A Widow's Awakening

by Maryanne Pope

  “I realize that. But having dinner at our place this year simply isn’t convenient.”

  “Fine. But why do you have to be such a prick about it?”

  “Don’t swear, Adri.”

  “What’s your fucking problem?”

  “Don’t raise your voice at me.”

  “You’re not my goddamn father!” I scream. “Stop treating me like a child!”

  “Then stop acting like one.”

  Steam is coming out of my ears by this point, but Sam has more to say: “I just don’t understand why you can’t say no to anyone.”

  “Oh God, here we go,” I groan, “back to my mother.”

  “I’m not mad at your mom anymore. It’s you I’m disappointed in.”

  My stomach tightens. “Well, isn’t that dandy.”

  “Do you even want to have the damn dinner?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “Then maybe it’s time you learn how to say that. And maybe you should spend less time pleasing everyone else and more time on you—and on us.”

  I blink back tears. “Sam, I feel like I’m not being my true self around you anymore. I’m holding back on saying what I really think or feel because I know it’ll lead to a fight.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then don’t do that anymore,” he says. “Starting now.”

  “OK…” I take a deep breath. “I’m scared shitless I’m gonna wake up twenty years from now and still not have finished writing a book.”

  He looks me in the eye. “You’re probably right about that—as long as you know that’ll have been your choice.”

  I open my mouth—like a goldfish waiting to be fed—but no words come out.

  “I believe in you,” he continues, “but until you make your writing a priority and take it seriously, nobody else ever will.”

  “I don’t have time to write!”

  “Then find it.”

  “When? I have to work at a stupid clerical job.”

  “Not twenty-four seven, you don’t. What happened to writing in the morning, before you leave for work?”

  “I’m trying. But when the alarm goes off, I come up with a bunch of excuses as to why the next day would be better. I keep procrastinating.”

  “Then stop procrastinating.”

  “It’s not that easy!”

  “Nothing worthwhile ever is. There are no shortcuts.”

  “I get your goddamn point,” I say through gritted teeth.

  We stare at each other until Sam breaks into a goofy grin. “Geez,” he says, “I can be a real asshole, can’t I?”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Adri look…you’re the smartest person I know. It kills me to see you wasting your potential racing around like a chicken with its head cut off.”

  He looks so sad—but I know he’s right. I promise myself to wake up at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow to start the next draft of my novel before going in to work.

  We walk back toward the parking lot, chatting about the upcoming days. Sam’s heading back to work tonight; I start again tomorrow morning.

  At home, he has a quick bite to eat then takes a nap while I putter around the garage. But I catch myself fantasizing about how good it would be if I could work from home as a writer and not have to go to my regular job.

  When Sam wakes up, he showers while I sit on the bathroom counter, chirping away at him. When he’s finished, I hand him his towel.

  Then, because my car needs to be fixed, I take it to the gas station and Sam picks me up there in his Jeep. He drives us to his work, so I can drop him off because I’ll need the Jeep to get to my work tomorrow.

  “But how will you get home in the morning?” I ask as he pulls up behind his District’s police station.

  “Tom can drop me off.”

  We get out of the Jeep and he hands me the keys.

  I give him a quick kiss. “Have a good shift!”

  He nods then walks to the back door of the police station. I get in the driver’s seat and am just about to drive away when I glance out the window and see that he’s still standing outside, watching me. I smile and wave, but he just nods curtly then goes inside.

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 29TH, 2000

  WHEN MY alarm goes off at 5:00 a.m., I push snooze.

  I don’t want to wake up. I don’t feel like writing. Maybe tomorrow. I don’t want to go back to work.

  Ten minutes later, the alarm goes off again. I push snooze.

  I don’t wanna get up. Why do I have to type police reports for a living?

  Ten minutes later, the alarm again goes off. Snooze is hit.

  Holy shit, am I ever anxious. If I got up in the first place, I wouldn’t be feeling this way. I hate my job.

  I drag myself out of bed at six fifteen, furious for not following through—again—on my promise to myself to get up early and write. I quickly shower, scarf down a bowl of cereal, then throw an apple, chocolate pudding and granola bar into my blue vinyl lunch bag. I’m just about to put on my wool sweater with the three lamb faces on the front when I notice Sasha’s dog dishes are low. This concerns me, even though Sam will be home in less than an hour. “You never know,” I say, topping up her food and water, “you just might be on your own today.”

  I drive downtown and, as usual, arrive one minute before seven. It is eerily quiet in Records. When my supervisor sees me in the hallway, she asks me to go into her office. I figure I must have made a mistake typing a report, back before I left on holidays.

  She shuts the door and looks me in the eye. “Sam’s fallen.”

  Perhaps a broken leg or arm. The thought flits into my mind and out again.

  “You have to call his inspector right away,” she says, handing me the phone number. “He’s waiting to hear from you.”

  I’m puzzled as to why an officer with the rank of inspector wants to speak to me because inspectors don’t phone in incident reports. I sit down at my supervisor’s desk and am punching in the first few numbers when I make the connection between Sam’s inspector and Sam’s fall. This isn’t about a report.

  “Hi,” I say when an older male voice answers the phone.

  “Is this Adri?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Sam’s been in an accident.”

  “Oh,” I hear myself say.

  “Where are you right now?”

  “At work.”

  “Is your supervisor with you?”

  I swallow. “Yeah.”

  “OK, listen to me. Sam’s hit his head and we’re on the way to pick you up.”

  “His head?”

  The room suddenly feels different—as if the air is being sucked out.

  “Yes. He’s at the hospital and we’re going to take you to him.”

  Oh God no.

  “Adri, are you there?

  “Uh huh.”

  “I need to talk to your supervisor now, OK?”

  I hand the phone over. It feels as if my insides are caving in. I also have the oddest feeling that something has just begun.

  My supervisor takes my arm and leads me from Records to the back alley behind the police station, where we wait for Sam’s inspector to pick me up.

  “We had an awesome holiday,” I say quietly.

  Her eyes widen. “I’m really glad, Adri.”

  The police van pulls up and Sam’s inspector and Tom get out. Tom gives me a big hug, which is normal since I know him. But then the inspector hugs me, and this is worrisome because I’ve never met the man. The inspector gets back in the driver’s seat and Tom opens the sliding back door for me. I get in and he sits beside me.

  Everything is wrong. I should be typing in my cramped cubicle, not sitting in the back seat of a police vehicle with Sam’s sergeant, who is supposed to be driving Sam home right about now. I ask Tom what happened.

  “Sam was investigating a break and enter when he fell through a false ceiling.”

  I look out the window. “I see.”

  “He
hit his head, Adri.”

  “I know. Where are we going?”

  There is a pause, then: “The hospital.”

  I turn to look at him. “Yes. But which one?”

  He tells me Sam is at the hospital in the northwest part of the city.

  “Why didn’t they take him to the one in the south?” I ask.

  “Because he needed to be at the hospital with the best trauma unit.”

  Clunk. Like a coin landing on the bottom of an empty piggybank, the seriousness of Sam’s injury hits me. You don’t generally make it home to dinner when your day starts in a trauma unit.

  “You know,” I say, “we had a great vacation.”

  AT EMERGENCY, we’re directed to a room where most of Sam’s team is waiting—four or five officers, all of whom I know. When I walk in, they stand up and each person hugs me. I choose a seat beside Amanda, the only policewoman on Sam’s team, and she puts her arm around me. I ask her what happened.

  “We went to a break and enter. Sam went inside with the K-9 officer and his dog. Sam was searching an upper level in the building when he fell through the floor.”

  “He’s gonna be OK, though, right?”

  “Adri, he really hit the back of his head hard.”

  “Did they catch the bad guy?”

  She opens her mouth then closes it again. “Uh…I don’t think so.”

  I stare at the floor. For the next ten minutes we all sit quietly. When I do glance up, I catch the bloodshot stares of Sam’s teammates. The observation of this anomaly— crying cops—tells me the truth; wordlessly, softly, gently.

  A nurse enters the room and walks over to me. “Are you Sam’s wife?”

  I nod. She hands me a clear plastic bag full of clothing. I stand up to take the bag but when I look more closely, I realize the items are familiar. On top of Sam’s black rain pants are his watch, chain, wallet and a twenty-dollar bill. I’m staring at these, astounded, when I hear a man’s voice behind me: “It’s OK, Adri, they’re just giving you Sam’s things… it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Oh, but it does. It means everything. It means that wherever Sam is headed, he isn’t gonna need to know the time or have twenty bucks for dinner.

  But why would the nurse give me Sam’s things before I’ve even seen him or spoken to his doctor? This is like telling someone the end of a movie and then giving her a ticket to see it.

  I sit down, reach into the bag and pull out Sam’s watch and chain.

  “His cross is missing,” I say, panic rising, “and his St. Jude medal.”

  “We’ll find them,” Tom says.

  “They’re really important to Sam,” I explain, as the air in this room is sucked out.

  Tom tells one of his officers to ask the nurse about the pendants. I put Sam’s watch on my wrist and am placing his chain around my neck when his inspector appears in front of me, perplexed.

  Clearing his throat, he glances at the plastic bag in my lap. “I’m sorry, Adri, but I’m going to have to take Sam’s personal effects.”

  “Why?”

  “For evidence. I’m not sure why they gave you that.”

  I hand him the bag but don’t say anything about removing Sam’s watch and chain. Nobody else does either.

  The inspector leaves the room and Tom sits down next to me. “I think you better call Sam’s parents.”

  Oh shit.

  Sam’s dad answers the phone. Despite my inability to speak Greek and his limited English, he understands perfectly well that Sam has been seriously hurt. Sam’s sister, Angela, is staying with them so the phone is passed to her.

  “How bad is it?” she asks.

  “Pretty bad.”

  “Mom’s at work. Should I go and pick her up?”

  “I think they’re going to talk to you about that right now.”

  I hand the phone to an officer and I hear him telling Angela that a police car is being sent to pick them up.

  Then I phone my own mom and for the first time, I cry briefly. I feel very young and terrified in my wool sweater with the three lamb faces, clutching my vinyl blue lunch bag with the chocolate pudding inside.

  An ER doctor comes in and gives us an update: critical but stable. That’s one way to put it. The car is totaled but we’re salvaging what parts we can, would be another.

  “When can I see him?” I ask.

  “Very soon.”

  Twenty minutes later, the social worker comes to get me and the two of us walk down the corridor together. I ask him how Sam is doing.

  The social worker stops walking, so I do too. “He’s in pretty rough shape, Adri.”

  I nod slowly, and we resume walking. Then, for just a second, it’s like I split in two. I’m physically beside the social worker yet I’m also watching the two of us walk.

  When the social worker and I arrive at a set of doors, he takes my arm. Like arriving at a party too late and entering the banquet room to find the busboys clearing the tables; no one has to tell you it’s over—you just figure it out. By the time I get to the strangely inactive emergency room, they’ve obviously given up on trying to save Sam and are instead merely stabilizing his body.

  Since it was the back of his head that struck the concrete, Sam looks much the same as when I saw him last night. Except that now, he’s unconscious, flat on his back, draped in a white sheet and has tubes sprouting out from his chest, neck and arms.

  I race to his side and grab his unresponsive hand. I kiss his cheek and the real tears finally arrive, streaming down my face.

  “I love you,” I whisper in his ear.

  No response.

  “I love you.”

  Nothing.

  “I love you, Sam.”

  My silent treatment has been reinstated.

  And then it happens again: I’m holding Sam’s hand and yet I’m also observing the two of us from a few feet away.

  Then the social worker gently takes my arm and leads what’s left of me out of the emergency room. He walks me to a waiting area in the intensive care unit where Sam’s teammates, who’ve also been relocated, and several other officers are seated.

  I again sit beside Amanda. “Why would Sam step through a false ceiling?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.”

  The number of cops in the room is growing by the minute. When I’m not being hugged by one of them, I stare at the floor. I don’t understand why Sam’s fall and the seriousness of his injury isn’t a huge surprise to me. Instead, it feels as if I always knew this day would happen and now that it’s actually unfolding, I know I have to keep it together for whatever lies ahead.

  Someone tells me that Angela and Sam’s parents have arrived, so I go out into the hallway to see his parents stumbling toward me. Various family members are on either side of his mom, physically holding her up. She loudly cries out Sam’s name, in Greek, over and over.

  For privacy, we’re moved into the attached quiet room for families. Sam’s mom continues sobbing and his father holds her hand. Angela asks me what happened.

  “Sam fell through a ceiling and hit his head.”

  “Is he going to be OK?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “He’s going to be fine,” Sam’s mom says to me. “Right, Adri?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But I do know. I know Sam is going to die. I know his death is meant to be. And I know that someday, I’ll be all right again. But I’m sure as hell not gonna tell his mother this.

  AFTER SAM’S brother, Nick, and his expectant wife arrive, the emergency room doctor gives us an update: Sam has suffered a very serious head injury.

  “Is he going to be OK?” Nick asks.

  “It’s a very serious brain injury,” the doctor repeats. “He’s in a deep coma.”

  Sam’s mom breathes in sharply.

  “When can we see him?” Angela asks.

  “He’s been transferred to an ICU room and there will be a family meeting with the medical staff shortly. After that, you c
an visit him.”

  The doctor leaves so Sam’s family and I stare at each other. It suddenly seems wiser for me to keep moving, so I go to the other waiting area but find it’s full of police officers. When I return to the family room, Nick and Angela are on the phone. Sam’s best friend, Stan, is called in Vancouver. Then Cassie, a close of friend of ours, races in, pushing her daughter in a stroller. One of Sam’s former partners, Matt, kneels in front of me, looking into my eyes for the truth. Another girlfriend of mine, a police officer, calls me from Saskatchewan; the word is spreading quickly in the police world. My mother arrives and then my father. My brother, Ed, in Ontario is called. Sam’s aunts, uncles and cousins start to appear. My close friends begin to trickle in. Sam’s buddies show up in small groups. Police officers now line the hallways.

  At 10:30 a.m., Sam’s immediate family, my parents, Tom and I are taken to a conference room. The intensive care doctor explains Sam’s condition in more detail.

  “Sam has suffered an extremely serious brain injury,” he says. “And although his condition is still stable, surgery is not an option.”

  I nod slowly.

  “And as you may know, when an organ is injured, it swells. But since the brain is encased within the skull, it doesn’t have anywhere to swell to.”

  He is speaking very quietly so I lean forward to hear him better.

  “And when an organ’s blood supply gets cut off,” he continues, “it dies.”

  I swallow.

  “In Sam’s case, his head struck the ground so hard that his brain hemorrhaged and there’s nothing we can do to stop that.”

  The room is quiet. My stomach churns. The doctor tells us there will be another family meeting in an hour.

  Then I’m taken on my own to see Sam in his ICU room. The nurse walks me to the foot of his bed and remains there while I go to his side. I lean over and kiss him gently on the forehead. He is so still.

  “Oh hon,” I whisper, “this isn’t looking good.”

  “Adri?” I hear Angela’s voice behind me.

  I turn to see her and Nick standing in the doorway, holding on to their parents. But they break free and run to Sam. Sam’s dad sobs as he stands over his son, shaking his fists to God. His mom lays her head on Sam’s chest and cries out his name.