No one was listening. I didn’t blame them. He was massively bleeding. They had important things to do.
I suddenly remembered one sunny Sunday morning in the winter, just weeks after our wedding. The sunlight had streamed into the bedroom, turning it buttery and warm, and his hair—he’d had such thick, glorious hair back then, light brown and all crazy if he didn’t comb it down. I’d thought those freckles on his shoulders so endearing. We made love . . . maybe the first time when it wasn’t awkward, because that’s how inexperienced we’d both been. Both of us virgins on our wedding night, hardly typical for the crazy seventies. But I’d been brought up with old-fashioned values, and John had been, too.
Anyway, we were pretty happy with ourselves that morning, since we’d finally figured out this sex thing, and we spent the whole day in bed, eating toast and then leftover spaghetti, reading the Sunday Times until it got dark. Then we showered and dressed and went to the movies. Can’t remember what we saw.
“Go ahead, Mrs. Frost, talk to him,” someone said, putting a hand on my arm. A nurse. Gosh, she seemed so young. Beautiful skin. Her eyes were kind.
“John?” I said, looking down at him. I wanted to call him honey, or darling, but it had been so long since either of us used a term of endearment for the other. “John, don’t worry. I’m here. You’re being taken care of. Darling.” I put my hand over his.
Please don’t die.
The thought came as a shock, a lightning strike right to the heart. We could do better, couldn’t we? It wasn’t too late?
“Here are his things,” someone said, thrusting a plastic bag at me.
“Mom! Oh, my God, Daddy!” Juliet was there, and started to hug her father, but he was too confined. She hugged me instead, her body shaking.
“I know, honey, I know,” I said. “He’s going to UConn, and they’ll do everything they can for him. World-class medicine, don’t you know.”
“Mrs. Frost.” It was the doctor again, with some papers in her hand. “He’s ready to go. The CAT scan did show a significant bleed, but no head or neck fractures. The chopper is here. Are you okay to drive to Farmington?”
“We’re fine,” Juliet said, then looked at me. “Riley London’s watching the girls and Oliver’s on his way home. I’ll drive. Do you have your car? Can someone drive it home?”
The details of emergencies. Who drove which car? Did Lindsey have my coat? Did I thank her for driving me? Would she cancel all my appointments for tomorrow? Oh, wait, it was Friday. Should we take Route 9 or Route 2? What was the traffic like? Did I need the ladies’ room before we left? I did.
It’s strange how your body keeps going when your life is falling apart. I needed to go to the bathroom—I was seventy years old, of course I did. I washed my hands, aware that I was in a hospital with a lot of sick people. It was flu season. It wouldn’t help anyone if I got sick.
My husband might be dead right now.
Juliet had pulled her BMW to the entrance. I got in and buckled up. “I didn’t text Sadie,” she said. “I wasn’t sure if you told her anything yet. I thought it might be better if we knew something first. When he’s stable. Or . . . if he doesn’t make it. I hope someone can drive her. She’s gonna take this hard.”
Exactly my thoughts. “Are you all right to drive, sweetheart?”
“I’m a rock, Mom.” Her voice shook a little, but she was. She really was. She drove efficiently and safely, always using her turn signal.
We didn’t talk much. But she reached over and took my hand and squeezed it. “Whatever happens,” she said, “we’ll get through it.”
* * *
— —
By the time we got to Farmington, John was already in surgery. He was still alive, the nurse told us, but it was a critical situation, given his age and the location of the aneurysm.
According to the paramedic report, John had been riding his bike. In January, down Canterbury Hill Road, and honestly, why? I mean, sure, he had to have his hobbies, and when he started that whole silly running/biking/swimming thing last year, I was relieved that he’d found something to keep him occupied. But riding a bike in January? That’s just foolish, even if today had been real nice.
“Based on his injuries, the doctor thinks he had the stroke first and then fell smack onto the pavement, which is why his face is banged up,” the nurse said. “He didn’t raise his hands to protect himself.” She demonstrated how someone would instinctively cover their face. “He has a concussion on top of the stroke, and his nose is broken, but the bleeding is the big problem right now.”
“Will he live?” Juliet asked. My strong girl, asking the hard questions.
“These things are hard to predict,” she said. “Try to keep good thoughts. We’ll tell you more as soon as we know.” She put a hand on my arm. “I’m sorry. I know this is incredibly hard. I wish we had more information.”
“Thank you. You’re very kind.”
“I’ll call Sadie,” Juliet said.
“Oh. Yes. Do you want me to?” I asked. “Maybe I should, don’tcha think?”
“No, Mommy. You sit down, okay? I’ll be back in a few. I’ll bring you a coffee and a snack. There’s a Starbucks here. I’ll be right back. Text me if there’s any news.” She smiled suddenly. “I can hear your Minnesota.”
“Oh, can you, now?” I asked, exaggerating the accent as a joke, and we managed a little laugh. It was true; stress brought out the accent.
Off she went, and as ever, I was so grateful that she was mine, and here.
The family waiting room on this floor looked like an airport lounge, sleek and cheerful. I found a chair and sat down, still in my winter coat. The chair was meant to look like a Morris chair, sturdy and reassuring. A good choice for this place.
When we first moved to Stoningham, I’d loved tag and estate sales and combed half the state looking for antiques that needed a little sanding, some repairs. John still worked in family law then, and we had to be smart about money, what with all the house costs we had—new kitchen, bathrooms, a leak in the roof, a new boiler. But we also had to furnish the place.
One day, I’d come across a beautiful wooden chair with leather cushions and clean lines. It cost ten dollars. I brought it home, cleaned and oiled the leather, polished the wood, and presented it to John when he came home that night. He’d been so pleased. So pleased. It was a vintage Morris chair, we learned, and John sat in it every night until he moved it to his study.
It was the best gift I’d ever given him.
I wondered when he moved it from the living room into the study.