Accidents of Marriage (11 page)

Gracie’s lips trembled. “I wasn’t sneaking! I went to the bathroom and heard you.”

“Heard what?” Emma took Gracie’s chin and turned her so that they were face-to-face. “What about Grandpa?”

Gracie squirmed out of Emma’s hold and turned to Uncle Sean, seeming to seek permission.

“We have to tell them now, Sean.” Vanessa laced her fingers on top of the table.

Sean shook his head and placed his hands in the air as if giving up.

Emma, Gracie, and Caleb stayed silent—an unspoken message zipped between them as happened so often with her siblings.
Stay quiet; we’ll learn more.

After a few too-quiet moments Aunt Vanessa twisted up her ratty hair and then let it fall back. “Kids, you know how crazy your father drives. That’s what’s bothering Grandpa.”

“We don’t know how it happened, Vanessa.” Uncle Sean frowned at her aunt. “Another car was involved. The driver was tailgating. And speeding.”

“Did that car make it happen?” Gracie asked. “The speeding one?”

“Probably, honey.” Her uncle took Gracie’s hand.

“But what about Daddy’s crazy driving?” Gracie’s sweetness confused people. They didn’t realize you could be sweet as pie and still dig, dig, dig until you got the truth.

“It was an accident,” Uncle Sean said. “Sometimes terrible things just happen.”

Caleb pushed away from the table hard enough so that his chair fell over as he ran to the living room and switched on the television.

“And sometimes they’re preventable,” Aunt Vanessa said.

CHAPTER 10

Ben

“Wake up, son.”

Ben opened his eyes. He prayed the sight of his father standing over him was some fucked-up dream. Look at him. Wearing a suit in August as though he were at Maddy’s wake. Ben’s mother stood beside his father, twisting her wedding band around a thin finger. Seeing her shake her head, Ben straightened up and made an impotent attempt to smooth his wrinkled shirt.

After giving him an unreadable look, his mother turned to his mother-in-law, all stiff and sorrowful. “Anne. I’m so sorry. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

The Judge, as Ben always thought of him, sat next to Anne and kissed her cheek. “Where’s Jake?”

“Getting something to eat,” Anne said. “I’m so glad you’re here. Please, talk to Ben. I’m worried. I’m positive he’s hurting more than he’s letting on.”

His mother turned her head. “Oh, no! Were you hurt?”

“Just some bruised ribs.”

“The doctor said they were fractured.” Anne laced her fingers. “I think he should go home and get a few hours of sleep.”

“I slept in the chair.” Ben lifted his arm and checked his watch, trying not to wince. Bright sun poured into the room through the bank of windows. It was nine thirty. Without the frigid air-conditioning, the place would be a sauna. “Anne, really. I think you’re the one who should go home and take a break.”

“No. I can’t leave.” She held Maddy’s jacket that Vanessa had left, patting the fleece as though it were her daughter.

“You can’t stay forever,” Ben’s father said in his slow measured tone. “We’ll take this shift.”

“Nobody needs to take a shift. Maddy won’t be alone.” Ben ran a hand over his scratchy chin, surrounded by his own rankness. “I’m here.”

“Of course,” his father said. “But you must clean up. And you need to check on the children.”

“The kids are fine. They’re with Vanessa and Sean. And I already spoke to Emma.”

“Then you and I must go somewhere. Away from this waiting room. We need to talk.”

“About what?”

The Judge glanced over at Anne and stood. Even at seventy-six Ben’s father appeared taller than his actual height. Somehow the Judge always appeared patrician, despite his immigrant roots, while Ben carried the mark of their Roma ancestors in every feature. “There are issues to discuss.”

“My only issue at this moment is Maddy.”

His mother tapped his wrist with two fingers. “Don’t be difficult.”

Ben pulled away, exhaustion and hunger battling inside him. He looked around to see if his parents had brought anything practical: a donut, a muffin, even a glass of juice. Nothing. Just the Judge’s counsel.

Ben followed his father into the hall. The moment they separated from Anne and Ben’s mother, his father’s demeanor went from mannered and concerned to controlled vehemence. “I spoke to your brother. He made some calls. He thinks you could be charged with reckless driving. Driving to endanger.”

Between Jake using his connections to indict Ben and his father
calling on his brother Andrew’s second-rate legal skills to help him, he’d be squashed like a bug.

“Under what auspices did you have Andrew speak for me?” When he spoke to his father, Ben became a ridiculous imitation of to-the-manor-born, matching the Judge haughty word for haughty word.

“He’s simply your temporary counsel.”

“If I needed counsel, I would have arranged it.”

Before his father could respond, Jake came toward them, carrying a cardboard box divided into four spaces. Giant white cups took up three of the notches; a grease-stained bag was balanced on top of the fourth. Ben opened the door and followed his father-in-law and father back into the waiting room.

Jake placed the overstuffed box on one of the side tables, then pecked Ben’s mother’s cheek and shook hands with the Judge.

“I am sorry that you must go through this terrible time, Jake,” the Judge said. “Whatever you need, we’re here.”

“Sure, sure. Sorry I didn’t know you were here. I’ll go back and get you both a coffee. Wait. No. Frances, you take mine.”

“We’re fine.” Ben’s mother pressed her hand to her chest—the nervous gesture familiar. “We already reached our limit.”

Anne lifted the cups from the cardboard box. “You didn’t go to the cafeteria?”

“I know you like the Dunkin’s. I figured you’d want a bagel, even if it was from there. I brought Ben an egg-and-cheese.” He turned to his son-in-law. “You didn’t eat last night, right?”

“Thanks, but I’m not really hungry.”

He was famished.

Anne ripped open the bag and made a flat paper surface for the food. “Eat.” She put three napkins under the egg sandwich and brought it to Ben. “I’ll get your coffee.”

“He can get his own coffee, Anne.” Jake reached over and grabbed a cup, ripping the lid off with a pop. Anne placed a coffee next to Ben.

Gloom regained control of the room. Anne ignored her bagel. “Oh, God. What are we going to do?”

In answer, Jake put an arm around her. No one else picked up the question.

At the moment when Ben thought he’d suffocate from the stuffy quiet, when the likelihood of his bashing his fist into the wall simply so he could feel the pain seemed imminent, a sober-faced man in his early fifties walked in, carrying charts and authority. Probably Jake’s top doctor. The neurologist.

“Mr. Greene?” The man looked around the room.

Jake stood. “Dr. Kaplan?” The sought-after specialist had pink scrubbed skin. Thick white hair, combed a little long in the back, gave him the look of a symphony conductor.

“How is she?” Jake asked. “Sid told you that nothing should be spared? Nothing?”

Ben put his hand out. “I’m Maddy’s husband. Have you seen her?”

“I spoke to the surgeon,” the doctor began. “Dr. Gordon.”

Anne joined the tight circle. “I’m Maddy’s mother.”

The doctor backed away from the three of them and moved to a center chair, where he commanded the small room. “Everything I say is preliminary. We can’t be sure of anything yet.”

Anne twisted a napkin until paper knots popped. “What do you know?”

“Mrs. Illica’s head trauma caused brain swelling.” Dr. Kaplan opened the chart, ran his fingers along the pages, read some, stopped, and then looked up. “The surgeon removed a blood clot and repaired the damaged blood vessels. She shouldn’t have further bleeding. He inserted a pressure-monitoring device to let us know if her brain starts to swell again. This will look intimidating, but it tells the ICU team if there’s a problem.” He looked around. “Stop me if you have a question.”

“What happens now?” Ben asked.

“We wait.” He paused, perhaps to let them catch up with him, to take it all in. “We won’t know the extent of her injury until she wakes up, which isn’t waking up as you and I know it. Waking from a brain injury is a slow process; we call it emerging. At this stage, I can’t tell you when, or if, that will happen.”

Ben looked at the doctor’s face closely. “Maddy’s in a coma?”

“Your wife had an injury to the temporal lobe. The left side. Right now, yes, she is in a state of coma.”

“State of coma. Coma. Is there a difference?” Panic crept in one limb at a time.

“It means that it’s early and there’s hope.”

Hope. The doctor’s words, meant to be reassuring, terrified Ben. Why did he feel the need to tell them there was hope? Analyzing those words told him that some would say there wasn’t hope. One only said “there is hope” when perhaps there wasn’t. When one possibility was “hopeless.”

“You can see her now, Mr. Illica,” the doctor said.

•  •  •

He couldn’t take in the whole picture when he finally saw Maddy. For many minutes, Ben could only look at one part of her at a time.

Had they drained too much blood during the operation? Her skin was the color of oatmeal. Tubes snaked in and out of her; machinery surrounded her. There was no place to touch her. Thick elastic stockings and white plastic boots hissing in and out with air covered her feet. Finally, Ben touched the end of her pinkie. How could he let Anne come in? Or, God forbid, Emma? Maddy’s head wrapped in gauze—Jesus, had they shaved her head?

Her hair was so fucking beautiful, even though she always complained about it. Too frizzy. Too curly. But Ben loved her hair. Had he told her? In the last ten years, had he even mentioned it?

He sensed someone behind him and turned. “I’m Bernadette,” said the woman. “Your wife’s nurse.” She wore pink scrubs. “Do you have any questions?”

Ben searched for the right words, wanting her to know that this woman, this object lying here in the bed, held his vivid Maddy. That she had people, family all around her who would ask questions, who cared, who’d pummel the staff with questions until they answered. Did Ben have a question? How could he possibly pick one out of an entire Bible of hopeless queries?

“Is she okay?” Ben made a half circle over the machines around Maddy. “I mean . . . I know she isn’t okay. But is she comfortable? Is she in pain?”

“She seems peaceful, Mr. Illica.”

“Ben. Please. Call me Ben,” he said. To his shame, a tear leaked out. Bernadette put her hand on his back.

“Please . . .” He couldn’t speak. He wanted to tell her not to be nice, certain that her kindness would bring on more tears.

“It’s okay, Ben. When you can’t cry, that’s when you have a problem.”

He had no idea if that was true or just some sort of nurse bullshit, but it soothed him. Each time he looked at Maddy, he noticed another horrifying piece of equipment attached to her that struck him cold. “What’s that?” He pointed at a cuplike disc attached to Maddy’s head, thick tubes coming out the top.

“That’s the one that always scares people. It looks terrible, I know, but at the moment it’s your wife’s best friend. It’s an intracranial pressure monitor.”

Ben nodded, vaguely remembering the doctor’s words. Pressure monitor. Sweet Jesus, look at her. He held the tip of her pinkie again, rolling his fingers over the rubbery flesh. What were his last words to Maddy? He’d been so angry with her. Jake had hit it on the head: Ben was a fucking putz. A perfect definition of someone who paid more attention to his clients than he did his family: a fucking putz.

“. . . it will beep if that happens. She’s intubated to guarantee an airway until we know she’s breathing on her own.”

Ben nodded. “Right.”
Sharpen up!
He hadn’t heard a goddamned word.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave now.” She touched him again—they must learn that, the soft touch, the nod. “It’s only ten minutes to each visitor.”

Right.

“And Ben, here’s a little advice from someone who has worked in ICU for fifteen years.”

Ben, wary of her words, eager for her help, leaned in. In the last ten minutes Bernadette had become his world.

“Go home.” Bernadette placed a hand on his arm. “Take a shower. Sleep. This isn’t going to be an overnight crisis. You’re in shock. You’re hurt yourself; you were also in an accident—”

“Caused an accident,” he said, spilling to this nurse confessor.

Bernadette took his hand. “Never assume she can’t hear. She may be taking in every word you say. So don’t raise your voice. Don’t speak without thinking. She’s here to heal. Now say good-bye, let your in-laws in, go home, and get rest so you can be strong for Madeline.”

“Maddy.”

“Thank you.” She placed a hand on Maddy’s thigh. “Maddy. I’ll let the other nurses and doctors know.”

•  •  •

Ben couldn’t handle any more caffeine; his stomach already felt as though it had been corroded by sulfuric acid. He glanced at the cafeteria offerings, wondering how sick people were supposed to get healthy while being offered this shit: donuts, cookies, greasy pressed mystery-meat sandwiches. Finally, he grabbed a carton of milk, paid, and looked for his father.

The Judge sat at a corner table, sipping his own carton. The Judge had ulcers. No doubt Ben’s were waiting twenty years from now. Ben sat at the none-too-clean plastic table.

“You’d think they’d keep a hospital cafeteria cleaner.” Ben brushed away crumbs with a napkin. Conversations with his father came in fits and starts, if at all.

“Look at this.” The Judge shook a copy of the
Boston Herald
in his face. No wonder his father had dragged him to the cafeteria. A photo of the accident scene took up a quarter of the page. Reading the headline made him want to flip over the table.

Accident on Jamaicaway: Senior Public Defender Driving to Endanger?

“Jesus fucking Christ. Bastards.” Ben pushed the paper away and slammed back in the cafeteria chair. “What if the kids see this?”