“Shit,” she said aloud. “Next time, faint, you idiot.”
She left her closet, intending to take a shower, but there was her phone, buzzing on the desk of her study.
Mom. She always took calls from Mom.
“Sweetheart,” her mother began, “I’m real sorry to have to tell you this, but your dad’s been in an accident, and he’s hurt. Real bad. I’m on my way to Lawrence and Memorial.”
Her heart thudded hard, rolling in a sickening wave—once, twice, three times.
“I’m on my way,” Juliet said, her voice firm. “Hang in there, Mom, I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Smoke jumper. She would make a great smoke jumper.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sadie
In the blur of terror that followed Juliet’s call, I rented a car and drove through the snarl of traffic between Manhattan and Connecticut, doing eighty miles an hour when I could, slamming on the brakes when I saw taillights. Even though I’d tried calling Alexander as soon as I hung up with Jules, he wasn’t answering. He had a habit of keeping the phone off while he drove, which was not at all convenient at this moment. After leaving six messages, I called Carter and told him instead, hiccuping with sobs.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he said. “Good luck. I’m here for anything you need. If you want me to call Sister Mary or anything, if you need me to water your plants, let me know.”
The whole way there, tears streaked down my cheeks and I had to fight not to break down. My dad had been my idol growing up—always encouraging, upbeat and fun . . . not to mention the parent who actually liked me. He taught me to play poker and swim and never said art school was a bad idea. He told me I was pretty and never criticized my clothes, even in my goth stage. He came to visit me once a month in the city, and still held my hand when we were crossing the street. He couldn’t be dying. Not without me there.
All my life, there’d been a clear division in the family. Juliet “Perfection from Conception” was Mom’s; I, the lesser child in just about every measurable aspect except artistic ability, was Dad’s. He never seemed to think he got the short end of the stick.
“Please don’t die, please don’t die,” I chanted under my breath. Who else would root for me the way he did? Who else would be so . . . so delighted at every turn of my life? It seemed that all my childhood, Mom had lectured on everything from posture to how to clean the bathroom to grades, and Dad had been right behind her, sweeping away the criticism with a grin or a wink and maybe a trip to the ice cream parlor. Everything he did let me know I was loved, whereas everything Mom did let me know I was wrong.
There was a reason I rarely came back to Stoningham, and when I did, it was only for a day. And there was a reason my father came to visit me in the city, sleeping on the pullout couch, thinking it was the best fun ever. Those were always like old times, when I was little and afraid of thunderstorms, and Dad would tell me stories about girl warriors who rode monsters they’d tamed into battle.
My chest felt like it was being crushed. Where the hell was Alexander? Why wasn’t he calling me?
Finally, after an eternity, I pulled into the UConn Health Center’s giant parking lot, threw my shitty little rental in park and ran to get inside, slipping and sliding, since the rain had frozen when the temperature dropped, and it was a good ten degrees colder up here.
An orderly directed me to the family waiting area, and I ran there, too.
Mom, Jules and Oliver were in the waiting room, Jules looking worried, Mom a thousand miles away.
“Is he—” I began, but my voice choked off.
“Unconscious but alive,” Oliver said, getting up to hug me. “He made it through surgery. We’re waiting for the doctor to tell us what we can expect.”
My sister got up and we hugged awkwardly, too. She stepped on my foot, and my hair got tangled in her earring for a second.
“Hi, Mom,” I said.
“Hello, Sadie.” Her voice was expressionless. Shock, I guessed. She was clutching a plastic bag to her chest. I kissed her cheek, and she still didn’t look at me. “Hello, Sadie,” she repeated, and I felt a twinge of sympathy.
“Hi, Mom. You doing okay?” She was younger than Dad, and I’d heard that seventy was the new forty, but still.
“I’m fine,” she said. My hands were shaking, but she seemed utterly calm.
“Can I see him?”
“He’s resting.”
“I’d like to see him.”
“Sure, sure,” said Jules. “Come on. We’re only allowed a few minutes an hour, but come say . . . well.” Her voice choked off, and she took a shaky breath.
We walked down a long, brightly lit hallway and went into a room.
Oh, God. Oh, Daddy.
He was on a ventilator, his face swollen, a cut on his nose, a black eye. His head was shaved and bandaged. “Jesus,” I whispered.
“They had to drill into his head to relieve the bleeding,” Jules said.
He didn’t look like himself, but it was him, all right. Those were his outrageous eyebrows. That was his wedding ring on his left hand, his class ring from Boston College on his right. The scar on his arm from when he had a bad break in college.
“It’s a wait-and-see situation,” Jules said, and her voice was uncharacteristically soft.
I didn’t know where to touch my father; he looked so small in the hospital bed.
“Daddy?” I whispered, putting my hand on his chest, over his heart. “It’s Sadie. I’m here. I love you so much, Daddy.”
That was all I was allowed. A nurse told us he needed quiet, and Jules led me back to the waiting room.
“What happened?” I asked, and Oliver, the diplomat in the family, filled me in.
It was such a Dad move, deciding to go for a bike ride on a nice day, winter be damned. Apparently he had a stroke and fell, then lay there for an unknown amount of time before someone saw him and called 911. They missed the golden hour, that window after a stroke when intervention can make a huge difference. “A pity, really,” Oliver said. The vast understatement of that word made me want to smack him.
My tears kept falling. My mother stared into space. Juliet checked in with the babysitter and sat next to Mom. They murmured to each other. Oliver smiled every time I looked at him. I kept checking my phone to see if Alexander had turned on his—Boston wasn’t that far, and I’d texted, too. But he was one of those people who would forget his phone was off until hours later.
A few friends from St. Catherine’s had texted; I guess Carter had put the word out. Even Sister Mary sent me a message, saying she’d pray for my family.
An hour ticked past. A couple of times, I had to get up and go to the window so I wouldn’t sob in front of my family, in case Mom said something like, “There’s no point in crying, Sadie. Save that for when he dies.” Not that she would. But I kept imagining that kind of thing—Juliet sighing and rolling her eyes at me, or my annoyingly chipper brother-in-law saying something British, like, “Stiff upper lip, Sadie! No need to get all collywobbles!”
Where was Alexander? Where was the doctor? (He probably had a good excuse, like saving someone’s life, but I was still irked.)
It started to snow, first just a few drifting flakes, then a near whiteout. The TV on the wall showed meteorologists peeing themselves with glee, standing at intersections where cars slid by to report that, yes, it was snowing. If one of those sliding cars hit them, it would be natural selection.
My father’s condition had rendered me vicious, it seemed.
Finally, as I stared out the window at the “polar vortex” (because calling it snow was so yesterday), Alexander’s name flashed on my phone. I told him the grim news.
“Babe, I’m so sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “You know me and driving with the phone off. But I’ll keep it on, and I’m getting right back in th
e car.”
“Is it snowing there?” I asked.
He hesitated. “Yeah. Pretty hard.”
“Here too. Why don’t you call in the morning? Stay in Boston tonight. The forecast is eight to twelve inches.”
“That’s what she said.”
My jaw clenched. “Not now, Alexander.”
“Sorry. Just trying to make you laugh.”
“I know.” I paused. “I miss you.”
“I miss you, too. I’m so sorry about this, babe. I know how much you love your dad.”
The tears started again, stinging the now-raw skin under my eyes. “Thanks, honey,” I said, my voice husky.
“Love you, Sadie.”
“Love you, too.”
I went back to rejoin the family. No one looked up.
“No word from the doctor?” I asked.
“Alas, no,” said Oliver.
Alas? I tried not to be annoyed, but Oliver . . . he was perfectly nice. If he lacked substance in my opinion, I guess it didn’t matter. He was a good father, a good husband, and a brilliant son-in-law, at least according to Mom.
I Googled “stroke with cerebral hemorrhage” on my phone, then decided it would only lead to terror. May as well hear from the doctor first. I sighed. Studied my family. I’d seen them at Christmas, just a few weeks ago, but that seemed like millennia now.
Jules looked frazzled, which was rare, but who could blame her? Her hair was perfectly straight, smooth and dark blond, shoulder length, but now it was tangled, as if she’d been sleeping. Her clothes were wrinkled, too. Usually, she was so put together—her personal style could be called understated hip. Always quality stuff, always a little boring unless you looked closely and saw that her shirt was asymmetrical or she was wearing a wicked cool silver ring. As ever, she was Mom’s guard dog, sitting by her side, reminding her to drink some water, offering her a Life Saver.
She didn’t offer me a Life Saver.
And then there was Oliver, terribly handsome as always, brown hair, green eyes, his teeth blindingly white and straight (he’d gotten braces when he and Juliet were engaged, succumbing to the pressures of American orthodontic standards). He was scrolling through his phone, and I wanted to rip it out of his hands and hit him on the head with it. Every time he caught me looking, he gave that knee-jerk smile. Oliver, I wanted to say, my father might be dying and I realize I’m probably the only one who would really miss him, but could you stop flashing your perfect teeth at me? He’d always been nice to me . . . and also had never made an effort to do more than exchange pleasantries. Then there was the way Juliet showed him off, like he was a prize cow at the state fair. “This is my husband, Oliver Smitherington.” It was that last name, probably. How could you have sex with someone with such a silly last name?
And Mom. Right now, she was a frickin’ statue, her blunt white bob perfectly in place, mascara unsmudged by tears. Why would she cry? She practically hated my father. Tolerated him at best, and while it didn’t feel great to think of my mother as a user, she had sure used Dad. His name, his hard-earned money. She hadn’t had her own job till last year.
That being said, she looked pale and alone right now. I’d expected Auntie Caro, Mom’s closest friend, to be here, since they’d been besties since before I was born. But no. Mom just stared into the distance, probably planning a tag sale to get rid of Dad’s things.
“How are you doing, Mom?” I said.
“Fine.”
“This must be very hard for you.”
She blinked. “What’s that, Sadie?”
“This must be hard for you,” I repeated more loudly, getting an evil look from Jules. “Having your husband of fifty years in a life-threatening situation. Brain bleed. Surgery.”
“I don’t need a summary, Sadie. Of course it’s hard.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” Juliet told me.
“Well, it’s a little odd, all of you stone-faced here. Except you, Oliver.” He smiled again. Jesus.
“Want some sackcloth and ashes?” she asked. “Sorry if we’re keeping it together. You keep doing you, though.”
Finally, the doctor appeared, a tall, handsome African American man wearing scrubs and a white doctor jacket with his name stitched over the pocket. Daniel Evans, MD. Neurosurgery.
God. Brain surgery. Please make it, Daddy. Please don’t die.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “We had another emergency right after your . . . uh, Mr., uh . . .”
“Frost,” Juliet and I said in unison.
“Yes, of course. So.” He sat down. “Your father—and husband, Mrs. Frost—had a significant bleed, as we suspected. Right now, he’s resting, as you know. We’re keeping him on the ventilator to help his breathing, more as a precaution than anything else, since he had started breathing on his own again in the ambulance on the way here.”
My insides started to quiver. It sounded so dire.
“I wish I could tell you what to expect. There is damage to the part of the brain that controls speech, we’re sure of that. There’s also bruising from the fall, which has caused some swelling. But he survived the surgery. It’s going to be one step at a time. Now, I’m sure you have questions.”
“Will he wake up?” I asked.
He tilted his head. “We don’t know yet. Brain injuries are hard to predict. Every one is different. All I can say now is he’s stable but critical. The next couple of days will tell us more. Where do you folks live?”
“Stoningham,” Juliet answered. Mom still hadn’t said a word.
He nodded. “Why don’t you go home and get some rest? We’ll call if his status changes.”
“That’s a good idea,” Oliver said.
“No, it’s not,” I said. “He’ll want us close by.”
“We’ve been here for hours,” Juliet said. “And we can’t camp out in his room, Sadie. It’s critical care.”
“Well, I’m not going,” I said. “If something . . . happens, I want to be here.”
“We have the girls,” Oliver said.
“I’m aware of that, Oliver. You guys go. The girls need you. I know that.”
“Thanks, Dr. Evans,” Jules said. “We appreciate your kindness.”
He shook our hands, his face somber, and left.
“Too bad you’re dating a yacht salesman,” Juliet said.
I ignored that. “I can sleep right here if I have to, but I want to be close by.”
“That’s fine,” Mom said. “But I’ll go home with Juliet, I think. It’s been quite a shock.”
The obligatory hugs were doled out, and they left.
My mom might be a widow soon. For all her flaws as a wife, that had to be scary. They’d been married fifty years. God. Fifty years tomorrow.
I went to the nurses’ station and asked to see my father again. He was in the same position, but then again, he’d been heavily sedated, I guessed.
He looked awful. It was hard to imagine he could survive—the bandage on his head, the tube coming out of his mouth, some stitches on his eyebrow, the bruising.
“I’m here, Daddy,” I said. “I’m right here. You and me, just like always.” I told the nurses where I’d be, and they were so nice, telling me to get some food. One of them gave me a blanket.
If my father died in the middle of the night, he wouldn’t be alone. There’d be someone who loved him to hold his hand and thank him, and I was glad it was me, because honestly, I couldn’t imagine Juliet or my mother doing it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Barb
I tried to remember when my marriage went from real good to fine to not bad to downright nonexistent, and could not pinpoint a time. No, I couldn’t.
Once, John and I loved each other. I didn’t have any doubt about that, no sir. It could be said that we didn’t know each other real well in those early days, but
we were happy.
It was the infertility that started the downward slide. John didn’t try real hard to understand my pain, and being a second-generation Norwegian and daughter of a Minnesotan farmer, maybe I didn’t know how to share the full heft of it. We Minnesotans don’t like to complain.
But it didn’t take a genius to understand that I was suffering. Looking back, I think John wanted to pretend I didn’t suffer, because that would get him off the hook for a problem he couldn’t fix.
Then, when we were blessed, of course my focus was Juliet. Unfortunately, having a baby didn’t bring us a heck of a lot closer, which was partly my fault. I can see that now.
But isn’t that what good mothers do? I was a stay-at-home mom in an age (and a town) where most of us did stay home, or only worked part-time. I’d wanted more than anything to be a mother. I wasn’t about to put my little baby in someone else’s care. Absolutely not! She was my whole purpose in life, don’t you know. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
But John didn’t get it. He didn’t see all that I did. It used to make me downright crazy when he would comment on her progress or abilities. “We had a lot of fun this afternoon,” he said one Sunday in August when he’d taken her to the beach, practically giving himself the father of the year award. “Do you know what a great swimmer she is?”
“Who do you think taught her?” I snapped. “And did you forget the sunscreen? She looks mighty pink to me.”
The same with reading. “Our four-year-old is reading chapter books!” he exclaimed, as if he was telling me something I didn’t know. Me, who spent every day with her, who read to her for hours, who gave her her love of books. I wanted him to see that, to credit me, to honor those hours, those years, when everything I did was for the good of our daughter. I was a wonderful mother. I told Juliet I loved her all the time, and that was something I never heard growing up, no sir. I was generous and thoughtful and affectionate. I set boundaries so she got enough sleep, ate nutritious meals, respected others and herself, was brave but not foolish. She was my life’s work.
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