Page 76 of Single-Minded
“What’s he doing here?” I say under my breath. Fred squeezes my hand.
“Santiago and Michael are together now,” he says.
“We’re in love,” Santiago says defiantly. This is too much for me to process, with Michael in surgery, fighting for his life. I collapse onto the sofa opposite the one where Santiago is sitting. Fred gingerly sits down beside me.
“Were you with him when it happened?” I ask Santiago. It doesn’t seem likely; he doesn’t have a scratch on him.
“We were talking on the phone when he was hit,” says Santiago. “He just landed at the airport and was calling to tell me he was on his way over.” My stomach lurches. It still stings to think about Michael with anyone else. I hate myself for it, but I feel defensive and angry that Santiago is here. Who is he to Michael? A hookup? What right does he even have to be here? Fred and I are Michael’s family, not him. He’s just some… interloper.
“I heard it happen,” Santiago weeps, “I heard the crash, and I heard Michael screaming, but he couldn’t hear me.” He sobs and his whole body shakes with grief. Without thinking, I move to the sofa where Santiago is sitting and put my arms around him. And before I know it, I’m sobbing with him.
A petite, red-haired woman enters the room carrying a clipboard.
“I’m so sorry to bother you,” she says in a quiet voice. “I just need to complete some paperwork.” She comes to sit down next to Fred and asks him, “Do you have Michael’s insurance information?” Fred shakes his head no. He’s devastated, barely functioning.
“I have it,” I say. “I think I might still have his card in my purse, let me check.” Santiago looks surprised as I dig around in my wallet and fish it out.
She asks the usual medical history questions, nearly all of which I know because I’ve been there all his life. Broken arm when he was eleven. Concussion at seventeen. Exercises every day. Moderate drinker. Doesn’t smoke. Allergic to penicillin. Fred stares numbly at the wall and lets me handle the paperwork and the questions. It feels good to help in some small way, and for me, doing something, anything, is better than just sitting here helplessly waiting for bad news. Santiago watches me quietly as I speak with the hospital worker, and for the first time I wonder what this nightmare must be like from his perspective.
“Do you know how long it will be before we hear something?” I ask her, once the paperwork is completed.
“I’ll try to find out something for you,” she says kindly. She leaves the room, and Santiago, Fred, and I sit in silence. It’s unbearably tense. The waiting room is too warm, and it smells weird, like feet and antiseptic.
“Can I get anyone some coffee or water from the cafeteria?” I ask.
Fred nods. “Thanks, Alex. Coffee would be nice.”
“Santiago?” He shakes his head no and buries his face in his hands again. I pick up my purse and go off in search of the cafeteria. The hospital halls are dim and eerily quiet. After some wandering around, I locate a sign that directs me down a large hallway to the cafeteria. There are a few people clustered at tables, and one quiet worker sits at the cash register, reading a magazine. Coffee is self-serve, and I get some for Fred, with cream and two sugars, just the way he likes it. I pick up a couple of bottles of water for Santiago and myself, and select three turkey sandwiches from the refrigerated case. I’m not hungry, but Fred or Santiago might be. I pay for the food, and the cafeteria worker is kind enough to set me up with a carrying tray for the drinks, and a bag for the sandwiches. She dumps in a handful of condiments and napkins. I thank her and quickly make my way back to the waiting area, where Fred and Santiago are sitting silently.
“Any word yet?” I ask. Fred shakes his head no. Handing the coffee to Fred and a water bottle to Santiago, I ask if anyone is hungry. Santiago nods yes and I pass out the sandwiches.
“Eat something, Fred,” I say. “You need to keep up your strength.” He nods obligingly, unwraps the sandwich and bites into it. Santiago follows suit.
Eventually the hospital worker returns. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have much of an update to share.
“He’s still in surgery,” she says. “His surgeons are doing everything they can to repair the damage. His doctor will come to update you as soon as they know more. He’ll likely be in surgery for several more hours. The best thing you can do is try to get some rest.” She pats me on my shoulder and leaves the room.
“Rest is a good idea,” I say. “Fred, why don’t you stretch out on that sofa, and Santiago, you can take the other one. I’ll take the chair over here. There’s nothing we can do for Michael right now.” Fred finishes his sandwich and I go to the nurses’ station in search of a few spare pillows. Fortunately, the cranky nurse who was at the desk when I arrived has been replaced by a young male nurse. When I explain why we’re there, and ask him for a few extra pillows, he disappears into the back and emerges with three small, flat pillows. I thank him and take them back to the surgery waiting room, giving them to Fred and Santiago. Fred decides to take my advice, reclining his large body on the small sofa with his legs draped over the side. Santiago, a much smaller man, lies down as well, on his side with his feet poking forward. He fluffs the small pillow and stuffs it under his head.
Swigging half my bottle of water, I scan the doorway of the waiting room in search of a light switch. There’s no way any of us are going to be able to rest with the fluorescent lights glaring overhead. Once I spot the switch, I flip it off. There are still a few small emergency lights illuminated, but the absence of fluorescents makes the room much dimmer and the slim possibility for sleep a bit more likely. I take my spot on the chair in the corner, propping the pillow under my head against the wall like you’d do on a crowded airplane. Closing my eyes, I know I won’t be able to sleep. My mind runs a loop of memories of Michael and me. First day of kindergarten. Laughing so hard we lost our breath, perched in the tree house in Michael’s backyard. Michael’s mom’s funeral. Our first kiss. The day we got married. The day Michael broke my heart. Snuggling on the couch under a blanket watching old black-and-white movies. Cooking steaks on the grill on our very first night in our new house. All of it, going round and round my mind like a carousel.
I love Michael. I always have and I always will. And I promise the Universe that I’ll be a better human being if Michael survives.
I thought I was still awake, but I must have finally dozed off at some point because I’m startled when someone flips on the light switch. It’s a doctor, midfifties, in blue scrubs. His gray hair pokes out from under his surgical cap. Fred springs up off the couch to his feet. Santiago rises more slowly.
“Michael’s still in surgery, but it looks like he’s going to pull through. He had some internal bleeding, which we were concerned about, and we’ll have to keep him here for the time being, but he’s made it through the worst part and we think he’s going to be okay.”
Fred hugs the doctor tightly, and I thank him over and over again. Santiago still looks like he’s in shock. The doctor runs through the list of Michael’s various injuries and the resulting treatment, but I’m so relieved I barely register a word of what he’s saying.
Michael is going to be okay. He’s bruised and broken, but he’s alive, and that is all that matters.
The doctor excuses himself and Fred, Santiago, and I stand together in the center of the room, holding on to one another and weeping with relief. We laugh, we cry, we hug, and we cry some more.
Fred and Santiago decide to get some breakfast while we’re waiting for Michael to get out of surgery. I stay behind to send Daniel a text to let him know I won’t be at Boudreaux at ten this morning as planned. The hard setup for Daniel’s restaurant was completed earlier in the week, table clusters and items that impacted traffic flow. All that’s left are the “soft” items, tablecloths and floral placement, which Daniel’s waitstaff will be implementing anyway. I would just be there to supervise. Daniel’s head waitress, Tina, and I have already gone over the plan, down to the smallest details, and the entire staff has copies of my event notebook, complete with photos of finished looks, tabbed and indexed in their own three-ring binders. And while the control freak in me hates to miss the setup for Boudreaux’s opening night, I know everything will be exactly as I’ve planned it. And there is just no way I’m leaving the hospital before I have a chance to see Michael, hold his hand, and know he’s going to be okay.
It’s not even 5:00A.M.yet, way too early to call. Next, I text Darcy, Sam, Carter, and Grandma Leona to let them know that Michael has been in an accident and is in surgery, but that he’s going to be okay. I try to think of whom else I should contact. Michael’s boss? My parents?
I have so many feelings. Loneliness, sitting there in the stillness of the empty waiting room. Relief, I guess, knowing Michael is going to pull through. Sick to my stomach, probably because of the cocktail of adrenaline, fear, and stress hormones circulating in my system. I have the oddest urge to call Daniel, just to hear his comforting voice with its gentle lilt. And then the memory of yesterday and the screaming woman comes roaring back into my consciousness, reminding me why that isn’t possible. The Boudreaux opening-night party will be the last time I’ll see him. At least on purpose. In a town this size, it’s impossible to avoid someone forever. After the restaurant opens that night, my work with him will be finished. I feel a surge of melancholy mixed with relief that it’s only one more night.
