The Choice

He took a seat in the chair by the bed and reached for her hand. Her skin was pale, almost waxy, her body seemed smaller, and he noted the spidery lines that had begun to form at the corners of her eyes. Still, she was as remarkable to him as she had been the first time he’d ever seen her. It amazed him that he’d known her almost eleven years. Not because the length of time was extraordinary, but because those years seemed to contain more . . . life than the first thirty-two years without her. It was the reason he’d come to the hospital today; it was the reason he came every day. He had no other choice. Not because it was expected—though it was—but because he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else. They spent hours together, but their nights were spent apart. Ironically, there was no choice in that, either, for he couldn’t leave his daughters alone. These days, fate made all his decisions for him.

Except for one.

Eighty-four days had passed since the accident, and now he had to make a choice. He still had no idea what to do. Lately he’d been searching for answers in the Bible and in the writings of Aquinas and Augustine. Occasionally he would find a striking passage, but nothing more than that; he would close the cover of the book and find himself staring out the window, his thoughts blank, as if hoping to find the solution somewhere in the sky.

He seldom drove straight home from the hospital. Instead, he would drive across the bridge and walk the sands of Atlantic Beach. He would slip off his shoes, listening as the waves crashed along the shore. He knew his daughters were as upset as he was, and after his visits to the hospital, he needed time to compose himself. It would be unfair to subject them to his angst. He needed his daughters for the escape they afforded him. When focusing on them, he didn’t focus on himself, and their joy still held an unadulterated purity. They still had the ability to lose themselves in play, and the sound of their giggling made him want to laugh and cry at the same time. Sometimes as he watched them, he was struck by how much they resembled their mother.

Always they asked about her, but usually he didn’t know what to tell them. They were mature enough to understand that Mommy wasn’t well and had to stay in the hospital; they understood that when they visited, it would seem as if Mommy were asleep. But he couldn’t bring himself to tell them the truth about her condition. Instead, he would cuddle with them on the couch and tell them how excited Gabby had been when she’d been pregnant with each of them or remind them about the time the family played in the sprinklers for an entire afternoon. Mostly, though, they would thumb through the photo albums Gabby had assembled with care. She was old-fashioned that way, and the pictures never ceased to bring a smile to their faces. Travis would tell stories associated with each, and as he stared at Gabby’s radiant face in the photos, his throat would tighten at the knowledge that he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

To escape the sadness that overtook him in such moments, he would sometimes raise his eyes from the album and focus on the large, framed photograph they’d had taken at the beach last summer. All four of them had worn beige khakis and white button-down oxfords, and they were seated amid the dune grass. It was the kind of family portrait common in Beaufort, yet it somehow struck him as entirely unique. Not because it was his family, but because he was certain that even a stranger would find himself filled with hope and optimism at the sight, for the people in the photo looked the way a happy family should.

Later, after the girls had gone to bed, he would put away the albums. It was one thing to look at them with his daughters and tell stories in an attempt to keep their spirits up, it was another thing to gaze at them alone. He couldn’t do that. Instead, he would sit alone on the couch, weighed down by the sadness he felt inside. Sometimes Stephanie would call. Their conversations were filled with their usual banter but it was somehow stilted at the same time, for he knew she wanted him to forgive himself. Despite her sometimes flippant remarks and her occasional teasing, he knew what she was really saying: that no one blamed him, that it wasn’t his fault. That she and others were worried about him. To head off her reassurances, he’d always say that he was doing fine, even when he wasn’t, for the truth was something he knew she didn’t want to hear: that not only did he doubt he’d ever be fine again, but he wasn’t even sure he ever wanted to be.

Seventeen

Warm bands of sunlight continued to stretch toward them. In the silence, Travis squeezed Gabby’s hand and winced at the pain in his wrist. It had been in a cast until a month ago, and the doctors had prescribed painkillers. The bones in his arms had fractured and his ligaments had torn in half, but after his first dose, he’d refused to take the painkillers, hating the woozy way they made him feel.

Her hand was as soft as always. Most days he would hold it for hours, imagining what he would do if she squeezed his in return. He sat and watched her, wondering what she was thinking or if she was thinking at all. The world inside her was a mystery.

“The girls are good,” he began. “Christine finished her Lucky Charms at breakfast, and Lisa was close. I know you worry about how much they eat, since they’re on the small side, but they’ve been pretty good about nibbling on the snacks I put out after school.”

Outside the window, a pigeon landed on the sill. It walked a few steps one way, then back again, before finally settling in place as it did on most days. It seemed, somehow, to know when it was time for Travis to visit. There were times he believed it was an omen of sorts, though of what, he had no idea.

“We do homework after dinner. I know you like to do it right after school, but this seems to be working out okay. You’d be excited at how well Christine is doing in math. Remember at the beginning of the year when she didn’t seem to understand it at all? She’s really turned it around. We’ve been using those flash cards you bought pretty much every night, and she didn’t miss a single question on her latest test. She’s even doing her homework without me having to walk her through it. You’d be proud of her.”

The sound of the cooing pigeon was barely audible through the glass.

“And Lisa’s doing well. We watch either Dora the Explorer or Barbie every night. It’s crazy how many times she can watch the same DVDs, but she loves them. And for her birthday, she wants a princess theme. I was thinking about getting an ice-cream cake, but she wants to have her party at the park, and I’m not sure they’d get to the cake before it melts, so I’ll probably have to get something else.”

He cleared his throat.

“Oh, did I tell you that Joe and Megan are thinking of having another kid? I know, I know—it’s crazy considering how many problems she had with the last pregnancy and the fact that she’s already in her forties, but according to Joe, she really wants to try for a little boy. Me? I think Joe’s the one who wants a son and Megan’s just going along with it, but with those two, you never really know, do you.”

Travis forced himself to sound conversational. Since she’d been here, he’d been trying to act as naturally as he could around her. Because they talked incessantly about the kids before the accident, because they discussed what was happening in their friends’ lives, he always tried to talk about them when he visited her. He had no idea whether she heard him; the medical community seemed divided on that. Some swore that coma patients could hear—and possibly remember—conversations; others said just the opposite. Travis didn’t know whom to believe, but he chose to live his days on the side of the optimists.

For that same reason, after glancing at his watch, he reached for the remote. In her stolen moments when she hadn’t been working, Gabby’s guilty pleasure was watching Judge Judy on television, and Travis had always teased her about the way she took an almost perverse delight in the antics of those unfortunate enough to find themselves in Judge Judy’s courtroom.

“Let me turn on the television, okay? Your show’s on. I think we can catch the last couple of minutes.”

A moment later, Judge Judy was speaking over both the defendant and the plaintiff, just to get them to shut up, which seemed to be the pred

ictable, recurring theme of the show.

“She’s in rare form, huh?”

When the show was over, he turned it off. He thought about moving the flowers closer, in the hope that she would smell them. He wanted to keep her senses stimulated. Yesterday, he’d spent some time brushing her hair; the day before, he’d brought in some of her perfume and added a dab to each wrist. Today, however, doing any of those things seemed to take more effort than he could summon.

“Other than that, not much new is going on,” he said with a sigh. The words sounded as meaningless to him as they no doubt did to her. “My dad’s still covering for me at the clinic. You’d be amazed at how well he does with the animals, considering how long ago he retired. It’s like he never left. People still adore him, and I think he’s happy being there. If you ask me, he never should have stopped working in the first place.”

He heard a knock at the door and saw Gretchen walk in. In the past month, he’d come to depend on her. Unlike the other nurses, she maintained an undying faith that Gabby would emerge from all of this just fine and consequently treated Gabby as if she were conscious.

“Hey, Travis,” she chirped. “Sorry for interrupting, but I’ve got to hook up a new IV.”

When Travis nodded, she approached Gabby. “I’ll bet you’re starving, honey,” she said. “Just give me a second, okay? Then I’ll give you and Travis your alone time. You know how I am about interrupting two lovebirds.”

She worked quickly, removing one IV bag and replacing it with another, all the while keeping up a steady stream of conversation. “I know you’re sore from your workout this morning. We really went at it, didn’t we? We were like those folks you see on those infomercials. Working this, working that. I was really proud of you.”

Every morning and again in the evening, one of the nurses came in to flex and stretch Gabby’s limbs. Bend the knee, straighten it out; flex the foot up, then push it down. They did this for every joint and muscle in Gabby’s body.

After she finished hanging the bag, Gretchen checked the flow and adjusted the sheets, then turned to Travis.

“Are you doing okay today?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

Gretchen seemed sorry she’d asked. “I’m glad you brought flowers,” she said, nodding in the direction of the windowsill. “I’m sure Gabby appreciates it.”

“I hope so.”

“Are you going to bring in the girls?”

Travis swallowed through the lump in his throat. “Not today.”

Gretchen pursed her lips and nodded. A moment later, she was gone.

Twelve weeks ago, Gabby was rolled into the emergency room on a gurney, unconscious and bleeding heavily from a gash on her shoulder. The physicians concentrated first on the gash because of the heavy blood loss, though in retrospect, Travis wondered whether a different approach would have changed things.

He didn’t know, nor would he ever. Like Gabby, he’d been rolled into the emergency room; like Gabby, he’d spent the night unconscious. But there the similarities had ended. The following day, he woke up in pain with a mangled arm, while Gabby never woke up at all.

The doctors were kind, but they didn’t try to conceal their concern. Brain injuries were always serious, they said, but they were hopeful the injury would heal and that all would be well in time.

In time.

He sometimes wondered whether doctors realized the emotional intensity of time, or what he was going through, or even that time was something finite. He doubted it. No one knew what he was going through or really understood the choice that lay before him. On the surface, it was simple. He would do exactly what Gabby wanted, exactly as she’d made him promise.

But what if . . .

And that was the thing. He had thought long and hard about the reality of the situation; he had stayed awake nights considering the question. He wondered again what love really meant. And in the darkness, he would toss and turn, wishing for someone else to make the choice for him. But he wrestled with it alone, and more often than not, he’d wake in the morning with a tear-drenched pillow in the place Gabby should have been. And the first words out of his mouth were always the same.

“I’m so sorry, sweetheart.”

The choice Travis now had to make had its roots in two distinct events. The first event related to a couple named Kenneth and Eleanor Baker. The second event, the accident itself, had occurred on a rainy, windy night twelve weeks ago.

The accident was simple to explain and was similar to many accidents in that a series of isolated and seemingly inconsequential mistakes somehow came together and exploded in the most horrific of ways. In mid-November, they’d driven to the RBC Center in Raleigh to see David Copperfield perform onstage. Over the years, they’d usually seen one or two shows a year, if only to have an excuse to get away for an evening alone. Usually they had dinner beforehand, but that night they didn’t. Travis was running late at the clinic, they got a late start out of Beaufort, and by the time they parked the car, the show was only minutes from beginning. In his haste, Travis forgot his umbrella, despite the ominous clouds and building wind. That was mistake number one.

They watched the show and enjoyed it, but the weather had deteriorated by the time they’d left the theater. Rain was pouring down hard, and Travis remembered standing with Gabby, wondering how best to get to their car. They happened to bump into friends who’d also seen the show, and Jeff offered to walk Travis to his car so he wouldn’t get wet. But Travis didn’t want him to have to go out of his way and declined Jeff’s offer. Instead, he bolted into the rain, splashing through ankle-deep puddles on the way to his car. He was soaked to the bone by the time he crawled in, especially his feet. That was mistake number two.

Because it was late, and because they both had to work the following morning, Travis drove fast despite the wind and rain, trying to save a few minutes in a drive that normally took two and a half hours. Though it was difficult to see through the windshield, he drove in the passing lane, pushing past the speed limit, racing past cars with drivers who were more cautious about the dangers of the weather outside. That was mistake number three. Gabby asked him repeatedly to slow down; more than once, he did as she asked, only to speed up again as soon as he could. By the time they reached Goldsboro, still an hour and a half from home, she’d become so angry that she’d stopped speaking to him. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, refusing to talk, frustrated at the way he was tuning her out. That was mistake number four.

The accident was next, and it could have been avoided had none of the other things happened. Had he brought his umbrella or walked with his friend, he wouldn’t have run to the car in the rain. His feet might have stayed dry. Had he slowed the car, he might have been able to control it. Had he respected Gabby’s wishes, they wouldn’t have argued, and she would have been watching what he intended to do and stopped him before it was too late.

Near Newport, there’s a wide, easy bend in the highway intersected by a stoplight. By that point in the drive—less than twenty minutes from home—the itch in his feet was driving him crazy. His shoes had laces, the knots made tighter by the moisture, and no matter how hard he tried to push them off his feet, the toe of one foot would slip from the heel of the other. He leaned forward, his eyes barely above the dash, and reached for one shoe with his hand. Glancing downward, he struggled with the knot and didn’t see the light turn yellow.

The knot wouldn’t come free. When it finally did, he lifted his eyes, but by then it was already too late. The light had turned red, and a silver truck was entering the intersection. Instinctively he hit the brakes, and the tail began to swerve on the rain-slicked road. Their car careened out of control. At the last instant, the wheels caught and they avoided the truck in the intersection, only to continue hurtling through the bend, off the highway, and toward the pines.

The mud was even more slippery, and there was nothing he could do. He turned the wheel and nothing happened. For an instant, the wo

rld seemed to be moving in slow motion. The last thing he remembered before he lost consciousness was the sickening sound of shattering glass and twisting metal.

Gabby didn’t even have time to scream.

Travis brushed a loose strand of hair from Gabby’s face and tucked it behind her ear, listening to his stomach as it gurgled. As hungry as he was, he couldn’t bear the idea of eating. His stomach was perpetually knotted, and in those rare moments it wasn’t, thoughts of Gabby would come rushing back to fill the void.

It was an ironic form of punishment, for during their second year of marriage, Gabby had taken it upon herself to teach Travis to eat things other than the bland food he’d long favored. He supposed it had come about because she’d grown tired of his restrictive habits. He should have realized that changes were coming when she started slipping in the occasional comment regarding the tastiness of Belgian waffles on Saturday mornings or how nothing was more satisfying on cold winter days than a plate of homemade beef stew.

Until that point, Travis had been the chef in the family, but little by little she began edging her way into the kitchen. She bought two or three cookbooks, and in the evenings, Travis would watch her as she lay on the couch, occasionally folding down the corner of a page. Now and then, she would ask him whether something sounded particularly good. She’d read aloud the ingredients of Cajun jambalaya or veal Marsala, and though Travis would say they sounded terrific, the tone of his voice made it obvious that even if she prepared these dishes, he probably wouldn’t eat them.