The bedside phone rang at six o’clock the next morning. Liam had been dreaming—a good dream in which he and Mikaela were sitting on the porch swing, listening to the children’s distant laughter. For a second, he could feel the warmth of her hand in his … then he noticed the boy sleeping quietly beside him and it all came rushing back.
His heart was clattering like a secondhand lawn mower as he reached for the phone.
It was Sarah, a nurse from the hospital. Mikaela had made it through the night.
Liam leaned carefully over Bret and hung up the phone. He crawled out of bed, showered—not realizing until he’d gotten out that he forgot to use soap or shampoo—then went to wake his children.
Within an hour, the three of them drove to the hospital. Liam settled the kids in the waiting room, then went to the ICU.
He went to Mikaela’s bedside, hoping—absurdly—to find her sitting up, smiling …
But the room was deathly still; she hadn’t moved.
She looked worse. The right side of her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were hidden beneath puffy discolored flesh.
Clear plastic tubing invaded her left nostril, and her mouth was completely slack. A tiny silver trail of spittle snaked down her discolored cheek, collected in a moist gray blotch on the pillow. The flimsy blanket was drawn up high on her chest; it had been folded with methodical precision and tucked in tight to her body in a way that made Liam think of death.
The team of specialists arrived. They examined her, tested her, and talked among themselves. Liam waited silently beside them, watching as his beloved wife failed one test after another.
Truth is, Liam, we don’t know why she’s not waking up.
Some of the best doctors in the country, and that was all they could say. They didn’t know why she wasn’t waking up.
Just wait and hope. Pray she lives another day, then another day after that. Pray she wakes up on her own …
Although Liam hadn’t really expected a medical miracle, he’d certainly hoped for one. Even a radical surgery would be better than this … nothing.
The next time Liam glanced at his watch, it was eleven A. M. Through a sliver opening in the curtains, he saw a rosy line of morning sunlight.
It was time to tell his children … something.
He walked slowly toward the waiting room.
What a joke. As if expectation would sit only in that particular space. From now on, he knew, every room would be a waiting room. They would bring it with them, him and the children. At home they would see the empty spaces as clearly as their own hands. A vacant chair at the dinner table, an empty place on the sofa.
He allowed himself a moment’s pause before he turned into the alcov
e beyond the nurses’ station.
The room was good sized—big enough for large families to gather in grief or celebration. It was antiseptic white, with brown Naugahyde chairs and fake wood-grain tables that held scattered magazines and a few carefully placed Bibles. Like all such rooms, it seemed to amplify the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Jacey stood at the window, with her back to him. She appeared to be intently studying the parking lot, but he doubted that she saw anything except the image of her mother, broken and bleeding on the arena’s dirt floor.
Bret was on the gold sofa, his small body curled into the fetal position, his eyes squeezed shut. God knew what he was seeing. Again today he was sucking his thumb.
Liam found just enough strength to remain where he was. Maybe that’s how it would be from now on; he would make it through on “just enough. ”
“Hi, guys,” he said at last, his voice so soft he wasn’t sure for a second that he’d spoken aloud at all.
Jacey spun to face him. Her long black hair—normally manicured to teenaged perfection—hung limply along her arms. She was wearing a pair of baggy flannel drawstring pants and an oversized knit sweater. Silver tear marks streaked her pale cheeks. Her eyes were red and swollen, and in them he saw the agonizing question.
“She’s still alive,” he said.
Jacey brought a shaking hand to her mouth. He could see how hard she was trying not to cry in front of her younger brother. “Thank God. ”
Liam went to the sofa and scooped Bret onto his lap. The little boy was so still he seemed to have stopped breathing. “Sit down, Jace,” he said.
She sat down on the chair beside them, reaching out for Liam’s hand.