I wipe a tear from my cheek with the yellow terry cloth just as Brie lumbers into the room.
“Smells yummy, Momma.”
“Thanks. It’s Derek’s fav.” Now, why did I say that? Adding fuel to the feeble fire. Guess it’s a gift.
I fuss with adding the sour cream to the broth. Just as I scoop it out over the rice on our plates and set them on the table, she says, “Maybe we should take him some.”
Save me, Lord, from passing out.
“Tomorrow, when we visit.” It’s a statement. Her voice is calm, matter of fact, like visiting Derek is something we do daily, watching him struggle against the restraints, hearing his muffled mumbling, seeing the blink, blink of drips from the plastic tubes into his arms.
“Sure. Let’s do that.” I bow my head in prayer.
~
Nurse Jones is off today, so we are “greeted” by Nurse Smith. Can you believe it? Two nurses on the same floor with the two most common names in America. Also, two opposites. Nurse Smith is gruff, scowling and puts me on edge. I try the “kill her with kindness” ploy my mother taught me, but it isn’t working. She bustles self-importantly around Derek’s bed, fussing with the IVs and the sheets, plumping his pillows so much he moans. I’m tempted to grab her wrists and secure them behind her back with surgical tape. If only there was some handy.
We still don’t know the whole story about Derek, what happened and how bad his injuries are. I think yesterday we were so grateful he’s alive, and Nurse Jones was so reassuring, we hardly thought to ask. Stupid, I know. Goes with the territory, mine at least. I’m still dragging around my cast, worrying about Brie and trying to keep my business going. Not to mention Noel who is topping my list of ingrates.
Bett calls every day, even says she is praying “hard” for Derek. Says Noel is still recuperating “nicely.” My responses have been mostly “thank you,” and “wonderful.” I am too involved in the Derek situation to feel anything but sadness about Noel’s and my relationship, if there still is one. I feel like my heart is being picked apart, separated into categories—now, then, later. I’m wallowing in self-pity when a gray-haired, gray-bearded, very handsome man swings open the door to Derek’s room. He reminds me of a deep-sea fisherman. Don’t know why, maybe I saw an ad, or a bit of a program on the history channel. His eyes have deep wrinkles around them, kindly wrinkles, like when a child pulls a finger through the thick frosting on a cake and can’t resist the naughty grin. He has possibly the warmest smile I’ve ever seen. And, he smells good. Must be some kind of citrus cologne, maybe that unisex Jo Malone one.
I clasp his extended hand and shiver from the threads of electricity going up my arm.
“Ms. Wysinotski? I’m Doctor Duggins.” Wow! A doc who checks on patients personally and smiles, and pronounces my name correctly. “Are you cold?” His concern transforms his handsome face into the ideal bedside manner doc, and he leans toward me, searching my eyes. My mouth is plastic, so I shake my head and hope he can hear the rattling. “I know seeing your son this way is devastating,” he continues in a melodic voice, “but I really do believe he’ll recover.” He hesitates. “In time, and with therapy. After all, he was a hero, a Good Samaritan. He must have God on his side.”
A hero? Our Derek? In my confusion I almost forget about Brie who is again slumped in the vinyl chair. I gesture toward her mumbling Derek is my son-in-law, married to that lump in the brown chair (no, I really don’t say that, but I’m tempted). “I love Derek like a son, Doctor,” I say feebly. The good man bends down to Brie’s level and takes her limp hands in his. This time she doesn’t resist, but stares blankly at him. He’s murmuring something I can’t understand, but Brie’s chin lifts and her eyes perk up. They actually start to sparkle. I edge closer, trying to hear the doctor’s words. I catch a few.
“Asked about you.” Pause. “Our baby.” Pause. “Good man, your Derek.”
“Thank you, Doctor. That gives me hope.” Did Brie really say that?
Without warning, she hoists her bulky self from the chair and rushes into the bathroom. Pregnancy and sudden revelations can cause urgency, so I grin at Dr. Duggins who winks back at me. “Thank you,” I whisper. He nods, just as I feel an overwhelming need to use the facility.
Brie comes out smiling, and I rush in as quickly as I can while dragging my cast. Plunking myself on the throne I start to chuckle, then guffaw into a full-blown spate of laughter. How suggestible we humans, especially we women, are. I remember when Brie was three taking her first ballet classes. We’d been through a week of potty-training, but it wasn’t down pat yet. I almost didn’t take her to class, but decided since she adored dancing that would be a punishment. She deserved to twirl in her dream-like state of happiness. I pulled her teacher aside before class and explained if Brie gave her some kind of obvious sign it meant she had to go potty. Teacher was very understanding, and halfway through the thirty-five minute class she opened the door and led Brie out for me to take her to the restroom. What neither of us expected was a bevy of miniature divas following Brie who led a brigade of tiny ballerinas to the ladies room. Ten minutes later, nine other little girls in tutus had peed, but not my Brie. She held it in till we got home.
I’m still chuckling as I close the door to the bathroom.
“What’s so funny, Mamma?” I just shake my head and drag my cast close to Derek’s bed.
~
“It was a freak accident.” The doctor explains. “Of course all accidents are freaky, not intended, but this one was unusual.” He’s sitting on the brown vinyl chair and Brie is perched on Derek’s bed. Not a small feat. It took two of us to hoist her up. I’m cast-clumping and pacing.
Dr. Duggins has a tendency to lower his head when he talks, so not every word is clear. But, I think I’m catching most of them between the sounds of the papers he’s flipping on his metal clipboard.
This is what I hear: “Pregnant woman, car trouble, stranded at side of freeway, waving with flashlight.” There’s that pregnant pause again, and a sigh from the doc. “He…he apparently pulled over to help. From what we know, from the Highway Patrol.”
More shuffling papers. “A drunk driver slammed into his car and pinned him between it and the woman’s.” He stops and looks Brie face-to-face. His own face looks pained. Seems like he’s aged ten years in the last few minutes. The creases deepen, and his eyes take on cloudiness. Doc clears his throat, loudly. “Badly bruised both his legs and smashed his head against the trunk of the front car.” Now, he rushes on as if he has to get it all said quickly. “Legs will heal. Lot of therapy needed. Head, we hope.” He flips the clipboard closed. “Minor internal injuries. A blessing.” He rises and holds out a hand to Brie, then me. “Call me, anytime. God bless.”
THIRTY SEVEN
I remember Brie sobbing and reaching to me, shoving herself off the hospital bed and almost collapsing in a heap on the floor. It happened so fast I couldn’t catch her while lurching forward with my cumbersome cast. We somehow caught each other and I flung her toward the vinyl chair.
Perhaps it was our panting and the commotion, but when she landed in the chair with a loud whoosh, we both started to giggle uncontrollably. “Whoopee cushions!” we cried in unison. That was when we heard the “Whoo, whoo,” and our faces blanked. Both at once, at each other. The weird sound came again.
“An owl?”
“Not in this room.”
“Derek?”
“Derek!”
I don’t know how either of us did it, but Brie extracted herself from the chair and I loped across the room. We both arrived at Derek’s bedside in tandem. We fought to clasp his hand, but I gave up and patted his knee.
The sounds were garbled and mumbled, and whatever happened on the monitors brought two nurses rushing into his room. The way Nurse Smith shoved me aside made me wonder if she hadn’t played linebacker for her college team. Her “Oops,” as I almost fell didn’t quite count as an apology. Then I remembered, duh, Derek is the patient. I
am chopped liver.
Thankfully, Brie had managed to step aside when the thundering herd pounced. Holding her belly she leaned against the window with a huge grin on her face. “He spoke.”
Ignoring us, the nurses adjusted dials, and one patted his face until his lips moved. This time the word came out clear. “Brie.”
Nurse Number Two, who didn’t know the situation, said, “He wants cheese?”
~
They say laughter is the best medicine. I can attest that belly laughing is primo.
“Your tummy still hurt?” I’m holding my sternum, pressing hard with both hands. The tissue clasped in my hand is soggy from laughter tears. Brie holds her nose and waves at me.
“Praise the Lord!”
“Derek spoke.”
“Yep, ‘whoopee and Brie.”
“He said my name.”
~
The next few minutes are total confusion.
Derek lifts his hand, his eyes open briefly, and I’m sure I catch a smile on his face.
Brie starts to sob as I shove her next to Derek’s bed. Instead of clasping his hand as I’d hoped, she grabs a fist full of a sheet and mangles it. This is not going well, not as I hoped.
“Momma?”
I know she’s trying to get my attention and support. But, she is a big girl who must call on her own resources.
“I’m going to the nurses’ station to find out more.” Am I being a wimp, dweeb, or being strong to let Brie be strong, too?
The nice nurse at the station whose name thankfully isn’t either Jones or Smith, gives me an update, pretty much the same as the doctor. But, reassuring.
“Oh, you, or maybe your daughter, got a call from…a Noel?”
“Really? When?”
“A few minutes ago. He sounded very upset.”
Mmm. The ingrate. Is he really worried about Brie and Derek, or me? I decide to ignore it. Let him wonder. I am feeling mean right now.
I drag my cast back to Derek’s room. Tapping on the door elicits no response, so I push it open quietly.
Brie is lying next to Derek on his hospital bed. He is rubbing her pregnant belly and sighing.
I freeze.
THIRTY EIGHT
The next few weeks are awful, demanding. Derek has to attend (such a superficial word) physical therapy and occupational therapy, and sadly, speech therapy. He struggles, but Brie is there every day to cheer him on. I actually see her plant kisses on his face. Especially when he takes a few faltering steps in physical therapy, holding onto the railing on either side of him. When he says her name in a twisted, garbled pronunciation with spittle running down his chin, I see tears in her eyes. He reaches for her, one hand clinging to the rail on his right, the other gesturing to touch her chin. She feather-touches his raised hand and gives him a brilliant smile. He blinks, and his mouth half curves on one side. Brie claps her hands like a preschool child singing the “If you’re happy and you know it” song. I am blown away. My Brie has turned into a kind and sensitive woman, no longer an angry, betrayed woman. Jesus has His arms around her. His comfort is her cloak.
Yes, I am here, too. Not every day, but most. I do have to make salads, to make an income.
Bett comes once. So does my mother, twice. Their presence seems to buoy him up. He has his own cheering section. Then, on day seven, my dad shows up.
“Derek,” Dad shouts. “Get with the program. You are better than this. Have more spunk. Work harder. Do this for Brie. Do this for your baby.”
After this diatribe Dad collapses in a chair. I see sweat on his brow, and he wipes an absorbing hand across it.
I worry and ask if he’s okay. His hand is firmly on his heart. I can almost hear it beating.
“Yes, fine. Frustrated. Want Brie and Derek to make up and embrace what they have, what God has given them.” He looks up at my face and reveals a lot. Maybe too much. More that I can deal with. “Remember their marriage vows? You were there, Betsy.”
Yep, I was. Were they?
THIRTY NINE
Three weeks. It’s been only three, seven plus days, since Derek started his various therapies. No one can believe it, not even Doc Duggins.
“I…am amazed.”
“Why so, Doc? I had you pegged for a believer.” I am so bold. What happened to God lashing my tongue?
“I…” he stammers again. “I believe in miracles. I believe God can do anything.” He pulls a cotton handkerchief out of his back pocket and swipes at his face, missing his eyes that need swiping the most. Still, the man is obviously stunned. He turns to me with damp eyes. “You, this family, are experiencing a miracle. Do you understand?”
“Yep.” I don’t mean to sound so pious, but I feel it. I know God is honoring all of our collective prayers for Derek, for us. I bring to mind one of my favorite verses from Zephaniah 3:17. “The Lord your God is with you, He is mighty to save.” I say it out loud to the doc. “Sometimes, I insert the word ‘heal’ for ‘save.’” He looks at me with a crooked smile and nods. I guess that’s confirmation.
He calls nurses to check Derek’s vital signs, then after checking waves them away. Doc fumbles with the pages on his metal clipboard. Flips a few, then goes back to the one on top. Pen poised he scribbles what I assume is his John Hancock on the top page.
“Good to go to rehab.” He smiles and leans toward Derek, then turns his face to look directly at Brie. “Probably for a couple of weeks. Then, must come back twice a week, two times a week,” he emphasizes while pointing a finger at her. “Imperative. No excuses. K?”
She nods. Then gets her gall up. “How long do you think? Weeks, months?”
“No telling. Depends on determination. Depends on faith. Only God knows, but He will guide you.” He tilts his head to one side and smiles again. “God bless you with your baby. Boy or girl?”
Brie looks at him stupefied. “Don’t know. Too scared to ask.”
“Whatever it is, it is blessed with the family you have. But,” he says, grinning, “You might want to find out whether to buy pink or blue booties. A perk your mother didn’t have in her time.” He grins again and bounces out the door closing it quietly.
FORTY
Derek has a walker. One of those things with wheels and a cute little purse thing to put stuff in. The only thing I think he keeps in it is a few tissues to wipe his brow when he gets sweaty from trying too hard. It’s not as fancy as the one Bett rented for me, more practical.
“How’s he doing?” Bett’s call is out of the blue. Is she really caring and concerned, or is she being polite? Out of obligation.
“He’s doing great. His attitude is terrific, and he and Brie are lovey dovey. You?”
“I’m okay, all right. Still dealing with my secret.”
Does she want me to ask, to prod her to reveal it? Instead, I say, “So sorry, Bett. Pray about it. God will give you the answer.” I only have so much energy. Right, God?
I hang up the phone and say a mini prayer for Bett. I know she deserves more, but I’m tired, burned out. Pooped.
~
Two months.
Derek is walking without a walker, no crutches, only a cane. It truly is a God-thing. Not sure if it’s an actual miracle, but I think back often to John 5:8 when Jesus told the invalid man to pick up his bed and walk.
God’s mysteries are still mysteries to me. I have plenty of faith, right Lord? But maybe I need a faith adjustment. Believing is one thing, but…seeing? Like seeing Derek walk and hearing him pronounce words intelligibly, if not always with perfect pronunciation. When he fumbles, he grins sheepishly. At least he doesn’t stammer like that talk radio host.
I try to do the “Rest in the Lord” thing. I’ve never been good at staying still. But, I try. In my hideous brown velour recliner (belonged to The Jerk), I find a small modicum of peace. My cataloging mind flips through all the events of the last few months. Bett telling me she has a secret she is reluctant to share. My condo blowing up. Brie revealing her deception to Derek ab
out how she became pregnant. Noel acting like an idiot—not getting a flu shot, making snide remarks about my mother/daughter relationship with Brie. Bett saying stupid things about men in general. Derek getting mangled on the freeway. Okay, those are the highlights of the negative memories.
I get out my devotional journal and start scribbling. A lot of shrinks, especially that famous female one on the radio, suggest making lists of all the good things in your life. Here goes.
*Bett has accepted the Lord as her savior. Wow! A biggie. I still worry she doesn’t exactly understand what that means. But, between Him and her, she will figure it out.
*Noel’s “problem” is history. At least I hope so since he asked me to marry him. Did I forget to tell you about that, the proposal? Well, it’s our secret. I can tell you it was a day after that Monica woman called and accused me of…what did she say? Anyway, I’ll give a hint. Diamond ring (big one!) in paper coffee cup at Mitch’s. Almost choked on it.
*Derek driving to reunite with Brie, then having the accident. This one is mixed. But, what a great man to stop and help someone else in trouble. Especially a pregnant woman. This is a testament to Brie and his love for her.
*My condo getting fixed. Pretty much a biggie for me so I don’t have to intrude on Bett anymore for sleeping arrangements. Although, I admit I miss Snoopy.
*Derek healing so quickly. He and Brie making up, him accepting “the baby.” What more can I say. (Not a question.)
*I heard from scared, reluctant, napkin-folding hostess Nancy. She has started reading the Bible and attending church. What a gift!
Butterfly Dreams (A Christian Contemporary Romance) Page 17
