Memories (15 page)

 Dropping his bag on the entryway floor, he crossed the room while depositing his coat over the leather sofa and headed to the desk where the telephone sat. He saw the light blinking on his answering machine and smiled to himself. Maybe she'd already tried calling him. With a touch of the button he listened to the taped messages as he searched through his wallet for Dani's number.

Beep. Michael, this is Cathy. Something's come up. Please call me as soon as you get in. It's Sunday, about 1:00 p.m. Call me, please!

 Whatever Cathy wanted to tell him could wait, Michael thought as he found the scrap of paper containing Dani's number.

 
Beep. Michael, it's Cathy again. Please, give me a call. It's important
.

 Michael glanced at the machine as the second message played. Cathy's voice sounded strained, almost frantic. What could be so important?

 
Beep. Michael, please call me. I have to talk to you
.

 Michael tensed at this last message. Cathy sounded nearly hysterical. "I'd better call her first," he mumbled to himself, but before he could lift the phone off its cradle, the doorbell rang and he could hear keys rattling in the door.

 "Jesus, what the..." The door opened as he reached it and Cathy almost walked right into him.

 "Oh, thank God," she breathed as Michael caught her before she trampled him.

 "Hey kiddo, what's up? I was just going to call you back."

 "Oh Michael, I've been trying to get you all weekend. I finally gave up and decided to come look for you myself. I still had my keys, so I just used them," she paused, breathless. "Oh, Michael, I'm so glad you're here."

 Her face was drawn and pale as if she hadn't slept in days. Concern crept into Michael's voice as he shut the door and led her to the sofa. "What is it, Cathy? What's going on? Are you all right?"

 Cathy looked up into the eyes of the man she once thought she loved, who she still cared about very much.

 "It's not me," she said gently, but then the anxiety of the moment overwhelmed her and she blurt out at once. "Michael, it's Vanessa. She's been in a terrible accident and she's at the hospital in Southampton. The hospital tried reaching you at work and I got the message and have been trying to get ahold of you since yesterday."

 The blood drained from Michael's face and his lips turned pale. "Vanessa," he breathed, not quite registering the information Cathy was giving him.

 "Yes, Vanessa. When I couldn't contact you, I called the hospital to find out what was going on. All they would tell me is she is in intensive care and is comatose. Since I'm not family, they wouldn't say anything else about her condition. Oh, Michael," she said again, unable to continue. She placed her arms around him and hugged him close a moment before he pulled away, looking at her, puzzled.

 "How? Why?"

 Cathy kept a firm hold on his arms as she continued. "I talked with the police. It seems they were in a car accident Saturday night on their way home from a friend's house. The other driver swerved into their lane and they crashed head-on. Apparently, the other driver was drunk."

 Michael couldn't seem to process what Cathy was saying. He could only think in single words.

 "They?" he asked, confused. "Oh God, not Michelle, too!"

 "No, Michelle is fine. She wasn't with them. She's at the Southampton house with Mrs. Carols. It was Matthew who was with her." Cathy hesitated, which only made the news harder to say. "I'm sorry, Michael. He didn't make it. He died on impact."

 At this, Michael fell on the sofa behind him, clutching a fist to his lips, completely stunned. Matthew was dead. And Vanessa was in the hospital. What had Cathy said? In a coma? Oh God, no.

 Cathy sat down beside Michael and linked her arm through his. Together they sat in silence staring at the patterns in the carpet, neither one speaking. Finally, it was she who broke the silence.

 "I've made plane reservations for you to Kennedy Airport and then on to East Hampton. I had to make several because I didn't know when I'd be able to contact you." She looked at her watch. "The next one leaves in an hour. If we hurry, you can catch it."

 Michael only sat, still stunned by the news. Knowing she had little time to get him to where he was needed the most, Cathy persisted. "I'll pack a few things for you so you can get going. And I'll drive you to O'Hare; it will be quicker that way." She rose to her feet but Michael caught her hand in his to stop her.

 "No, Cathy," he said, suddenly coming to his senses. "I'm still packed from this weekend. I'll just take that." He motioned to the suitcase still sitting in the entryway. "Anything else I need I can get at the house."

 Cathy nodded. "Good, then let's get going. My car's out front."

 But Michael still hung onto her hand and wouldn't let go. "Shouldn't I call the hospital first? Let them know I'm coming?"

 "I'll do that for you as soon as I get you on that plane. I think it's more important for you to just get there."

 "What about Matthew's parents?" Michael looked up at Cathy with pained eyes. He was still pale and his eyes looked almost black against his skin.

 "I'll call them too, and let them know you’re on the way." She reached her free hand out and clasped his in both of hers. "I'll come with you if you want me to," she offered quietly.

 Michael was so tempted to have her beside him through the long flight ahead and whatever else he'd have to face. But good sense told him where she really belonged.

 "No, you'd better stay here and run things. The office will need you here, and I'll inform the New York division that you are in charge until further notice." Michael rose heavily to his feet, still clasping Cathy's hands. "Don't mention anything about the accident to anyone though. I don't want a bunch of reporters on this if I can help it."

 Cathy nodded her understanding. Someone as affluent as Michael DeCara suffering a tragedy would make news. "I won't. Now, we really have to leave. Vanessa needs you."

 Cathy was in complete charge all the way to O'Hare, and getting the tickets straight and Michael to the right gate on time. She filled him in on instructions of flights and a car waiting for him in East Hampton that would take him straight to the hospital. They reached the gate just as the plane was boarding, leaving little time for words of goodbye. But none were necessary and Michael was grateful to Cathy for her devoted friendship.

 He turned to hug her at the boarding gate. "Pray she'll be all right."

 "I already am."

 After a brief kiss on the cheek, and a look that only passes between the closest of friends, Michael boarded the plane that would take him to his daughter.

Chapter Seventeen

 The two-hour flight to Kennedy International seemed endless. Michael sat in his seat, dazed, ignoring the people around him and the attendant who kept asking if he wanted anything. All I want is for my daughter to be all right, he kept thinking.

 His mind wandered over the few facts that Cathy had given him. Saturday night. The car had crashed Saturday night. His daughter was being taken to the hospital, already a young widow while he had slept on Dani's sofa. And Sunday, all day and into the night he had enjoyed life to its fullest with Dani at his side while his own flesh and blood lay comatose, all alone in the hospital.

 Guilt washed over him as a river over a waterfall. While he had been selfishly enjoying life, she had been immersed in death and pain. How could he ever shake the guilt of not being there when she needed him most?

 Another thought hit him hard. Dani. He had to tell Dani. But how could he? She cared so much for Vanessa, even now after all these years. No. It wasn't fair. How could he put all this pain on her after just having eased nineteen years of pain from her? He'd just wait and see how Vanessa was doing, and when she pulled out of it, he'd let her know. But what if she didn't make it? No, he wouldn't even allow himself to think about that possibility.

 By the time the plane landed at Kennedy it was ten-thirty at night and it was a weary, worn Michael who transferred to the small, four passenger plane that was waiting to take him to East Hampton. Twenty-five minutes later he was in the waiting limousine and on the way to Southampton Hospital where he arrived just before midnight looking very much like a patient himself.

 The time for visitors was long past but he was able to get past the receptionist at the front counter by explaining who he was. She directed him toward the ICU, down the long, florescent-lit corridor and to the left. Once there, he was again stopped by the nurse in charge, but after explaining he was Michael DeCara, she led him to the main room where the intensive care patients were being monitored.

 The halls were dimly lit due to the time of night, which gave an eerie feeling to the quiet halls. Together they passed through double doors that were marked "Hospital Personnel Only" and it was here that Michael had his first shock. Lined along the walls on both sides of him were beds with only curtains to separate them. Several were filled with patients, all unconscious or sleeping and hooked up to machines, tubes and IVs. Nurses in blue smocks were everywhere, keeping a constant vigil on the patients. The demanding beep of a heart monitor followed the pumping of his own heart.

 The nurse touched his elbow and led him to a bed halfway down the aisle. The curtain was drawn around the three sides of the bed. "Wait here," she said quietly, then entered the curtained cubical alone. A moment later, another nurse came out with her. "Only a few minutes please," the first nurse told him softly, then the two left him to enter the cubical alone.

 Ever so slowly he stepped through the curtain opening, stopping short at the sight that greeted his eyes. He'd been to hell and back in Vietnam, but nothing he'd experienced there could have ever prepared him for the sight now before him. Here was his own flesh and blood, his beautiful little girl, hanging onto life by tubes and wires.

 "Dear God," Michael breathed, as he slowly stepped toward the side of the bed, afraid that the slightest movement might disturb her lifelines. There were IV tubes everywhere, running into her arms and hands, one hooked up to her chest. An oxygen tube was strapped around her face, attached to her nostrils, and wires from the beeping heart monitor were streaming from her chest. But it wasn't the tubes and wires that disturbed him most. A large patch of her beautiful auburn-colored hair had been shaved from the side and back of her head, and replaced by bandages.

 "What have they done to you?" he cried hoarsely, dropping to the chair that sat beside her bed as his eyes filled and blurred with tears. He swiped at them with the back of his sweater sleeve and once again made himself look at his daughter. She seemed to be sleeping peacefully despite the horror that was going on around her. Carefully, he reached for her hand, gently placing his under it so as not to disturb the tube that was hooked into its back. Then, looking into her sleeping face, he said quietly, "Daddy's here honey. Everything's going to be all right." And he bent his head over her hand and let the tears flow.

 He didn't know how long he'd sat that way until the nurse in the blue smock came and gently touched him on the shoulder. "Mr. DeCara," she whispered. "Mr. DeCara, you should go now, sir."

 Michael raised his head slowly and looked into the nurse's warm, brown eyes. "No, I have to stay. Just a few minutes longer." His eyes were red-rimmed, he looked almost delirious.

 The nurse kneeled down to his level and placed a hand on his shoulder. She'd seen so many others like him, all hurting for a loved one. Yet each one tore at her heart. "You can't do anything for her tonight," she offered softly. "You can come back tomorrow and see her when you're rested."

 When he made no effort to move, she tried again. "Please Mr. DeCara. You won't do her any good by getting sick yourself. You need your strength for the days ahead. Please, it's late."

 Michael looked down once again at Vanessa finally realizing that the nurse was right. He slowly rose from his chair and stepped through the curtains with the nurse right behind him. He was so tired, he suddenly felt a hundred years old and his shoulders slumped as a world of heartache fell upon them.

 He turned back to the nurse. "Tell me what's wrong with her," he said, trying to keep his voice controlled. "Why is she in a coma? Why is her head bandaged?" And then, pleadingly, "Will she live?"

 The nurse looked at him steadily, the warmth still in her eyes. "She's been in a coma since she was brought in and the doctors had to operate to relieve the pressure that was building in her brain. That's really all I can tell you for now. Tomorrow, the doctors will be here and you can speak to them about her condition."

 Seeing the desperation in his eyes she added. "She has been stable for the past twelve hours and we might be able to transfer her into a room by tomorrow. That's a good sign."

 Michael only stared at her, unable to say anything more. The nurse patted his shoulder again. "Go home, Mr. DeCara. Come back in the morning after you've slept. I promise we'll take good care of her."

 "Thank you," Michael said, and turned and walked down the aisle of beds and out through the double doors, out of the room that seemed to him to only hold death.