by Lisa Daily
Joining Fred and Santiago, I set down my Danish and wipe the table where I planned to sit with a paper napkin, brushing away some crumbs of unknown origin.
“Alex, I’m sorry I forgot to ask. Have you met Santiago?” asks Fred as I sit down at the table and begin to pick at my Danish.
“We have met,” I say. “Remember, he was at our divorce celebration? And then Carter reintroduced us at a dinner party for one of my clients, Daniel Boudreaux.” Santiago nods.
“Good, good,” says Fred, as though he can think of nothing else to say. The silence is killing me. Some part of me always feels the need to keep the conversation moving.
“Santiago, how long have you and Michael been together?” I ask.
“We met at your party, as you say,” he says in his thick Cuban accent, “and we have been together since then. So, four months.” I nod. “We are in love,” he adds. It sounds almost defensive to my ears, but what do I know? And maybe he does feel like he needs to defend his relationship with Michael. Fred and I, we’ve known Michael for his entire life. As much as it feels to me like Santiago doesn’t belong here at the hospital, it isn’t my call to make. It’s Michael’s. And it’s time for all of us to move on.
I ask Santiago about his work, and how he ended up in Sarasota. I talk to Fred about sports, mostly priming him with questions about his favorite baseball team and listening intently as he explains how the team is faring, injury status, and draft prospects. It’s soothing, listening to him rattle on without much more input from me. Almost like sitting at the breakfast table with Michael. Santiago joins in sometimes, clearly passionate about baseball himself.
Around six-thirty, the three of us amble back to the surgery waiting area. The room is still empty, but the pillows we left from our stay overnight have been cleared away. With Fred and Santiago settled back on the sofas, I go down the hallway in search of a restroom. My teeth feel like they’re wearing little wool socks, and I want to rinse off my face and brush my hair.
Hospital mirrors are unkind, and aside from my now-cockeyed ponytail and the bags under my eyes, my skin has a sort of greenish pallor to match the taste in my mouth. I dig a silvery package containing a mini–disposable toothbrush out of my purse, laughing to myself while recalling how Michael always teases me mercilessly about my need to overprepare for any possible contingency. Feeling significantly better after brushing my teeth and rinsing my face with cool water, I brush my hair and pull it back once again into a neat ponytail. I neglected to put on deodorant last night after I showered since I was heading right to bed. Sleeping in a hospital chair in a too-warm waiting room, plus the stress of the last few hours, has me feeling grimy and my armpits sweaty. There are no paper towels, only hand dryers, so I put a quarter in the machine and buy myself a sanitary napkin, wetting it with cool water and using it to give myself a birdbath in the sink. And that’s just where I am when a nurse comes in to tell me that Michael is finally out of surgery—standing at the sink with my T-shirt hiked all the way up over my bra, giving myself a once-over with a wet maxi-pad.
67
Gathering my things quickly, I follow the nurse down the hallway to the surgical waiting room. The same surgeon from before is standing with Fred and Santiago, updating them on Michael’s condition.
“He’s in recovery now,” says the doctor. “We’ll keep him there for a while longer and then we’ll be moving him into a room upstairs. Nurse Lori will take you now. He’s made it through the surgery, and should make a solid recovery.”
Fred and Santiago nod.
“What does that mean, solid recovery?” I ask. “How long will it take for him to heal? How long will he need to be in the hospital? Will he have any permanent damage? Were his mental faculties impaired?”
“Healing time is dependent on the patient, and we won’t necessarily know all the answers to your questions until he’s woken up and we can see where he is. He was barely conscious when the ambulance brought him in, and he’s still under anesthesia now. I’m sorry I don’t have more specific information for you. He’ll be in the hospital for at least another few days at the minimum, probably about a week. You might want to bring some of his things from home to make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say. Fred and Santiago thank the doctor also, and he nods in response and excuses himself quickly.
“Okay,” says Nurse Lori, “we’ll have Michael moved up to the fifth floor in about an hour. His room number is five fifteen, and if you’d like to come with me, I can bring you upstairs.”
Fred, Santiago, and I follow the nurse to the elevator, and down the hall to what will be Michael’s hospital room. It’s after 7:00 A.M., and the halls on the fifth floor are bustling with nurses, doctors making their rounds, and aides distributing breakfast trays. The room is nice, for a hospital room, and there’s only one bed, which is a relief. Michael is a light sleeper and wouldn’t do well with a roommate, some stranger’s family and friends visiting all day long, Wheel of Fortune blaring from the TV.
My phone buzzes with a text message from Daniel:
Is Michael okay? Let me know if you can. Don’t stress about the opening today. I’ll handle it if you can’t be here. Family is more important than anything else.
And another:
I’ll be thinking about you. Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do for you. ANYTHING.
I respond, all business:
Thanks, I appreciate it. Michael’s out of surgery. Tina has my event book and staff has been prepped. You should be all set to go. I’ll try to stop by later to check on everything before the opening.
After a while, someone comes to take away the bed in Michael’s room. I pace the hallways to work off some excess energy. I’m so conflicted about Daniel, and I want nothing more than to put him out of my mind. My mind, unfortunately, is not cooperating.
By seven-thirty, my phone starts buzzing with calls. First Carter, who has a complete and utter freak-out, and then Darcy, who says she’ll cancel her day and head over about eleven. I’m not sure what Michael has scheduled for the day, so I leave a voice mail for his boss, whom I met in Connecticut when he was grilling me about Michael’s sex life. I let him know that Michael was in an accident, hit by a drunk driver, and that he’s in the hospital, and that either Michael or I will call him as soon as we know more. It feels like a wifely thing to do, calling his boss from the hospital, but it also feels like the job for his oldest and best friend.
By eight, Fred, Santiago, and I are starting to get nervous. It’s been an hour and a half since Michael got out of surgery, and we haven’t had an update since then. Another hour passes, and then another. By ten, I’m starting to freak out. I’ve already been to the nurses’ station for updates a half-dozen times, but they don’t seem to know any more than we do. And if they do, they aren’t telling. Fred and Santiago sit waiting in Michael’s room, while I continue to pace up and down the hallway. Sitting still, not doing anything, is not my forte.
Finally, Michael and his hospital bed come rolling down the hallway, pushed by an aide who looks like he probably plays lead guitar in a thrash metal band on the weekends. He has spiky black hair, and a touch of leftover eyeliner. A tattoo on his forearm is just visible at the edge of the white long-sleeved shirt he has under his scrubs. His nametag reads RICK, but I’d bet anything he goes by something far cooler.
“Michael, oh my God, I was so worried about you,” I say, rushing the gurney. His eyes are closed, but he moves a little when he hears me call his name.
“Hey, buddy,” says the hospital aide with a kind smile. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”
Michael’s facial muscles are slack, and his eyes are woozy and unfocused as they flutter open. I want to dive onto the hospital bed right there in the hallway and hold him close, but I don’t know where his injuries or sutures are, and I don’t want to hurt him. He’s covered in bandages, and his left arm is in a sling of some kind. He looks terrible.
; “Alex,” he murmurs. “I’m so glad you forgot to put the scissors in the blender. It’s too cold for that. It’s too cold. Don’t forget the marshmallows. I love you.”
I have no idea what he means by all that, but I translate it to mean he’s happy to see me, and thrilled to be alive. And I’ll delight in torturing him about the marshmallows for the next sixty years or so. It’s the least I can do.
“I love you too,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Aww,” he slurs. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay now,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m okay because you’re okay.” His eyes close again and I reach out to touch his hand, holding it gently in mine the entire way back to Michael’s room.
“So, the anesthesia takes a little while to wear off,” laughs Rick, the aide.
I take a deep breath and smile. It’s all going to be okay.
68
“Look who I found!” I say, as Rick pushes Michael’s hospital bed into the room. Rick locks down the bed and rehangs Michael’s IV. Fred stands at Michael’s bedside with tears in his eyes, not saying anything at all. But the relief is all over his face.
Santiago rushes to the side of Michael’s bed, speaking softly to him in Spanish, “Oh, querido, querido…,” which I think is both incredibly touching and yet a tiny bit hilarious, as Michael does not speak a word of Spanish. Santiago kisses Michael all over his forehead, and watching it feels a little bit like having an out-of-body experience. Here I am on one hand, witnessing this sweetly intimate moment, and on the other, a practical stranger is kissing my former husband. Fred is handling it pretty well. Maybe he’s already seen plenty of Michael kissing someone other than me. Maybe, no matter how much time has passed, I’ll never really get used to it. Or maybe I will.
The three of us huddle by Michael’s bedside as he dozes in and out. Mostly out. Nurses enter and leave, checking Michael’s IV, his bandages, and his blood pressure. They write their names on the little whiteboard hanging on the wall of Michael’s hospital room, but there are so many of them it hardly seems helpful.
“He needs his rest,” says one of the nurses. “You folks should take it downstairs for a while.”
“Do you have his house key?” I ask Santiago, who nods yes. “When he wakes up, he’ll want his pillow. He never leaves home without it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize that Michael was returning from a trip when his car was struck by the drunk driver. He probably had his pillow with him.
“Where’s his car?” I ask.
Fred shakes his head. “No idea.”
“I don’t know,” Santiago says.
“When the police called you about the accident, did the person leave their name?” I ask Fred.
“Yes,” he says. “The officer left a message.” He retrieves his phone and hands it to me. “It’s the last one,” he says.
Listening to the voice mail message from 1:51 that morning, I take down the number of Detective Lynn Brown.
“I’ll run it down,” I say.
Detective Brown answers on the first ring. I ask her about the accident and she gives me the name and number of the tow company that is storing Michael’s car. I call them next. Their lot is only a few miles away. I wonder if I still have Michael’s car key on my key ring.
“Fred, why don’t you stay here in case Michael wakes up,” I say. “Santiago, you can go to Michael’s place and pick up some clean pajama bottoms and T-shirts, some socks and underwear, maybe his extra phone charger, anything you can think of to make him more comfortable.
“And I’ll go to the tow company lot downtown and see if I can pick up his pillow and his shaving kit with his toothbrush, razor, deodorant—you know how picky Michael is about shaving. And I’ll see if I can track down his smart phone,” I say.
Fred kisses me on top of my nose. “Alex, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You never have to find out,” I say, and give him a quick squeeze. Santiago nods and gives Michael a kiss on the forehead.
“Be right back,” he says.
I squeeze Michael’s hand. “See you soon.” He never opens his eyes.
Santiago and I walk down the hallway together to the elevator, but I decide to stop off at the cafeteria before heading out to my car.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say to Santiago. He hugs me awkwardly and waves goodbye. The cafeteria is crowded now, with a midmorning rush. I pour a large cup of coffee for Fred with cream and two sugars, grab a banana just in case he gets hungry, and run them upstairs to Michael’s room before leaving to go to the tow yard.
Fred gets teary when I walk into the room with the coffee.
I kiss Fred on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s all going to be okay.”
As I walk down the hallway toward the elevators, I hope it’s true.
69
The tow yard is in a sketchy part of town I’m not entirely familiar with, on a side road in an industrial section sandwiched between downtown and the airport. Michael’s small silver Honda is visible as soon as I make the corner, and the devastation of the mangled car takes my breath away. The driver’s side is entirely caved in, and the door has been pried off. Looking at the wreckage, it’s impossible to see where Michael’s body had been, the twisted metal left little room for a person. A garment bag still hangs from the hook behind the driver’s seat, and it sways gently in the breeze.
I park my car diagonally next to his in the lot, and get out to survey the rest of the damage. The hood of Michael’s car is mashed in and crumpled, although only from the driver’s side. As I circle the car, I marvel that from the passenger’s side, the car seems perfectly intact.
“Can I help you?” yells a grimy man walking in my direction.
“This car belongs to my husband, Michael Miller,” I say matter-of-factly. “He was in a car accident last night, he was taken to Sarasota Memorial. This is his car. I’m just here to pick up some of his things to take to the hospital.”
“I’m gonna need to see some ID,” he says. I whip out my wallet and produce my driver’s license. “You says his name was Miller,” he says. “Your name is Wiggins. If yer married, why don’t you have the same last name?”
“Because,” I say authoritatively, “it’s not 1955.” He blinks, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “His shaving kit is in the backseat,” I say, “and I see his suit hanging there,” I pointed. “I have to get his things and make it back to the hospital before Michael wakes up. Do you need me to sign something?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ll go get it,” says the man as he lumbers off toward the office. The key to these types of situations is to just assume that the person you’re dealing with is going to cooperate. If you fully commit to that idea, they usually do.
Being the boss translates to areas outside of your work. And if you’re somebody like me, you can’t just turn it off.
As there is no longer a front door on the car, there’s no need for a key. I pull Michael’s suit through the hole left by the wreckage. The bottom of the bag is shredded, exposing bits of Michael’s favorite navy suit. He’ll be upset about that. I set the garment bag down in the front seat of my car, and go back to see what else I can retrieve from Michael’s Honda. Reaching over to unlock the passenger-side door, I struggle not to cry. There’s blood on the dashboard, on the emergency brake, on the steering wheel. Michael is lucky to be alive. I’m lucky that Michael is still alive.
I walk around the car and enter on the passenger side. Michael’s shaving kit and iPad are just sitting on the backseat as though nothing at all has happened. I grab them both and look for his phone. His pillow has fallen to the floor in the backseat, but it’s no worse for the wear. The pillowcase has some small black smudges on it, although I can’t immediately determine what caused them. Michael’s phone is sitting on the passenger-side floor, still plugged into the charger. I load everything into the front seat of my car and leave Michael’s car where it is. I pull a sma
ll tarp from my trunk and do my best to secure it to Michael’s car with a roll of leopard-print duct tape, also from my trunk. At least that way the interior won’t be completely trashed if it starts to rain. It’s not much, but it’s something.
The tow yard employee is back a few minutes later with a clipboard. I scrawl my signature on the page.
“Any idea when you’ll be picking this up?” asks the guy. He hands me a card.
“I’m sure the insurance company will be here in the next few days. We’ll let you know,” I say vaguely.
My hands are shaking as I drive away.
70
Before heading back to the hospital, I swing by my house to pick up a few clean pillowcases for Michael. I choose the softest ones, so they’ll feel like home to him.
Fred is napping in the chair when I get back to the hospital. Michael is still asleep. I look him over tenderly, weeping at his many injuries. He looks broken in so many ways. I sit silently in the other chair, the one near the foot of Michael’s bed, and watch him as he sleeps. The nurses told us earlier he has morphine in his IV bag, because his injuries are so severe.
“You’re here,” Michael whispers, slowly opening his eyes. He seems disoriented, and his voice cracks.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Do you want some water?” He nods yes, and I fill the cup on his bedside table from the pitcher of ice water the nurses brought earlier. He seems confused that his left arm is in a sling, and his right hand won’t bend because it contains an IV needle. “Let me help you,” I say, holding the cup of water up to his lips. He takes a long sip, and then another one. He looks around the room, and sees Fred sleeping in the corner.
“Let me wake up your dad,” I say. “I know he wants to see you.”
“Wait,” Michael says. “Wait just a few minutes. Let me get my bearings.”
