The Great Alone

“I need to see Matthew.”

“It’s the middle of the night.”

“I don’t care.” She swung her bare, bruised, scratched legs over the side of the bed and stood. Mama moved in close, became a stanchion of support. Together, they shuffled away from the bed.

At the door, Mama lifted the curtain and looked through the window, then nodded. They slipped out; Mama closed the door quietly behind them. Leni inched painfully forward on stockinged feet, following her mother down one corridor to the next until they came to the brilliantly lit, coldly efficient-looking area called the intensive care unit.

“Wait here,” Mama said. She went on ahead, checking rooms. At the last one on the right, she turned back, motioned for Leni to follow.

On the door behind her mother, Leni saw WALKER, MATTHEW written on a clipboard in a clear plastic sleeve.

“This may be hard,” Mama said. “He looks bad.”

Leni opened the door, went inside.

There were machines everywhere, thunking and humming and whirring, making a sound like human breathing.

The boy in the bed couldn’t be Matthew.

His head was shaved and covered in bandages; gauze crisscrossed his face, the white fabric tinged pink by blood seepage. One eye was covered by a protective cup; the other was swollen shut. His leg was elevated, suspended about eighteen inches above the bed by a leather sling, and so swollen it looked more like a tree trunk than a boy’s leg. All she could see of it were his big, purple toes peeking out from the bandages. A tube in his slack mouth connected him to a machine that lifted and fell in breaths, inflated and deflated his chest. Breathing for him.

Leni took hold of his hot, dry hand.

He was here, fighting for his life because of her, because he loved her.

She leaned down, whispered, “Don’t leave me, Matthew. Please. I love you.”

After that, she didn’t know what to say.

She stood there as long as she could, hoping he could feel her touch, hear her breathing, understand her words. It felt like hours had passed when Mama finally pulled her away from the bed, said, “No arguments,” firmly, and led her back to her own room and helped her back into bed.

“Where’s Dad?” Leni said at last.

“He’s in jail, thanks to Marge and Tom.” She tried to smile.

“Good,” Leni said, and saw her mother flinch.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, Leni woke slowly. She had a split second of blessed amnesia, then the truth tackled her. She saw Mama slumped in a chair by the door.

“Is he alive?” Leni asked.

“He made it through the night.”

Before Leni could process this, there was a knock at the door.

Mama turned as Mr. Walker entered. He looked exhausted, as haggard and unmoored as Leni felt.

“Hey, Leni.” He pulled the trucker’s cap off his head, crushed it nervously in his big hands. His gaze moved to Mama, barely landing before it returned to Leni. A wordless conversation took place between them, excluded Leni. “Large Marge and Thelma and Tica are here. Clyde is taking care of your animals.”

“Thank you,” Mama said.

“How is Matthew?” Leni asked, struggling to sit up, wheezing at the pain in her chest.

“He’s in a medically induced coma. There’s a problem with his brain, something called shearing, and he might be paralyzed. They are going to try to wake him. See if he can breathe on his own. They don’t think he’ll be able to.”

“They think he’ll die when they unplug him?”