And Then You

by Amanda Richardson

  And Then You:

  A Novel

  By Amanda Richardson

  And Then You: A Novel

  Amanda Richardson

  Published by Amanda Richardson

  © Copyright 2015 Amanda Richardson.

  Editing Suggestions by Red Adept Editing

  Cover Design by E. James Designs

  Cover Photography purchased via bigstockphoto.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Acknowledgements

  About

  Also

  Excerpt

  I dedicate this book to my mom. Though you never shamelessly told me to marry a doctor or lawyer like Evi’s mom, you did tell me to marry someone relatively the same height as me, so that I can look into his eyes during our first dance. :) But in all seriousness… Mummy, thank you for being awesome, and for all of the wonderful advice you’ve given me over the years. I love you!

  Prologue.

  Nick

  - September 2013 -

  When I come to, I reach up and feel the gritty wound slashed across my forehead.

  Shock: the first word that comes to mind.

  Isabel: the second word that fleetingly arrives in my subconscious. As if on cue, I turn my head in search of my wife.

  Wife: the third word I feel reverberated in my bones. I am deadened, as if I already know she’s been severed from me like an artery that’s been accidentally nipped on the operating table.

  Accidentally.

  This all happened accidentally.

  - Later that Night -

  I walk miserably to the grimy coffee station and refill my small paper cup for the fourth time. I don’t know why I’m drinking so much coffee. It’s not like I need to stay awake. I can guarantee that I won’t be sleeping anytime soon. No matter the outcome. As I sit down and sip the unpleasant liquid, Bria stirs next to me. I am an awful father for letting her sleep here. But what other choice do I have?

  I watch the family next to me interact—a wife, a husband, and their two young sons. They look happy. How does anyone accomplish happiness in a hospital?

  I can’t sit still. I’m too impatient—I can feel the uncomfortable gurgle of fear working its way up my esophagus, burning me. Immobilizing me. And yet, I can’t sit still. My body’s nervous system is being ravaged by caffeine, and my mind is numb with panic and dread. How do I reconcile the two? Is it even possible?

  So I fidget. I stand. I sit again, because there’s nothing else to do.

  Where are Cecelia and Frank? They were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago. As if my mind somehow summoned them, I hear the hospital entrance open. Cecelia runs in with Frank slowly towing behind her.

  She looks alert and perky.

  He looks like shit.

  “Oh my god, Nick, what happened?” Her panicked voice raises my blood pressure, and I can feel my throat constricting and my blood whooshing in my ears. I can’t even let myself think about the possibilities, so I’m sure as hell not going to talk to Cecelia about it.

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I’m so sorry. I was driving, and…” I trail off. I hate how indifferent I sound. I know it’s the shock, working its way into my heartless-sounding vocal chords. That’s what the doctor told me. That I was in shock. That I might be in shock for days.

  But I care. I feel. I feel it all, in every essence of my being. It might not be showing, but it’s there, just beneath the surface of shock.

  “And Bria?”

  I gesture to the small figure lying on the waiting room chair. Cecelia rushes over, and I’m left standing there with Frank. He just looks at me. Normally, when he gives me his steely stares, I want to cower and hide anywhere but beneath his gaze.

  Not this time.

  Because this time, I’m numb. Too much has happened. And I don’t care if he’s never liked me. He doesn’t matter anymore.

  “Doctor’s been out?” he asks, his voice gruff.

  “Not yet.” My eyes dart to the door instinctively.

  I slam my hands into my jeans pockets. I want out of here, out of this mental mindfuck. I want to wake up and have this all be some kind of sick nightmare.

  Frank and I walk over to Cecelia, who is now cradling Bria in her arms, even though Bria is a toddler and much too big to be carried that way. I notice that Cecelia is crying. Frank sits down next to Cecelia and motions for me to sit next to him. So I sit. And we wait. None of us says anything.

  I place my head in my hands. They still smell like soap from the restaurant. How can it be that the last time I washed my hands, my wife and son were alive and well? And now…

  The door swooshes open again, and this time it’s the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the hospital. It’s the door I’ve been eyeing all night. I watch the doctor as he walks towards us. His forehead is damp with sweat—I swallow hard.

  No.

  Suddenly, I feel the panic rise up into my throat, and it threatens to choke me. I am being choked by fear. I’d heard the expression before, but this is the first time I’m experiencing it.

  The doctor passes us and walks to the family seated next to us. I exhale. I listen to their conversation.

  “Your father is fine,” he says, speaking to the matriarch of the family. “We caught the clot in time, and there is no immediate damage to his heart. He’s recovering right now, but you can go up and see him in a few minutes.”

  They exchange pleasantries, and dread takes the place of panic. I try not to be a pessimist, but sometimes I can’t help it, and right now is one of those times. Because is it possible to have two sets of good news in an emergency room? Or is it 50/50? If it’s 50/50, that can mean only one thing. I hope to God it’s more like 60/40, or even 70/30.

  Please, God, let them be okay.

  I pace around the room. The anticipation is killing me. I rub my forehead and wince when I run my fingers over the open wound there. All I have is a scratch.

  One fucking scratch.

  Bria, thank God, was not injured in any way. She was asleep, only briefly waking when we took the ambulance to the hospital. She promptly fell back asleep, too young to understand
the dreadful circumstances. We were released after an hour, and I don’t even have a concussion—not a single damn thing except this cut on my forehead, which didn’t even need stitches.

  They told us to wait on news of Isabel and Matthias. They were both unconscious, and I was in too much shock to realize that something could be wrong. Something could be majorly wrong.

  The door whooshes open again, and another doctor walks in. We’re the only other people here, so I know he is coming for us. He’s not wearing bloody scrubs like the last one. He’s wearing a fresh white lab coat, and his face is unreadable.

  We all walk over to him eagerly.

  “Nicholas Wilder?” he says, looking at me. I nod. “Your wife and son sustained multiple lacerations to their heads, necks, and arms. Since they were thrown from the car, they also sustained major internal bleeding.” He stops and looks at me. I feel the blood drain from my face.

  “Isabel took her seatbelt off to breastfeed Matthias,” I whisper, trying to explain.

  “I see,” he says solemnly. He looks down.

  No.

  “How are they?” Cecelia asks, and her face is wet with tears. Bria is in her arms, still fast asleep. Some sort of parental instinct seeps into me, and I’m grateful for just one second that she missed it all. No, present tense: she is missing it all. Isn’t that what most parents want? To try and hide the horrors of the world from their children?

  “We had to perform emergency surgery on both of them. Isabel’s brain began to swell, and we tried to reduce the swelling every way we could. Matthias…” He shakes his head. “Matthias was just too small…”

  I feel the floor sway underneath me, and I feel like I’ve been shot. My heart, everything, it all hurts. The tears start to blur my vision.

  “And Isabel?” I whisper. My voice is barely audible.

  The doctor shakes his head.

  “We tried, Nicholas. The injuries were just too much…”

  “No…” I utter, and I reach out to clutch his jacket. “Please tell me they’re okay,” I beg, my voice raspy. “Please!” He doesn’t say anything as I scan his face for answers.

  “They’re gone, Mr. Wilder. I’m so sorry. This is the worst part of my job. We tried everything we could…”

  I don’t hear the rest. I see flashes of hands as the doctor reaches out for Bria. Cecelia collapses into Frank’s arms. The doctor’s hands, Frank’s hands… Cecelia fainted.

  The doctor’s words become distant, hazy. The caffeine is making my heart want to explode. Or maybe it’s not the caffeine. Maybe it’s Isabel.

  Isabel. I have to get to her.

  I run.

  “Mr. Wilder!” the doctor shouts after me as I barge through the doors and into the main part of the hospital.

  I see a woman stand up at the reception desk. How crazy to think that this woman was sitting here, probably blindly typing away at a computer while my wife was dying five doors down. She shouts for me to stop.

  I see the operating room at the end of the hallway. I know enough about hospitals to know that she’s probably still in there. She’ll be in there until they get clearance from the morgue. I hate that I know that.

  I hear the doctor’s footsteps behind me as I push through, and there she is, lying flat on her back, covered from head to toe in a thin, blue sheet. I only know it’s her because I see her long, blonde hair falling down the side of the metal table.

  Her beautiful, golden hair.

  “Isabel!” I shout, walking over to her and pulling the sheet down from her face. I don’t even realize that I’m crying until I see water hitting her perfect face. “Isabel!”

  I fall to the side of the table and sob, clutching my stomach. I feel the contents of my stomach churning, and the next thing I know, I’m retching onto the floor.

  I know enough about operating rooms to know that that was not okay. They’ll need to re-sterilize everything now.

  I feel a hand on my shoulder, and it’s the doctor. He’s speaking to me, but I don’t hear him. I get down on all fours and continue to vomit. Someone lifts me up, and I catch one last glimpse of my beautiful wife’s face before they pull me out of the room.

  “Let me go!” I shout, wriggling out of the doctor’s grasp.

  “Nick!” Frank warns from next to me. “Get it together.”

  Fucker isn’t even crying. His own daughter is lying dead, five feet away, and he’s not even crying.

  “Where’s Matthias?” I shout.

  “He’s already in the morgue,” the doctor answers.

  I fall onto the floor and cry into my hands. I see Cecelia walking quickly towards us, carrying Bria.

  “I need a minute,” I say thickly. I get up and walk into the operating room, closing the door behind me. This time, the doctor doesn’t stop me.

  Isabel looks so peaceful. I know that’s what everyone says about dead people, but it’s true. I heard her scream as we slammed into the tree. I remember her warbled shout as they flew through the windshield. I’m surprised she doesn’t look worried. She was always worried about something.

  As I stare at her, I start to feel everything. I feel happy that she probably didn’t suffer. I feel angry that she was taken from me when she is my everything. I feel sad for the life Bria will lead from here on out. And then I feel guilt—the strongest emotion of them all.

  This is entirely my fault.

  My wife and son are dead because of me.

  Because I fucking let her breastfeed him in the backseat.

  Because it was raining, and we hit some water.

  Because I hydroplaned.

  Because they died.

  They’re dead.

  Dead.

  I stand next to Isabel, and I brush her hair away from her forehead.

  “Iz, I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “This feels like a dream, like it’s not real, and I hope to God that I wake up tomorrow, and this is just some sickening nightmare. Because if it is, I know you’ll cradle my head and shush me, telling me everything is going to be okay. Maybe we’ll make love. Maybe I’ll bring you breakfast in bed, or we’ll laugh because Bria will be banging around in her room, and we’ll wonder if she ever went to sleep in the first place.”

  I stroke her face as tears fall down my own. I crouch down and look at her.

  “Because this can’t be the end, Iz. Because we’re supposed to grow old together, and raise our children together, and move to some awful retirement community in Florida together. You can’t leave me yet. They tell me you already have, though. You’ve already left.” I grip the edge of the table as I say it. I shudder, sobbing into nothing. I need her. I need her here to comfort me, but she’s not. She’s not here anymore. “What about Bria? How am I supposed to tell her that her two favorite people are gone?” My voice breaks, and I continue to cry over her lifeless body.

  “I need you, Iz.” I’m sobbing now, and I’m struggling to breathe. I can feel the panic start to bubble inside me, because I know this is real. It’s not a dream, and she’s really gone. But she’s my number one. I don’t know life without her. “I love you.”

  I don’t stop telling her that I love her. I say it over and over until my voice is hoarse and I feel Frank leading me out of the room.

  “You daughter is awake,” he says quietly. “You need to talk to her.” I don’t miss the fact that he uses the word daughter instead of her name. My daughter. It’s just her and me now. My breathing hitches in my throat. I’ve barely formed the words in my mind, and now I need to utter the words to my daughter. How?

  “For Bria,” he reminds me. I walk out, and I quickly wipe my face with the sleeve of my shirt. I don’t want her to see me cry. Not yet. Not now.

  For Bria.

  I compose myself as best as I can, and my little angel looks at me inquisitively.

  “Mommy’s gone,” I whisper, squatting down to her level. I feel my lips quiver.

  “When will she be back?” she asks innocently, her toddler voice piercing my heart.
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  “She’s not coming back,” I say, struggling. “Matthias went with her.” I bow my head down and weep.

  She runs into my arms as she wails, obviously aware that whatever transpired tonight was very serious and that her mother and brother are very much gone.

  “Are you going?” she asks, her voice muffled in my shirt.

  “No, baby girl. It’s just you and me now. We have to take care of each other. Okay?” My voice breaks again, and I cry into my three-year-old daughter’s shoulder.

  “Okay, Daddy,” she whimpers, clutching me tightly.

  I see the family of four from the waiting room pass by us slowly, casting sympathetic looks our way. I stare up at them, and I smile, though it’s more like a grimace.

  Because even though we got the brunt end of the 50/50 deal, at least only one family has to suffer right now.

  I just wish it wasn’t ours.

  One.

  Evianna

  - June 2014 -

  I jerk my head up just as a crumpled piece of paper hits my head. Great. I fell asleep in the library again. I check my watch. Eleven p.m. I intended to pull an all-nighter, but this is the second time in an hour that I’ve fallen asleep in my seat. My body is clearly telling me to go home. The two people seated across from me—a couple, it looks like—are giggling as I look around, confused. I can only assume they were behind the paper bomb. It astounds me how immature underclassmen can be.

  I pack up my computer and my book—Wuthering Heights. I shove it irritably into my canvas backpack. That book and I are officially at war. I am collecting supplemental research on my thesis topic, and Wuthering Heights is proving to be harder to work into my topic—“The Function of a ‘Happily Ever After’ in Romanticism and Victorian British Literature”—than I previously thought.

  I spent months researching British Lit and the subsequent love stories told by Austen, Lord Byron, Charlotte Brontë, etc., and I practically wrote a book on the ways love stories and their subsequent happily ever afters impact readers in a positive way. I love love. I’m not afraid to admit it. My favorite book of all time is Pride and Prejudice. Is there a better love story out there?