Page 78 of Single-Minded
Finally, Michael and his hospital bed come rolling down the hallway, pushed by an aide who looks like he probably plays lead guitar in a thrash metal band on the weekends. He has spiky black hair, and a touch of leftover eyeliner. A tattoo on his forearm is just visible at the edge of the white long-sleeved shirt he has under his scrubs. His nametag reads RICK,but I’d bet anything he goes by something far cooler.
“Michael, oh my God, I was so worried about you,” I say, rushing the gurney. His eyes are closed, but he moves a little when he hears me call his name.
“Hey, buddy,” says the hospital aide with a kind smile. “Looks like you’ve got a visitor.”
Michael’s facial muscles are slack, and his eyes are woozy and unfocused as they flutter open. I want to dive onto the hospital bed right there in the hallway and hold him close, but I don’t know where his injuries or sutures are, and I don’t want to hurt him. He’s covered in bandages, and his left arm is in a sling of some kind. He looks terrible.
“Alex,” he murmurs. “I’msoglad you forgot to put the scissors in the blender. It’s too cold for that. It’stoocold. Don’t forget the marshmallows. I love you.”
I have no idea what he means by all that, but I translate it to mean he’s happy to see me, and thrilled to be alive. And I’ll delight in torturing him about the marshmallows for the next sixty years or so. It’s the least I can do.
“I love you too,” I say. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
“Aww,” he slurs. “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay now,” I say, tears welling up in my eyes. “I’m okay because you’re okay.” His eyes close again and I reach out to touch his hand, holding it gently in mine the entire way back to Michael’s room.
“So, the anesthesia takes a little while to wear off,” laughs Rick, the aide.
I take a deep breath and smile. It’s all going to be okay.
68
“Look who I found!” I say, as Rick pushes Michael’s hospital bed into the room. Rick locks down the bed and rehangs Michael’s IV. Fred stands at Michael’s bedside with tears in his eyes, not saying anything at all. But the relief is all over his face.
Santiago rushes to the side of Michael’s bed, speaking softly to him in Spanish,“Oh, querido, querido…,”which I think is both incredibly touching and yet a tiny bit hilarious, as Michael does not speak a word of Spanish. Santiago kisses Michael all over his forehead, and watching it feels a little bit like having an out-of-body experience. Here I am on one hand, witnessing this sweetly intimate moment, and on the other, a practical stranger is kissing my former husband. Fred is handling it pretty well. Maybe he’s already seen plenty of Michael kissing someone other than me. Maybe, no matter how much time has passed, I’ll never really get used to it. Or maybe I will.
The three of us huddle by Michael’s bedside as he dozes in and out. Mostly out. Nurses enter and leave, checking Michael’s IV, his bandages, and his blood pressure. They write their names on the little whiteboard hanging on the wall of Michael’s hospital room, but there are so many of them it hardly seems helpful.
“He needs his rest,” says one of the nurses. “You folks should take it downstairs for a while.”
“Do you have his house key?” I ask Santiago, who nods yes. “When he wakes up, he’ll want his pillow. He never leaves home without it.” As soon as the words leave my mouth I realize that Michael was returning from a trip when his car was struck by the drunk driver. He probably had his pillow with him.
“Where’s his car?” I ask.
Fred shakes his head. “No idea.”
“I don’t know,” Santiago says.
“When the police called you about the accident, did the person leave their name?” I ask Fred.
“Yes,” he says. “The officer left a message.” He retrieves his phone and hands it to me. “It’s the last one,” he says.
Listening to the voice mail message from 1:51 that morning, I take down the number of Detective Lynn Brown.
“I’ll run it down,” I say.
Detective Brown answers on the first ring. I ask her about the accident and she gives me the name and number of the tow company that is storing Michael’s car. I call them next. Their lot is only a few miles away. I wonder if I still have Michael’s car key on my key ring.
“Fred, why don’t you stay here in case Michael wakes up,” I say. “Santiago, you can go to Michael’s place and pick up some clean pajama bottoms and T-shirts, some socks and underwear, maybe his extra phone charger, anything you can think of to make him more comfortable.
“And I’ll go to the tow company lot downtown and see if I can pick up his pillow and his shaving kit with his toothbrush, razor, deodorant—you know how picky Michael is about shaving. And I’ll see if I can track down his smart phone,” I say.
Fred kisses me on top of my nose. “Alex, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You never have to find out,” I say, and give him a quick squeeze. Santiago nods and gives Michael a kiss on the forehead.
“Be right back,” he says.
