“Yes, now,” Jerome barked, his voice heavy with anger.
A sense of unease slithered up Drake’s spine. Never, in all the years he’d known him, had Drake ever witnessed any sort of emotion from the man, other than boredom. Since the accident, he’d seen Dr. Langford only twice and Annette once, which happened in the middle of the night right after he woke up from surgery.
The meeting had been brief and ended when a sniveling, screaming, red-faced Annette slapped him across the face. The entire hospital probably heard the vile words she hurled at him, calling him a low-life, weak idiot, among other things. She’d screamed at the top of her shrill voice that it was his fault and when Angie woke up, she would insist her daughter divorce him. Spewed out how she would never, ever forgive him for causing the accident that killed her grandchild because he wanted to play heroic husband, rather than calling for help. As usual, Dr. Langford didn’t try to reign in his out-of-control wife until she assaulted him. While Drake rubbed the sore spot on his cheek, Dr. Langford finally corralled his wife and dragged her, kicking and screaming, from his room.
Dr. Langford moved his large frame inside the room and grabbed the handles of the wheelchair. He maneuvered Drake into the hall and out to the small waiting room. Another doctor, one he didn’t recognize, sat in the back area in the corner, his face devoid of emotion. He looked vaguely familiar, something about his eyes, though Drake couldn’t quite place where he knew him from. His stomach clenched as the doctor stood and acknowledged him.
“Afternoon, Mr. Benson.”
Drake looked at his nametag, but it was too small to read from his position. “Who are you?”
The man moved closer, extending his hand, but Drake refused to shake it. An eerie sense of dread ambled up his spine. Uncomfortable silence ensued as the man pulled his arm back. “I’m Dr. William Hope, head of Neurology here at St. Vincent’s. I’m sorry this is the first time we’ve had a chance to meet. We need to discuss the situation with your wife.”
“Why do I sense this isn’t a conversation I want to have? And where is Dr. Packard? I don’t understand what’s going on here. I thought he was Angie’s attending physician.”
“Drake, we didn’t bring you here to discuss your decision to drive Angie to the hospital instead of calling an ambulance. What’s done is done.”
His blood pressure increased at his father-in-law’s dig. “I’ve already explained—”
Dr. Hope leaned forward, his long, slender fingers clasped together like a monk in prayer. His watery brown eyes gazed at Drake’s with intensity and compassion. “Dr. Packard is Angie’s primary doctor, but called me in because I specialize in patients with traumatic brain injuries. We need to talk about Angie. I concurred with Dr. Packard’s diagnosis after running several tests on Mrs. Benson. The results are not good.”
Drake swallowed hard, forcing the rising bile back down. “I don’t understand. Why did you move her to a private room, out of ICU? My nurse said it was because she’d stabilized, so which one of you is lying to me? What are you saying?”
His father-in-law moved around from behind him and sat next to Dr. Hope. Though Jerome tried to remain calm, Drake could see the heartache behind his eyes.
“Angie was moved to the Hospice sector of the hospital because she isn’t just in a coma, Drake. She’s in a permanent vegetative state. No brain activity, and only machines are keeping her body alive. There’s nothing science can do for her now.”
The impact of the words made Drake’s heart pound. A heavy brick sat on his chest, making it hard to breathe. “No. She’ll get better. She has to. She’s all I have left.”
Jerome leaned forward and shook his head. “She won’t, Drake. Your wife, my daughter, is already gone. It’s time to let her body go and rest in peace. Even if, by some medical miracle, she wakes up, her mind will be useless. Dr. Hope’s test results are conclusive. She’d just be breathing on her own but completely unaware of her surroundings. Unable to communicate, unable to feel. Live. Laugh. Talk. Walk. Do you really want to spend the rest of your marriage like that? Taking care of an invalid with a feeding tube? Changing her diapers? Do you think Angie would want that? Breathing, but not really alive? I can guarantee you, she wouldn’t. And, if you try to fight Mrs. Langford and me on this decision—you know, with some fancy legal moves to prolong the machines keeping her alive—you’ll be in for one hell of a battle. We won’t let our daughter suffer just because you are too much of a pussy to do the right thing.”
“Dr. Langford, please. That’s not going to help matters,” Dr. Hope interrupted. He stood and put a warm, comforting hand on Drake’s shoulder. “If you wish, I can show you all the results, go into detail about what they mean, to help you understand. Give you the proper tools to make the final call, because it is your call, Mr. Benson. You’re the spouse. These papers can only be signed by you.”
Drake tried to control his emotions as he looked at the consent form. Tried to dig deep, pluck out the right questions to ask, but words failed him. The thought of signing Angie’s death warrant, the final beep of her heart after the machines stopped, hit him. Hard. He bent over and threw up all over the polished floor of the waiting room. The image of leaving the hospital, alone, slammed into his chest. Wiping the moisture from his lips, he whispered, “No hope? None at all? You’re sure?”
“Yes, we’re sure. No brain activity whatsoever. Listen, I can’t imagine how hard this is on you, especially after having to make the same call for your daughter. But, as painful as this choice is, it’s the right thing to do. Not for you, but for our Angie.”
Drake locked his gaze with Jerome. Felt the intensity in the words, the icy stare. Rather than respond, Drake nodded in agreement. With tears streaming down his eyes, hands shaking, Drake signed his name to the form.
“You made the right choice, Mr. Benson. Now, would you like to be with her when we…?” Dr. Hope asked, his voice quiet.
“Give me a moment, okay?”
“Of course.”
Drake watched both men leave the waiting area until they were out of sight. Once alone, he hung his head and let his true emotions run free.
Almost over…
Drake held his breath as Lita wheeled him down the quiet hallway. He was so sick of the smells of the hospital. The worst odor was the aroma of disinfectant that tried, but failed, to mask the stench of illness. Hold it together. In a few minutes, it will all be over. You’ll never have to step foot in a hospital again. Use the disgust as a tool. Reformat it over to grief and sadness. Act the part of destroyed husband. Remember, keep quiet. Only give visual responses, no words. Don’t want to slip and say the wrong thing.
Behind him, Drake heard the strange squish-squash, squish-squash of Lita’s nursing shoes while she pushed the wheelchair. As they approached the door leading into Angie’s room, she took in a deep, ragged breath. He’d been surprised when she showed up in his room earlier. Tears filled her pretty blue eyes as she asked to be present as not only a friend, but a witness for Angie’s last moments on earth. Drake simply responded, “Of course,” his words low and throaty. While he watched sadness ooze out of the sexy little nurse, he wondered if she would be willing to make some extra money on the side. Lita’s tantalizing curves weren’t hidden by the blue scrubs she wore. The desire to have her undress him—clean and care for his injuries while he enjoyed the sensation of her hands on him—made his dick hard. He almost asked as her full, pouty lips quivered, but in the end, decided against it.
He could wait another few weeks to empty his balls. It would be stupid and downright dangerous to boink Lita in the home he shared with Angie. Lita might become suspicious if he hit on her, so it was best to wait.
Focus, Drake! Concentrate on what you are about to do, which is watch your spouse die. Play the part!
Lita stopped at the door and knocked. Drake cleared his throat as Jerome opened it and Lita pushed him inside.
Drake scanned the room. Dr. Hope stood next to the machines, his
face emotionless. The head of Angie’s bed had been lowered so the mattress was completely flat. Drake felt a sense of dread overtake him as he stared at the limp, unmoving body of the woman he’d spent a decade with. How strange to be present as she took her last breath.
He watched Jerome shut the door and move over to Angie’s side. Jerome’s knees made a strange cracking noise as he eased his body into the chair next to the bed. In a flash, his hands sought out and clasped Angie’s left hand, her right hand held at the wrist by Dr. Hope.
“Anything you’d like to say before…?” Dr. Hope queried, his voice quiet, professional.
Drake felt something warm and wet drip onto his head. Then another. And another. He realized it was Lita’s tears as she stood behind him, shaking as she cried in silence. He watched Jerome shake his head no, close his eyes and rest his head against Angie’s arm. Dr. Hope continued to stare at Drake, waiting for a response.
Make it a good one. “Take care of our baby in Heaven. I’ll miss you, my sweet Angie. I’m so sorry… I love you so much…” Drake let his words trail away as his voice cracked with fake grief.
Dr. Hope gave a curt nod and turned the machines off. No one made a sound as each collectively held their breath. Drake couldn’t take his eyes off Angie’s chest. He watched it rise.
Fall.
Rise.
Fall…and then, it simply stopped.
He knew she was gone. Could tell from the muffled sobs of Jerome. He felt Lita move from behind him, watched her walk across the room and put an arm around Jerome’s heaving shoulders. A strange look crossed her face as she glanced at Dr. Hope. They locked gazes for a brief moment, and Drake swore he saw something pass between them. Oh, looks like my sexy nurse already has a honey. Too bad. Afraid his face might betray him, Drake lowered his head, both hands covering his face as though crying.
“Eight twenty-seven p.m., Central Standard Time. Lita, would you please go fetch Dr. Packard? We need another signatory agent on the certificate.”
Drake heard Jerome mumble, “No. I’ll do it. It’s the last thing I get to do for my daughter. I was present at her birth, and now at her death. I’ll sign it.”
Drake refused to look up. He really didn’t care who did what, he just wanted out of the room. The creepy factor of being near Angie’s corpse made him shudder.
“Lita, sign here, please.”
Lost in thought, Drake nearly jumped when Dr. Hope raised his voice. “Drake? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”
Clearing his throat, Drake muttered, “No, sorry. What did you say?”
A warm hand touched his shoulder. Drake looked into the eyes of Dr. Hope. “I asked if you have a particular funeral home you wish your wife’s remains to be released to?”
Before Drake could respond, he heard the throaty croak of Jerome answer, “Stephens Funeral Home. They… are our family. And they already have the baby. Agreed, Drake?”
Unaccustomed to someone answering for him, or taking charge, Drake stuttered, “Yes, that’s fine.”
“Lita, would you kindly call Stephens Funeral Home and arrange for someone…” Dr. Hope began.
Drake didn’t hear the rest of the conversation, or anything else for that matter. Lost inside his own mind, thinking about what he’d done, and what was left to do before the project completed, he zoned out. A few minutes later, Lita’s warm hand patted his back. She leaned down and whispered in his ear, “Ready to go, Mr. Benson?”
Hell yes. “Yes, please. I can’t stand another minute of this pain.”
9
Saying Goodbye
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil. Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life…”
Drake let fresh tears slide down his face, his gaze focused on the funeral director. Soon, the service was over, a handful of mourners inside the small sanctuary sat in the pews, waiting and watching as he maneuvered the crutches down the aisle. The outside air was freezing, and his leg and ribs throbbed from the cold.
He would have been surprised at the lack of people, but given the weather, who could blame them? Yet another bout of snow arrived the night before, turning the roads into a slippery mess. Who wanted to attend the funeral of a mother and child who died from hazardous road conditions in the exact same weather?
Thankfully, very few. He was sick and tired of playing the role of destroyed husband and father. All of the people in attendance were Angie’s coworkers (including the foxy Lita—wow, she looked so hot in black!) and a few of her friends. Mostly, they were made up of Angie’s relatives. Since Drake had none of his own, he endured the service alone in the front pew. It bothered him a little that none of his clients or friends attended, but in the end, it really didn’t matter. He would blow town soon enough, start his life over again in a new city. One far away from the tragic memories of his former life.
“Drake, wait. Let me go get the wheelchair. It’s too dangerous for you to be on crutches with all the ice.”
Drake stopped and turned to the sound of his father-in-law’s voice, cringing at the thought of Annette standing next to him. She’d been quiet during the ride to the funeral, her face hidden behind thick, black sunglasses, her head covered with a black veil. The poor, distraught mother was in deep mourning for her precious, precious daughter. While on the drive over, and when they arrived at the service, Drake noticed Annette was unsteady on her feet. Angie’s obnoxious cousin, Kevin, clung to one side, Jerome on the other, as they led her inside the sanctuary. He concluded Jerome drugged her, to keep her quiet and calm during the service. Smart man, his father-in-law. The part he’d dreaded the most about attending the funeral was an emotionally-charged Annette, bawling and squalling like a lost kitten throughout the service. Or be forced to listen to her verbally shred him apart for killing her daughter.
Thankfully, Jerome was alone. In his gnarled hands, he held the silver urn containing the ashy remains. To his left, Drake noticed the oh-so-sedated Annette was practically being carried to the parking lot by the cousin and Lita. Though too far away to hear what was being said, Drake could tell from the way Lita leaned down that Annette was talking to her. Judging by the disgusted look Lita shot him, the talk must have been about him. Thanks, Annette. Whatever you just said ruined my chances at hitting that sweet piece. Bitch.
Shaking his head at the thought, Drake forced his facial muscles to suppress the smile itching to appear. “Thank you, sir.”
“No need.” Jerome said, passing him at a brisk pace.
It didn’t take long for Jerome to return with the wheelchair. Relieved to be rid of the crutches, Drake sank into the cold leather.
“I’m going to take you home, though I wish you’d take up our offer to stay with us until your leg heals.”
Drake shook his head as Jerome wheeled him toward the SUV. “I just… I appreciate the offer, but I need to work things out in my head. Alone. Not quite ready to talk about it.”
“Understandable,” Jerome replied, helping Drake into the front seat. “Figured that’s what you’d say. Thought we’d stop on the way and get something to drink. God knows I’ll need one tonight. Several, actually. You?”
“Sir, I’m not up to going out…”
“Well, of course not! No, I meant stopping by the liquor store. If ever there is a perfect time to drink, it’s now.”
Drake didn’t have a chance to respond. Jerome shut the door and walked around the truck, climbed in and eased out of the parking lot. They rode in silence until he pulled into Rafferty’s Fine Wines & Liquor. He forced his face to remain neutral, the thought of toasting his newfound freedom made him want to smile. A nice glass of brandy would be great, but he decided on wine instead, afraid he’d get drunk and break his other leg. Besides, he’d already taken his pain pills and knew he’d take more when home
. The weather was killing him. Wine he could tolerate with the meds, but not liquor.
Jerome parked and looked over at him. For a moment, Drake almost felt sorry for him. In the last week, it seemed he’d aged twenty years and lost at least ten pounds. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, the skin on his face drooped. His clothes hung off his body. He couldn’t stomach looking at him. “Mountain Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon, please.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet. Paying for their drinks to toast Jerome’s dead daughter was the least he could do. Jerome scowled and shook his head. “Please, sir. I insist.”
With reluctance, Jerome took his card. It didn’t take long for him to return, the paper sack in his hands full.
“Receipt’s inside,” Jerome said, handing Drake back his card. “Now, let’s get you home so you can rest your leg. I’m sure the cold is bothering it, and it needs to be elevated.”
Ten minutes later, they pulled up to the house. It was the first time he’d been home in five days. After he was released from the hospital, he stayed at a hotel across the street because of the weather, even though Jerome protested his decision not to stay in his guest room. Drake begged off, saying he didn’t want to be a burden. Told Jerome to go home and take care of Annette. Assured him he would be fine on his own, and the hotel was on the way to the funeral home.
Eager to get inside and destroy the only evidence he’d left behind, Drake didn’t wait for Jerome to retrieve the wheelchair. Pulling the house keys from his pocket, he handed them over and said, “I can manage if you’ll open the door?”
“Of course.”
He was careful on the walkway, taking small steps. Jerome was right behind him, his hand hovering over his lower back. They reached the door and he watched the old geezer unlock it. Turning, Jerome asked, “Alarm code?”
Drake hesitated. No, it’s okay. I can change the code later. “4389.”
Inside, the house was quiet. A twinge of worry hit him. Drake didn’t like his father-in-law being inside. He couldn’t risk the man going into the kitchen, so he stopped in the living room. “Thank you, sir. I think for the first few days, I’ll stay right here. Not quite ready to sleep… anywhere but on the couch.”
Whispered Pain Page 6
