He seems so calm, so unaffected. Of course, he is. He hates the guy.
I wonder if he hopes Weston dies.
And I realize that’s a question I don’t want the answer to.
Over the next two days, we hear nothing. And I do some on-line research about severe head injuries, driving myself crazy in the process. It’s all so overwhelming; epidural hematomas, subdural hematomas, intracerebral hematomas, brain hemorrhage. I suddenly wish I had gone to med school. I want to understand what’s happening to him.
I study the statistics. Apparently, according to one informative site, of all patients with severe head trauma, about 25% to 30% recover fully, with little or no bad long-term outcome. I like those odds. This makes me happy. But, the next numbers make my heart sink — about 17% sustain long-term disabilities.
And then…about 30% die.
As I stare at the number, I fall into sobs. Weston has a greater chance of dying than he does of making a full recovery.
Despite what has happened, I still need to move on with my life. I still need to teach. They don’t exactly let you take a day for secret lovers in critical condition. I could call in sick, but part of me knows the distraction of work will serve me well.
I try to be present for my students as much as I can. We do the usual routine.
On Tuesday, we start off with story time. I sit in my old rocking chair and the children sit around me in a circle, their sweet faces curious, attentive. I think this is a favorite part of the day for most of them, myself included. The story I read today is about a little white bear cub who has ventured too far and gotten lost in the woods.
His mother searches desperately through the forest, looking for her baby. “Have you seen my baby?” she asks the snow owl. “Have you seen my baby?” she then asks the white fox. “Have you seen my baby?” she asks the hare, and so on, and as the pages turn, her desperation becomes almost palpable. It is practically tangible, as seen in the soft beautiful illustrations.
The children listen with complete focus, little brows furrowed in concern — they want the mother bear to find her cub, healthy and happy. I can relate to mother bear. Although I’ve never lost a child, I am in the same anxious state of the unknown, wanting time to speed, wanting to see the conclusion, to know it is a happy ending. And it’s not about passion, lust, romantic love. It’s about a friend. A friend I want to find healthy and happy.
The week goes on and I barrel through it, one hour at a time, one minute at a time. I’m in the perfect place to stop thinking about him. I have twenty-one distractions. Scratch that, I have twenty distractions since my little-troublemaking Sebastian is off sick today. But I could sure use him around.
Gwen and I eat outside, in the chill of autumn. We keep our jackets on and watch the leaves fall. And I confide in her. I tell her about my last moments with Weston. Now I think she understands a little more. I cry in her arms and of course, I barely touch my food.
Gabe is there for me, a constant source of support. He’s just as impatient as I am. He wants to know what’s going on, and he hates his silent phone.
I’m in the bath when I hear the familiar buzz of Gabe’s cell. It is almost inaudible in the distance. I hear Gabe speaking in serious, hushed tones. He barely says a word. I scurry out of the bathtub and wrap myself in my plush bathrobe. I barrel down the stairs, wanting to know.
Gabe puts his phone back in his pocket and looks at me with dull eyes. The already existing ache is my stomach spreads across my insides. “What?” I plead. “Tell me.”
He stands up a little straighter. “He’s in a coma. They won’t really know the severity of his injuries until he wakes up.”
I close the distance between us and wrap my arms around him. “There’s still hope.”
“Yes,” he says. “Apparently, he was lucky, and didn’t get roughed up too bad, other than the head trauma. Apparently some broken bones, but that’s about it.”
I look up at him, stunned by the way he has been; the kindness and understanding he has shown. “Why are you being so