A Curve in the Road

by Julianne MacLean

  “I kept my own name when we got married,” I explain, feeling dazed and nauseated as I lay my hand on Alan’s bare arm.

  “We’ve been trying to call his home number,” Nurse June explains.

  “But there was no answer,” I finish for her. “Because no one’s home. I’m here, and my son is at a hockey game.”

  I’m in such shock over what is happening that my muscles shake.

  I glance at the clock. It’s nine fifteen. Zack will answer his phone soon. I can’t imagine how I’m going to explain this to him.

  I look down at Alan again—at his bruised and bloody face, the tube snaking down his throat, the IV in his arm. I glance at his legs. His jeans have been cut away to reveal multiple lacerations and bruises.

  “There must be some mistake,” I try to rationalize. “One of the paramedics said the other driver was probably DUI, but my husband’s not a drinker. He sometimes has a glass of wine with dinner, but he’s very responsible. He’s a family man. He would never get behind the wheel if he was intoxicated.”

  She regards me with compassion and squeezes my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Dr. MacIntyre. This must be a terrible shock for you.”

  I shut my eyes and tip my head back. Tears spill onto my cheeks.

  I didn’t see the damage to his car, but I can only imagine what it must have been like if he is this badly injured.

  The terror. The shock of losing control at such a high speed. Crashing.

  Half of me is devastated and grief-stricken—I can’t bear the thought of my husband suffering in that way, nor the idea of losing him—but the other half is boiling with anger.

  How could Alan have done something so stupid as to get behind the wheel of a car if he had been drinking?

  And what was he doing on the road to Lunenburg in the first place, when he knew I was on my way back to Halifax? He told me he had to work all day. We were supposed to meet at the hockey rink in time for Zack’s game.

  I look at him on the trauma table and want to shake him awake, to demand answers.

  Was he trying to find me for some reason? Was there an emergency?

  But then why wouldn’t he have just called?

  I remember the two police officers sipping coffee in the waiting room, hovering . . . and I know how this works. There are rules and protocols. I know why they’re here.

  “Do you know what his blood alcohol level was?” I ask the nurse.

  She hesitates and speaks tentatively. “Um, we took a level . . . yes.”

  “And what was it?”

  Nurse June’s eyes grow wide as saucers. She wets her lips and looks away. “I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’m authorized to reveal that.” She pauses. “You should probably ask the doctor.”

  “I’m the patient’s wife,” I tell her firmly. “His next of kin. If there are decisions to be made here—which clearly there are—I need to know the facts.”

  Nurse June stares at me uncertainly for a moment, then says, “I’ll get the doctor.” She turns and bolts from the room.

  My heart races as I move around the bed on unsteady legs, barely aware of my own physical pain as I check the readings on the monitors and try to determine what I’m dealing with.

  Dr. Sanders, who has been a fixture in this hospital for more than thirty years—he put a cast on my broken arm when I was thirteen—walks in and sees me reading the tape from the heart monitor. His cheeks flush red.

  “Abbie.”

  I hate that I’m forced to limp toward him and that I have no medical privileges here when all I want to do is to take charge of my husband’s care.

  “Why wasn’t this patient sent to the QEII?” I demand to know. “He needs a CAT scan and a full trauma team . . . a neurologist and . . .” I feel sick and dizzy and lose my train of thought, but I quickly fight to regain it. “And what was his blood alcohol level? I heard he was DUI, but I just can’t believe that—”

  “We’ve already called for a chopper,” Dr. Sanders cuts in, “but it’s freezing rain out there, and we’ve had some delays. The pilot is doing his best to get here, and we’re doing everything we can to keep your husband stable.”

  I swallow hard and struggle to remain calm—which isn’t easy under the circumstances—because this is my husband and I love him desperately, and I still can’t accept that he was driving under the influence.

  Information is what I need. “Tell me everything, Dr. Sanders.”

  From the other side of the bed, the doctor reveals what he knows. “Your husband was awake when they pulled him out of the wreck, but he lost consciousness just before he arrived at the hospital. His pulse is a bit high, but his blood pressure is okay. As you can see, he’s intubated and has good oxygen levels, but the fact that he hasn’t woken up yet leads me to believe he might have a brain bleed. He needs a CAT scan and to see a neurologist, but we don’t have that level of care here. On the upside, his chest x-ray looks good. C-spine and pelvic x-rays are good too, but he’s got a fractured humerus. Even so, that’s the least of his problems. We haven’t given him anything for pain or sedation . . .” He pauses. “But there might be other things in his bloodstream keeping him sedated.”

  Other things . . .

  I ask the pertinent question again: “You have to tell me . . . what was his blood alcohol level?”

  Dr. Sanders hesitates, and then he bows his head and shakes it. “Honestly, Abbie, this is new territory for me, from a legal perspective. I’m not sure how to handle this.” His gaze lifts. “You’re a victim from the other car in the crash, but you’re also his next of kin, and he’s incapacitated, so I’m going to give you this information. His blood alcohol level was 0.33.”

  My head draws back as if Dr. Sanders has just swung a punch at me. “No. That can’t be right.”

  “I’m sorry, but there’s no mistaking it.”

  I cup my forehead in a hand. “I can’t believe this is happening. Alan never drinks. At least not heavily. He was supposed to be at work all day, and then we were going to watch Zack’s hockey game.” I glance up with a new realization. “I still haven’t gotten in touch with Zack. He doesn’t know anything about this. I need to call him.”

  Dr. Sanders nods, circles around the bed, and rests his hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Abbie. Please know that we’re doing everything we can.”

  I nod and swallow hard over the giant lump rising in my throat, because I don’t want to cry. I need to keep it together and stay strong. There’s so much I’ll need to deal with in the next few hours.

  But first, I need to call Zack and break the news to him. Then I’ll need to be on that chopper with my husband when it takes off. I want to be with him every step of the way to make sure he gets the best possible care and that we do everything we can to bring him back to us.

  I thank Dr. Sanders, then limp out of the room to tell my mother what is happening and pick up my phone to call Zack.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  At last, Zack answers his phone. “Mom. Where are you? You didn’t make it to the game. We won.”

  I pace beside my bed in the ER and can’t keep my voice from quavering. “That’s great, honey. I’m so sorry I didn’t make it, but . . . something happened on the highway.” I wait a few seconds for him to absorb that much. “I was on my way home, but I only made it a few minutes outside of Lunenburg when I got into a . . .” I pause and clear my throat. “There was an accident.”

  There’s a brief silence on the other end. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I quickly reply. “I have a few cuts and bruises but nothing serious. Nothing that won’t heal in a week or two. Gram’s here with me.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Lunenburg hospital. The car’s totaled.”

  I don’t know why I tell him that. I suppose I’m stalling, avoiding what must come next.

  “Jeez,” he says. “What happened?”

  I swallow uncomfortably because I don’t know how to explain all of this, but I
do my best.

  “An oncoming car crossed the center lane and clipped me in the back end,” I say. “It was enough to send me into a spin, and then I hit the shoulder and flipped and rolled into a ravine.”

  “A ravine? Oh my God, Mom! Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Yes. Thank goodness for seat belts. But they had to use the Jaws of Life to get me out. It took a while.”

  I feel totally incoherent as I try to describe it.

  I hear Zack breathing hard. “I need to get there. I want to be with you. Where’s Dad?”

  My heart pounds like a jackhammer, and I can’t find the right words. All I can think about is what if both Alan and I had been killed. Zack’s an only child. He would have been left all alone.

  I swallow and take a breath.

  “It’s complicated. I don’t know how to tell you this, so I’m just going to say it flat out. Dad was the driver who crossed the center line, and after he hit me, he crashed as well. He survived, but he’s unconscious, and we’re waiting for a helicopter to take him to the QEII.”

  Zack shouts into the phone. “What? How could that happen? You guys collided with each other?”

  I sit down on the bed, wishing there was a way for me to help my son cope with this. “I don’t know how it happened—I’m just as confused as you are—but . . . it was foggy, and there was freezing rain.”

  I feel like a coward for blaming the accident on the weather when there’s no doubt that the icing didn’t begin until at least twenty minutes after the crash.

  “But why was Dad driving to Lunenburg when he was supposed to come to the game?”

  I have no answer to give because Alan didn’t call me, and I have no idea why he didn’t stick to the plan. I feel helpless and muddled.

  “I don’t know, Zack. I’m not sure what he was doing. I’m trying to make sense of it, but I can’t worry about the why right now. I just need to stay with him and pray that the helicopter arrives soon and that he’s going to be okay. That’s what you need to do too. Say a prayer, because he’s in bad shape.”

  “How bad?”

  I hesitate, not knowing how much to reveal because this is my baby and I want to protect him. Then I remind myself that’s he’s seventeen years old, practically a man. I have to be honest.

  “He hasn’t regained consciousness since he arrived at the hospital, so he might have a brain injury. Right now, they have him on life support—”

  “No . . .”

  I hold up a hand. “Please, we can’t lose hope. It could just be some swelling, and when the swelling goes down, he could come out of it. Brain injuries are difficult to predict.”

  “But . . .” Zack is quiet for a moment. “Could he end up as a vegetable?”

  “Let’s not use that word,” I gently say. “We need to stay positive. Let’s just take it one day at a time.”

  I hear Zack crying softly, and I give him a moment.

  “Are you still at the rink?” I carefully ask.

  “Yes,” he replies in a low, broken voice.

  “Can you get a ride home with someone?”

  “Jeremy can take me.”

  “Good. And keep your cell phone on. I’ll let you know when we’re getting on the helicopter.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I love you.” I’m about to end the call when he asks one more thing.

  “Wait, Mom. Where’s Winston? Wasn’t he with you?”

  I close my eyes and exhale heavily. “Yes, he was in the back seat, but he got thrown, and . . . well, we’re not sure where he is right now. He must have run off.”

  “He’s lost? On the highway?”

  “Yes, but some men from the fire department are searching for him, and the local cops have been informed as well. They’ll find him, Zack. I promise.”

  Knock on wood.

  “I hope so,” Zack replies. “What if he gets hit by a car?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head. “Let’s not think those kinds of thoughts. Just say more prayers, and I’ll let you know more as soon as I hear something.”

  We say goodbye, and I look up at my mother, who has just swept past the privacy curtain with two cups of coffee, one in each hand. She looks pale from all the stress. “I thought you might like one.”

  “Thank you. But you should sit down, Mom.”

  She moves closer and hands me the cup. I peel back the plastic lid and take a sip. The warmth feels good between my palms—a welcome comfort after so many ordeals.

  Mom sits down. “How did he take it?”

  I shrug with resignation. “As good as can be expected, but he’s upset and worried. I told him to go home and wait until I call.” I cup my forehead in a hand. “Where is that damn helicopter?”

  Just then, the Star Wars theme begins to play at the foot of the bed, and I see Alan’s cell phone flashing. “Someone’s calling him. What am I supposed to say?”

  Neither of us makes a move to reach for the phone. “You don’t have to answer it,” Mom says. “You could just let it go to voice mail.”

  I consider that briefly because I’ve been through so much and I don’t feel ready to talk to anyone—especially about what happened to Alan—but what if it’s about work? I can’t just let it ring. “Could you pass it to me?”

  She quickly hands me the phone, and I check the call display. “It’s a local number.”

  Mom inclines her head.

  “Hello?”

  There’s a long pause at the other end, and then a woman asks, “Is Alan there?”

  I wet my lips and take a breath. “No, I’m sorry—he’s not. Would you like to leave a message?”

  I perceive another conspicuous pause. “Um . . . I’m calling from Handy Hardware in Lunenburg. I don’t suppose this is . . . is this Abbie?”

  I slowly sit up on the edge of the bed. “Yes. Who is this?”

  “It’s Paula Sheridan. We went to high school together.”

  I remember Paula Sheridan, though we haven’t spoken to each other since I graduated. We didn’t know each other that well because she was a year behind me, but we sometimes moved in the same circles and went to the same parties. I remember bonding with her one night at a summer campfire when her boyfriend dumped her. She cried her eyes out, and I held her hair back when she threw up in the bushes. But that was it. I went off to college in Ontario. I don’t know what she did after high school, and I have no idea why she’s calling Alan’s phone. Yet more questions to add to the growing list.

  “Why are you calling?” I ask.

  “Oh . . .” She seems lost for words. “I’m just looking for Alan because he ordered something from the store. He was supposed to pick it up today.”

  “The hardware store . . . ?”

  “Yes. My husband and I own Handy Hardware in Lunenburg. Your husband comes in sometimes to get things, usually on Sundays.”

  Ah. Now I understand. He’s always helping my mother with handiwork around the house. I glance up at Mom, and she’s watching me curiously.

  “He was supposed to pick up a . . .” Paula hesitates. “Let me see . . . a power washer.”

  My stomach turns over as I struggle to figure out how to respond. “I’m sorry—he won’t be coming in.” Does she not realize there’s an ice storm out there? “Are you even open?” I ask, checking my watch.

  “Oh, we closed at six. I’m just here taking care of a few courtesy calls.”

  Neither of us says anything for a few seconds.

  “Could you let him know that I’ll hold the power washer here for him?” Paula finally asks. “He can come by anytime.”

  I sense that she’s ready to say “Thank you and goodbye,” but I don’t want to end the call just yet.

  “Wait a second, Paula. Did he say specifically that he was going to pick it up today?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did he say that?”

  She pauses again. “Earlier today, when he called.”

  “I see.” I don’t know why
I suddenly want to divulge something personal to a woman I haven’t spoken to in years, but I can’t help myself. She’s someone I used to know, someone from my hometown, and I really need a friend right now. The words come spilling out.

  “Actually, Paula . . . something terrible happened. He had a car accident. We both did. We crashed into each other, believe it or not. I’m at the hospital in Lunenburg, and we’re waiting for Alan to be airlifted to Halifax.”

  Paula is silent before speaking in a halting, disbelieving voice. “My God. I heard there was an accident on the 103. It was Alan? Is he okay?”

  I begin to pick at a loose thread on my hospital gown while I struggle to keep my emotions in check. “I don’t know. He’s in a coma.”

  Suddenly I’m forced to press my fingertips to my mouth to keep from weeping into the phone. I hold the phone away while I fight to pull myself together. Then I bring it back against my cheek. “We’re very worried.”

  “Of course you are. My goodness.” She pauses again. “Is there anything I can do? Are you by yourself in the hospital? I could come down there if you need help.”

  I sniffle and wipe the back of my hand under my nose. “No, you don’t have to do that. My mom’s here, but thanks for asking.” Then I think of something. “Actually, if you could keep your ear to the ground about our dog? He was in my car when we had the accident, but he ran off at the scene, and we haven’t seen him since. The fire department is looking for him, but if you could spread the word in town . . . he’s a golden retriever, and his name is Winston. He might be injured.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “Thank you.”

  I’m about to end the call when Nurse June sweeps the curtain aside. “The chopper is five minutes away. We’re getting your husband prepped for the flight. I assume you’ll want to go along?”

  I nod and say to Paula, “I have to go now. The chopper’s almost here.”

  I end the call without saying goodbye.

  “Mom,” I say as I slide off the bed onto throbbing, unsteady legs. “Can you tell Carrie, the paramedic, that I have to go to Halifax? And can you take care of Winston if . . .” I stop myself. “When they find him?”