimmer.
“Auntie Meg held my hand the whole time. She said I was a totally brave kid.”
“She was absolutely right,” he agrees with a solemn nod. “You are a totally brave kid.”
“It hurt, but Auntie Meg was here. She held my hand. She didn’t let go one time.” McKenna yawns again and her eyes flutter closed.
“Where’s Cera and Tebow?” I ask, but Danny doesn’t answer.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Meg.”
“Just shut up, Danny. Don’t get all sentimental or I’ll have to punch you in the head like when we were kids.”
“Seriously, sis, I don’t…I mean…what would I have done…what would have happened if you hadn’t been here?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s all good. Now, where are the other two kids? And more importantly, how was the Queen Mary?”
“Cera’s got Tebow in the waiting room. And the Queen Mary is basically just a really big boat.”
We grin at each other, then Danny’s face turns serious. “Thanks, Meg. Really, thanks.”
“What are sisters for?”
* * *
At McKenna’s insistence, ‘Family Dinner’ is still a go. Apparently, Buddy brings treats for the kids every time he comes for a visit, and my niece isn’t about to miss out on hers tonight, especially after her brutally harsh encounter with the school blacktop. It was only fair, she told her dad, that she get a new toy. (And it better be a good one, she’d added.) Once we got the thumbs up from the ER doc, Danny finally agreed. We decide that he will take the kids home and get them settled and order the food, and I will pick up Buddy after a quick stop at the rehab to reassure Caroline that McKenna’s okay.
Tebow is watching SpongeBob SquarePants from his vinyl chair in the waiting room when we emerge from the ER. Cera immediately jumps out of her seat and rushes over to McKenna. Her relief is palpable at seeing her younger sister in one piece, and my eyes well up with tears. I swipe at them and roll my eyes at my own display of emotion.
“Are you okay?” Cera asks, and McKenna looks up at her wearily.
“I got sewed up,” she announces, pointing to her chin. “It hurt before, but it just feels weird now.”
“How many stitches did you get?”
McKenna looks up at me. “Fourteen,” I tell her.
“Wow,” Cera says. “That’s a lot.” She flicks at her own chin. “I only got twelve when I popped my chin open.”
“How’d you do yours?” McKenna asks, her eyes round with intrigue.
“Bicycle accident. I was going really fast down a hill. So, did you cry?”
McKenna deflates and bites her lip, and I can tell she doesn’t want to reveal her weakness to her big sister. “Maybe a little,�
� she admits, embarrassed.
Cera bends at the knee so that she is face to face with McKenna. “I totally cried my eyes out when it happened to me. Like you can’t believe. They had to give me a sedative.”
“What’s that?” McKenna asks.
“I don’t know,” Cera whispers. “But it made me stop crying for sure!”
“They didn’t have to give me that,” McKenna says proudly.
“That’s so cool. You’re totally awesome.”
“Okay,” Danny says, smiling at the girls as he struggles not to cry. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He lifts Tebow off the chair, then puts his hand out to McKenna.
“She can hold my hand, Danny,” Cera tells him. “If she wants.”
McKenna looks at her older sister with unabashed reverence, then nods her head as enthusiastically as her wound allows. Cera stands and takes her hand and leads her through the sliding glass doors.
I hike my purse onto my shoulder. As I reach the glass doors, the nurse who directed me to Curtain Three calls to me from behind the partition.
“Ma’am? Your daughter left her Dora bag.”
I’m about to correct her, to tell her that McKenna is not my daughter, that she’s my niece. But something stops me before I get the words out.
Your daughter…your daughter…
In the short space of a long moment, as I cross to the partition and grasp the Dora bag through the opening, I imagine myself with a daughter of my own, a child whose hand I would hold in the emergency room, whose minor booboos I would kiss and make better, a child I would sing lullabies to in the dark of night, whose tantrum’s I would dutifully endure, whose diapers I would change, a child whose victories I would celebrate and losses I would grieve for. The vision is so strong, it nearly knocks me over.
“Are you all right?” the nurse asks from behind the glass.
“Fine. Great. Thanks.”
I slowly walk out of ER and make my way to the Camaro.
* * *
“This one was not my fault, Caroline.”
My sister-in-law looks as pale and drawn as Danny did, perhaps more so since she was stuck in her bed in this room, impotent and fearing the worst while her child was being sewn back together.
“I know that,” she snaps, and I recoil from the harshness of her tone. “I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s just, fuck.”
“She’s fine. I swear.” I pull out my Samsung and find the picture I took in the ER, after McKenna was cleaned up. My niece is smiling crookedly and eating some Jell-O.
“The Jell-O was strawberry. That’s not blood.”
Caroline takes my phone and gazes at her daughter. “Thank God she’s okay.” Tears stream down her face and I grab a couple of tissues from the box beside her bed and hand them to her. “Thank God you were there, Meg.”
I ignore her. “They’re going to call you when they get home so you can talk to McKenna yourself.”
She nods, drops the phone in her lap, and breaks down into sobs. I lift the phone from her enormous belly and tuck it into my purse, then hesitantly pat Caroline on the shoulder.
“She’s a tough kid, Caroline. She was really brave.”
“Danny said you stayed with her the whole time. He said the nurses told him you refused to leave her.”
“She wouldn’t let go of my hand,” I joke. “What was I supposed to do?”
Caroline doesn’t look at me. “You and I have never gotten along.”
“Caroline—”
“I always thought you were a selfish bitch and you thought I was…just a bitch.”
“This is not necessary—”
“And when Danny told me you were coming out here to take care of the kids, I almost asked for a divorce because I thought you were the last person in the world who could do this job. But I was wrong, Meg. And I’m sorry.”
I clear my throat, trying to hack up the lump within. “Hey, Caroline. You weren’t wrong about the selfish bitch part. I am. And, by the way. I couldn’t do your job. Not on a daily basis. I was a mess in the ER. I thought I was going to throw up, or faint, or completely lose it. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there.”
“But you didn’t.”
“But I wanted to!”
She blows her nose, then leans her head back against the pillow. After a moment, she turns to me.
“Meg, being a mom doesn’t mean you want to be there or that you’re totally fine with everything that happens or everything you have to do. It means being there and doing what you have to do despite the fact that it’s really really hard.”
She closes her eyes and I sit quietly beside her for a few minutes, recalling my vision in the ER and thinking about her words.
* * *
“Oh, Crimeny,” Buddy says as soon as he sees the Camaro. “How the heck am I supposed to ride in that thing with my sciatica?”
“It’s a Camaro, Buddy, not a Smart Car. And besides, it’s only a ten minute drive to Danny’s. I think you’ll be fine.”
I open the passenger door and wait for him to fold himself inside, which ends up taking several grunt-filled minutes. I count to ten, then twenty, then thirty, and somewhere after that, I lose my place and give up.
Once we’re on the road, Buddy starts fiddling with buttons and knobs and looking around the Camaro’s interior as if he’s never been inside a car before.
“You know, I bought your mother a car like this after we got married. 1967 Camaro. She hated driving in the pickup. Nearly drove me crazy. I think it was almost the exact same color as this one. Funny, huh?”
I sigh. “It’s not really a surprise, is it? It’s like you always said, Buddy. I’m just like Melanie.”
“Huh?”
“You always told me I was just like her.”
My dad is silent in his seat. I glance over at him to see him frowning at me.
“I never said that, Meggly-weggly.”
“Yes, Buddy. You did.”
He shakes his head vehemently, almost angrily. “I never said any such god damned thing, Megan Katherine Monroe.”
I suddenly wonder if Buddy has started down the road to dementia. I check my rearview mirror, engage my right turn signal, then crank the steering wheel to the right. A horn sounds behind me as I pull to the curb, and I flip the bird to the driver of the passing car.
Shifting into Park, I turn and face my dad. “Buddy.” I take a deep breath. “From the time I was a kid, you went on about how I was just like Melanie. I’m not making this up. It happened.” And it shaped my every decision and action, and made me who I am today.
He shakes his head again. “I never said that. I said you were so like her.”
“Exactly!” I cry.
“No, no. Not that you were just like her, but that you were so like her.” He rolls his eyes. “You looked just like your mom, Meg. Same auburn hair. Same pale skin and blue eyes. Same body type. Danny got my side, all the way, ‘cept for his height, of course. But he got the light hair and dark eyes and olive skin from me. You were just the spitting image of my Melanie.”
My mouth drops open. “That’s what you meant? That I look like her?”
“Oh, honey, yes. You weren’t the same type of person at all. God, no. How could you think a thing like that?”
“Because she was a selfish bitch. And so am I. I always have been, Dad!” This is the first time I’ve called him ‘Dad’ since I was a kid. It feels strange and also makes me want to bawl my eyes out.
“No you weren’t. You were independent and strong-willed and stubborn. But you weren’t a selfish kid. Let me ask you something. Who took care of your little brother when I was at work, huh? You did. Who took care of me, made sure my shirts were clean and gave me hell when I drank too much beer and did the dishes when I fell asleep on the couch? You did. Ah, sure, you complained and stomped your foot and called me names. But you were the one who took care of Danny and me the whole time you were growing up.”
I feel like my head is about to bl
ow apart. “But I left! I moved as far away from you as I could!”
“Yeah, you did, Meg. But not until you knew Danny and me were okay.”
He reaches out and lays his huge hand over mine. “You got it all backwards about your mom, Meggie. It’s not so much that she was selfish as she was weak. And she had no sense. Now, don’t get me wrong, I loved Melanie more than I can tell you. And loving her the way I did made me ignore who she really was. But the truth is, she wasn’t strong enough or smart enough to be a wife and a mom. The only really smart thing she ever did was realize her limitations and leave us before she could do serious damage to you kids.”
He squeezes my hand and the floodgates open. Tears violently stream down my face. “You are nothing like Melanie, Meg,” he says. “You are the strongest, smartest girl I know.”
I choke back my tears. “I’m not a girl, Buddy. I’m forty years old.”
“You’ll always be my girl, Meg. And I’m damn proud of you, no matter how damn old you are.”
* * *
By the time we reach Danny’s house, I have managed to calm myself down through a lot of heavy breathing and counting well into the hundreds. But on the inside, I’m still in complete turmoil. My whole life, my whole outlook and belief system has been based on a misunderstanding made by an eight-year-old girl.
Just to add to the chaos that is my current situation, Danny invited Matt Ryan to our family dinner, which I discover when I enter the foyer and find him in the living room watching Wild Kratts with Cera, McKenna and Tebow. He gets to his feet and smiles uncertainly when he sees me, but instead of greeting him, I hand Buddy off to Danny and dart down the hallway to the guest room.
I kick off my MaxMara pumps and head for the bed where I dump out the contents of my purse. I snatch my phone and perch myself next to the night stand, then begin to scroll through my contact list. I find Dr. Rabinowitz’s emergency line and hit call. After four rings, I get his voicemail and am treated to his calm, mellifluous voice.
Emergency numbers should not have voicemails, damn it!
“Hi, Dr. Rabinowitz, this is Meg Monroe. I’m sort of in the middle of a personal crisis, so if you could call me back at your earliest convenience, I would really appreciate it.”
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