by L. M. Carr
“He’s in Room 1034 ICU.”
I nod my thanks for the information and walk away in search of the nearest restroom. I step into the stall and lock the door when I’m overcome with emotion and vomit violently. I cradle the toilet and slide to my knees as my body shudders. And I cry. Hard.
I cry for my husband whose life was cut short. I cry for the years I will live without him. I cry for the young man who is in a coma and may never reopen his eyes. I cry for the child who will never have a father.
***
“MORNING!” A SURPRISED voice wakes me and I sit up, pulling the lever to return the chair back to its original position.
I yawn and wipe my eyes, glancing around the room. “Hey. Sorry I stayed so long. I guess I was more tired than I thought.”
“No worries. It’s nice to see someone finally coming to see him.”
My eyes travel across the room and fall on Tyler. I feel an ache in my chest at her words.
“Why hasn’t anyone been by? He’s been here almost three weeks.” I’m sure she can detect the resentment in my voice.
“Well…that’s not entirely true. A couple of guys came by to see him, but they didn’t stay long.”
“No family? No blond woman?”
As she checks Tyler’s vitals, she shakes her head and says no, but then adds that she only works the day shift so maybe people come later to visit.
I scrub my face and readjust my ponytail.
“You should talk to him. You know some doctors say they can hear people talking even when they’re in a coma.” She grabs his hands, one at a time, and massages each palm gently.
I force myself to walk over and stand beside the bed. I search Tyler’s face as I had last night during my second break. After apologizing to Odessa and my charge nurse, they told me to go home, but I couldn’t leave— not without stopping by to check on him.
“It’s been eighteen days.” I exhale sharply. “Why won’t he wake up?” Hesitantly, I touch the hand closest to me and glide my fingers over the hard callouses on his palm. His hands are the hands of a hard-working man. A man who labors himself to the bone. With a soft touch, I encourage him to wake up. I need to tell him about Alex. I need to find out what happened. I need to know what transpired before Alex veered off the road and hit that tree.
“His brain took a pretty good beating. I think it needs some time to heal.”
Everything she says I already know from a medical stand point, but my emotions don’t want to hear any of it. My chin quivers and I swallow the boulder lodged deep in my esophagus.
The weight of a stare prompts me to look up into the face of the curious nurse.
“Is he yours?”
A gasp reveals my shock. My face flushes red as mortification sets in and I drop Tyler’s hand which lands on the white blanket with a light thud.
“God no!”
The tight smile combined with the expression on her face suggests a suspicion of my words.
“I’m married.” I retort, glaring at her and then correcting myself quickly. “I mean… I was...I was married.” Stuttered words emerge from my suddenly parched mouth.
Her bright blue eyes drop to my left hand where my wedding rings still sit.
“I’m sorry.” She clears her throat and muddles through an apology. “I didn’t realize.”
I blink slowly and nod, absorbing her sincerity. She doesn’t know my situation. She doesn’t know I buried my husband a few weeks earlier. She doesn’t know how broken I am or how lost I feel. She has no idea what I’ve been through or how it’s possible in this vast world with its billions and billions of people, I can feel completely and unimaginably alone.
Alex Parker quickly became the center of my universe. My life revolved around his; I would’ve followed him to the end of the world. He wouldn’t have had it any other way. He said we were unbreakable.
I release a deep breath when she leaves the room. Left alone in the sterile and quiet room with Tyler, I’m hyper aware of the ventilator. Its sound is ominous and sobering.
“Um…hey Tyler… it’s Karrie. Karrie Parker, Alex’s wife.”
My eyes flash up to the door when I hear a light knock, but no one enters.
“So I don’t know if you can hear me or not, but I’m really sorry you got hurt. You got pretty banged up. The doctors think you need to rest and I guess they’re right.”
I feel emotion starting to creep up on me, but I force it down.
“I’m sorry you’re like this. You must feel pretty shitty right about now. I know I do.”
Alex’s face appears in my mind and I smile.
“Alex sure did love you. God, he used to talk about you all the time to the point I didn’t want to hear it anymore. I guess I didn’t want to hear about all the girls you banged in the trailer or how they threw themselves at you. It was disgusting and degrading. That sounds weird, I know, but I guess I was afraid Alex would want the same attention from them. I know what it’s like at the race track. After all, that was where Alex and I met, remember?”
I chuckle at the memory of meeting Alex at the concession stand.
“You didn’t like me much back then either now that I think about it. I never did anything to you. I welcomed you into our home, but you were always so…rude.”
I jab my finger at his waist.
“The truth is Tyler, I don’t like you very much, but I would never wish this upon my worst enemy. Maybe we weren’t very nice to each other. Maybe when you come out of this we can try to be friends. I think Alex would really have liked that.”
The beeping on the monitor accelerates for several seconds before resuming to its normal rhythmic pattern.
***
I TAKE THE long way home, driving the scenic route but not really looking at it. Procrastination has become my middle name. I don’t want to press the garage door button and see the empty bay where Alex used to park his truck. I don’t want to be in the big house by myself with every wall covered in pictures serving as a reminder of my life with Alex.
After finally convincing myself to drive home because my eyelids were closing, I pull onto our quiet street and narrowly miss colliding with a silver sedan parked near the driveway. I glare at the older man sitting in the front seat, but I don’t have the strength to beep my horn. I continue on and park in front of the closed garage doors.
In my peripheral vision, I see the figure approaching, coming closer with each step along the stamped concrete walkway. Wondering who this person is and what he’s doing here, I raise my hand to prevent the morning sun from shining in my eyes so I can get a good look at him. He’s in his early sixties with thinning white hair. His belly protrudes out and over his belt, a badge of some sort around his neck. The buttons on his shirt seem as though they might pop in all directions if he should so much as sneeze.
“Can I help you?” I have no patience to be cordial and friendly. “Are you lost?”
“No, ma’am.” A sheepish expression crosses his rosy cheeks as his eyes find mine.
“What can I do for you then?” I smile, feeling more at ease.
“Are you Karrie Parker?”
I nod. “I am.”
He lifts his right hand and presents a bulky envelope. I stare at the official document before drawing my eyes back up to look at him.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking the heavy envelope.
“You’ve been served.”
“Excuse me?” My face transforms with confusion. “What are you talking about? I think you have the wrong person.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I’m just doing my job. I need you to sign and date right here.” He points the tip of the pen on the line marked with an X.
“What?” I seethe.
“I need your signature ma’am to verify receipt.”
I haphazardly scribble my name and hand the pen back.
“Have a nice day,” he forces a tight smile as he turns, walking back in the direction of his car and starting the engine. My line of
sight is focused on his car as he drives away until I can no longer see him.
My hand suddenly feels heavy; my fingers grip the folded parcel tightly before I allow my eyes to look at it.
Dropping my workbag and my purse to the concrete beneath my feet, I tear the envelope open and stare at the printed words. Left to right. Left to right. I skim the contents detailed in the letter and my heart begins to beat faster as comprehension hits me.
Divorce.
Alex is asking for a divorce. My husband wants to divorce me.
“What?” I scream, but nothing comes out. “This can’t be. But, no!”
My chest hurts. I feel as though a spiked sledgehammer has plunged down onto my heart and carved out a hollow deep hole. I cover my mouth to prevent myself from vomiting as the air in my lungs escapes on a loud gasp. My fingers lose their grip and the papers slip from my grasp.
***
“KARRIE? WHERE ARE you?”
I vaguely hear my mother’s voice wafting through the air as she climbs the hardwood steps onto the second landing.
“Karrie! What’s going on?”
I want to answer. I want to tell her about the papers I’d received hours ago. I want to tell her that my dead husband was going to divorce me and break our marriage apart, but my mouth is frozen, my voice is nowhere to be found, silenced by the decimation of my heart.
The door swings open and my mother bounds into the room, rushing to my aid when she spies me lying on the hardwood floor with my cheek flat against the long wide planks. My eyes focus on one thing and one thing alone.
“Sweetheart, what’s going on?” My mother pulls me into her arms and cradles me as her fingers smooth back my hair. I know she’s preparing to comfort the sobbing she’s sure will come.
My world is falling apart.
With tears in her eyes, she looks down at me, the sympathy and perhaps pity is transparent. “Kare Bear, I told you it was too soon to go back to work. You need time.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “You need time to grieve and you need time to heal.”
Time.
Time to grieve.
Time to heal.
Those three words seem impossible. How will time help anything? Will time give me back my husband? Will time fix what he thought was so broken he wanted to leave? Will time glue back the pieces of my splintered heart?
The faintest trace of my voice emerges as I draw my eyes to my mother’s matching ones. Her normally bright eyes are red-rimmed and weary.
“Ma, I feel like I’m dying. I feel so lost. So alone.” I gasp for air and cry out. “I can’t do this.”
The tears which refused to fall multiply and stream down my face, each one stinging my skin. As if my heart could take any more, the news that my husband wanted to end our marriage tugs at the thin stitching and leaves me wide open, vulnerable and empty.
I am empty.
“Honey, that man loved you. Even after all the times I wished he wouldn’t, he was crazy in love with you.”
No, he wasn’t.
Again, her fingers slide across my cheek, pushing the long waves of hair back away from my face.
I attempt to open my mouth and articulate just how wrong she is, but I don’t. I can’t. I don’t want the image of my husband, my dead husband, to be tarnished. Not yet. It’s too soon. No one will ever need to know what his intentions were. No one needs to know that our marriage failed. No one will ever know this secret. Or the others.
“C’mon, let’s get you up. You need to shower, eat and then get into bed.” Begrudgingly I sigh and get up after a few more words of encouragement from my mom.
“Do you want to go away for a few days? We could be in Florida by tomorrow afternoon.”
I blink lazily, remembering the last time I hopped a plane and went to their condo. I left my husband for a few weeks because he had forgotten our anniversary. Now I understand why. Perhaps he hadn’t forgotten; it just wasn’t important. Our marriage wasn’t important. I wasn’t important.
Shaking my head, I decline her offer, wordlessly picking up the picture of Alex and me on our wedding day to arrange it in its place on the bedside table.
My fingertips slide down his face. I remember cupping his jaw and kissing his mouth, telling him how happy I was and that I was the luckiest girl in the world. He couldn’t contain the emotion from seeping out of his eyes. His smile was bright, his spirit elated the moment I became his wife.
I turn my hand and cover his face with my thumb, punctuating the fact he’s really gone. And I realize if I hadn’t lost him to death, I would’ve lost him anyway. The picture is but a memory of a happier time in my life.
“Go take a shower and I’ll make you something to eat. You can’t live on Coca Cola alone, you know.”
“I don’t. I add lemon wedges.” I crack a tiny smile in appreciation for her attempts to lighten my mood. My smile grows in remembrance of all my mom has done for me as I head into the bathroom to take a hot shower. She and my dad…they are my rocks. My constant companions. My biggest fans.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Do you mind if I open a window? The room smells like smoke.”
My eyes flash across the room to the garbage can.
With a quick shrug of my shoulders, I provide just enough affirmation for her to push the curtains back and open the windows.
As I close the bathroom door, I hear my mother call my name. I open the door and look through the small opening, finding her standing there with a warm smile.
“You’re going to be okay, sweetheart. You’re going to be okay.”
AFTER USING VACATION time, I request an extension of my bereavement days. I need another week off from work to cope with the loss of my husband. I spend each day grieving him, grieving our marriage and grieving myself.
The following Monday morning, I finish my twelve-hour shift and head over to the ICU. I set my workbag down on the chair and walk over to read the cards sitting along the window sill. The once bare walls are now lined with pictures of Tyler racing his motorcycle. Wilting flowers grace the tray table.
I smile at the picture of Tyler, Alex and many others standing around a tall trophy, each with an index finger pointed upward, exemplifying the team’s final standing that day. Number one. Always number one.
I lean over the bed rail and look at the man lying still as if he were sleeping peacefully. The constant beep of the monitor is a reminder of where I am. Where Tyler is.
“Looks like you’ve had some company.”
The lower half of his face is covered with an unkempt scruff. The swelling appears to have gone down, but according to the nurse, nothing else, aside from his physical appearance, has changed.
“So how long do you plan on sleeping? I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love to sleep, too, but I think you’re taking it to the extreme.” I offer a cheeky grin, but he doesn’t respond.
Obviously.
He lies there motionless. I wonder what he’s thinking about or if he can even think. Who knows what cognitive ability he’ll have once he wakes up.
“You need to wake up because I have something really important to tell you and …I have to ask you a few questions. Really important questions…about Alex. “
The erratic sound of the machine catches my attention. I stare at the machine as I watch the red line peak and then fall.
“Can you hear me?”
Again, I look at the monitor and watch for the influx of activity.
Nothing.
“God, I’m so stupid. You don’t even like me. Why would you want to talk to me? Me of all people. Maybe I should try to get in touch with Penny.”
Beep, beep. Beep, beep.
The red line spikes.
“You can hear me, can’t you?”
A wave of anticipation flies through me as I glance at the door before lowering the rail to lean over him. I rest my hand on his shoulder.
“Tyler, can you hear me?”
I rub his shoulder.
“
You are stronger than this. You have to be. It’s your name. You are Tyler Strong and you need to wake up. You have people here who obviously care about you. Some of these people traveled hours to see you and you didn’t have the decency to open your eyes for them.”
A slight movement of his left hand demands my attention.
“What are you doing?” I mumble to myself.
I watch the slight movement again. My eyes move down the length of his body to the movement under the white blanket.
Left hand. Left foot.
I blink with comprehension and swallow hard.
“You’re racing, aren’t you? That’s what you’re doing. Clutch and shift.”
I pull my lips in tightly and refrain from laughing out loud.
Silvia, the nurse I’d seen last time breezes into the room.
“How’s the handsome devil doing today?” she asks as she reviews his chart then checks the IV bags.
“I think he’s waking up. Or at least he’s trying to. Watch.” I point to the extremities he moved moments before.
Staring at the unmoving hand, I narrow my eyes and will him to move it.
“C’mon. Do it again.”
She looks at me with a mixture of sympathy and pity and I find it rather annoying.
“I know what I saw. He moved his left fingers and raised his left foot.”
“Okay. I’ll make a note.”
“You don’t believe me. I’m not crazy and I’m not making this up!”
The irregular sounds coming from the monitor demand our attention immediately and I turn back, looking at her pointedly.
“He can hear me and I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about racing.”
The countenance on her face transforms into one of an apology. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe he is waking up. Keep talking to him.”
“What’s that look for?” I ask.
“Look, you haven’t been around for a few weeks. He took a turn for the worse at one point. His family called the priest and had his last rites read.”
“His family?
She nods.
“But he’s still alive,” I retort, trying to understand what it all means.
