by Mary Carter
Chapter 4
It wasn’t Brad’s voice on the phone, and the news washed over her in sound bites. Accident. Lenox Hill Hospital. Brad Jordan, did she know a Brad Jordan? Of course she did, he was her husband.
Accident, Lenox Hill Hospital, Brad. He was clinically dead, the voice said. But they got him back. The man sounded very excited. Bailey was afraid of dropping the phone, so she clung to it while her purse fell to the ground, and her lipstick, and her keys, and her wallet all tumbled out and began rolling toward the patch of tulips. She noticed, but didn’t move to stop them, nor did she answer the doorman, who, sounding cries of alarm, went chasing after her things.
Things aren’t important, she wanted to scream at him, people are, my husband is. Clinically dead? A sharp panic rose in her, threatening to turn her into someone she didn’t recognize, someone who couldn’t handle the news.
“It’s coming!” Carlos shouted. “The end is coming!”
“He’s okay?” she pleaded into the phone, as if the voice on the other end was a hostage taker who had complete control over her husband’s fate. “He’s alive?” Of course he’s alive, he’s my husband, I had breakfast with him this morning, dead men don’t eat hash browns.
“He’s in critical condition,” the voice said. “But he’s alive.”
“What happened?”
“I was just standing in the emergency room when he came in,” the man said. “I broke my arm,” he added, but he must have quickly realized Bailey didn’t care, for he spared her the details and moved on. “A paramedic handed me your husband’s phone and asked me to call you. You were under ‘Wife’ with a smiley face. He’s at Lenox Hill Hospital, in critical care.”
Bailey didn’t know if he hung up, or she hung up, or the phone went clinically dead. The connection was severed. Bailey stared at the phone for a second, as if it would tell her what to do, how to handle this. The doorman thrust her purse at her, the contents all stuffed safely back inside.
“Taxi,” she said. “I need a taxi.” She ran to the curb and flung out her arm. The doorman was right behind her.
“Are you all right?” he said. He stepped into the street and held up his arm. They looked like schoolchildren competing to get called on.
“Bailey!” Faye said from behind her. “What’s going on? Where do you think you’re going?” As a taxi pulled up, the news came out of Bailey in a rush. Bailey heard herself coaching Faye and Jason—relive where they fell in love—but in her rush to explain it, she knew she got it all wrong.
“We’ll cancel the showing,” Faye said. “We’re coming with you.” Bailey wanted to scream no. Faye never canceled appointments. If she canceled, then something was seriously wrong. If she canceled, it meant she thought Brad could die.
“You stay, Jason,” Bailey said. “I have a feeling about this sale.” Of all the looks Jason had ever given her, this one she’d never seen before. He looked upset for her. If he sold the condo, then he’d get a cut and Faye would get a cut, and Bailey would get zip. What choice did she have? Besides, Bailey couldn’t think straight because the words “clinically dead” were flashing through her mind like a neon sign that wouldn’t shut off even after you’d pulled the plug—pulled the plug, Bailey shouldn’t think such things—
“Settle your debts before you burn in hell!”
“Carlos,” Jason said. “Not now.”
“Lenox Hill Hospital,” Bailey said to the driver as she and Faye climbed in the back. “Hurry.” The cab started pulling out. “Stop,” Bailey yelled. “Stop.” The cab driver slammed on the brakes. He glanced at her through the rearview mirror. She didn’t know where he was from, somewhere in the Middle East. Now was not the time to try and show interest in his culture, and she overrode the voice in her head that said he’d already pegged her as a bossy, snooty American.
“One second,” Bailey said. “Do not leave.” Abandoning her purse on the seat, she threw open the door, climbed over Faye, and rushed back to the apartment building. Seconds later she returned, panting, and slammed the door. She didn’t dare look back at the building because she knew the doorman and Jason were staring at her, mouths agape. Even Carlos stopped ranting for a few seconds before lifting the bullhorn again.
“Inappropriate!” he yelled.
“Lenox Hill Hospital,” she said again. She tried to convey
“Step on it” with her tone. This time, the cab driver met Faye’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He probably thought she was crazy, but Bailey didn’t care. He’d probably seen atrocities in his country that she couldn’t even imagine. He probably thought she was clueless about what life was really like for some people, and he would be right. All she knew was her life. And half of that life was in a hospital bed across town in critical care.
She clung to the tulips in her hands, at least a half a dozen, ripped from the ground, roots dripping dirt onto the cardboard sign announcing the end of the word, and tried not to cry. Cars and people were passing by, walking their dogs, talking on their phones, buying newspapers, as if that’s where the news could really be found. Nobody seemed to know, or care, that her husband had been clinically dead. She clutched the tulips and squeezed her eyes shut. It was entirely appropriate to bring flowers when someone you love had come back from the dead.
At the hospital she cornered a nurse coming out of Brad’s room. “I’ll give anything,” Bailey said. “Blood, hair, nails.” The nurse glanced at Bailey’s fingers, bitten to the nub. “Okay, nails are a no if you need them today, but I’ll grow them, I swear. What else can I give? What does he need?”
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with full, soft cheeks and fawn eyes, repeatedly patted Bailey on the arm. “I’m sure your love will be enough.”
How could she be so sure? The nurse was being so kind, so nurturing. Yet Bailey still wanted to scream. Love was enough? For Brad? Had it ever been?
It had certainly been enough for Bailey. In fact, it was everything. That was the problem. Sometimes she was afraid her love was too much for him. Like a plant that grew and grew and grew until it strangled all the pretty little plants around it, blocking out their sun. That’s why they had to have a baby. Bailey had too much love to give, too much for one person to handle. Imagine, a child made by the two of them. Brad, Bailey, and baby. B&B&B! Oh, how easy it would be to add another “B.”
She had to calm down. Now was probably not the right time to be fantasizing about having a baby. She was just nervous. She wished she smoked. What did nonsmokers do in serious times of stress? “Please,” Bailey shouted down the hall after the nurse. “Will you take my blood just in case?” But the nurse didn’t even turn around. Bailey steeled herself, then entered Brad’s room.
He was hooked up to machines and covered in tubes; his beautiful soft brown curls were all gone, head shaved bald as a baby. His tall body took over the little bed, and his feet hung off the end. Where were his shoes? He swore he’d never take them off. She’d teased him for being like a woman, a ribbing Brad took easily since he was one of the most manly men she knew. Bailey felt a strange pang of panic. As if he wouldn’t make it if he didn’t have his shoes. She would have to ask a nurse if he’d been wearing them. Good god, why was she obsessing on his shoes?
Brad and Bailey. He was six foot two; she was five foot eleven. Two tall, handsome people, Brad often said. Bailey didn’t mind that he called her handsome. She knew he was teasing, she knew he thought she was beautiful. She wasn’t perfect by any means. She had a strong face: a broad forehead and a large nose. Prominent cheekbones and full lips, and freakishly long eyelashes, and clear olive skin, and, as Brad often told her, the most remarkable light blue eyes with hints of green. She bit her nails to the nub and wore a silver coyote ring on her middle finger.
Bailey had a Native American slash Mediterranean look about her, although her parents insisted they were Dutch and French and nothing else.
Brad had brown eyes and always liked to sing to her: “Don’t you make my brown eyes blue.”
She never failed to roll her eyes, and he never failed to laugh.
He was in an induced coma due to brain swelling, but the doctor and nurse both assured her they were optimistically hopeful. Those were the words they used. Did they mean to say cautiously optimistic? If they messed up common English this badly, should she worry about their doctoring and nursing skills? Should she throw a fit, ask for their credentials? What a ridiculous phrase that was. They could be either hopeful, or optimistic, but they couldn’t be both!
She felt like throwing something. A bad habit from her younger years. She had a coursing temper and when she really got going she would have to throw something, or several somethings, across the room. The louder the crash, the calmer she felt. Brad always teased that she was secretly a passionate Latina or a hot-blooded Italian.
“French,” she would say as she hurled a vase against the wall. “Or Dutch,” she added after it smashed into pieces. “And nothing more.” Where did it come from, then? Her parents didn’t have tempers—they were calm professor types. Maybe it was a middle-child syndrome or maybe there was indeed some genetic hot blood lingering in her DNA, or maybe it was just a chemical imbalance. All Bailey knew for sure was that until years of meditation helped her get it under control, she was a thrower.
Maybe she should do it, maybe it would make her feel better. She scanned the room but couldn’t decide what to throw. A pitcher of water, a plastic cup, a bedpan? The bedpan, she decided. It was empty and would make the biggest clang. Throwing a plastic cup would hardly be satisfying, and she couldn’t take the chance that the water from the pitcher would splash onto the beeping machines, causing them to malfunction and kill her just-back-from-the-dead husband all over again.
She wondered if it was shock making her think all these things, dredging up bad habits, or if her true nature was coming out, and her true nature was so cold of heart that even though her husband’s brain was swelling a mere few feet from her, all she could do was pick on the English of those who held his health in their hands, and mentally throw bedpans.
She was not, she realized, as optimistically hopeful as they were. She was terrified. She wanted them to reassure her. She wanted Brad to wake up so he could reassure her, which solidified it for Bailey, she was the most selfish person on the planet. She couldn’t help it. She had never felt so helpless, and in all her years with him, she had never seen Brad so frail. Which was why she could not fall apart, she must be strong for him. Thank God he couldn’t see her right now. The look of panic on her face, her unruly hair, tulips dripping dirt at her feet. She dropped the flowers in the pitcher of water, and instead of throwing it, kicked the bedpan across the room. Hardly satisfying.
Thirteen minutes. The doctor told her Brad’s heart stopped for thirteen minutes. She didn’t want to hear it. It was as if, besides being the unlucky number thirteen, the news held some puzzle which she must unravel.
Bailey searched Brad’s swollen face for traces of the ten-year-old boy she fell madly in love with. Sitting on a rock by a river, dragging his shoe-and-sock-clad foot through the water, just because he could. That was twenty-six years ago. She followed him around that summer like he was the last boy on earth. That summer all she needed was a red rubber ball, gleaming silver jacks, and Brad Jordan. He was a ball of spirit, a walking mystery. She’d never forget entering his house for the first time. Brad didn’t show an ounce of embarrassment. He flung open the door and expected her to follow. Dishes piled in the sink. Television blaring. Two aging black cats sprawled on top of the kitchen table. He led her into the living room.
“That’s my mom.” The two of them, standing over the couch. Elizabeth Jordan, passed out. Arms flung over her head, legs splayed out, one bare foot hanging over the couch, the other propped up on the armrest. Gin bottle near her cheek.
“Hello,” Bailey actually said. Brad laughed and laughed. His laugh made her feel like she had magical powers. But it was what he did next that cemented him in her heart forever, made her love him even more than the baby bird in her shoe box back at home, the one she saved when it fell from the nest, and to Bailey’s horror, the mother simply flew away. Brad gently removed the bottle of gin, fixed his mother’s pillow, then smoothed back the hair from her forehead.
“She looks happy,” he said. Bailey wondered how he could tell. But from the slight strain in his voice, she knew it mattered to him. His own happiness was totally invested in his mother being happy. She didn’t know what it was at the time, but Bailey could feel the force of Brad’s fear hammering in her own chest, his brave front, his desperation. He wanted to ask someone to save him, to help him, but he didn’t know how. And that was it. Bailey’s heart had been plucked straight from her chest.
“She does,” Bailey said. “She looks totally relaxed. You should see my mom. She’s probably screaming at my brother right now to take off his dirty shoes.” Bailey laughed. She felt a slice of guilt roll through her for making fun of her mother. Even if she was yelling at her brother, she was also awake and not drunk, and making dinner, and most likely wondering where Bailey was. But it was worth it. Brad’s jaw unclenched and his shoulders relaxed, and he smiled.
Afterward they played jacks on his kitchen floor. He won. Then they ate Doritos straight out of the bag, and drank Coke he kept pouring into shot glasses, and inhaled chocolate doughnuts that they slipped on their fingers like giant rings. Bailey knew she was doing things she shouldn’t. Her mother didn’t allow junk food in the house. Or cats on the kitchen table. Or dishes in the sink. Or gin bottles on the couch. It felt dangerous and exciting. And normally, Bailey was the type of child who minded her parents’ every word. But there was something about this boy that made Bailey want to break all the rules. By the time Bailey left and returned to her clean home with sober parents, and feline-free dining table, and lemon chicken with rice and salad for dinner, she was in love.
It took several years of stalking for Brad to catch up. But he did, eventually he did. It was twenty-six years later, and they’d been married for seven years. Bailey pulled her chair up to Brad’s hospital bed, gently took his left hand in hers, and wrapped it into a little hand sandwich.
“You know,” she said. “Most people don’t go to such extremes over the seven-year itch.” Her laugh sounded hollow in the little room. “You’re going to be all right,” she said. “You’re going to be just fine.” She wanted to add, “I’m hopefully optimistic,” already projecting a day where the phrase would be a private joke between them—but she couldn’t get the words over the lump in her throat, and just in case he was listening, she didn’t want him to hear her crying. She leaned over and kissed him ever so gently on the lips, hoping to wake him like a reverse Snow White, wondering if he could hear her, smell her, feel her hair brushing against his collarbone. “I love you,” she said. “I love you more than anything in the whole wide world.” She laid her head on his chest. His heart was beating, he was still here, he was clinically alive.
Bailey could smell and hear Aunt Faye coming down the hall, returning from the cafeteria. Obsession, and high heels. The pitch of her voice rising higher and higher as she stopped to talk to someone.
“I’m Faye Edgers, Penthouses on Parade, if any of the doctors are ever in the market. I’ve got places near every hospital. They can roll out of bed and right into surgery.”
Then Faye was back in the doorway. Bailey looked up, meaning to smile, but not too much. Instead, she watched Faye take in the sight of Brad, bald and swelling on the bed. Faye opened her mouth. Then closed it. Then she looked at Bailey.
“I can talk to a nurse,” Faye said. “Try to get him moved to a bigger room with a view.”
“He’s fine,” Bailey said.
“Oh, darling,” Faye said. She opened her arms. Tears came to Bailey’s eyes. She wiped them away and sniffed loudly. She looked at Brad, half expecting him to laugh.
“He’s fine,” she said again.
“Oh, darling,” Faye said.
“Aunt Faye,”
Bailey said. “If you say that again, I’m going to beat the living daylights out of you.” Faye sat on an empty chair facing Bailey. She crossed her arms and her legs.
“You remind me of me,” she said.
“God help us both,” Bailey said. She glanced at Brad, then pointed to the bed as she addressed the ceiling. “But help him first,” she added.
Five hours passed in a blur. Faye reluctantly agreed to go home, Bailey reluctantly agreed to get some rest. After she left, Bailey looked at the cup of coffee in her hand and the sandwich in her lap and wondered how they got there. She wondered if the Fairytalers liked the penthouse, the candle, the pictures on her laptop, wondered if Jason remembered the spiel. She would have nailed the sale; she knew she would have nailed it.
She snuck a glance at Brad, feeling guilty for even thinking about the sale at a time like this.
Three more nurses entered. There was no shortage of them here. So much busywork. Paperwork to fill out, way too much. Updates on Brad’s condition, way too brief. Each one left as soon as their message was delivered, but the last nurse lingered. Bailey stared at her, waiting for her to speak.
“I’m afraid I have terrible news,” she said. Bailey’s head jerked toward Brad.
“Not him,” the nurse said quickly. “The driver.”
“The driver?” Bailey said. “Of the other car?”
Was he dead? The man who ran into her husband, whoever he was? Was it a drunk driver, or a self-absorbed businessman on his cell phone?
“No,” the nurse said. “There was only one car. Your husband wasn’t driving, a woman was.” The look on Bailey’s face must have confirmed the fear of every aging wife, for the nurse quickly resumed speaking. “No,” she said. “Nothing to fear. She was an elderly woman—”
“Olivia,” Bailey said. She’d completely forgotten. How could she have forgotten? Brad told her over breakfast, he was spending the afternoon with his aunt Olivia. Unlike Faye, who was a vibrant woman only in her late fifties, Brad’s Aunt Olivia was eighty-eight years old. “Olivia was driving?” Bailey said. She glanced at Brad. He knew better. Even though technically Olivia’s license hadn’t been revoked, it should have been. But she always worked Brad like a child, conniving to get her way, and Brad always gave in. This time, it had cost him thirteen minutes of his life.
