I hurried to the elevators. The ICU was on the third floor. Every moment inside in the hospital raised harrowing memories for me. The smell of the hospital, the glaring overhead lights, the nurses’ station, the anguished atmosphere … it all made me feel I was strangling. Though my heart was now with my new husband and our baby, I had loved Martin Bartell. His memory was bittersweet, but it was still part of me.
I forced myself to walk into the ICU waiting room. When Avery and John David saw me, they rose to their feet. They were both good-looking men. You could tell from Avery’s demeanor that he would never stray from a narrow path; that was not a bad thing, when you considered John David’s checkered past.
“How’s John?” I perched on the edge of one of the chairs, so they would sit, too.
“Still alive,” Avery said. “Melinda had to go home because the babysitter could only keep the kids until three.”
“We appreciated Robin coming.” John David was a better man since the death of his wife, Poppy. He was more serious, more determined to provide a stable life for his son. He’d been crying. His brother looked haggard. They had a close relationship with their father.
“I’m so sorry,” I said helplessly. There was nothing else to say.
John David nodded in acknowledgment.
“Your mom is alone with him now,” Avery said. “You can go in. It’s two at a time.” He looked away to hide his anguish.
My mother, disheveled for the first time in my memory, was sitting in a chair shoved in the corner. Her eyes were fixed on the man in the hospital bed. John was gray, his face empty and slack. He was hooked up to many devices that blinked and pulsed. His eyes were closed.
There was a straight-back chair pushed against the wall. I moved it closer to Mother. “Hi,” I said softly.
Without looking at me, she felt around until she found my hand, and she gripped it hard. She couldn’t speak. Tears began to run down her face.
I wanted to ask her what the prognosis was, what the doctors proposed to do to help John’s faltering heart, but in a rare moment of clarity I understood it was best to keep silent. We held hands, and we watched John’s chest move ever so slightly, and we watched the machines register the fact that he was still alive. Together, we went someplace where life was suspended, and all things waited in the balance. From far away, I heard the sounds of the hospital coming from the hall: a food cart rattling, nurses talking, families walking by, phones ringing at the desk. Somewhere not too distant, a janitor was buffing the floor.
But in this room there were only the small clicks and whirs of the machinery. Quiet people went in and out, checking on the machines, checking John. They might nod, but after a look at my mother they didn’t venture to speak. It was clear she did not want to hear pleasantries or conversation.
After an hour had passed, I slowly descended to my normal mortal plane. I began to feel the prickling in my boobs that meant I was ready to feed Sophie again. I glanced at the clock set high on the wall. I could stay another hour, in case she needed me.
My mother had all she could handle. There was no question of troubling her with the unpleasant occurrences at our house. I leaned over to pat her cheek. I was too anxious about germs to kiss her. “I’ll give one of the boys a turn,” I said quietly.
She nodded, without looking at me. Her hand loosened on mine. I left the room as soundlessly as I could and rejoined the world.
In the waiting room, John David was asleep in his chair. Avery rose to take a turn sitting with my mother.
“If something happens, please call me,” I said. “Mother may not be able to.” Avery nodded.
For another interminable hour, I sat—uselessly—with the sleeping John David and an elderly woman whose lips moved in silent prayer. I was tired and weak, absorbed in my worries and my fears. I didn’t even register leaving the hospital until I walked past the fountain in the middle of the circular drive and made my way across the jammed parking lot.
When I’d driven here, the dashboard display had told me the temperature was a balmy 75 degrees Fahrenheit, not unheard-of for late September in Georgia. Now the wind was making itself known, and the sky to the northeast looked dark and ominous. The air felt noticeably cooler.
Another storm. Great.
This had been one of the longest and most unpleasant days I’d ever had. The only good thing had been Robin coming home early.
If things had been normal, I’d have planned a special dinner to celebrate his Anthony and my whole family (now including all the Queenslands) would be sitting down at the table.
I was hit with a wave of self-pity.
After I climbed into my car and turned the key in the ignition, I simply sat there with my hands over my face. I had to move forward. I had to drive home and take care of my daughter. I could not retreat to a dark closet and wail.
I made myself think of good things. Or at least, relatively good things. Robin had identified the dead woman, so her family could be notified. (If there had to be a dead woman in our backyard, it was good to know her name.) No matter what our neighbor Jonathan Cohen thought he had seen, Robin had a good alibi, unless the detectives decided Jeff was not a reliable witness. I couldn’t imagine any reason why that would happen. To the lay mind, it might seem fishy that Robin had forgone an evening of triumph to plan a new series in a hotel room with his buddy. But at least he hadn’t been in his own room, asleep.
As I drove home through the dark streets, the great thing, the best of all, hit me in the face.
Sophie was safe. Despite the strange and dark happenings in our house, under our roof, in our yard, our daughter remained healthy and untouched.
I could only feel deeply grateful. From that relief, I found the courage to pray for John: that his doctors were skilled and discerning, that he would regain health and strength, that my mother would be able to endure this ordeal. It was amazing how much more I felt the power of prayer since I’d had Sophie. Maybe I was whistling in the dark, superstitiously drumming up something to make me feel that I was helping to keep her safe.
But I didn’t think so.
Chapter Twelve
I called the hospital first thing in the morning, and the nurses told me John had made it through the night. I texted Melinda to get some details. I really wanted to talk to Mother, but she was out of reach in the ICU. I had to try to schedule some hospital time. I wondered if I could persuade Mother to go home to rest.
When I got out of the shower, Robin was sitting in one of the living room armchairs. Sophie was lying on his lap, her feet to his stomach. He was talking to her in a manic, high voice. “Oh, who is the cutest baby? Sophie is! Yes, she is! Look at her little feet!” He tickled her little feet gently. “Look at her little tummy!” He blew on her stomach. “Her starfish hands!” He clasped her tiny hands. They both seemed to be very happy.