"Yes," she assured the steady voice on the other end of the line. She gave Judy all her pertinent information about their insurance carrier, then abruptly asked, "Do you know how he is?"
"I don't, honey. I'm so sorry. All I know is that he's been checked in, and the trauma team is working with him as we speak. He's in good hands, I promise." Renata fleetingly wondered how often this poor woman had to give those words out to people on the phone. She would hate Judy's job.
"There is one more thing, Mrs. Dixon. Does your husband have a preferred religion? Would he like us to send someone to pray with him?"
Renata was a little surprised by the question. A morbid image of a stranger in a black robe standing over her broken and battered husband flitted through her mind but she pushed it away. "Yes, he's Protestant. I think he'd like that."
"Oh, good. Today Luke Simons is on duty. He's a wonderful pastor. I'll send him in. He'll want to meet with you, too, when you get here, if you'd like that."
The conversation ended quickly after that and she shared briefly with her sisters who were just as surprised as Renata was by Judy's personal touch. "God's already moving, Ren, I just know it," Juliette said softly. "He's going ahead of us."
It was almost another hour before Grandpa called. Renata still had Juliette's phone and she answered it immediately. "How is he, Grandpa?"
"You're not driving, are you?"
"No, don't worry. Phoebe is."
"Actually, that doesn't make me feel any better. I've ridden with her before." He was trying to make her smile, which scared her horribly.
"Grandpa." Her voice trembled.
"Oh, sweetie. It's not good." He sounded terribly old in that moment, and Renata found it impossible to swallow around the cannonball of fear in her throat. "Can you put me on speaker phone?"
Renata handed Juliette the phone, unable to think clearly. Juliette spoke to Grandpa quickly, then turned up the volume so everyone could hear him.
"Renata, John is in critical condition right now. They still have him in the trauma center; they're waiting for some of the facial swelling to recede so that they can sew up some of the worst of the wounds. Gia told me she'd already talked to you about how the accident happened." He cleared his throat, obviously trying to maintain control of his own emotions. "Rennie, sweetie, the ladder he was on weighs nearly 60 pounds and fell from quite a distance. It landed across his chest and face and did a lot of damage. Besides a partially dislocated shoulder, several cracked ribs, and a broken collar bone, his face sustained some pretty significant injuries. When he fell, he apparently landed more on his upper back than flat, and although that's good news for his internal organs, they're very concerned about his spine and neck."
There was some rustling of papers and murmuring in the background. Grandpa had probably taken notes so he could tell her exactly what the doctors said. "Right now, they're most concerned about trauma to his brain. There are three brain bleeds currently; one at the back of his skull where he hit his head, and two up front where the ladder got him. Those are the top priority now, and of course, they're monitoring his spine. He's in a protective brace, but he's a mess."
"So…you've seen him?" Phoebe asked, her voice steady, but quiet.
"Yes, they let me back to see him so he would know someone was here for him. They cut his clothes off him, but otherwise, they haven't done much to clean him up. I want you to be as prepared as possible before you see him. It's going to be quite a shock." He cleared his throat again.
No one spoke for several stunned moments. Renata stared out the window at the sky that was turning gray again, unable to process everything he was saying.
"Can he speak?" Juliette finally asked. "Gia said he was talking to Mr. McCain earlier."
"Yes. Miraculously, he did speak. He's in and out of it right now, but the doctors are very encouraged that he's been fairly coherent throughout this ordeal."
"Is he in pain, Grandpa?" Phoebe questioned. Renata was grateful they were there with her, asking the questions for her. She felt like she was being crushed under the weight of her grandfather's words and it was all she could do to stay focused on what he was saying.
"He's in shock right now, girls. He's not feeling much of anything. But he's doing as well as possible, all things considered."
"Grandpa?" Renata finally found her voice.
"I'm here, honey."
"Is—is he going to die?" Grandpa wouldn't lie to her. She had to know.
He took a deep breath before he answered, and let it out slowly, but she could still hear the uncertainty in his voice. "We don't know, Renata. There's no way to know. The doctors are doing everything they can for him, so it's up to God to decide. And John. John has to choose to continue to fight the way he has been. He's fighting, honey. He's waiting for you. You just focus on getting here, okay? John's in good hands."
The rest of the drive passed in silence. There were no more phone calls, no more updates, just silence and the roaring thoughts inside her head. Don't die, John. I'm sorry I didn't call you. Don't die, John. I love you. I need you. I'm sorry. Don't die.
They made it in record time, for once, no one making any bones about Phoebe's lead foot. She let Juliette and Renata out at the front entrance of the hospital while she parked the car. The two hurried inside the doors and stopped, looking around them at the immense lobby with its water fountain and gift shop and vast waiting area. Fortunately, the information desk was right in front, like a concierge desk, and a smiling woman caught their attention.
"Can I help you find your way?"
She directed them down the corridors to the trauma center, and once again, Renata was glad she was not doing this alone. She would have been lost in a matter of moments. Juliette seemed to have no trouble with the directions the woman gave her and pulled her along until they stood just outside a set of double-doors, waiting for them to swing open after pushing the large, square release lever on the wall.
Juliette squeezed her around the shoulders one last time, then they hurried through to the busy counter where a harried-looking woman in scrubs was trying to explain to a woman that it was not a case of first come, first served, in the emergency room, that they took patients based on the severity of their conditions. The poor woman was obviously feeling terribly, she looked feverish and pale, but her frustration was evidence that she was not yet near her death bed.
Just as the woman stepped away from the window, Grandpa came through the doors from a hallway opposite them. "There you are! Phoebe called and said you'd be here." He embraced both girls quickly, then turned and gestured toward a man who'd come in behind him.
It took Renata a moment to understand that he was with her grandfather, but when she saw his bleary eyes and red nose, she could see he'd been crying.
"This is Scott McCain, Renata. He was with John this morning and has been here waiting for you. Scott, will you take Renata and her sister, Juliette, in to John's room? I'll wait for Phoebe." Scott nodded mutely, then turned his watery eyes on Renata.
"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Dixon. I'm terribly sorry. I couldn't leave until I'd talked to you." Then, as though remembering what he was supposed to be doing, he turned and motioned them back toward the hall from where he came. "I'll show you to John."
They followed behind his burly figure, Renata uncertain of her feelings at the moment. He seemed so sincere in his remorse and she was having a hard time holding on to her anger toward him. She tried to put herself in his shoes and realized that regardless of how she was or was not getting along with someone, watching them fall and sustain such terrible injuries must be truly devastating. Poor guy, she acknowledged, shaking her head.
"Mrs. Dixon," Scott pulled up short outside a set of double doors with a small square window in each one. "John looks really awful." He paused and drew in a long, stuttering breath. "I just feel like I should warn you."
"Thank you, Mr. McCain. My grandfather already warned me, too." Her hands were sha
king again, half in fear of what she'd see, half in need to see her husband, to touch him, to assure herself that he was still alive, still here, still hers.
Scott pushed open the door and stepped back to let her and Juliette in. "He's behind the curtain on the left."
Renata had a moment of hysteria where she imagined they were contestants in a terrible macabre game show. Juliette put a hand on her back, her fingers squeezing her shoulder comfortingly, but Renata could feel the tremor in her sister's touch.
"I'm okay, Juliette. I'm good. It's going to be okay." She didn't know who she was trying to convince more.
She reached around Juliette and pulled back the curtain a little, enough for Renata to make eye-contact with a tall young nurse who was holding a set of forceps for a doctor working near John's head.
"Hello," he spoke calmly, as though she'd just entered his storefront. "May I help you?"
"I'm Renata Dixon. John Dixon's wife."
"Oh good. You're here. Come in and say 'hi' to him. He's been waiting to see you."
~ ~ ~
"It's going to be okay." Her voice pierced the fog of pain and uncertainty. Renata was here. He knew he wasn't supposed to move, but he had to find her, to see her.
"Ren?" He tried to speak, but nothing came out. He clutched at the blanket across his chest; it felt so heavy, pushing him down into the bed he was on.
"Please don't move your head, Mr. Dixon." The voice seemed to come from far above him and he tried to open his eyes to see who was speaking to him. So much pressure on his face, like he was being held in a vice. Everything hurt, but it was as though he felt it from outside his body. He had to open his eyes. He had to find Renata. He had to let her know he was okay.
That had been his thought the moment he came to, faces circling over him, voices careening around the echoing room. "I need to call my wife," he'd spluttered around a mouthful of blood, pushing at the hands that were holding him down. "Renata. I need to tell her—" And then the coughing began, pain punching through his head like a jackhammer. But his throat kept filling with blood and he couldn't get a breath. He had to roll to his side or he'd suffocate, but they wouldn't let him.
"Stay still, man!" Someone was shouting at him, a high-pitched voice laced with fear. "Your neck might be broken!"
"He can't breathe," another voice stated, less stridently. "We're going to have to help him turn or he'll choke on his own blood."
The voices faded away and he opened his eyes to find himself hovering above them all, watching as McCain and Andrews bent over his body, their mouths moving, but no sound coming out. Andrews had his hands on either side of John's face and neck, holding him steady. That younger kid—Logan? Lance? John couldn't recall his name—had his hand on his chest, pinning him to the concrete. McCain. What was that man doing? What was he saying? His face was red from exertion or emotion, but there was no sound. In fact, all around him the air was still, as though he was in a vacuum.
There was so much blood. A pool had formed beneath the head and shoulders of the man on the ground below. He could see McCain's hairy forearms slathered in it. Across the room, some guy was puking in the corner and when John looked back at the broken body being tended to, he felt a wave of compassion wash over him. It was a pretty gruesome sight to be sure and he couldn't fault the guy for being sick. He tipped his head slowly, as though moving through water, and studied the battered face between Andrew's large hands. He didn't recognize it.
"Ah man," he thought. "That poor sucker really took a beating." He was forgetting something, he knew, but it didn't seem to matter so much right now. "I wonder if he has any family."
And suddenly, with a sickening rush, he was back in his body, looking up into the concerned faces of Andrews and McCain, panic strangling him.
"Spit out the blood, Dixon!" McCain was yelling at him. "Spit it out!"
John brought his left hand up to touch his face, unable to accept the fact that the bloody mess he'd looked down on a moment ago was actually him, but Logan grabbed his wrist and held it firmly.
"Don't touch your face, sir."
"John, the paramedics are on their way. Stay still, okay? Gotta protect your spine." Andrew's voice wasn't shrill like McCain's, but John heard something else behind it.
John swallowed a mouthful of blood, his stomach clenching, then gurgled, "My wife. Call my wife." He pulled his hand free from Logan's grip and patted at his belt where his phone was clipped into its case. "Renata." He didn't know if they knew her name.
Logan pulled the phone out but McCain grabbed it and started scrolling through it. John took a deep breath and blinked, slowly. Things were getting that dreamy look again, a little fuzzy and misshapen around the edges.
"Stay with us, buddy. Eyes on me, John." Andrew bent low over his face, his voice louder, more commanding. "Stay with us, you hear? Help is on the way."
He could hear sirens, but they sounded like they were coming from above him, and when he tried to open his eyes again, he could only get the left one to comply, and just a slit at that. He was strapped to some kind of a board, his arms pinned to his side, his legs locked in place, something rigid pushing up against his chin, preventing him from looking down to see what was holding him there. A woman with long black hair pulled back in a ponytail had her back to him, studying a monitor mounted above a bank of metal cabinets. His wife had come.
"Renata?" he croaked into the oxygen mask over his mouth.
She turned and smiled down at him, but it wasn't her. "Sir, we're almost there. Try to relax, okay?"
"My wife." He needed to call her, to tell her he was okay. She'd be out of her mind with worry right now.
"Yes, sir. She's coming. She'll meet us there."
Another voice cut in and John could feel a hand on his chest. "Sir, please try to stay calm." Then the two began to speak in low tones, lulling John back into oblivion where there was no pain, no noise, no Renata.
Where was Renata?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Renata stepped up to the bed. She only glanced at John's face, then averted her eyes quickly, not wanting him to see her distress. They'd covered him with several blankets but he still trembled noticeably. Probably shock. He'd worked his left hand out from under the covers and it rested on his chest, clenching and unclenching into a fist. That hand, with its smattering of fine red hair and blunt-tipped fingers, so perfect, so whole, and the wedding band, scratched and dinged by years of wearing it on the job, was medicine to her heart, and she reached out toward it, then paused. "May I touch him?"
"Of course. Please do. The shock is wearing off and he's beginning to feel things. We're waiting for some more test results before we give him something stronger for pain so he's going to be a bit uncomfortable. Your presence may help him calm down a little." The nurse smiled kindly at her. "I'm Nate."
Renata thanked him with her eyes before covering her husband's hand with hers.
"John, I'm here." He turned a little toward her voice but the surgeon who was in the process of cleaning out the splayed tissue on his forehead put a gloved hand against his jaw.
"Mr. Dixon, you need to keep your neck straight, remember? That's why you're wearing the brace." The doctor spoke loudly, as though his patient was hard of hearing. The nurse, however, put a hand on John's shoulder and leaned over him slightly.
"John, your wife is here. You can relax now and let Dr. Mulldoon take care of your injuries, okay?"
John squeezed Renata's hand in response and a small spray of blood ejected from between his clenched teeth as he let out a breath, a few tiny droplets landing on the back of her hand.
She straightened her shoulders but didn't let go of John as she studied his battered face. His eyes were both swollen and purple, his right one almost the size of a baseball, his left only open a slit and focused on her face. No matter what she was feeling inside, she could not let her fear and revulsion show. He was gauging her reaction and the trembling in his han
ds wasn't just from pain.
Her stomach turned as the doctor stapled the wound on his forehead closed.
"That's going to look ugly for now, but when he goes in for surgery, they'll clean it all up," Nate assured her when she stared in horror at the jumbled row of staples that now ran in crooked lines above his eyebrows after the doctor stepped away. "We just need to close him up so he's less susceptible to infection."
John's right arm was strapped to his side beneath the covers, but his shoulder was a terrible mottled black and burgundy where she could see it past the edge of the cervical neck brace they had him in. He pulled his left hand loose and brought it up to his face. Before the nurse could stop him, he started poking at the swollen tissue of his right eye.
"What is that?" he muttered through clenched teeth. "What's on… my eye?"
"John, put your hand down. Hold your wife's hand, please. She needs you to comfort her. She's worried about you." Nate took him by the wrist and directed his hand back into Renata's. "Let her know by squeezing her hand that you're going to be okay."
From behind her, Juliette whispered in her ear. "Rennie, Grandpa and Phoebe are out in the hallway. I'm going to step out and let him come in with you, okay?"
Renata just nodded. She'd forgotten she wasn't alone. In a few moments, Grandpa's lean frame slipped in beside her and he put one arm around her shoulders, and one hand on John's leg. "Hang in there, son. You're looking better already."
Better? He had looked worse than this? John's hair was matted with a blackened crust of dried blood, his nose, flattened and pushed slightly to the left side of his face. His lips were swollen and split, and his jaw looked out of alignment. Renata had never seen anything like it in her life. He looked like something from one of the contraband zombie movies the girls used to watch in high school when they were trying to scare themselves silly. As though hearing her thoughts, Grandpa turned to her and placed a tender kiss over her temple.
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