Our First Christmas (34 page)

To her horror, now, as she stared at the screen, she thought she recognized Chris's sedan, a white Ford with a crumpled front end, broken windshield, and mangled quarter panel. The roof had suffered horrid damage, collapsing deep into the interior, the entire interior caving in. Anyone riding in the car would have been seriously injured if he or she had survived. “Dear God,” she whispered, horrified.
Not Chris, not Chris, not Chris.

Her heart twisted.

“Johnson? Isn't that what you said?” the woman behind the desk asked.

Startled out of her reverie, Megan caught her breath and blinked back tears of worry. “Yes, yes, Chris Johnson, the police said that he was life flighted from an accident scene and—”

“He's in surgery,” Betty Hilgaard said, eyeing a computer screen in front of her. “Third floor. OR 7. There's a waiting room for family members near the nurses' station up there.”

Tears gathered in her eyes. “Please, can you . . . can anyone tell me how he's doing? What're his injuries?” Dear God, this was a nightmare.

The little woman offered a patient, practiced smile. “There are volunteers on the third floor,” she said. “Someone there can help you. I'm sure there will be paperwork to fill out, and a doctor will talk to you.”

Megan just needed to know that her husband would survive, to be assured that he would survive and be all right. As another couple joined the woman behind her in the line to the information desk, Megan tried to get a grip. Ms. Hilgaard pointed to an alcove tucked near the admitting area. “The elevators are just over there.”

“I know,” Megan said a little more curtly than she'd intended. “Thank you.” Her nerves were strung tight, her heart a drum as she half ran to the bank of elevators, her boots clicking a sharp tattoo on the floor. She'd been in this hospital often enough. Both her children had been born here, she thought with a pang, remembering barely being able to get to the delivery room as Brody, true to his nature, had come fast, hurrying to be born, just as he'd barreled headlong into the rest of his life, moving quickly, with a high pain threshold that would make him a threat on the football field and a fearlessness that caused him to join the army barely after he'd turned eighteen.

How eagerly she and Chris had anticipated their son's birth. Megan's throat tightened as she remembered seeing Chris in the delivery room, his eyes shining with tears of happiness, his hands so large as they cradled a screaming, red Brody for the first time.

She nearly stumbled at the memory. Oh, God, Chris had to be all right.

At the elevators she slapped the call button and paced, seconds stretching endlessly before one of the elevators landed, doors opening, a hospital worker pushing an elderly man in a wheelchair, oxygen tank attached, into the hallway.

Once they passed, Meg slipped inside before the doors closed again and impatiently pounded the button for the third floor. The car was detained as two teenaged girls, both in skinny jeans, one holding a bouquet of pink roses and a helium balloon in the shape of a baby rattle, entered and pressed the button for the second floor, where the maternity ward was located. Megan thought she would go out of her mind as the balloon nearly got caught in the doors, the rattle floating back into the hallway, the teens thinking it was so damned funny they both giggled and laughed. Meg held her tongue and onto her rapidly fleeing patience as they reeled in the balloon and the car finally moved upward.

Pink roses. Pink balloon. A girl.

Megan's heart nearly tore from her chest as she remembered Chris holding Lindy as he had their son, just after cutting the umbilical cord. How he'd said, “She's perfect,” and had beamed, again tears sheening in his eyes. And now . . . now . . . She couldn't even think the worst, wouldn't let her mind go there.

She felt a jab of guilt, but buried it. Chris, after all, had been the one to move out, to initiate the separation.

The car stopped, doors whispering open, and the two girls, talking and joking, blissfully unaware of the crises happening in the ER and surgery rooms, stepped onto the second floor. The doors closed, and with a jolt the elevator car moved again. Within seconds, Megan was on the third floor, glancing at the signs mounted on the hallway walls, making her way quickly to the waiting area for patients in surgery and bracing herself for the worst.

She wasn't alone. The room was filled, most chairs and one small couch occupied. A coffeepot stood empty, ready to be refilled, in one corner; magazines were strewn across tables. An oversized computer monitor mounted on one wall displayed an Excel-type program listing patients by numbers and colors, which indicated where each was in his treatment: Beige was pre-op; blue indicated the patient was in surgery; and green denoted that he'd been transferred to a recovery area. In each box, along with the ID number, was a tiny digital clock indicating how long the patient had been involved in his or her procedure. After speaking with the attendant, showing her ID, and filling out a release while handing over insurance information, Megan was handed a slip of paper with Chris's hospital ID number.

“Can you tell me how he's doing?” she asked, desperate. “All I know is that he was in an accident, a bad accident—the one on the interstate—and that he was life flighted and . . . and now he's here.” Her voice faltered, and she fought tears again.

“I'm sorry. This is all the information I have,” the attendant, around sixty, with kind eyes behind rimless glasses, said. “I'll try to find a doctor or a nurse, someone from ER who might have admitted him. In the meantime you can follow his progress.” She offered a smile, then motioned up to the computer screen mounted on the wall.

“Thank you.” Megan, shell shocked, found the colored rectangle on the screen dedicated to her husband, a glowing blue square. According to the glowing chart he was still in surgery, the timer indicating that so far the procedure had gone on for one hour and seven minutes. Since no one could give her any more information, Megan found a seat in the waiting room, clung to the paper with his number, and stared vacantly at the computer screen as the digital timer continued to add seconds to the length of his procedure. Or procedures, she reminded herself when she recalled the picture on the television, just a flash of the horrifying image, the mangled vehicle she thought belonged to her husband.

Sooner or later she would have to call her children. They had the right to know that their father was battling for his life. She'd only hesitated because she'd hoped before she made those calls that she'd have a more complete report on his condition, understand more what had happened to him, would be able to give them the extent of his injuries and, of course, be able to assure them that their father would be fine.

But that wasn't going to happen for a long while, if at all.

Please let him be all right,
she thought, sending up a prayer while a tight-lipped woman in her thirties said, “So what's with the coffee? Hey! Does anyone care that we're outta coffee over here?” The Thirty-Something was glaring at the woman at the desk where three people were waiting, and, ignoring them, held up the empty pot.

Everyone in the waiting room stopped what they were doing to stare at her, and she finally got the hint. “Hey! I'm just sayin'. They offer coffee in this place, then they'd better take care of it, you know what I mean? It's not like we're not payin' for it. Ever seen a bill? Out-effin'-rageous!” She replaced the pot, looked up at the screen, then headed through the door. “I'm goin' to effin' Starbucks!” she proclaimed as if anyone cared, her high-heeled boots ringing sharply down the hallway.

“Bully for you,” a man muttered. Slouched in one of the chairs near the doorway, a baseball cap covering his head, he was reading this morning's sports section of the local paper and hadn't even looked up at the woman's dramatic exit.

Within seconds, it seemed, a hospital worker rolled a cart into the room and exchanged the empty pot for two carafes, then refilled all the baskets containing stir sticks, sweeteners, and creamers.

“So there is a God,” the guy in the cap said as he folded his paper and made his way to the counter with the fresh pots. “And he's got an effin' sense of humor.”

Meanwhile, Megan stared at Chris's rectangle on the chart.

One hour. Sixteen minutes.

No change in status.

She couldn't put it off any longer.

It was time to call the kids.

Bracing herself, she pulled the cell from her purse, ready to speed-dial Brody. Her phone jangled in her hand.

She looked down at the tiny screen, and her heart sank. The heart-wrenching situation took a turn for the worse as Adam Newell's name and number flashed onto the display.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Adam said after she'd stepped into the hallway and answered. A nurse pushing a rattling cart of medications walked by. Megan glanced up at a sign mounted on the wall.
No Cell Phone Use
had been posted in bold red letters, and a circle with a line drawn through it was painted over the image of a flip phone.

“I'm fine.” She was moving quickly, around a gurney where a man, covered in sheets and with an IV attached to him, was being wheeled along the wide, glistening hallway; the attendant rolling the cart glared at her. “I can't talk now. Hold on a sec.”

She found a stairwell, hurried to the first floor, and walked through the lobby to the parking lot, where the temperature was far below freezing and falling snow was dancing in the bluish light from the security lamps.

“You still there?” she said as she pressed the phone to her ear again.

“Of course I am.”

“Good, good,” she said.

“Look, there's been a bad accident on the interstate. It's all over the news. I knew that you'd been working late and was worried that you might have been involved.”

She closed her eyes for a second to gather herself. Her life was such a mess right now, such a disaster, and Adam Newell, Chris's cousin and now her boss, was squarely in the middle of it.

“I'm fine,” she said, seeing her breath fog in the cold air.

“Thank God.”

“But . . . but not Chris.”

“Chris? What about him?” Concern edged Adam's voice.

“He was in the pileup somehow. I don't know the details, but he was life flighted to County General.”

“Oh, my God.”

“He's in surgery. I don't know what for or how he's injured, how bad it is, but obviously it's not good. I'm at the hospital.”

“Jesus, Meg.” He sounded devastated.

Quickly, she filled him in on the sparse details, then finished with, “I have to get back inside to check on him, and then I need to call the kids.” She watched two more cars that were circling for spots and noted that most of the emergency vehicles had left. No longer were ambulances, their lights flashing, taking up space under the canopy of the emergency room entrance, and only one news van remained, two people cradling coffee cups visible through the windshield, no reporter or cameraman braving the elements.

“I'll be there in half an hour,” Adam was saying as she walked through the first set of double doors of the main entrance.

“No, Adam,” she said. “You don't have to—”

“Of course I do. Chris is my cousin, for God's sake. And you—” She stopped dead in her tracks and squeezed her eyes shut.
Don't. Don't say it.
“—well, you know what you mean to me.”

She knew that he wasn't talking about the fact that he'd once been her brother-in-law, had been married to her older sister. At the thought of Natalie, Megan's heart twisted a little more painfully. “Adam, don't,” she warned. “Please. No.”

The wireless connection was severed.

Like it or not, Adam Newell was on his way.

“Is he all right?” Lindy's voice was an octave higher than usual. “Mom?”

What could Megan say? How could she reassure her daughter? “He's in surgery now,” she repeated from a cell-phone friendly area near the hospital's cafeteria. “He's been in for over two hours, but I still don't know what's wrong with him or any details. I've asked over and over again, and they've promised that I can speak to some nurse in the ER, but it's a madhouse here.” And that wasn't a lie. Though it was now close to midnight, the hospital was crawling with visitors, worried loved ones who, like Megan, waited for any kind of news. Not only had there been the massive accident on the interstate, but other emergencies as well. The one cafeteria that was open 24/7 was crowded and running out of food, benches and chairs in the open areas were filled, and through the wide glass windows, Megan noticed others talking or smoking in the parking lot, where the temperature had plunged to below twenty.

“I'm coming home.”

“Not now, honey. Please. There's nothing you can do.”

“I'm coming, Mom. I'll catch the next train.”

“But you have finals and—”

“This is Dad, Mom. Dad! And I'm coming. You may not love him anymore, but I do!” Lindy clicked off, and Megan quietly counted to ten.

Though the separation had been a mutual decision, Megan had been blamed for Chris's moving out. At least by their daughter. “You never loved him enough,” Lindy had said more than once.

“He adored you, Mom,
adored
you. And you didn't love him.” Lindy hadn't even realized she'd used the past tense when talking about her father's feelings for Megan. That adoration had been a long, long while ago.

“I loved him, love him . . . but you just don't understand.”

“You're right; I don't. People who love each other don't get a divorce, Mom; they find a way to get over it, past it, through it, or whatever. You just have to try.”

So easy for a girl not yet twenty to believe. Lindy was on the brink of womanhood, but still believed in Disney-like fairy-tale endings. There was nothing, in Lindy's mind, that love couldn't conquer. Meg, at Lindy's age, had felt the same. Now, though . . .

May as well make it a double,
she thought as she stood in the hospital's hallway and speed dialed her son. No answer. She wasn't surprised. Brody lived in Boston now, was registered for school, but, Megan suspected, wasn't really attending. A few classes here, an odd job there. Brody had come back from the war a man, yes, no longer a boy, but seemed to have no real goals, not even a purpose in life. Whatever spirit and boyish charm he'd carried with him to Afghanistan, he seemed to have left there. He'd been a medic, seen far too much, and now was drifting. Hopefully, not for long.

She texted her son, asking him to call, then made her way to the third floor again, where, she discovered, there was no change in Chris's status. He was still in surgery, but now, the clock registering the length of his procedures was ticking off the seconds at over three hours.

She slid into one of the vacated chairs, glanced at the muted television, then at the scattered magazines, but nothing held her interest, and she couldn't help checking and rechecking Chris's status.

At least he was alive.

“Mrs. Johnson?” A female voice caught her attention, and she looked up to see a nurse standing in the doorway. Tall, slim, and African-American, she wore her hair clipped short and a uniform of a blue hospital tunic with matching pants. She said again, “Mrs. Johnson?” to the waiting room in general.

“Yes. I'm Megan Johnson,” Meg said, on her feet in an instant. “My husband is Christopher.”

“Edie Brown, RN.” Even though Megan's boots had two-inch heels, Nurse Brown was taller than she, with regal features and eyes that had seen it all. Edie shook Megan's outstretched hand. “Come into the hallway. It's a little more private there, and I do mean ‘a little, ' but all of the consulting rooms are full right now, and I've only got a few minutes. I heard you wanted to know about your husband.”

“Yes,” Megan said, trying not to sound as desperate as she felt. She followed the nurse to a quieter space near an alcove for vending machines. “How is he? What's wrong with him? I've heard nothing.” She was panicking again, her voice rising, and with effort, she took it down a notch. “Sorry. I'm just . . . I'm just worried sick.”

“I know. I apologize for any delay or confusion. Look, it's crazy tonight, but I was your husband's ER nurse, and I won't lie to you, his condition is serious. Multiple contusions, fractured pelvis, internal bleeding, head injuries.” She hesitated a second while Megan processed what was being said. “From what I understand he had to be pulled out of his vehicle. Jaws of life.”

Megan leaned against the wall for support. “Oh, God.” For the first time she thought, really considered, what life would be like without Chris, how empty life would be for her, for the kids, if he didn't survive.

Her kids . . . oh, Lord, her kids would never get over it. Nor, she guessed, would she. The void would be so all-consuming. It was one thing to separate, to consider and decide on divorce, but another to be faced with the final and decimating thought that he would no longer exist. Her throat swelled so tight she could barely whisper, “Is he going to make it?”

The nurse's smile was patient if not reassuring. “We're doing everything we can. He's got a great surgical team with him, headed by Dr. Atwood. She's the best. And your husband seemed like a strong, fit man.” She glanced down the hallway, then placed a warm hand on Megan's shoulder. “But, as I said, his injuries are severe. You might want to contact any other of his relatives, if you haven't already.”

“Oh, God.”

“Where there's life, there's hope,” Nurse Brown said as a pager in her pocket went off. “Good luck. I'll check back with you before my shift's over.”

“Thank . . . thank you,” Megan whispered, her eyes flooding. God, she'd been a fool. All the fights, all the anger, all the pain . . .

Clearing her throat, she dashed her tears aside with the back of her hand. Now wasn't the time for recriminations. Feeling numb inside, she made her way to the waiting room, checked the chart, saw no difference in Chris's status, and fell into a chair. She texted a few people who were close to him, just saying he'd been in an accident and was in surgery and to call her—his folks, who spent their winters in Florida, and Natalie, across the Atlantic. Megan had known her husband since she was seventeen and to consider that he might not be around was . . . unthinkable. Sliding her phone into her pocket, she felt her fingers brush against something else, a sharp corner.

Frowning, she pulled out the ornament she'd slipped into her pocket at the house, the silver frame with a tiny picture of Chris and Megan at their wedding over twenty years earlier. She'd been young, about Lindy's age. And just as filled with dreams.

In the photo, she and Chris looked so fresh-faced, so full of life, so ready to take on the world, even though, really, the ornament wasn't representative of their first Christmas together, just their first holiday season as a married couple. Nowhere on the silvery decoration was it mentioned that she had been barely nineteen and already three months pregnant. She still remembered how disappointed her parents had been, how they'd pinned their hopes on her finishing college, and even going further, to law school, her dream, all of which she'd managed to accomplish. With not just one baby, but two.

And Chris's unyielding support.

She bit her lip as the memories washed over her in an emotional torrent. Her first Christmas with Chris had happened two years earlier than the holiday captured in the photo. She'd been barely seventeen. At the time Megan had naïvely believed she was in love with the man who was marrying her sister, the man who even now was on his way to the hospital: Adam Newell.

God, she'd been a fool. An innocent, naïve idiot.

Glancing once more at the wall chart with its timer ticking off the seconds of Chris's life, Megan blinked against those same tears that had been her companion since she'd heard of his accident. As she clutched the ornament tightly in her palm, she remembered that first magical night when she'd met Chris, a night when he'd been bold enough to kiss her and in so doing had altered the course of her life forever.