“One thing at a time,” Dr. Seering says evenly, and I want to throw my arms around him when he gives Dylan a pointed look and then reaches out to squeeze Mimi’s shoulder and give her an encouraging smile.
Around dinnertime, Mimi tries her best to elicit some activity from Daniel. “Can you squeeze my hand?” she asks hopefully, reaching through the rail to hold Daniel’s large, warm palm in her own.
He doesn’t squeeze back, and she looks crushed.
“Soon,” I tell her. “I bet he’ll squeeze back soon.” I convince Jerry to take Mimi down to the cafeteria for something to eat, and as soon as they leave, I approach Daniel’s bedside.
“Daniel. Open your eyes.”
Nothing happens.
I try again a few minutes later, a bit more urgency in my voice. “Daniel, I want you to open your eyes.” I’m rewarded for my efforts when he opens them briefly, but the way he’s looking at me, as if the lights are on but absolutely no one is home, scares me to death. It means nothing, I tell myself, and I don’t say anything to Mimi when she and Jerry return half an hour later.
CHAPTER EIGHT
JESSIE
We are given so much information over the next couple of days that I start to take notes, typing them into my phone and then transferring them into a small notebook I purchased in the hospital gift shop. I record all of Daniel’s movements and his responses to our commands.
It gives me purpose.
Daniel is now able to keep his eyes open for longer stretches, and he squeezes our hands almost every time we ask him to. But his gaze is still unfocused, which is noticed by everyone, and he hasn’t spoken. A verbal response is the next hurdle we need to clear, and Mimi is becoming more despondent by the hour, especially when Daniel keeps his eyes closed for a twelve-hour stretch. Progress in the ICU seems to follow the adage of “one step forward and two steps back,” so I try to buoy her spirits.
“Let’s not get too discouraged. Tomorrow will be better,” I promise.
Though I had no way of knowing just how true that promise would be when I uttered it, the next day brings a miracle. Shortly after nine a.m., Daniel opens his eyes, focuses intently on my face, which is right in front of him because I’m pulling up his blanket, and croaks out the word “Honey.”
Mimi and I start to cry, but they are tears of joy.
Now we can wait patiently and optimistically for whatever comes next, because we know the significance of that word.
We know it means Daniel’s brain will be fine.
When we tell Dr. Seering about it during afternoon rounds, he is cautiously optimistic. “His progress is very encouraging. You’re obviously contributing positively to his recovery, so keep it up.”
“What can we expect next?” I ask.
“There should be continued improvement, but Daniel will likely experience periods of confusion and agitation as he leaves the depths of his coma behind. He may even become combative. We can give you some techniques to help de-escalate and redirect him. The road will be bumpy for a while, but that’s to be expected. It’s fine as long as he keeps making progress.”
Mimi, Jerry, and I—and sometimes Dylan—have become a well-oiled machine when it comes to taking care of Daniel. I’m becoming more aware of my reluctance to bow out and let them take it from here.
I want to stay.
I want to help.
We share the good news about Daniel’s recovery with Officer Spinner. There is much to rejoice about, and the news spreads quickly, especially as the encouraging updates continue. Over the next few days, Daniel recognizes and responds verbally to me, his parents, and Dylan. But we push him too hard one day, asking too many questions.
“Shut up,” Daniel says, yelling at us to leave him alone and jerking his arm away when Jerry tries to soothe him. There’s a hardness in his voice that startles us all, and we let him be.
We have to tell Daniel at least three times that he’s been shot because he keeps forgetting. His brain is like a sieve, and it seems as if everything we tell him leaks right back out; there’s really no way to plug the holes. His frustration is evident by the way he scowls and snaps at us, but I can’t tell if the frustration comes from not remembering anything we tell him or because he knows he can’t remember.
The next day when I’m trying to pull up the sheet to cover his chest in case he’s cold, he pushes my hands away.
“Why are you even here?” he yells.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t want you to help me.”
I back away. “Okay. I’ll just…be back later.”
“Don’t bother.”
One of the nurses witnessed our exchange, and later, out in the hall, she says, “Don’t take it personally, dear. In my experience, people treat the ones they love the worst.”
“It’s okay. Really.”
Because if anyone knows the truth in those words, it’s me.
CHAPTER NINE
DANIEL
I feel like I’ve been flung into another dimension, one that’s full of pain, disorientation, and confusion. I’m constantly poked and prodded and asked to perform on command.
Everything hurts.
I can’t remember anything they tell me.
All I want them to do is leave me alone so I can sleep and escape from the pain. They actually forced me to get out of bed and stand, and the exertion made me puke because it felt like my head was splitting in two.
And Jessie. What the hell is that all about? I vaguely remember that the last time she and I were in the same room she was just so goddamn mad at me, although I can’t remember why. Her anger was like a heat-seeking missile and I had a glowing red target on my forehead.
Bam.
Maybe that’s why my head hurts so much.
Another memory makes its way up through the murky darkness of my brain, and I suddenly remember that I have a son.
I have a son!
Then I remember that he’s dead.
And the pain of that memory hurts more than all the other pain combined.
CHAPTER TEN
JESSIE
Eight days after Daniel arrived via helicopter at the University of Kansas Medical Center, he is moved out of the ICU and into a regular room. His mood has improved and most of the aggressive, combative behavior has been replaced by quiet resignation. Though he sometimes looks confused when he sees me, I’m almost certain it has more to do with why I’m here versus not knowing who I am. I speak to him gently, but I no longer try to touch him. He can receive visitors now, and one afternoon his friends and fellow officers filter in and out. I make myself scarce, and Mimi finds me sitting at a table in the cafeteria, drinking tea and halfheartedly working on a crossword puzzle.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she says. Whenever my friends or my sister would complain about their mothers-in-law, I would nod sympathetically, with no real understanding of what they were going through because I’ve always loved Mimi.
“I didn’t want to be in the way.”
She sits down and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “You’re not in the way, Jess.”
“Do you think Daniel wishes I would leave?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think Daniel is thinking about much of anything at all right now, except how to get through the next day. Maybe even the next hour. You’ve been a great comfort to Jerry and me, and having you here has helped us tremendously. I hope you don’t mind me saying that you seem so much stronger now.”
My eyes fill with tears. “I’m doing a lot better. Things were just…really bad for a while.” I can’t hold in my emotions any longer, and Mimi scoots her chair next to mine and puts her arms around me as I break down and sob. I couldn’t have picked a better place to have an emotional meltdown because no one gives us a second glance. They probably think I’ve been given horrible news about a loved one and they’re respecting my privacy.
&nb
sp; When the tears subside I wipe my eyes and nose with a napkin and take a deep breath.
“Bet that felt good,” Mimi says.
I smile. “It did.”
“Jerry and I are going to run home for a little while. It’s getting a bit crowded up there. The nurse mentioned something about kicking everyone out in fifteen minutes, and she told them she didn’t care if they were the police.”
“I’ll go back up in a bit. Make sure they’re gone.”
Mimi gives my hand a final pat and walks away.
Daniel is alone when I return from the cafeteria, but he appears to be sleeping. The number of visitors he received has undoubtedly worn him out. I don’t approach his bedside for fear of disturbing him, but as soon as I sit down in the chair, he opens his eyes and says, “Hey.”
I smile hesitantly. “Can I get you anything?”
“Some water?”
“Of course.” I fill his water glass from a small pitcher and help him take a drink. “Your throat must hurt from all that talking. You had some irritation from the ventilator tube. I’m sure it’s still a bit tender.”
He looks at me quizzically. “How do you know that?”
“About the ventilator?”
“Yes.”
“I spoke to the nurse about it. After they took you off it, I saw you touching your throat and wincing like it hurt, so I asked.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since they brought you in. You never updated your emergency contact information. The officers showed up at my door to bring me to the hospital.” I can tell by his expression that he’s struggling to process all this. The last thing I want to do is tax his brain, so I redirect our conversation. “Is it all right with you if I stay a little longer? I’ll understand if you don’t want me to.”
“It’s okay if you stay, Jess.” The cautious way he says it makes me think that he can’t quite remember why he wouldn’t want me here. Those memories may be buried, but at some point they’re going to resurface.
And when they do, I’ll try to say the things I couldn’t then.
While Daniel is sleeping, I come up with the idea of going to his house to retrieve some of his clothes, and I run it by him as soon as he wakes up. “I bet you’ll be more comfortable in a T-shirt and sweatpants. I can bring some shoes too. The nurse said something about you walking a little farther today.”
He groans and closes his eyes again. I’m sure getting out of bed is nothing but a kaleidoscope of pain.
“Would you like me to bring back the clothes?”
“Sure.”
I realize that I don’t actually know where Daniel lives. “What’s your address?”
As soon as I see his stricken expression, I realize my mistake. I should have asked a nurse. Surely they could find the information in his chart somewhere.
Shit.
“Never mind,” I say quickly. “Dylan can come with me. Do your mom and dad have an extra key?”
“There’s a keypad on the garage.” He hesitates. “I don’t know the code,” he says quietly, and his fearful, anguished expression tells me how much the awareness of his memory loss has shaken him.
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. Is there anything else you want me to bring back while I’m there?”
“No,” he says, turning away from me to look at the wall.
My heart is breaking.
Dylan agrees to accompany me to Daniel’s house, rather reluctantly it seems. When I finally tracked him down, he was stepping into the elevator with a nurse. By the way she was looking at Dylan, I knew he was in the midst of laying on the charm. It’s easy to be taken in by Dylan. He’s every bit as handsome as his brother, but Daniel appears warm and inviting, and Dylan is all hard edges, as if his good looks are encased in brittleness. He’s a snake that will whirl around and strike once you’re close enough.
“Hey,” I said. “Can you ride with me to Daniel’s? I need to pick up a few things for him, and I don’t know where he lives.”
“So just ask him,” Dylan said, turning his attention back to the nurse.
I gritted my teeth. “I did. He doesn’t remember.”
“He doesn’t remember where he lives?” Dylan said, spinning back around.
“He got shot in the head, Dylan. What part of short-term memory loss did you not understand? He’ll remember it. Eventually.”
I hope.
Dylan whispered something in the nurse’s ear. Whatever it was, it made her cheeks flush a bright shade of red. I rolled my eyes.
Now he’s in the passenger seat of my Honda, directing me to Daniel’s house. “Daniel said there’s a keypad on the garage, so I hope you have the code.”
“Yeah, I’ve got it.”
Daniel’s house is much smaller than our old one, and it’s a ranch instead of a two-story. The yard needs to be mowed because none of us thought about that while Daniel was clinging to life. I make a mental note to get someone out here to take care of it or come back and do it myself.
Dylan keys in the code but the door remains closed. “That’s weird,” he says, wrinkling his forehead and trying again. Still nothing.
“Maybe Daniel changed it,” I say. “When’s the last time you used it?”
“A few months ago.” His expression changes to one of comprehension.
“What is it? Do you know why he changed the code?”
“No,” he says, but I’d bet a million bucks that he does. And whatever the reason, his scowl tells me he’s irritated by it.
So now we have to crack the code or break into Daniel’s house, neither of which sound like very feasible options.
“What was the old code?” I ask.
He rattles off five numbers, and they’re like a knife to the gut because the combination is Gabriel’s birthday.
I take a minute to compose myself. Dylan wisely remains quiet.
Once I’m able to continue, I focus on the keypad. I enter every combination that might possibly have some significance for Daniel: his birthday, Mimi’s birthday, Jerry’s birthday, the day he graduated from the police academy, and our wedding day, which is a long shot I can’t even believe I consider, but I’m desperate.
Dylan gives it a try, calling upon his knack for numbers. My former brother-in-law is supposedly some kind of genius, and if Daniel’s code has any mathematical significance, Dylan can probably crack it.
But he can’t, and his growing frustration matches my own.
Finally, as a last resort, I key in 09-24-93.
The noise of the garage door going up startles me so badly that I jump.
“What did you key in?” Dylan asks.
“09-24-93.”
Dylan pauses to file the code in his memory, lest he need it again. “What’s so special about that?”
“It’s the day we met.” I’m as astounded as Dylan appears to be, but it’s short-lived because now that we’re in, I want to gather Daniel’s things and get back to the hospital.
Daniel’s place is cozy, with arched entryways and hardwood floors. I don’t recognize the new furniture; he left ours with me when he moved out. His couch looks comfortable; a throw blanket is folded neatly at one end. Dylan is moving around the place like he owns it, opening the refrigerator and helping himself to a Coke. It irritates me for some reason.
In Daniel’s bedroom there is a king-size bed I’ve never seen. A framed picture of Gabriel sits upon the dresser, and my gaze sweeps lightly over it. After gathering up a few days’ worth of T-shirts and sweats, I grab underwear and socks and a pair of Daniel’s running shoes. Dylan is watching TV when I return to the living room.
“Let’s go,” I say, stopping in the kitchen for something to shove Daniel’s clothes into. I find a plastic grocery bag, follow Dylan out the door, and key in the garage code to lock up.
“It must be hard,” Dylan says as I drive back to the hospital and pull into a parking space. His voice is unchar
acteristically tender.
“What?” To be honest, I’m exhausted, somewhat distracted, and not really sure where he’s going with this question.
“To go through everything you’ve gone through. With Gabriel and the divorce and now Daniel.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” I say, turning off the car and reaching into the backseat for my purse and the bag containing Daniel’s clothes. When I turn around, Dylan is already out of the car and walking around to open my door. “Thanks,” I say, surprised at his chivalry but appreciative because my hands are full.
But then Dylan puts his hands on my hips to move me out of the way so he can shut the door for me. “I’m here if you need me. You know that, right?” One hand is still on my hip and he reaches up and brushes my hair back with the other, leaning in so that he’s pressed up against me.
You have got to be kidding me.
I sigh wearily. “Maybe you should go track down that nurse, Dylan.”
After I remove his hands, he saunters idly toward the entrance of the hospital. By the time I reach Daniel’s room, I’m almost as frustrated with myself as I am with Dylan. How did I not see that coming from a mile away?
Daniel might have changed his garage code because it was something he did regularly, in the name of good home security practices.
Or it could be that he decided to change it because he no longer wanted Dylan to have it.
Which is why, later that night on my way home from the hospital, I drive back to Daniel’s and change it again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
DANIEL
Jessie was right. I’m more comfortable wearing my own clothes. The nurse comments on my T-shirt and sweatpants as she helps me back into bed after the first real shower I’ve been able to take since I got here. Thankfully, I have only foggy memories of the sponge baths that preceded it.
“Jessie brought them,” I say.
“Your wife has been wonderful,” she says as she refills my water and adjusts my bed.
You mean my ex-wife.
“From what I hear, she rarely left your side while you were in the ICU.”