Flying Changes Read online

  "Stable."

  I am silent for a moment, trying to take this in. "Where are they?"

  "At the hospital in Lebanon."

  "They're here? In New Hampshire?"

  Mutti nods.

  "Oh no." The back of my throat constricts. "Oh no, oh no. We thought they didn't come."

  I blink at Mutti, trying to process all of this. Then I say, "Roger has no family."

  "I know, Schatzlein. I know."

  "We've got to go."

  She nods.

  After a moment, I turn and stare at the house.

  Chapter 15

  A few hours later we're back on the road. Mutti is driving, I'm in the passenger seat, and Eva is directly behind me, beside the heap of plastic bags that hold Mutti's and my clothes and toiletries.

  If I lean slightly forward I can see Eva in the side-view mirror. I do this occasionally and carefully because I don't want her to catch me. I think she's handling this all right, but who's to say? So far we don't even know the extent of what we have to handle.

  We pass the covered bridge, the library, the school buses. I catch sight of Percy's Peaks in the side-view mirror, spread out behind us like the breasts of a supine woman, and all I can think of is were we here or there, passing this or that, when the tractor trailer ripped off the front of Roger and Sonja's rented car, leaving the baby and the rear half spinning on the highway, and barreling forth with Roger and Sonja impaled on its grill.

  Somehow it's important for me to know where we were when it happened. It seems absurd to me that Roger's life could be shattered so completely in such proximity to me and I didn't pick up a signal. For better or worse, I spent almost twenty years with the man. You'd think I'd feel some kind of sympathetic vibration, like a drone string. If not actual pain, a zap, a ping--something.

  But I didn't. I felt nothing. Eva and I could have been discussing painted frogs at the moment Roger was carried forth next to his dead, smashed wife.

  As we join the traffic that crawls past the faceless and fallen Old Man, I think back to the voice message I left on Roger's machine and am filled with eviscerating shame. I didn't know. How could I know? He'd disappointed me before; it wasn't outrageous for me to think that he'd do it again.

  And now I want to slither down and melt in my seat for making excuses because I know damn well that Roger disappointing me is one thing--and a mitigated thing at that--and Roger disappointing Eva is quite another. I should have known by his absence that something was wrong.

  I will explain to him, probably before he even hears the message. I will beg his forgiveness, and he will understand because I was angry for Eva's sake. Perhaps I can even persuade him to delete it without listening.

  I sneak a look at Eva. She stares out the window, her forehead leaning against it. Her eyes are hollow and red-rimmed, but dry.

  When Mutti and I first told her what happened she burst into horrified tears, but quickly gained the same stunned focus that drove Mutti and me in our hurried preparations as we located Joan and arranged for her to stay at the house. I have this feeling I should be trying to talk to Eva, to prepare her, but I don't know what to say. I won't know what to prepare her for until we get there.

  Dead is dead, but critical can mean anything--I'm not even ready to go there yet. For that matter, so can stable. You can be in stable condition after having your face ripped off--or, say, breaking your neck. Stable means they're hedging their bets. They don't think you're exactly at death's door, but they're also not making any guarantees.

  And so we drive, silent, grim, united. There was no question that we had to go. And there's no question that we're driving toward family, even though the only person in the car related by blood to either Roger or the baby is Eva.

  The hospital is huge and sprawling, a complex of new buildings attached by various walkways. Fortunately, the lobby leads straight to an information desk, a semicircle of burnished wood that is directly in front of a waterfall. It is flat, and takes up the entire length of the wall. The water trickles sweetly down, engineered to be comforting. It reminds me of the environment at the spa, and I am hit with a wave of nausea. Roger and Sonja were probably packing and chatting while I was having stupid little lines painted across the tips of my fingernails.

  The elderly volunteer gives us directions to the ICU. Eva and Mutti turn and rush off while the woman's hand is still outstretched, pointing. I call a thank-you over my shoulder, and jog to catch up.

  The nurses' station is a central island with a wall of monitors behind it. I scan them quickly, trying to identify which one is keeping track of Roger's vital signs. I can't tell, but the variation in heart rhythms is sobering.

  "Excuse me," I say, coming to an abrupt stop with my chest against the desk. "We're here to see Roger Aldrich."

  "And Jeremy Aldrich," Eva says quickly.

  "Yes," I say. My throat is tight as a tourniquet. "Roger and Jeremy Aldrich."

  The nurse looks up at us. "Are you family?" she says.

  "Yes, this is his daughter. Roger's, that is. And I'm his ex-wife. Please, can we see him?"

  The nurse stands up and comes around the other side of the station. She lays a hand on my elbow. "Will you ladies please follow me?"

  She leads us into the hallway and through a door into a small waiting room. The lights are dimmed. Airport chairs of padded Naugahyde line three walls, bolted to beams. There are two end tables, made of the same false wood as Dan's coffee table. On one is a fanned spread of magazines--Golf Weekly, Family Circle, Parenting. On the other is a box of tissue and a brochure about organ donation.

  The nurse turns and addresses Eva. Her face is broad and kind, the skin beside her eyes creased. "What's your name, sweetheart?"

  "Eva."

  "And you're Eva's mother?" she says, turning to me.

  "Yes. I'm Annemarie Zimmer, and this is my mother, Ursula Zimmer."

  "My name is Chantal," she says. "I'm one of Mr. Aldrich's nurses. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll go find one of the doctors."

  "How is he?" I say. "Is he going to be okay?"

  "And my brother? Is he here?" Eva says quickly.

  Chantal pauses by the door. "One of the doctors will be in shortly to fill you in. And Eva, I'll see what I can find out about your brother." She smiles in sympathy and leaves.

  Fifty-five minutes later, we're still waiting. My frustration builds, and every time I hear footsteps or voices outside the door I want to leap up and tear it open, shouting for attention, for information, for anything.

  Eva sits across from me, perched like a bird with her legs up and her arms wrapped around them. Her chin rests on her knees. She's carrying a load far too heavy for someone her age--she's not just scared to death for her father and brother, she's mourning Sonja. And for all I held a grudge, I have to admit that Sonja was good to Eva, always welcomed her into their home. I was secretly grateful for that, and am stunned with something like grief myself. It seems inconceivable--as the result of a split second, a minute miscalculation in distance, Roger is without his wife, and Jeremy, without his mother. She was twenty-four years old.

  I'm sitting beside the brochure on organ donation, hoping Eva won't notice it and wondering whether I can flick it discreetly behind the table. I'm also trying hard not to dwell on the fact that this is a private waiting room. My family has a long history with hospitals, and private waiting rooms don't bode well.

  Mutti stands by the door with one arm folded across her chest and the other pressed to her chin. Occasionally she crosses the room, but she always returns to the same spot.

  The door opens. I jump to my feet. When I realize it's just Chantal, I sigh in irritation.

  "Has anybody been in to see you yet?" she says.

  "No, they haven't," I say. "It's been nearly an hour. We've heard nothing." I know I sound bad-tempered, but don't they realize how desperate we are?

  "I'm sorry for the wait. I've let them know you're here but as you can imagine, things are sometimes
unpredictable on this unit. Can I get you something while you wait? Coffee? Juice, or something?"

  "No," I say. "Please--just tell us how he's doing. Please."

  Chantal presses her lips together, considering. Her eyes flit from me to Eva, and back again. She comes to some sort of internal resolution and turns to Mutti. "Are you ladies from out of town?"

  "Yes, we are," says Mutti.

  "Have you found a place to stay yet?"

  "No, not yet."

  "The hotel right across from the west entrance has a special rate for patients' families. I know they have rooms, because I just called over there for another family. Mrs. Zimmer, why don't you take Eva on over there and get yourselves settled before it gets too late?"

  Mutti and I exchange startled glances.

  I nod.

  "Come, Eva," Mutti says, gathering her jacket and purse. "Let's go get a room."

  "I want to see Dad," says Eva.

  "You will," says Mutti. She walks over and pats Eva's raised knee. "We'll come right back after we check in."

  "And where's Jeremy? Why won't anybody tell us anything?" Eva says crossly, letting her legs drop to the floor. Her voice is querulous, but she reaches for her jacket and hauls herself to her feet.

  "He's on the children's ward," says Chantal.

  "I want to see him."

  "And you shall," says Mutti. "You will see them both. But it will do nobody any good for us to sleep in the back of the car. Come, Eva."

  Eva lets her shoulders drop forward and frowns.

  As she passes me on her way to the door, I grab her and pull her to me. She melts against me, a warm and heavy weight. Her bristly scalp tickles my nose as we clutch each other.

  "It's going to be okay," I say, although I know no such thing.

  "All right," she says in a tiny voice. She sniffs and pulls away. She's crying again, but there is no heaving, no hiccups.

  Chantal reaches out and rubs her shoulder. "Thank you," she says softly as Mutti steers Eva from the room.

  Chantal closes the door behind them and smiles sadly. Then she gestures toward one of the rows of chairs. "Please, have a seat."

  I do, and then wait for her to speak, with my hands steepled and trembling in front of my face.

  She takes a seat opposite, perching right on the edge of the chair and inclining toward me. "I'm glad you made it. We weren't sure anyone was coming," she says.

  "We didn't know. My daughter and I were at a horse show. And besides, we didn't find out until today," I say too quickly. When I realize I'm proclaiming our innocence, I stop.

  "How old is Eva?"

  "Sixteen."

  Chantal nods and purses her lips. She clasps her hands in front of her. "That's about what I thought. I think you're going to want to see Mr. Aldrich yourself before Eva does."

  "Why? Can you please tell me what's going on?"

  "Hang tight. I'll be right back with the doctor," she says, rising.

  "Please--do you not know what this is doing to me?" My voice is raised. I cannot help it.

  She leaves anyway. The door shuts, whisper-quiet.

  I turn to look at the muted abstract wallpaper, frustrated and scared.

  A doctor in blue-green scrubs enters almost immediately. His hair is in a cap. A paper mask hangs around his neck. Chantal follows him in and closes the door.

  "Mrs. Zimmer, I'm Chris Lefcoe, one of your husband's surgeons," he says, extending his hand. I watch mine rise and perform the familiar ritual. Somewhere in my brain it registers that he called Roger my husband, but I don't correct him. At this point it's irrelevant.

  "I'm sorry for the wait, but Mr. Aldrich was just getting out of surgery when you arrived," he says, sitting in the opposite chair. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands with his fingers interlocked. His eye contact is steady, and, I fear, practiced.

  Chantal sits silently beside me.

  "Surgery..." I repeat.

  "To relieve pressure on his brain."

  I am mute, silenced by an overload of imaginings. After a while the silence becomes conspicuous. I realize I've let my eyes wander to Dr. Lefcoe's feet. When I look up, he's still staring earnestly, lines of concern etched on his forehead.

  "How?"

  "We removed a piece of skull to allow room for the swelling."

  The utterance that comes from my throat is somewhere between a word and cry. I sit ramrod straight, my fingertips pressed to my mouth. "Is he...?"

  Chantal's hand appears on my back. She leans toward me, letting her knee touch mine.

  "Mr. Aldrich was in a very bad accident," Dr. Lefcoe continues. "If he makes it, life will be very different."

  "If he makes it?" I say. "Oh God..."

  "He is in grave condition. A lot depends on the next few days. He suffered massive injuries."

  Grave condition--a degree worse than critical, namesake of the unspeakable. I can't absorb this. It's like I'm watching from outside my body, and the person we're discussing is certainly not Roger.

  "What are you saying? Are you telling me he's going to die?"

  The doctor drops his gaze to the floor and then raises his eyes back to mine. "The imaging showed extensive brain damage," he says. "We don't know how much function he'll recover." He pauses. "I'm sorry. We attempted to minimize swelling by inducing a coma, but the trauma was too severe. It happens with this sort of injury. His brain continued to swell after the accident."

  "I want to see him."

  Dr. Lefcoe nods.

  "Are you ready?" says Chantal, and I nod curtly. I've never been less ready in all my life.

  I step into the doorway anyway. I feel like a blind person suddenly sighted, disoriented by color and form as my eyes seek the bed.

  When they find it, my knees give way. "Oh," I whimper.

  Chantal catches my elbow, supporting me. I grasp the doorway with my other hand and look down, letting my eyes flutter shut.

  "Are you all right now? Do you want to sit for a moment?"

  I stand still for a few seconds, focusing on the floor tiles, trying to keep from sliding down to them.

  "No," I say.

  As I regain my balance, she tentatively lightens her grip. "You steady now?"

  "Yes," I say. I breathe heavily, and then lift my face to my richest horror.

  The bed is surrounded by monitors and equipment that blink and beep. The body in the bed is not recognizable. The head is wrapped, the face beneath it puffy and mashed, the eyes taped shut. It is bloated, swollen, apparently boneless.

  (Not it. Him. Him. Roger.)

  A thick tube runs from his mouth to a respirator. Its blue plastic accordion folds rise and fall, hissing like an asp. Leads and wires are taped to his temples and chest, an IV bag hangs above him, dripping, dripping, dripping. A black pulse oximeter clamped to his forefinger blinks red light like an artery.

  My consciousness flickers as I scan his outline in the bed. I take it in once, quickly, and then move my focus to the center of his chest.

  Chantal moves quietly, bringing a chair to the side of the bed. Then she stands beside it in wordless invitation.

  I approach the bed slowly.

  When I'm directly beside him, I look down at his face, still seeking Roger. I don't find him there, but I do find him in the muscles of his shoulders and the shape of his chest. I find him in the angularity of his wrist bone and tapered fingers.

  "Does he know I'm here?" I whisper.

  "He might," she says. I can tell from the way she says it that she doesn't think so.

  I reach out tentatively and stroke his little finger.

  I had been preparing myself to comfort Roger over the loss of his wife, but how to comfort him over the loss of himself?

  Such grief, such grief--I am speechless under its weight. I caress his little finger with both hands, tenderly, afraid to hurt him any more than he's been hurt and weeping because his hand is as familiar to me as my own.

  The doctor's words
come back to me.

  We don't know how much function he'll recover.

  Similar words were once spoken about me. I proved them wrong. But as I stand here looking at Roger's ruined head, I can't help but hope that he never becomes aware again.

  About half an hour later, it occurs to me that I must intercept Eva. I'm pretty sure the nurses wouldn't just let her come in, but I can't risk it. I have no idea how--or even if--I can prepare her for this, but I must forestall until I've figured something out.

  I ask a nurse how to find the west entrance, and then run in that stilted every-second-stride gait used by people who are running where they aren't allowed to until I find it. The hotel is directly across the street, tucked improbably under a walkway that leads to the hospital's parking lot. It is a dismal, squat building, surrounded by concrete and the amorphous fear that clings to the hospital.

  The hotel clerk is clearly expecting me, and gives me directions to the room. I walk until I'm out of sight of the front desk, but as soon as I turn the corner I speed up until I'm sprinting down the dark hall. I stop just outside the door and wipe my eyes with the edges of my hands. I sniff once, straighten my back, and knock. I wait breathlessly, making silent deals with deities. If Mutti and Eva are not here I don't know what I'll do.

  After a moment there's a click and the sound of a chain sliding across. The door opens a crack and Mutti's face appears.

  "Oh, thank God," I say.

  She swings the door open and I step inside the small dark room. It is both intimate and gauche, with cheap furniture and an air conditioner stuck in the window.

  "What did you find out?" says Mutti. "Did you see him?"

  "How's Dad?" Eva's voice sails to me from across the room. She's lying on the farthest of the two beds, curled on her side on the bedspread's sprawling vines. She hugs one of the shammed pillows. The television is off--indeed, still undiscovered within its armoire.

  "He's just had surgery," I say, forcing my voice to remain steady.

  "For what?"

  "He had some swelling. They needed to relieve it."

  Mutti's eyes widen in understanding, but since Eva is searching my face I cannot respond. I concentrate on looking bland. As I attempt to pull the edges of my mouth upward, I realize I'm wearing the same sickly smile as Chantal. Nevertheless, I pin it in place. My lips quiver with the effort.