Critical Injuries (26 page)

“The best, absolutely.”

“Now you'll feel good about yourself when Dr. Grant pops by, won't you?”

But why should she, especially? Now she's wary. She's reminded of what she already knows: if she drops her guard, she's not exactly in a position to reach down and pick it up again.

She hears herself snort; but what a busy day, what a great deal of coming and going! Because now she also hears, speak of the devil, Dr. Grant's familiar rat-a-tat on the door frame, there's his young man's throat being cleared. Here's his serious face bending over her, with the particular look of a man with something particular on his mind. Now what?

She is, in an odd way, the hostess here, and the art of the hostess, setting a guest at ease, feels called for. Well, that art is really not aimed at guests, but at the hostess's desire that an event go smoothly and with a maximum of goodwill. So she says, “Why don't you pull over a chair and get comfortable? You must get tired of being on your feet all the time.” In the circumstances, this seems the best she can do.

He sets himself tight beside her bed, arms crossed on the chrome bed railing, chin poked forward and resting there like a curious child's. This takes a few moments of shifting and settling. The lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth are faint, the furrows in his forehead slight. He is marked by absence, by all the experiences he hasn't had, or which have failed to seriously mark him.

“So,” he begins. “Here's the deal. You'll have realized by now that that bit of bullet hasn't done what we'd hoped. It was a gamble, that it'd work itself out, but now we've decided” — who is this
we
? — “it wouldn't be wise to wait too much longer. And one of the right ORs came free unexpectedly. So how does the day after tomorrow sound to you for the surgery? First thing Thursday morning.”

Jesus. “That soon?”

“Well, yes. We can't leave it much longer or we'll be running into other problems. I know you're surprised, but really, it's only quite this soon because of the OR cancellation. Which I, for one, take as a good sign. So try not to worry. Because when it comes down to it, the body rallies itself in some bold and beautiful ways, you know.”

She ponders
rallies
and
bold
, and sees he is a man of poetic and optimistic inclinations.

She reminds herself to breathe. The inhalation comes with a slight whistle, and with that louder whuffing sound off to her left.

“Of course what we're looking at, nipping out that little sucker, is a little bit complicated. Or delicate, rather. But still you know, in a way you were fortunate you got hit where you did.” Yes, yes, she's heard this, too often. “And then sometimes there's a ricochet factor to complicate matters.” Which he already said are, as things stand, “a little bit complicated.” Also “delicate.”

“And then?”

“Well,” and he pauses, “then I guess we'll see. The flat fact is, we don't know. Getting that fragment out may finally be, pardon the expression, the magic bullet. Or, frankly, we may find there's extraneous damage. It depends. We won't know for sure till we get in there. And of course out again.”

She guesses she knew all this; just hadn't applied it to the day after tomorrow. When everything will be transformed, once again, in a matter of moments. One way or another.

“For sure you couldn't be in a better place.” Yes, she could. She could be on the porch, eating ice cream from the basement freezer with Lyle. There was ice cream there, aging but still good, and there were cones in the cupboard over the microwave. They didn't need to go out, not for anything, even for ice cream. “But I expect you have a few questions, right?”

Don't ask anything you don't want the answer to.
James's true words. How much information is askable, bearable?

“Odds?”

He frowns again slightly; those small lines in his forehead will get much deeper, she imagines, in the next very few years. “Well, that's hard to say.” Of course it is. “I guess we're pretty sure of getting the fragment out, it's not the most complex thing we've ever done.”

“But.”

“But what happens from there, the odds, I honestly can't calculate. I'm sorry. But here's what I do think, and I know it doesn't sound very scientific, but the best thing you can do to help is, you should focus on strong, positive thoughts, keep in mind all the people who care for you, and beyond that, trust us to be very good at what we do. Which we are. I honestly believe faith in good outcomes can make a difference.” Does that mean that previously, before all this, what she had, unbeknownst to her and with the occasional exception, was an aberrant faith in negative outcomes?

“Beyond that, just put yourself in our hands.”

They both look at his hands. They are such young and human hands; whereas she would now prefer them to be certainly older, and maybe also supernatural, even extraterrestrial, at any rate spectacularly and obviously and unhumanly gifted.

Imagine going into a line of work in which real, true lives are in the balance! Many years ago and in an optimistic frame of mind, Isla contemplated volunteering for one of those crisis hotlines. People would phone her with their terrible troubles — bad marriages, dying parents, their own illnesses and burdens, the dark weight of their loneliness — and she would talk them generously, compassionately, helpfully through the night. This, she had supposed, would lighten her own heart. It also struck her as a way of crossing her fingers against misfortune. And to be truthful, a way of making her own life more interesting and various.

Which it then became, all by itself.

But on second thought: what exactly, specifically, would she do with a caller holding a razor blade to the wrist? With an incoherent voice confessing a desire for pills, for death, or for that matter, for murder?

What if she failed? What if somebody died?

She found she lacked the stomach for failure, or for death. For tipping, with the nudge of a word or a misplaced breath, a life one way or the other.

This young doctor does that every day. How can he sleep? How can he get up in the morning? How can his hands not tremble? What does he imagine the word
trust
means, to be able to say it so easily, as if it could be gained or given so easily?

He lays the back of his hand against her cheek; in other circumstances, a lover's caress. “Just hang in with us a little bit longer. You're a tough cookie, you can do it. Everybody's impressed by how well you've handled this so far.”

Really? Then they haven't been paying very good attention, have they?

He unwraps his arms from the bedrails, stands to his not-very-tall full height. “Try not to worry or brood, okay? Keep yourself tuned to good outcomes.”

Yes, well. What sort of moron would not brood about life in the balance? Still,
brood
,
brooding
— those are beautiful, euphonious words, suggesting a seductive, dark, and luxurious intensity.

She wouldn't mind clinging to him right now. She wouldn't mind folding herself right into his young, stalwart body. Or, if she could feel it, she would like it if he held her hand. She would like a sense of his hands. “Thank you,” she says.

He grins, a boyish, light-hearted grin. “I promise to get a good night's sleep beforehand, I'll be perfectly rested and raring to go.” Then abruptly he grows solemn and touches her, probably on the arm. “Honest to God, I won't let anything bad happen to you.”

Doctors aren't supposed to say things like that. And Lyle said something like that, pledging to be, if nothing else, no James, but a very bad thing happened anyway, which Lyle didn't prevent. He meant what he said, and he would have prevented it, but he did not. These aren't smart promises. They aren't keepable.

“Help me,” Isla would like to say again; but look what happened last time she did that. And anyway, he is gone.

Christ. Thursday.

Alertness to death, or its possibility, or the possibility of any imminent disaster, is supposed to sharpen the thoughts pretty pointedly. Certainly any of that would have sharpened hers, entering Goldie's. But who is so perpetually and piercingly conscious? Well, she might be now; from now on; given a chance.

And who is so tidy? Who doesn't have a thousand loose ends trailing behind at the end of each day?

Day after tomorrow: only a few hours; far too little time, and far too much. She is nowhere near ready, and also wishes to God it was over with, done and known: thumbs up, or thumbs down?

Because what if it fails?

Also, what if it works?

A Few Good Words

“Guess who I've brought?” If Alix were a nurse, or a kind aide like Rachel, she might spontaneously appear above Isla like an unnerving angel. She does glow, in her way;
luminous
, in fact, would be the word. As nurse to patient, this might be comforting. As daughter to mother, it's eerie. Also startling. “Oh sorry, were you asleep?”

“Just resting my eyes.” True, actually, but also a mild family joke, since it's what Bert always says when he's caught napping, flustered at being witnessed in an unprepared, innocent moment.

“Good, because look who's here!”

“Sweetheart,” says Madeleine, stepping forward. “Oh, sweetie.”

Alix claps her hands, delighted as a child. “I just picked up Grandma and Bert at the airport. Are you surprised?”

Oh, she is, she is. She beams, she thinks she beams, upwards. “God, yes. I am so glad you're here.” She would leap into her mother's saving arms, if she could.

She would bury her face in her hands, to hide from the shock on Madeleine's face, if she could.

“Me too. But I'm so angry!”

“Me too.”

Madeleine looks, although tanned from her holiday, not only shocked, but also exhausted, and old in a way she wasn't before. As with Lyle, Isla can see more distinctly and differently from this angle the crumplings and failings, the sheer skin-thinness of age. Madeleine's flesh looks nearly worn through, as if there's not much holding her together right now.

When did all this happen?

Gradually, Isla guesses, in a sneaking-up, day-to-day sort of way; and some of it suddenly, recently.

Madeleine's hands are down where forgetful people's hands tend to go, somewhere around where Isla's hands must be. It's hard for those accustomed to touching her to remember everything she can't feel. For all she knows, Madeleine's holding on hard. It would be like her to be trying to squeeze strength and life into her daughter, one more time.

“I wish I'd known right away. And even then, it took so long to get here. What a journey! I was never so glad to see anyone in my life as Alix at the airport.”

“Where's Bert?”

“Coming along with our car. Alix took us to our place to drop off our things, but of course I wanted to get right here to see you, so he was going to take a few minutes to get squared away and then come pick me up. Oh, sweetie, why didn't you get in touch instantly? I hate not having been here. Then it made me crazy, being so far away.”

“I'm sorry. We weren't sure what to do. We didn't want to upset you, so it was hard to find the right time.”

Madeleine raises her eyebrows. “The
right
time? Precisely when did you think that would be?” Oh, they are alike, she and Isla. She is injured, and from pain, anger swiftly proceeds. This used to seem to Isla a useful progression, but perhaps has outworn its virtues.

“I know, you're right, I'm sorry. But now you're here, and thank God. I was really missing my mum.” Isla is trying to lighten the moment, but she means that exactly: she has been missing her mother, who is now here. Another
good sign
, would Dr. Grant say?

“And you're in time.” Barely. “The doctor was in a while ago, and they've scheduled surgery for first thing day after tomorrow. Kind of a surprise, but I guess it's a good thing it's going ahead.”

“Oh wow.” That's Alix, of course, stepping forward from behind her grandmother. “Thursday?”

“At least I didn't miss that. I couldn't have stood it, if I'd been gone for that.” Madeleine's eyes well up. Isla hasn't known her mother to cry since those nights after her father died, when she could be wakened by desolate, heart-broken sounds.

She also hasn't expected to need a stiff upper lip with her mother. “Please, don't cry, it's all right. Everybody says this is the best place in the country to be, and the doctor is hopeful. He was only holding off because they wanted to see if the scrap of bullet would work itself free, but it hasn't. It's the tiniest thing. I've seen pictures. You should see it. Amazing.” Madeleine strokes and strokes Isla's forehead. Isla closes her eyes. Madeleine's trembling tenderness: nearly what she hoped for.

Although after a little while it starts to feel morbid; as if Madeleine is grieving over a corpse. Isla opens her eyes fast. “So how was your trip back? Pretty complicated, I hear.”

“Let's say it was quite an adventure. Lyle was very clever to set it all up, finding a little boat here and a little plane there, a couple of quite odd hotels. Mind you, Bert says he won't be flying in a four-seater again, although in my opinion we hit worse turbulence in the bigger planes.”

“Poor Bert.”

“Yes, and he'll be arriving by now. Oh, Isla, I'll be back as soon as I can, but I should go, just for a little while. I was dying to see you the first minute I could.” She stops; not knowing, Isla imagines, where to go from the word
dying
.

“I'm happy just knowing you're in reach. But I bet you're worn out, so why not get caught up at home instead of coming right back? Do whatever needs doing and have a good sleep, and we'll see each other tomorrow. Because I expect we'll all need our strength.”

“There's so much to catch up on, though.”

“Well, you know, there's a lot but really only a little. Tons of details, but only a few major facts. You know the big stuff. Honestly, I'm not lying, as long as I know you're back, I'm happy.”

This is nearly true. Near enough.

“Oh dear. I expect you're right. I'm a bit worried about Bert, so maybe it is best if I get him tucked up at home. I'll see about later on, but otherwise, I'll be here first thing tomorrow. Oh, Isla.” She makes her way through the apparatus to touch Isla's forehead with crimsoned lips. “Take very good care.”

A little late for taking care. “I will, Mum. You too.”

Alix is still sparkling. Whatever happened to serenity? “Wasn't that great, seeing Grandma? I almost didn't make it, I had to absolutely race to the airport after court. Oh.”

Obviously that came out wrong.

“Court?” Isla has Madeleine's gift for raised eyebrows.

“Well, yeah.” Alix looks away briefly, then back. “I wanted to talk to you about that, but maybe not now. I didn't know about the surgery being so soon.”

“No better time, then, is there?” Because there may be no other time — is that cruel? Perhaps not. Perhaps it flies right over Alix's head.

“Well, okay. I wondered if you'd mind hearing about it, and that boy — would it be all right? Because I think it's sort of important.”

Look at her: under the wispiness, the transparency, this has always been a child, girl, young woman, who can, if she wants, make harsh decisions. They aren't always astute decisions, but they can certainly be severe. There is an echo right here of Alix at twelve, rising slowly after the scrambling Tim from under the pool table, shirt askew, staring her father down in a quite unnerving way. More recently her decisions have been made in the interests of faith, desire, belief; maybe false faith, foolish desire, misguided belief, but she seems to know something about means, if not ends. Tender-hearted to start with, and lately intent on achieving equanimity, which she has perhaps mistaken for peace.

Look at her skin, look at those eyes, that glorious hair. Regard her longings. Are they not Isla's as well? “Okay,” Isla says cautiously.

“His name's Rod. You probably know that. I heard his grandmother and his dad out in the hall calling him Roddy, and in court he was Roderick in the documents, you know, the charges, but the lawyers and the judge called him Rod.”

A little too much on the subject of names, that. Isla has been avoiding his name when she could, and now he's got three. Perhaps it's a subject that interests Alix because she also goes through the world with at least one name too many.

“I don't know how much you remember about what he looks like.” Weedy. Unappealing. Moving fast and stupidly. That's about it. “He's kind of thin. His grandmother's totally fat and his dad's big, but Rod doesn't look like either of them.” Probably, then, he resembles his mother, and where is she in all this? Isla knows very well that whatever a son does, a mother attends to him. There she was herself a few years ago, sitting two rows behind Jamie in court, listening to his offences, hearing his contrition, bearing his punishment.

“And I don't know how you feel about him.” Really? Time for raised eyebrows again.

“How long did he get?” That's how Isla feels, a bit more than a day before surgery that's her interest in him: the extent and degree of his punishment.

“Oh. Eighteen months. And two years' probation.” Alix's tone does not suggest whether she considers that too much or too little. Doesn't even suggest an interest; as if punishment isn't the point. Well, it is to Isla. Eighteen months! The little shit will still be barely old enough to vote when he gets out.

God knows where she will be.

Of course he's very young to be facing a ruined life. If it's ruined. He certainly has many more years than she does. Her time is compressed, possibly even down to a day, whereas his, at seventeen, is extensive, expansive. Like Jamie: he could start over. Damaged and too-experienced, Jamie nevertheless had that chance. There was time. As there is for this boy; not so much for her. “I see,” she says.

“The thing about him, Mother,” Alix says, with more courage, Isla thinks, than she is necessarily aware of, “is, he has this look about him.” Indeed he does: panic, shock, inevitability. “It's like, he looks lost. Like he doesn't understand who he is or what's happened. Like he's all up in the air, know what I mean?”

If she means the boy is stumped by events, rolled over by regrets, baffled by his own whereabouts, bewildered by unexpected outcomes, then yes, Isla knows.

“Did Lyle tell you about when we went to court together before?”

“A little.” That the boy pleaded guilty, had in fact confessed fulsomely and instantly to the police, evidently. And that Lyle and Alix both made statements to the court. In Lyle's recounting, his own statement sounded far too close to a eulogy. Of Alix's he said, “I'm sorry, but I couldn't make head nor tail of it. I'm afraid it was beyond me.”

“Lyle said what he was supposed to, but I screwed up. I was going to talk about what a good mother you are and how you stick by us no matter what and all that, and then I was walking past him, Rod, and I looked over at him and it was really weird. I just stopped. There was something about him, and I kept looking, I guess I wanted to see what there was to him, and you know what?”

No, Isla does not know what. She does know there's only so long she'll tolerate Alix babbling about that reckless little asshole. As if he was interesting. As if there'd be any point. As if she has time.

“We just stared at each other. Like for a few seconds nobody else was there. And he was all, you know, empty and lost-looking? And all of a sudden I realized I'd had this awful attachment to anger. Like, I'd really hated him, and it was such a horrible feeling, like he was huge, because he'd done this huge thing and here you were and, oh, you know, everything was wrecked. But then when I saw him, he's not huge at all, he's just kind of pitiful, and then as soon as I realized that, I could feel the anger and hatred going away, like, lifting right off me. I mean, we were totally still, just staring at each other and it was like he'd been empty and was filling up in some way. Oh,” and she waves her arm, “I don't know how to describe it right.” Of course she doesn't. Obviously. “But anyway, I did finally say some stuff, I think sort of about how brave you are, and this is a challenge but your spirit makes you whole, kind of redeemed no matter what. Don't worry,” and Alix smiles slightly, slyly, “I didn't say it was a blessing you had this challenge, or you're lucky to have it.”

A joke! Alix has actually made a feeble, but darkish, joke!

“So then I thought and thought about what happened, and you know, sometimes when you think about something too much it gets kind of fuzzy and maybe wrong. The memory, I mean. So I had to go back today. I guess partly to hear the sentence, but mainly, honestly, to look at him again. See if I saw him the same way, and how it felt.”

“And?” And what does she want Isla to feel? Sorry for him? She had quite a full and enjoyable and entirely earned and deserved life going on, until this empty person decided to mess with it. Pity is not quite in her repertoire.

“And the thing is, I did. See him the same way, I mean. So what I wanted to tell you, or maybe ask you, I don't know, is,” small frown, deep worried breath, “that I want to see him again. I want to know what you'd think if I go see him in jail.”

If Isla could feel anything, she imagines it would be in the category of gut-punched.

Is there something about her that attracts the people she cares for towards notions of betrayal?

“It's just, there's something I think I could learn that's important. I mean, to me. And he looks so, I don't know, full of
need
. I've been thinking about how he'd ever get used to knowing the horrible thing he did, and how he could live with it. He doesn't look like there's really anybody to help him, either.”