to do with this accident, it happened on Interstate eighty-eight between Naperville and Chicago. She must have wondered where he was coming from.
I sink into the plush sofa cushions as the realization dawns on me, she will never call.
I need to call her.
I’m such a coward. I can’t call Bridget. I don’t want to face her after everything that has happened. I shudder at the memory of how she looked at me the last time we saw each other — like she wanted to rip me open, dig out my insides, stick them in a blender and pulverize them. But to be fair, she had just learned I was carrying her husband’s child. And then, to add insult to injury, Weston leaves her.
And now this.
I am the last person she wants to talk to.
The newscast has given us a bit more information, but not much — he’s in critical condition with a serious head injury, and several other less severe injuries. My heart sinks at the knowledge. I don’t know much about medicine, but I do know head injuries are usually very serious.
“I need to know more,” I tell Gabe who has been by my side all this time as I’ve sobbed over the other man in my life.
He holds me tight and tucks me in under the crook of his arm. “I could call Bridget,” he ventures, “find out more.”
I sit up and look at him. “You would do that?”
He fixes me with pure emotion. “I can tell this is killing you, not knowing.”
“It is.”
“I’ll call her.”
Gabe calls Bridget. He doesn’t reach her but he does leave a message. We pace around the house, flipping channels, hoping to get more information on other newscasts, but we have no luck.
I browse the Internet for additional sources of information, but no luck there either.
Gabe and I put the girls to bed with a kiss and a squeeze. Claire tells me she’ll pray for Weston. I smile and wonder where she’s picked that up, since, I’m ashamed to admit, we don’t go to Church. I pinch the sweet dimple on her cheek and say, “Thank you”.
“No problem,” she says. “It will only take a minute.”
So sweet.
I hope her prayers work. I start wondering if I should start praying too. I think back to a day not too long ago — the day I went to Church after all these years. I asked Him to watch over all of us, including Weston. I believe He will. Weston will be okay.
Gabe’s phone buzzes and from the pitch of his voice and his body posture, I can tell he’s speaking to her. I try to make out the conversation, but all I hear is lots of ‘uh-huhs’ and ‘sure’ and ‘I understand’, and the dreaded ‘I’m so sorry, Bridget’.
My heart hammers against my chest as he turns off his phone and ventures a look up at me, the color drained from his face.
No.
I throw myself at him. “What did she say?”
He holds me tight. “She said he’s in the ICU,” he says softly. “The next few hours are critical. Apparently, he suffered a massive brain injury. He’s not conscious.”
I feel a wave of nausea crash through me. I tear myself away from Gabe and run to the powder room.
Gabe darts after me and stands at the doorway while I hurl into the toilet. I’m brought back to the stomach flu I had a while back, the stomach flu which started this whole mess; the pregnancy, the resulting separations, the goodbyes, the car crash. Dominoes falling against one another expectedly. One incident will always result in another, a reaction to an action. It’s the basic law of physics.
I gargle some mouthwash before leaving the powder room and I crash back down on the sofa in the living room. “I want to go see him.”
Gabe shakes his head. “You can’t. Nobody can see him,” he tells me and then he bites his bottom lip and can’t seem to quite look at me.
“What?”
He scratches his beard. “Well, another thing Bridget told me,” he says, faltering, as if he’s trying to work out how to say the words. “She doesn’t want you there. She doesn’t want you anywhere near the hospital. She was pretty adamant about it.”
I feel my whole body sink. Of course she doesn’t. “It makes sense.”
“She did say she would keep me in the loop.”
“Oh, great.”
“Put yourself in her shoes, Ella.”
“I get it. I get what you’re saying. I completely understand.”