by Maggi Myers
“Word travels fast when there’s a fight on hospital grounds.” Max chuckles and pulls me in for a quick hug. “Though I hear the bed won.” He gently places his hand over the front of the sling.
I breathe in slow and steady, willing myself not to cry.
Max wraps his arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the seats. “You don’t have to talk about it. I just didn’t want you to be down here alone.”
Together, we sit in silence on worn blue vinyl seats, waiting to hear my name. Despite a herculean effort on my part, the tears fall en masse. Ever my hero, Max passes me tissues and pretends that there isn’t a hysterical woman sniveling all over his shoulder. He just holds me tighter and rests his cheek on the top of my head.
“Ms. Hunter?” I turn my head toward my name, to find a tall man in a business suit scanning the room for me. Clearly this isn’t the X-ray tech. My stomach hits the floor. When his eyes finally meet mine, I give him a small wave and he walks my way.
“Ms. Hunter, my name is Alex Drake; I work for the hospital.” He shakes my good hand and sits in the chair across from Max and me.
“You’re a lawyer,” I say. It’s not a question; I want his confirmation so I can steel myself for the coming conversation.
“Yes, I am. I didn’t want to lead with that, though.” He smiles genuinely, regardless of my chilly reception. He leans back and crosses his ankle over his knee, not bothered by my wariness at all.
“Before you have your wrist looked at, I wanted to go over a few things with you.” He pauses to look back and forth between Max and me.
“This is my friend Max,” I explain. “I’d like him to stay.” There’s no way I’m letting this guy dismiss my lifeline. Max stays. Period.
“That’s fine,” Alex assures me. My face must reflect my surprise, because he grins as he continues. “First, all of your care will be covered by the hospital. At no time will you incur any expense related to the accident. Second, I want to assure you that nothing discussed in the accident report will be included in your daughter’s medical file. Honestly, the only thing I need from you is an account of what happened from the moment you entered the room until you struck your hand.”
I try not to tense at his careful choice of words. His face reflects sympathy, not the calloused legal eagle I was expecting.
“The other staff that were present will be interviewed as well, and you will be notified of any disciplinary action that may be taken as a result.” He heaves a heavy sigh and reaches into his breast pocket for his card. “Ms. Hunter, I have a twelve-year-old son with high-functioning autism. I know that isn’t what you’re dealing with, but I hope you believe me when I say that I understand. We want to get to the bottom of what happened today, but that in no way means we’re looking to blame Lily. I promise you that.”
“Thank you, Alex,” Max speaks up for me, as I’ve been rendered speechless by the compassion of this lawyer. Aren’t they supposed to look for a way to absolve the hospital of blame? I thought for sure he’d be going over all the ways that Lily was an aggressive and out-of-control child who beat the crap out of her mother. Nothing ceases to surprise me today.
“Now, let’s get you looked at, so you can get back to your daughter.” Alex shakes my hand again, and encourages me to call with any questions that might come up. I smile and nod, unable to articulate anything else right now. All I can do is stare as Alex Drake walks away; I’m completely and utterly overwhelmed.
“Carolina.” Max’s hushed voice breaks through my anxiety. I look up at him, and he tips his chin toward the door. “They just called your name.” My brain and my body continue to misfire. I hear Max; I just can’t seem to get up. He stands, pulling me along with him. “I’ll be here when you get back,” he promises.
My first reaction is to say, “I’ll be fine.” It’s what I’ve been saying for years. Three words with multiple passive-aggressive meanings. There’s the “I’ll be fine” I gave to well-meaning family who asked if they could help with Lily, understanding they were asking because they felt it was the right thing to do. In reality, the whole thing made them uncomfortable. My mom and dad mean well, but they’ve got no idea how to relate to Lily—or to me, for that matter.
Then there were the ones I gave Peter. “I’ll be fine” could’ve meant exactly the opposite, and that I was irate that he didn’t know why I wasn’t fine. It could also have been my response to a half-assed attempt on his part to help me.
Regardless of who you are, an “I’ll be fine” from Caroline is the ultimate blowoff. It’s the verbal shove I give to get people to back off. I don’t want to be that way anymore. I’m so tired of being a martyr—but it’s hard to break free from a habit so deeply ingrained.
“Thanks, Max,” I manage, without bursting into flames. Baby steps, I tell myself. “I’m really glad you’re here.” With a sheepish smile, I head toward the waiting technician.
After a quick stint in X-ray, Max and I are escorted to a room in the Emergency Department, where we wait for a doctor. Alex Drake stops by with a copy of the incident report for me to read. If I am comfortable with it, I’m supposed to sign. If I’m not, then we go back to the drawing board until it’s right. I feel much more empowered than I thought I would.
“Mr. Drake, can I ask you a personal question?” I ask softly.
He looks at me, suspicious and curious at the same time. “I suppose it depends on the question.”
“Was it harder when your son was younger?” I cringe at the boldness of my question.
He gives me a reassuring smile before he answers. “I wouldn’t say a certain period of time has been harder than another. I used to tell myself that if we could just get through this one rough patch, then everything would be better. I learned quickly that that was the fast lane to frustration, because there is no finish line. There will never be a point in CJ’s life that he won’t be dependent on my wife and me in some way.”
Alex’s candid words seep through my skin, into the center of my chest, and take root. He doesn’t regale me with a story of hope and wonderment. His honesty is breathtakingly beautiful, in all of its sadness. His acceptance of his son’s condition isn’t decorated with rainbows or unicorns. It is what it is, and that’s okay.
“I’ve never heard anyone say it quite like that,” I admit. Most of what I hear comes from the “helpful” articles my mother-in-law sends me. My favorite was about a father who quit his job, sold all his belongings, and flew all the way around the world for a vial of Australian shark piss, thinking it would cure his son.
“Days like today will strip you raw. They happen regardless of what we do, not because of it.” Alex starts to gather his papers as he talks. “Sometimes, it just is what it is,” he says with solemn resignation.
It is what it is.
“Geri, it didn’t work. His son still has diabetes,” I huff into the phone. Peter buries his nose further into the newspaper, pretending he doesn’t know his mother’s driving me insane. Ever since Lily’s visit to the urgent-care clinic, Geri’s been flooding my in-box with these “miracle cure” articles.
“Honestly, Caroline, sometimes I think you don’t read the things I send you,” she sniffs. Oh, I read the crap she sends; just because I don’t agree doesn’t mean I didn’t read it.
“I read every word, down to the part where the shark piss didn’t work and the kid is still sick,” I bark. A rogue snicker floats over the top of Peter’s paper. I’m getting reamed by his mom, and he’s laughing. Ass.
“It’s urine from a rare white shark species that can only be found off the Great Barrier Reef. Don’t belittle this man’s journey. He gave up everything for his son.”
“He gave up gainful employment, and thus the health insurance his child was covered by. Do you know what happens when you have a chronic illness and have a lapse in health coverage?” I don’t wait for her to answer. “You become uninsurable. How’s he going to pay for his kid’s insulin with no job and no health insurance? Th
e guy is an idiot, not a hero!”
“He gave it all up to do what he thought was best for his son. I think that’s heroic. I thought you’d be inspired by his story.” She sighs.
“Inspired to do what? Go trek through the Amazon for the rare insect excrement that will cure Lily of a condition they can’t even diagnose?” Peter shoots me a dirty look across the top of the headlines. Nice—he’ll get upset over his mother’s honor but not mine. She started this ridiculous exchange when she e-mailed me the article’s link.
“Oh, for the love of Pete, Caroline, quit being so dramatic,” she snaps. I want to scream, but that would interrupt me as I bite through my tongue. “I thought this father was a good example to aspire to, that’s all.”
My lungs contract painfully, leaving me breathless. Silence crackles across the phone line as I absorb Geri’s barbed words.
“What are you saying, Geri?” I ask. I look over to Peter for a sign of support. He’s back to hiding behind the sports page. “You don’t think we’re doing enough for Lily?” The paper doesn’t move. I know he can hear my end of the conversation and still, he acknowledges nothing.
“I think there is never enough you can do for your children,” she says. “As parents, we have to be willing to make sacrifices in the best interest of our children.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I throw my free hand into the air.
“Nothing, just that there’s always something more we can do as parents. If you’re doing everything you can, don’t you think Lily would’ve shown more progress by now?” She can’t possibly expect me to answer her. I’ve given up every single aspect of my life to care for my daughter: my job, my friends, my family, my sanity. All of it.
I can’t listen to another word. I place the phone on the table next to Peter, with Geri still chattering away on the other line. Her sour words pitch violently in my stomach. I barely make it to the bathroom in time before nausea overtakes me. On a mighty heave, the contents of my belly empty into the porcelain bowl.
I wish I could purge the conversation as easily, but all I can hear are my mother-in-law’s thoughtless words. From her perch in Sarasota, she castigated me with no consideration of the damage she’d inflict. She barely sees Lily twice a year on holidays, but apparently that’s enough to know that I’m not sacrificing enough for my child. Giving up my career and dedicating every waking moment to therapies and doctors isn’t sacrifice enough? It feels like I’ve given up everything in Lily’s best interest. Maybe I’m kidding myself, and there’s more that I could be doing. If Geri is right, then trying to accept Lily’s prognosis is as good as giving up on her.
My body hurts from the violence of my retching. Even after I’m empty, I dry heave until I can no longer hold myself up. I press my face against the cool tiles of the bathroom floor and cry.
There will never be enough I can do, and it will always be my fault.
After Alex Drake leaves, I tell Max the story of my mother-in-law and the shark piss. He laughs through some of it, and groans through most of it.
“Only you could make that story seem remotely funny.” Max chuckles.
“It’s a gift.” I wink. “What can you do if you can’t laugh?”
“Seriously, I want to know where that woman hides her horns and her tail.” He shakes his head. “Damn! That was just evil.”
“She just wants there to be an answer,” I defend. Why? I have no idea.
Max moves from his chair to squat in front of the exam table. “It’s not your fault there’s no answer.” His eyes plead with mine for acceptance of his words. I can’t.
“She just wants what’s best for Lily.” I drop my gaze to the speckled floor tiles.
“So do you,” Max returns. I know what he’s waiting for me to say, so he can vehemently disagree. He wants to set me straight, free me from the confines of my guilt. After listening to Alex talk about his son, I want to be. Free.
“She needs someone to blame,” I whisper. There it is. She needs someone to blame, and no one has stopped her from aiming at me. When I came out of the bathroom that day, Peter was outside with Lily. He never acknowledged the pain his mother caused me. Geri never mentioned our conversation again. She didn’t have to; I knew how she felt. How they both did.
Max’s hands lift my face, bringing us eye to eye. “It’s not your fault.” His gaze ensnares me with its stormy, sea-glass insistence. In the depths of my soul, I know that Lily’s disability is not my fault. It wasn’t the stroke, but part of me will always be angry that my body betrayed me. As a woman, I’m built to grow life in my womb. When I was finally able to conceive without miscarrying, I almost died in childbirth. For the longest time I felt no greater failure than that of my pregnancy. I didn’t know if I’d ever get over it; I’m still learning.
That self-loathing used to make sense to me, but now I think it just makes me sound like a delusional moron. Clinging to this false sense of censure didn’t make it any clearer. It only made me a martyr.
A martyr complex? Jesus, Caroline, you’re so much smarter than this. Get over yourself.
Then who am I, if I’m not a scapegoat? I have no idea, and I will never know if I don’t let myself move on. I’ve cleaved to my pain for too long, insisting it was a buoy keeping me afloat. Really, I’ve been drowning the whole time. Swimming with the fishes. Me, Jimmy Hoffa, and every other poor soul anchored to the sea floor by their concrete shoes. The only difference is, nobody’s going to come looking for a person who’s spent the last five years shutting everyone out. It’s up to me to save myself. To do that, I have to be willing to let go.
It’s not your fault.
A culmination of words from Alex and Max churn a funnel cloud in my mind. It swirls and spins wildly across the archives of my shame, lifting it from its confines to scatter like ashes.
The paper sheet shifts underneath me as I lean into the refuge of Max’s chest. He wraps me in a bear hug, sighing heavily.
“I wish you’d believe me,” he laments.
“I do,” I answer. The steady rise and fall of his breath ceases beneath my cheek.
“For real?” His voice jumps an octave with his surprise. My heart joins the ascent, growing lighter with each beat of acceptance.
“It’s not my fault.” There’s no hallelujah choir, the sky didn’t open and shine forth the light of heaven, but for the first time, I believe it. It’s not my fault.
bend and break
I used to be an optimist. I could look at any situation and find a silver lining, regardless of how dire the situation. The first year Peter and I were married, a nasty storm split the Bradford pear tree in our front yard. Unfortunately, my Jeep was parked in the line of fire. I loved that car; she was my baby. Instead of lamenting my tremendous misfortune, I focused on the branches of the tree pressed against the front window. Just another foot and those branches would’ve been parked on the living room couch with me.
It can always be worse—or at least I used to think so. Maybe that’s what has my attention right now: the presence of my long-absent optimism, or perhaps its cautiously optimistic cousin. Regardless, the gentle pull of hope is as foreign feeling as the air cast on my right wrist. Both are exceptionally cumbersome, but oddly comforting.
“You have a hairline fracture of the distal radius, Caroline,” the orthopedic surgeon explains. “It’s a clean break and should heal nicely, as long as you take care of it in the next four to six weeks.”
The last few years have desensitized me to news like this. Between developmental disabilities and seizure disorders, a broken arm is easy. Listening and absorbing the details of how to care for my broken wrist, I am consumed with only one thought: Thank God it’s already my bum hand. Not that I would ever wish to break anything else, but if I had to break something, at least it’s not my dominant hand.
Don’t call it a comeback. LL Cool J raps a loop in my brain as Dr. Haren goes over my discharge papers and a prescription for pain. I smile and nod, thinking I’ll
never fill that script. There’s no way I would ever take something that could limit my ability to get up with Lily in the night. She barely sleeps for six hours, if she stays asleep. Most nights I’m up at least once to guide a sleepwalking Lily back to bed.
Once the good doctor has gone through his spiel, Max and I gather my papers and head out. He holds the door open for me, and as I walk by he plucks the prescription out of my hand.
“Hey!” I reflexively grasp at the paper.
“I’m taking this to the pharmacy to make sure it gets filled,” Max says. “You’ve got that look like you’re considering Motrin and an ice pack for that break.” The steep arch of his eyebrow dares me to argue.
“You got me.” I shrug. “I’m not being stubborn, I promise. I just can’t take those and care for Lily. She’s not a sound sleeper, and those will knock me out cold.”
“Then maybe Peter should keep Lily,” Max casually suggests. It wouldn’t be an issue if it were that simple.
“It’s not that easy, Max,” I defend myself. “Lily has her routine, and after what happened today, she deserves to reap the comfort it brings her. Changing things up will likely cause another tantrum—and we need that like we need a hole in the head.”
“So Peter is just going to go back to his apartment and let you wing it?” I hear the irritation in Max’s tone.
“I don’t know what Peter’s going to do. You’ve been here with me this whole time; when have I had the chance to fill him in? What I do know is Lily’s looking forward to seeing her aunt Paige tonight, because that’s what I’ve prepared her for. She will be thrilled to be going home, because she’s comforted by what she knows. Peter’s place is too new for her to know. Her going there would be a disaster.” I explain the best I can, but no one really understands until they’ve seen Lily go off the deep end.
“Can Paige spend the night with you?” Max asks.
“No, she flies out to meet a client early tomorrow.”
