Page 79 of Single-Minded
I squeeze Michael’s hand. “See you soon.” He never opens his eyes.
Santiago and I walk down the hallway together to the elevator, but I decide to stop off at the cafeteria before heading out to my car.
“I’ll be back soon,” I say to Santiago. He hugs me awkwardly and waves goodbye. The cafeteria is crowded now, with a midmorning rush. I pour a large cup of coffee for Fred with cream and two sugars, grab a banana just in case he gets hungry, and run them upstairs to Michael’s room before leaving to go to the tow yard.
Fred gets teary when I walk into the room with the coffee.
I kiss Fred on the cheek. “Don’t worry,” I say. “It’s all going to be okay.”
As I walk down the hallway toward the elevators, I hope it’s true.
69
The tow yard is in a sketchy part of town I’m not entirely familiar with, on a side road in an industrial section sandwiched between downtown and the airport. Michael’s small silver Honda is visible as soon as I make the corner, and the devastation of the mangled car takes my breath away. The driver’s side is entirely caved in, and the door has been pried off. Looking at the wreckage, it’s impossible to see where Michael’s body had been, the twisted metal left little room for a person. A garment bag still hangs from the hook behind the driver’s seat, and it sways gently in the breeze.
I park my car diagonally next to his in the lot, and get out to survey the rest of the damage. The hood of Michael’s car is mashed in and crumpled, although only from the driver’s side. As I circle the car, I marvel that from the passenger’s side, the car seems perfectly intact.
“Can I help you?” yells a grimy man walking in my direction.
“This car belongs to my husband, Michael Miller,” I say matter-of-factly. “He was in a car accident last night, he was taken to Sarasota Memorial. This is his car. I’m just here to pick up some of his things to take to the hospital.”
“I’m gonna need to see some ID,” he says. I whip out my wallet and produce my driver’s license. “You says his name was Miller,” he says. “Your name is Wiggins. If yer married, why don’t you have the same last name?”
“Because,” I say authoritatively, “it’s not 1955.” He blinks, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “His shaving kit is in the backseat,” I say, “and I see his suit hanging there,” I pointed. “I have to get his things and make it back to the hospital before Michael wakes up. Do you need me to sign something?”
“Uh, yeah. I’ll go get it,” says the man as he lumbers off toward the office. The key to these types of situations is to just assume that the person you’re dealing with is going to cooperate. If you fully commit to that idea, they usually do.
Being the boss translates to areas outside of your work. And if you’re somebody like me, you can’t just turn it off.
As there is no longer a front door on the car, there’s no need for a key. I pull Michael’s suit through the hole left by the wreckage. The bottom of the bag is shredded, exposing bits of Michael’s favorite navy suit. He’ll be upset about that. I set the garment bag down in the front seat of my car, and go back to see what else I can retrieve from Michael’s Honda. Reaching over to unlock the passenger-side door, I struggle not to cry. There’s blood on the dashboard, on the emergency brake, on the steering wheel. Michael is lucky to be alive. I’m lucky that Michael is still alive.
I walk around the car and enter on the passenger side. Michael’s shaving kit and iPad are just sitting on the backseat as though nothing at all has happened. I grab them both and look for his phone. His pillow has fallen to the floor in the backseat, but it’s no worse for the wear. The pillowcase has some small black smudges on it, although I can’t immediately determine what caused them. Michael’s phone is sitting on the passenger-side floor, still plugged into the charger. I load everything into the front seat of my car and leave Michael’s car where it is. I pull a small tarp from my trunk and do my best to secure it to Michael’s car with a roll of leopard-print duct tape, also from my trunk. At least that way the interior won’t be completely trashed if it starts to rain. It’s not much, but it’s something.
The tow yard employee is back a few minutes later with a clipboard. I scrawl my signature on the page.
“Any idea when you’ll be picking this up?” asks the guy. He hands me a card.
“I’m sure the insurance company will be here in the next few days. We’ll let you know,” I say vaguely.
My hands are shaking as I drive away.
70
Before heading back to the hospital, I swing by my house to pick up a few clean pillowcases for Michael. I choose the softest ones, so they’ll feel like home to him.
Fred is napping in the chair when I get back to the hospital. Michael is still asleep. I look him over tenderly, weeping at his many injuries. He looks broken in so many ways. I sit silently in the other chair, the one near the foot of Michael’s bed, and watch him as he sleeps. The nurses told us earlier he has morphine in his IV bag, because his injuries are so severe.
“You’re here,” Michael whispers, slowly opening his eyes. He seems disoriented, and his voice cracks.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Do you want some water?” He nods yes, and I fill the cup on his bedside table from the pitcher of ice water the nurses brought earlier. He seems confused that his left arm is in a sling, and his right hand won’t bend because it contains an IV needle. “Let me help you,” I say, holding the cup of water up to his lips. He takes a long sip, and then another one. He looks around the room, and sees Fred sleeping in the corner.
“Let me wake up your dad,” I say. “I know he wants to see you.”
“Wait,” Michael says. “Wait just a few minutes. Let me get my bearings.”
“Do you remember what happened?” I ask softly.
“Somebody T-boned me,” he says slowly. “They were going really fast… Ambulance.”
