Page 77 of Single-Minded
Grabbing my purse off the chair where I left it, I wander down the hallway toward the cafeteria, where Fred and Santiago have gone. I’m not really hungry, but in search of comfort instead. I hope they have pastries.
Fred and Santiago sit together at a table in the center of the room, eating what looks like breakfast sandwiches and talking like old friends. A twinge of jealousy hits me like an electric shock. When did they get to be so close?
Waving to them as I enter the room, I head to the cafeteria line to see if I can find something that looks appealing. Nothing much. I pour myself a glass of orange juice to give my blood sugar a jolt, and select an almond Danish from the case. Almonds have protein. Protein is healthy, even if said almonds are glazed in icing.
Joining Fred and Santiago, I set down my Danish and wipe the table where I planned to sit with a paper napkin, brushing away some crumbs of unknown origin.
“Alex, I’m sorry I forgot to ask. Have you met Santiago?” asks Fred as I sit down at the table and begin to pick at my Danish.
“We have met,” I say. “Remember, he was at our divorce celebration? And then Carter reintroduced us at a dinner party for one of my clients, Daniel Boudreaux.” Santiago nods.
“Good, good,” says Fred, as though he can think of nothing else to say. The silence is killing me. Some part of me always feels the need to keep the conversation moving.
“Santiago, how long have you and Michael been together?” I ask.
“We met at your party, as you say,” he says in his thick Cuban accent, “and we have been together since then. So, four months.” I nod. “We are in love,” he adds. It sounds almost defensive to my ears, but what do I know? And maybe he does feel like he needs to defend his relationship with Michael. Fred and I, we’ve known Michael for his entire life. As much as it feels to me like Santiago doesn’t belong here at the hospital, it isn’t my call to make. It’s Michael’s. And it’s time for all of us to move on.
I ask Santiago about his work, and how he ended up in Sarasota. I talk to Fred about sports, mostly priming him with questions about his favorite baseball team and listening intently as he explains how the team is faring, injury status, and draft prospects. It’s soothing, listening to him rattle on without much more input from me. Almost like sitting at the breakfast table with Michael. Santiago joins in sometimes, clearly passionate about baseball himself.
Around six-thirty, the three of us amble back to the surgery waiting area. The room is still empty, but the pillows we left from our stay overnight have been cleared away. With Fred and Santiago settled back on the sofas, I go down the hallway in search of a restroom. My teeth feel like they’re wearing little wool socks, and I want to rinse off my face and brush my hair.
Hospital mirrors are unkind, and aside from my now-cockeyed ponytail and the bags under my eyes, my skin has a sort of greenish pallor to match the taste in my mouth. I dig a silvery package containing a mini–disposable toothbrush out of my purse, laughing to myself while recalling how Michael always teases me mercilessly about my need to overprepare for any possible contingency. Feeling significantly better after brushing my teeth and rinsing my face with cool water, I brush my hair and pull it back once again into a neat ponytail. I neglected to put on deodorant last night after I showered since I was heading right to bed. Sleeping in a hospital chair in a too-warm waiting room, plus the stress of the last few hours, has me feeling grimy and my armpits sweaty. There are no paper towels, only hand dryers, so I put a quarter in the machine and buy myself a sanitary napkin, wetting it with cool water and using it to give myself a birdbath in the sink. And that’s just where I am when a nurse comes in to tell me that Michael is finally out of surgery—standing at the sink with my T-shirt hiked all the way up over my bra, giving myself a once-over with a wet maxi-pad.
67
Gathering my things quickly, I follow the nurse down the hallway to the surgical waiting room. The same surgeon from before is standing with Fred and Santiago, updating them on Michael’s condition.
“He’s in recovery now,” says the doctor. “We’ll keep him there for a while longer and then we’ll be moving him into a room upstairs. Nurse Lori will take you now. He’s made it through the surgery, and should make a solid recovery.”
Fred and Santiago nod.
“What does that mean, solid recovery?” I ask. “How long will it take for him to heal? How long will he need to be in the hospital? Will he have any permanent damage? Were his mental faculties impaired?”
“Healing time is dependent on the patient, and we won’t necessarily know all the answers to your questions until he’s woken up and we can see where he is. He was barely conscious when the ambulance brought him in, and he’s still under anesthesia now. I’m sorry I don’t have more specific information for you. He’ll be in the hospital for at least another few days at the minimum, probably about a week. You might want to bring some of his things from home to make him more comfortable.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say. Fred and Santiago thank the doctor also, and he nods in response and excuses himself quickly.
“Okay,” says Nurse Lori, “we’ll have Michael moved up to the fifth floor in about an hour. His room number is five fifteen, and if you’d like to come with me, I can bring you upstairs.”
Fred, Santiago, and I follow the nurse to the elevator, and down the hall to what will be Michael’s hospital room. It’s after 7:00A.M., and the halls on the fifth floor are bustling with nurses, doctors making their rounds, and aides distributing breakfast trays. The room is nice, for a hospital room, and there’s only one bed, which is a relief. Michael is a light sleeper and wouldn’t do well with a roommate, some stranger’s family and friends visiting all day long,Wheel of Fortuneblaring from the TV.
My phone buzzes with a text message from Daniel:
Is Michael okay? Let me know if you can. Don’t stress about the opening today. I’ll handle it if you can’t be here. Family is more important than anything else.
And another:
I’ll be thinking about you. Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do for you. ANYTHING.
I respond, all business:
Thanks, I appreciate it. Michael’s out of surgery. Tina has my event book and staff has been prepped. You should be all set to go. I’ll try to stop by later to check on everything before the opening.
After a while, someone comes to take away the bed in Michael’s room. I pace the hallways to work off some excess energy. I’m so conflicted about Daniel, and I want nothing more than to put him out of my mind. My mind, unfortunately, is not cooperating.
By seven-thirty, my phone starts buzzing with calls. First Carter, who has a complete and utter freak-out, and then Darcy, who says she’ll cancel her day and head over about eleven. I’m not sure what Michael has scheduled for the day, so I leave a voice mail for his boss, whom I met in Connecticut when he was grilling me about Michael’s sex life. I let him know that Michael was in an accident, hit by a drunk driver, and that he’s in the hospital, and that either Michael or I will call him as soon as we know more. It feels like a wifely thing to do, calling his boss from the hospital, but it also feels like the job for his oldest and best friend.
By eight, Fred, Santiago, and I are starting to get nervous. It’s been an hour and a half since Michael got out of surgery, and we haven’t had an update since then. Another hour passes, and then another. By ten, I’m starting to freak out. I’ve already been to the nurses’ station for updates a half-dozen times, but they don’t seem to know any more than we do. And if they do, they aren’t telling. Fred and Santiago sit waiting in Michael’s room, while I continue to pace up and down the hallway. Sitting still, not doing anything, is not my forte.
