Accidents of Marriage (12 page)

“Are you surprised?” the Judge asked. “It’s August. Slow news month. Didn’t you realize this would happen? Do you think that your actions have no consequences?”

Ben wanted to belt his father in the chin. “You think lectures will help me? Maddy? Or the kids?”

His father sat up even straighter. “Can we deal with realities and duties? Leave the drama for later?”

“Listen, Dad. I need—”

His father placed his hand hard on the table. “Enough. It doesn’t matter what we need. We need to keep you from a court case. That’s what we need.”

•  •  •

Ben’s house was just as he’d left it twenty-seven hours ago. Hot. Airless. Windows shut against rain, Gracie’s book on the hallway bench. Breakfast dishes littered the kitchen table. An inch of cold coffee sat on the bottom of the carafe. Ben picked up a crumpled napkin, stepped on the garbage can lever, balled up the paper, and threw it in. Hunger gnawed, and he grabbed the peanut butter out of the refrigerator. The fucking bread tore when he tried to make a sandwich. He took only a few bites of the cold peanut butter spread on stale bread before he tossed it on the table.

An individual pack of chips Maddy used for the kids’ lunches caught his eye, no doubt left on the counter during the morning rush. Yesterday. A thousand years ago. Had one of the kids’ lunches been short a snack?

He ripped open the small package and ate the greasy chips in three handfuls. Then he put his mouth under the faucet, drank, washed days of filmy residue from his mouth, and went upstairs.

Files were scattered across the unmade bed where he’d left them. He pushed everything over and forced his shoes off with his toes. As he fell across the bed, he tore a loose page, a file escapee.

Visions of the accident looped. He probed for every mistake he’d made, where he should have gone faster, slower, moved up, back. Headline:
Husband Puts Wife in Coma.

Lying on his stomach wasn’t tolerable. He rolled over. The number
23
blinked on the base of the phone unit. Twenty-three messages. He struggled up to get the phone and then fell back. Screw it. The hospital
had his cell. The kids had his cell. He took it out of his pocket, flipped it open, and ran through the calls. No hospital. Kath. He’d call her later. Emma twice. He listened to the last one. She wanted to talk to him, but she was okay. He’d call her soon.

His head was killing him. His ribs were killing him. Visions were killing him. He’d just close his eyes for a minute.
Please live, Maddy. Please be okay. Oh, dear Jesus up above, please, please, please, please, please.

CHAPTER 11

Emma

Emma called her father. Again. She slouched at the table, picking at a dried cereal flake stuck to Melody’s high chair, listening to her father’s cell phone ringing in her ear until his voicemail picked up for the tenth time.

“Daddy. Call me back. Where are you?” She closed her phone and held it, not wanting to let go of her only connection.

The kids were watching television.

There was no one to talk to, no one to answer her questions. Uncle Sean went to work after all, needing to cover for Grandpa, who was at the hospital with Grandma and Aunt Vanessa, who’d dropped Ursula at nursery school. Some old-lady babysitter was here, but just for baby Melody—Emma was in charge of Gracie and Caleb.

She opened the phone, hating to do it, and dialed her aunt.

“Aunt Vanessa? It’s Emma.”

“What’s wrong?” Aunt Vanessa asked. “Do you need anything?”

“Is Dad there?”

“No.”

“Can I talk to Grandma?”

“Who is it?” Emma heard her grandmother in the background.

“Just Emma.”

“Give me the phone,” Grandma said.

“Hold on, hon.” Aunt Vanessa sounded tired.

Emma put her feet up and leaned her head on her knees. The small pink mark where she’d picked off a scab, the one her mother had told her to leave alone, was turning silvery.

“Emma, it’s Grandma.”

“Grandma, where’s my father?” Emma choked out the words around her tears. “He didn’t answer the phone.”

“It’s okay. Daddy went home to sleep. He’s exhausted.”

“Is Mom awake?”

“Not yet.”

“Is she going to wake up?”

Emma heard an intake of breath, but her grandmother didn’t answer.

“Is she in a coma?” Emma looked over at the notebook she’d placed on the kitchen table. “Did they do a Glasgow score yet?”

“A what? Tell me.”

Emma cleared her throat and read her notes aloud: “Listen.
The simplest bedside clinical exam performed in TBI
—that means traumatic brain injury—
is the Glasgow coma score, evaluating eye opening ability, vocal or verbal ability, and best movement ability.
Do you want me to read the rest?”

“How long is it? Shush, Vanessa. Sorry, darling.”

“There are only a few more lines.”

“Go ahead.”

Emma blew her nose, cleared her throat, and continued. “
The scores range from 3, which indicates no detectable function, to 15, which indicates fully alert. A score of 8 or less indicates coma. A single score cannot predict an outcome or prognosis, but a series of scores over a period of time indicates a trend.
That’s it.”

“And that’s called what?”

“Glasgow coma score.”

“Glasgow like in Scotland?”

“I don’t know. I guess. But it says it’s the main test.”

“Glasgow. Okay, Grandpa and I will ask. Did you find it on the computer?”

“I want to come to the hospital. I can take the train. I know how to get there.”

“Daddy doesn’t want you to come here, sweetheart. It’s not a good place for you.”

Now Grandma wasn’t even trying to hide her tears.

“It’s okay,” Emma said. “I just got scared for a minute. But I’m okay.” She stood and walked in circles, running her hand over the stove, the counter, picking up the fresh box of Oreos that Uncle Sean had put out for them and then putting it down.

Grandpa’s voice replaced Grandma’s. “Emma, Grandma is upset, baby. She can’t talk anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa.”

“No, no, it’s not you, darling.” Emma heard his slow deep sigh. “She’s just worried about Mommy. You need to be a brave girl and take care of Caleb and Gracie. We’re counting on you, darling.”

“Okay. I’m okay, Grandpa. Don’t worry.”

“I know. I don’t have to worry about you, kiddo. You’re my spunky monkey, remember?”

Grandpa had a name for each of them. Emma had been Spunky Monkey from the time she’d been old enough to walk, spinning around the house, a determined little dervish, Grandpa said. Gracie was Grandpa’s Sugar Cookie. When Caleb was born and announced his presence—
Gottenyu, what a set of lungs!
—Grandpa christened him the
Gonster Macher
, which Grandma explained meant “big shot” but different, which it seemed was always the case with Yiddish.

Emma made a plan. She rushed into the living room, where Gracie curled in a chair reading. Caleb rhythmically swung Ursula’s Raggedy Ann against his shins. Melody lay asleep in the playpen, her plump bare legs on the naked sweaty plastic. The old-lady babysitter snored in the stuffed chair in front of the blaring television.

Emma tapped Caleb on his shoulder, putting her index finger to her lips, and then motioned for him to come with her, nodding at Gracie,
You too
.

“Shh,” she said when they’d left the room, and pulled Caleb to the guest bedroom, Gracie following. “Get dressed. And get me all your stuff.” Grabbing things at random, she threw underwear and socks at them and shoved their books and Caleb’s small electronic game into their backpacks.

“I didn’t take a shower. Mommy would hate that.” Gracie turned her back and pulled off Uncle Sean’s T-shirt. “Where are we going?”

“We’re all dirty, Gracie. It doesn’t matter. Do you have any money?” Emma opened Gracie’s backpack, pawing until she found a small plastic pouch. She unzipped it and pulled out a twenty-dollar bill.

“That’s my emergency money!” Gracie grabbed for it. “Mommy said never to touch it.”

“Don’t you think this is an emergency?” Emma turned to her brother. “Where’s yours?”

“I’m saving it. Mommy said if we never touch it the whole summer we get to keep it.”

“You’re not touching it, I am.” Emma rummaged through Caleb’s pack and found the bill folded into a small tight square in a zippered compartment.

Gracie pulled on her wrinkled blue shorts. “What are we doing?”

“Going home,” Emma said.

•  •  •

The cab pulled up at the corner of Myrtle and Centre. “This is close enough,” Emma told the driver. She’d watched the fare click since they’d left Newton. When the meter hit thirty-five dollars, they got out.

They trudged the quarter block to their unpaved private way, backpacks dangling from their shoulders and hands. Emma saw the empty driveway, and for a moment she thought no one was home. Then she remembered about the car and the accident, though she didn’t know where Mom’s car was. She dug her key from the pocket of her tight jeans shorts and opened the door.

The quiet house smelled hot and dirty. Her father’s half-empty mug from yesterday still sat on the hall table. The mail was kicked to
the side of the entry from where the mailman had dropped it through the slot.

They dumped their backpacks in the hall and went to the kitchen. Dishes from yesterday’s breakfast were in the sink; half a peanut butter sandwich lay on the counter. Mom hated when someone put food on the table without a plate or a napkin underneath it.

“Is anyone home?” Caleb asked.

“Only Daddy could be here, right?” Gracie looked at the sandwich fearfully. “Do you think he’s here, Emma?”

They looked at each other. Emma took their hands and led them to the stairs. The three of them stood at the bottom, staring up.

“It’s quiet.” Gracie gave a little shiver.

“He’s probably sleeping,” Emma said. “Grandma said he was up all night.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t wake him,” Gracie said.

Her sister made sense, but Emma needed to know—anything, something; she needed news about Mommy.

“Let’s go.”

They climbed the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step. They peeked in before they entered their parents’ bedroom. Their father lay sprawled horizontally across the bed on his back, papers and files and rumpled covers under him, his hand clutching a pillow. Caleb reached for Emma’s hand.

Gracie pulled off her sneakers and padded toward the bed. Carefully stepping over the files on the floor, she lay next to their father as best she could. Curled on her side, facing him, her chin touched his outstretched elbow.

“Daddy?” Gracie tapped his forearm with two fingers. “Daddy, are you awake?”

His breathing changed; he opened his eyes, looking confused. “Gracie?” As he raised his head, his eyes met Emma’s. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to come home,” Emma said.

“Me too,” Gracie said. “We all did.”

“Does Aunt Vanessa know you’re here?”

Emma avoided the question. “She wasn’t there when we left.”

Caleb patted his father’s leg insistently. “Where’s Mommy?” His voice clutched on the words. “Were you driving crazy? Was it your fault?”

Her father rose on his elbows, grimacing. Emma’s stomach flipped.

“Are you okay?” Gracie asked.

He inched into a sitting position, hanging his feet over the side of the bed. “One question at a time, okay, guys? Caleb, who said that? Emma?”

He looked at her.

“No one said anything about it being your fault. Caleb heard it wrong.” Emma turned to her brother. “Aunt Vanessa didn’t mean Daddy made it happen on purpose. She said the accident might have been Daddy’s fault, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an accident.”

“Sorry.” Caleb sounded not at all sorry, but confused. “But why did you hurt her?”

The three of them looked at their father, waiting for him to explain everything. He took air in and pushed it out, slowly. “Nothing was on purpose. It was a big horrible accident.”

“Can we go see Mommy now?” Gracie asked.

“I need a shower. Emma, could you hold down the fort?” Her father groaned as he stood.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He shook his head; she couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no. He stumbled toward the dresser as though his legs didn’t bend anymore and he were a thousand years old.

•  •  •

Emma straightened the kitchen while her father showered. Rancid odors came off the soaked sponge when Emma squeezed it. “Gracie, get a new sponge from the drawer.” She ran her hands under water and then pumped out a large dollop of lemon-scented hand soap from the jar on the counter. “You shouldn’t leave the sponge sitting on the counter without wringing it out.” Emma took the new fresh sponge from Gracie.

“Who said I did it?” Gracie asked.

“Who said you didn’t?” Caleb spoke through a mouthful of chocolate bits from the Nestlé bag he held.

“Where did you get those?” Emma asked.

He shrugged and shoved in more chocolate.

“Those are Mommy’s baking bits. They’re not for eating. Do you want me to tell Daddy?”

“He won’t care.” He flung the bag on the table and spread the chocolate bits around, coating them with bits of cereal and toast crumbs, mashing them into his hand.

“Stop it, Caleb,” Emma said. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you think Mommy is doing right now?” Gracie put a few chocolate chips in her mouth and then began clearing the table of the crusted breakfast dishes. Caleb began eating the abandoned peanut butter sandwich.

“Everyone says she’s sleeping. That she’s been sleeping since her operation.”

“Is she in a coma?” Gracie asked.

“What’s that?” Caleb asked.

“It means like a dream place that you can’t wake up from.” Gracie turned to Emma. “Like Sleeping Beauty, do you think?”

Emma pictured her mother, eyes closed, silent, her rosy cheeks and dark curly hair. “I guess, sort of.”

“Maybe Daddy should kiss her to wake her up,” Caleb said. “Should we tell him?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Gracie said.