14.

 

 

I am sitting on a hard, plastic seat. All around me, nurses and doctors are rushing around, I see blurs of clipboards snapping on papers, patients being wheeled by, the sound of a beeping heart monitor. I’m nauseous. This is all too familiar. I remember this…or at least, I know this happened. This is a dream…….right?

A man is pacing around, right by where I sit. His hands are shaking, and he is mumbling to himself. His back is to me, and I wonder what is wrong. He seems very upset. His hands are wringing together, and his shoulders look tense with worry. Well, that’s not too uncommon…we’re at a hospital. But then the man turns around and I’m shocked. It’s Dad. Why are we here, Dad?

He says nothing to me, but just looks at me, his eyes hollow from the look of someone that hasn’t gotten enough sleep, and his mouth is pulled into a look of sadness, despair, and terror. He just mindless pats my shoulder, his eyes wandering around. He looks different. Maybe a little younger, sober.

“Dad what are we doing here?” I ask, my voice trembling and wavering in the ominous air of the Emergency Room. I have this bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. He doesn’t answer me, just pulls me in for a hug. I stand there, not hugging back…because I just don’t trust him anymore.

            A nurse comes over; her scrubs have panda bears on them. They are so out of place at a hospital. Hospitals are not fun places to be. Not for anyone. We all know one thing: something bad happened if you are there.

            “Mr. Haven, we have her stable….but…” her face shows hesitation, and she looks at me. “Well…I think you should talk to Dr. Arbinger, for this….this situation.” She gestures for us to follow, and she takes us to a room. I notice the label on the doorway. “ICU,” It screams. Intensive Care Unit. That’s not good.

            She leads us to a woman’s bed. The woman is sleeping, and her heart monitor beeps a reassuring rhythm. The woman has a very thick wrap of bandages around her head, and her face was scratched and cut up. Her arms were scratched as well, bruising was already starting to spread around her wrists, but you could tell she was pretty. She had shiny black hair, although it was matted and frizzy looking. Her face was delicate, her cheeks washed out and colorless.

            I looked up to Dad. Tears were streaming down his face. He walked over to this woman and clutched her hand. “No…” he muttered, and squeezed her hand. “Christy?” He implored. “Christy….Chris?” He squeezed her hand, waiting for her to wake up.

            A man with clacky shoes walked over and held out his hand to Dad. He was wearing a professional looking long white jacket, had a stethoscope over his shoulders, and was holding a clipboard that could barely hold down the loads of papers. “Hello, Mr. Haven, and Jill, I am Dr. Arbinger.” His voice is one of the stereotypical doctor voices; he is trying to sound caring and sympathetic but you know he has seen hundreds of people die and he couldn’t care less.

            Dad’s forehead is sweating and his hands shakily grasp Dr. Arbinger’s outstretched hand frantically. He is stumbling for words, looking from the doctor’s face to the woman on the bed.

            “Is she…is she?” He stammered.

            The doctor looked at his clipboard and said, “She is not dead, but we barely have her stable. Her heart rate has picked a steady speed, and her vital signs seem alright…but...” and he looked down at his clipboard of knowledge again.

            The people in this room hardly seemed to know of my existence. I didn’t know this lady, although I had a sickening feeling in my stomach. The smell of hospitals really freaks me out, and it makes me think of that one image I think about a lot. The puddle in the pavement, with the ambulance lights reflecting in it? I just get the worst feeling every time I think of rain, hospitals, or Baby’s breath flowers. You know those really small, white ones? I have no idea why though.

            Dad holds his hands, clenched up in soft fists, to his mouth, like an eager child. I have never seen his act like this. Dad doesn’t care about stuff. He just drinks and sleeps, lately.

            Dr. Arbinger finishes his sentence. “…but, Mr. Haven, I’m afraid she is in a coma.”

            Dad’s face drops immediately. His face looks as if he had been struck suddenly, and then his eyes become dull. And then they spring to life and danced with moisture pushing their way to the corners of his eyes, welling up and blurring his vision.

            “Coma?” he repeats softly. He looks toward the woman in the bed.

            I could see why she would be in a coma. I mean, she has huge stitches on the part of her head behind her ear. And all the bandages? What happened to her? Do I know this lady?

            He moves from the doctor to this woman and clutches her bruised hand again. “Christy!” He says his voice raising. She’s not going to wake up.

            He grabs her limp hand with both his hands. He said very loudly, “Christy, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand. You are in the hospital. You were in an accident. But you’re okay now, right? Chris, squeeze my hand…”

            Hope lingers for a second in this horrible curtained off section of the ICU wing. And the woman does not squeeze back.

            Dad drops her hand in disgust, and yells at the doctor, “You could have done something! When is she going to wake up? I need my wife!” He shouts at Dr. Arbinger.

            Wife!? What the hell, Dad? Wife?  

I don’t remember a wife….I don’t remember Dad being married. Then why does he wear a wedding ring? A voice challenges me in my mind. What the hell? Is this woman…my mother!? I don’t have a mother! Well, I mean… I do, or at least I did, but I don’t remember her….and this couldn’t be it….not at all, I mean, this is recent. I don’t have a mom! Dad doesn’t look that much different.

I check my reflection in a shiny cabinet nearby. I look the same. Maybe a year younger… When is this?! This is a dream, right? A dream?

“You could have fixed this! Why can’t you get her to wake up? Why? I need her! Our family needs her! What can you do?!” Dad’s jaw is clenched and his eyes are swelling with tears.

Dr. Arbinger looks around the ICU, and waits for Dad to stop breathing so raggedly. “Mr. Haven, I know you are very, very upset. It is quite understandable, but with the time we were allotted, and the seriousness of the car crash your wife was involved in, it is a miracle that we are even able to get her stable in a coma. We, of course, will be doing brain scans as soon as possible…..” his voice trailed off and he looked at his clipboard again.

A nurse comes over and discreetly hands Arbinger a sheet of paper. He reads it over quickly, and grimaces.

Dad leans over and begins to retch violent. His body is shaking and his eyes are squeezed shut.

The room is spinning, and I feel like I am in an elevator and someone has just cut the cables. I imagine some sort of archetypical villain cackling as I plummet to the bottom, towards my doom. A villain; like the green goblin from Spiderman. I remember seeing that a long time ago. It was pretty freaky, and I slept with the lights on for a long time after that. I’m plummeting, a free fall. Gravity….

And then the room stops spin, and I feel vomit come up in my throat. I look at the woman in the hospital bed, and I realize that I recognize her. I don’t know her, but it’s like one of those things…like when you see someone in a crowd and you know you have seen the face before. Then it hits me, like a punch to the gut. She is the lady I saw in all those old photo albums. The lady standing with Dad with the house…. She was in my dream a while ago! The dream when I was playing tetherball….she was the woman with the video camera. The lady taping us, standing next to Dad. Why is this random woman in my dreams? She’s not my mom. No way.

I am interrupted from my frantic thoughts when Dr. Arbinger clears his monotone, and I know he has something to say.

I close my eyes really tight, and then open them slowly.

“It has just been confirmed that your daughter, Bethany, died on the site of the accident. She died instantly on impact. I’m very sorry, Mr. Haven. For your convenience, you may sign the papers and claim the body later….I know this is a lot to deal with…”

Bethany?

Dr. Arbinger looks at me. “I’m sorry Jill, I know you will miss your sister. How about you take your Dad over to the waiting room in 2-B? Okay.” And he pats my arm.

Sister?

And then I feel the vomit come up my throat. But this time, it comes out. All over Dr. Arbinger.