***
I hadn’t moved for more than a day. I was frozen, numb, and it hurt too much to think. I wanted to die because surely that’s the only thing that could remove the pain I was feeling. But it seemed my heart insisted on beating. My lungs insisted on taking oxygen in and out. So I continued to live, as unbearable as that living had become.
They’d found Mark’s truck rolled over off one of the curving backroads. They estimate he must have been driving more than a hundred miles per hour and most likely hydroplaned on the soaked road and lost control. The truck had rolled at least six times and come to rest against an old oak tree. The tree still stood, but my son’s life would be forever changed.
My sweet, sweet son… my baby. The one who’d been most like me was hanging on to life by a thread. He’d never hurt anyone. He always followed the rules. He’d been caring and considerate and had only risen the one time when he felt I was being hurt. Now I couldn’t help him, only sit by a bed watching machines do what his body was no longer able to do.
I knew he’d been angry and feeling out of control, and that’s why he’d driven so fast. While I soaked in my bubble bath, concerned about nothing more than the leftovers that might go to waste — he almost died. I hoped he hadn’t suffered, hadn’t laid there in pain, trying to get out, all the while knowing that his life was ending and that no one was coming. That he was all alone. It was unthinkable.
I dug down into my core, looking for some strength to draw upon, but found none. I didn’t have anyone to turn to. Dad was gone. He’d been my rock. Worth had disappeared. I didn’t know where. Marga was living her own hell. I grappled with the enormity of what lay ahead; the grief and the guilt all alone.
Mark was in a coma and it wasn’t clear if he’d survive. If he did, he would face months of physical therapy in order to walk again. His back was broken, although his spinal cord had been saved.
His brain was the biggest concern. So swollen they didn’t yet know how irreparable the damage might be. If he lived, he might not be able to see. Or talk. Laugh again. If he lived, it might never be outside a hospital bed.
If.
The word haunted me.
The day after the accident, I woke to find Worth gone. They wouldn’t let us stay in ICU, so we’d come home. Marga had screamed that we couldn’t leave him, couldn’t abandon him. Worth had jammed his hands over his ears and walked out the door. I don’t remember much after that.
My bedroom door opened, and it was Letty with her big, comforting arms. A few steps behind her was Liane and Lily. They circled me as if to calm me with the motion of a group hug. For a moment, I thought they came to tell me Mark was dead, that he hadn’t been able to hold on during the night.
I began screaming and eventually Letty slapped me, at which point I dissolved into sobs. They had a discussion among themselves, and it was evidently decided that Liane would stay with me. As the others left, she climbed up onto the bed next to me and held my head in her lap. She rocked gently, smoothing my hair and letting me cry until there was nothing left to make tears. She lifted a glass of water to my lips, and I drank thirstily then promptly brought it all back up onto a blanket.
I felt as though I was drowning. I couldn’t seem to get a breath and flailed for something to hold on to, something solid that would allow me to get my bearings. I needed somewhere to start. But I didn’t know what that something could possibly be.
Back at the hospital, we were only allowed in his room for fifteen minutes at a time. For that short time, I could hold myself together, talk to him, sing to him, tell him everything would be alright.
Nothing I’d ever felt before in my life could compare with how I felt inside. Back in the waiting room, I’d dissolve into tears again. Another pill would materialize, and I would fade back into sleep, only to wake hours later to the same hell.
This cycle repeated itself over the next several days. Liane, Hawk or Marga would sit with me, taking turns reading to Mark or just holding his hand. Nothing changed and I fell into a well of deep despair.
My baby boy. The good son. The best of all of us was slipping away.
Marga was filled with grief, and she blubbered on and on about all the fights they had and how mean she’d been to him over the years. She was wracked with guilt and sought to absolve herself. She had little sympathy left for anyone else, including me.
After a while, I grew very calm and I think I went into shock. People and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt disconnected, as though I was free floating and only a hand touching me could bring me back. I thought I heard Mark’s voice once. He was calling to me from downstairs, and I leapt to my feet and into the hallway. I was sure it had all been a huge mistake; it had been someone else. But the entryway was empty, and Mark’s voice was silent.
I’d staggered to the phone and called the hospital, certain he had died, and his ghost had visited to say goodbye. But he was still alive, they’d assured me. Barely.
Worth came in. He looked horrible. He hadn’t slept or shaved or bathed. His voice sounded as if it came from someone else. “I’m sorry.”
Pulling myself up from the bed, I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Sorry for what?”
“You were right. All this is my fault. I’ve been a selfish bastard and our children have paid the price.”
Compassion speared through me, even as anger warred with it. But I had no energy in which to find satisfaction in his confession. I simply pulled him down on the bed and we slept in each other’s arms for the first time in what felt like forever.
The next morning, Liane returned to sit with me, and she helped me get into the shower. She turned the water on very hot and it was the closest I could come to feeling normal. While I showered, she stripped and changed the bed. Liane forced me to eat half a grilled cheese sandwich and then when I collapsed against the pillow with another pill, she slid beneath the sheets next to me and held my hand before we went back to the hospital to visit with Mark again.
The days became a repeat of each other and it seemed like a nightmare that wouldn’t end. I remember Worth being there sometimes. Sometimes not. The not became more and more frequent as the days passed from one to another.
I sank into a depression so deep, it sometimes became impossible to get out of bed. On those days, I was only aware of time passing by the light that did or did not appear through the window. From time to time, I heard movement in the house, often with voices and then they would fade away as I fell back asleep. Sleep was the only place I could live. Breathe without feeling the pain of each inhale.