I nodded, conceding her point. Despite the years I've spent working on my swing, I'm far from a scratch golfer. I glanced at the clock.
"Do you want to head out to get a bite to eat?"
"What? No cooking tonight?"
"Not unless you want leftovers. I didn't have a chance to run to the store."
"I was kidding," she said with a wave. "I don't expect you to do all the cooking now, though I have to admit, it's been nice." She smiled. "Sure, I'd love to go. I'm getting kind of hungry. Just give me a minute to get ready."
"You look fine," I protested.
"It'll only take a minute," she called out as she headed for the stairs.
It would not take a minute. I knew Jane, and over the years, I'd come to understand that these "minutes" it took to get ready actually averaged closer to twenty. I'd learned to occupy my time while waiting with activities that I enjoyed but required little thought. For instance, I might head to my office and straighten the items on my desk or adjust the amplifier on the stereo after the children had used it.
I discovered that these innocuous things made time slip by unnoticed. Often, I would finish whatever it was I was doing, only to find my wife standing behind me with her hands on her hips.
"Are you ready?" I might ask.
"I've been ready," she would say in a huff. "I've been waiting ten minutes for you to finish whatever it is you're doing."
"Oh," I'd reply, "sorry. Let me make sure I have the keys and we can go."
"Don't tell me you lost them."
"No, of course not," I'd say, patting my pockets, puzzled that I couldn't find them. Then, looking around, I'd quickly add: "I'm sure they're close. I just had them a minute ago."
At that, my wife would roll her eyes.
Tonight, however, I grabbed Time magazine and headed for the couch. I finished a few articles as I heard Jane padding around upstairs and set the magazine aside. I was wondering what she was in the mood to eat when the phone rang.
Listening to the shaky voice on the other end of the receiver, I felt my sense of anticipation evaporate, replaced by a deep sense of dread. Jane came downstairs as I was hanging up.
Seeing my expression, she froze.
"What happened?" she asked. "Who was it?"
"That was Kate," I said quietly. "She's going to the hospital now."
Jane's hand flew to her mouth.
"It's Noah," I said.
Chapter Nine
Tears brimmed in Jane's eyes as we drove to the hospital. Though I'm usually a cautious driver, I changed lanes frequently and bore down on the accelerator when the lights turned yellow, feeling the weight of every passing minute.
When we arrived, the scene in the emergency room was reminiscent of this spring, after Noah had his stroke, as if nothing had changed in the previous four months. The air smelled of ammonia and antiseptic, the fluorescent lights cast a flat glare over the crowded waiting room.
Metal-and-vinyl chairs lined the walls and marched in rows through the middle of the room. Most of the seats were occupied by groups of twos or threes, speaking in hushed tones, and a line of people waiting to fill out forms snaked past the intake counter.
Jane's family was clustered near the door. Kate stood pale and nervous beside Grayson, her husband, who looked every bit the cotton farmer he was in his overalls and dusty boots. His angular face was weathered with creases. David, Jane's youngest brother, stood beside them with his arm around his wife, Lynn.
At the sight of us, Kate ran forward, tears already beginning to spill down her cheeks. She and Jane immediately fell into each other's arms.
"What happened?" Jane asked, her face taut with fear. "How is he?"
Kate's voice cracked. "He fell near the pond. No one saw it happen, but he was barely conscious when the nurse found him. She said he hit his head. The ambulance brought him in about twenty minutes ago, and Dr. Barnwell is with him now," Kate said. "That's all we know."
Jane seemed to sag in her sister's arms. Neither David nor Grayson could look at them; both of their mouths were set into straight lines. Lynn stood with her arms crossed, rocking back and forth on her heels.
"When can we see him?"
Kate shook her head. "I don't know. The nurses out here keep telling us to wait for Dr. Barnwell or one of the other nurses. I guess they'll let us know."
"But he's going to be okay, right?"
When Kate didn't answer immediately, Jane inhaled sharply.
"He's going to be okay," Jane said.
"Oh, Jane . . ." Kate squeezed her eyes shut. "I don't know. Nobody knows anything."
For a moment, they simply clung to each other.
"Where's Jeff?" Jane asked, referring to their missing sibling. "He's coming, right?"
"I finally got hold of him," David informed her. "He's stopping by the house to pick up Debbie, then he's coming straight here."
David joined his sisters, the three of them huddling together as if trying to pool the strength they knew they might need.
A moment later, Jeff and Debbie arrived. Jeff joined his siblings and was quickly updated on the situation, his drawn face expressing the same dread reflected on their faces.
As the minutes dragged by, we separated into two groups: the progeny of Noah and Allie and their spouses. Though I love Noah and Jane was my wife, I've come to learn that there are times when Jane needed her siblings more than me. Jane would need me later, but now was not the time.
Lynn, Grayson, Debbie, and I had been through this before--in the spring when Noah had his stroke, and when Allie died, and when Noah had a heart attack six years ago. While their group had its rituals, including hugs and prayer circles and anxious questions repeated over and over, ours was more stoic. Grayson, like me, has always been quiet. When nervous, he pushes his hands into his pocket and jingles his keys. Lynn and Debbie--while they accepted that David and Jeff needed their sisters at times like these--seemed lost when crises arose, unsure what to do other than stay out of the way and keep their voices down. I, on the other hand, always found myself searching for practical ways to help--an effective means of keeping my emotions in check.
Noticing that the line at the intake desk had cleared, I headed over. A moment later, the nurse looked up from behind a tall stack of forms. Her expression was frazzled.
"Can I help you?"
"Yes," I said. "I was wondering if you had any more information about Noah Calhoun. He was brought in about half an hour ago."
"Has the doctor come out to see you yet?"
"No. But the whole family is here now, and they're pretty upset."
I nodded toward them and saw the nurse's gaze follow mine.
"I'm sure the doctor or one of the nurses will be out shortly."
"I know. But is there any way you could find out when we might be able to see our father? Or whether he's going to be okay?"
For a moment, I wasn't sure she would help me, but when her gaze turned toward the family again, I heard her exhale.
"Just give me a few minutes to process some of these forms. Then I'll see what I can find out, okay?"
Grayson joined me at the desk, hands in his pockets. "You holdin' up okay?"
"Trying," I said.
He nodded again, keys jingling.
"I'm going to sit," he said after a few seconds. "Who knows how long we're going to be here."
We both took a seat in the chairs behind the siblings. A few minutes later, Anna and Keith arrived. Anna joined the huddle, while Keith sat next to me. Dressed in black, Anna already looked as though she'd come from a funeral.
Waiting is always the worst part of a crisis like this, and I've come to despise hospitals for this very reason. Nothing is happening, yet the mind whirls with ever darkening images, subconsciously preparing for the worst. In the tense silence, I could hear my own heart beating, and my throat was strangely dry.
I noticed that the intake nurse was no longer at her desk, and I hoped she'd gone to check on Noah. From the corne
r of my eye, I saw Jane approaching. Standing from my seat, I raised my arm, letting her lean into me.
"I hate this," she said.
"I know you do. I hate it, too."
Behind us, a young couple with three crying children entered the emergency room. We moved over to make room for them to pass, and when they reached the desk, I saw the nurse emerge from the back. She held up a finger signaling the couple to wait and headed toward us.
"He's conscious now," she announced, "but he's still a little woozy. His vital signs are good. We'll probably be moving him to a room in an hour or so."
"So he's going to be okay?"
"They're not planning to move him to intensive care, if that's what you're asking," she hedged. "He'll probably have to stay in the hospital for a few days of observation."
There was a collective murmur of relief at her words.