Frank and I walk over to Cecelia, who is now cradling Bria in her arms, even though Bria is a toddler and much too big to be carried that way. I notice that Cecelia is crying. Frank sits down next to Cecelia and motions for me to sit next to him. So I sit. And we wait. None of us says anything.
I place my head in my hands. They still smell like soap from the restaurant. How can it be that the last time I washed my hands, my wife and son were alive and well? And now…
The door swooshes open again, and this time it’s the door separating the waiting room from the rest of the hospital. It’s the door I’ve been eyeing all night. I watch the doctor as he walks towards us. His forehead is damp with sweat—I swallow hard.
No.
Suddenly, I feel the panic rise up into my throat, and it threatens to choke me. I am being choked by fear. I’d heard the expression before, but this is the first time I’m experiencing it.
The doctor passes us and walks to the family seated next to us. I exhale. I listen to their conversation.
“Your father is fine,” he says, speaking to the matriarch of the family. “We caught the clot in time, and there is no immediate damage to his heart. He’s recovering right now, but you can go up and see him in a few minutes.”
They exchange pleasantries, and dread takes the place of panic. I try not to be a pessimist, but sometimes I can’t help it, and right now is one of those times. Because is it possible to have two sets of good news in an emergency room? Or is it 50/50? If it’s 50/50, that can mean only one thing. I hope to God it’s more like 60/40, or even 70/30.
Please, God, let them be okay.
I pace around the room. The anticipation is killing me. I rub my forehead and wince when I run my fingers over the open wound there. All I have is a scratch.
One fucking scratch.
Bria, thank God, was not injured in any way. She was asleep, only briefly waking when we took the ambulance to the hospital. She promptly fell back asleep, too young to understand the dreadful circumstances. We were released after an hour, and I don’t even have a concussion—not a single damn thing except this cut on my forehead, which didn’t even need stitches.
They told us to wait on news of Isabel and Matthias. They were both unconscious, and I was in too much shock to realize that something could be wrong. Something could be majorly wrong.
The door whooshes open again, and another doctor walks in. We’re the only other people here, so I know he is coming for us. He’s not wearing bloody scrubs like the last one. He’s wearing a fresh white lab coat, and his face is unreadable.
We all walk over to him eagerly.
“Nicholas Wilder?” he says, looking at me. I nod. “Your wife and son sustained multiple lacerations to their heads, necks, and arms. Since they were thrown from the car, they also sustained major internal bleeding.” He stops and looks at me. I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Isabel took her seatbelt off to breastfeed Matthias,” I whisper, trying to explain.
“I see,” he says solemnly. He looks down.
No.
“How are they?” Cecelia asks, and her face is wet with tears. Bria is in her arms, still fast asleep. Some sort of parental instinct seeps into me, and I’m grateful for just one second that she missed it all. No, present tense: she is missing it all. Isn’t that what most parents want? To try and hide the horrors of the world from their children?
“We had to perform emergency surgery on both of them. Isabel’s brain began to swell, and we tried to reduce the swelling every way we could. Matthias…” He shakes his head. “Matthias was just too small…”
I feel the floor sway underneath me, and I feel like I’ve been shot. My heart, everything, it all hurts. The tears start to blur my vision.
“And Isabel?” I whisper. My voice is barely audible.
The doctor shakes his head.
“We tried, Nicholas. The injuries were just too much…”
“No…” I utter, and I reach out to clutch his jacket. “Please tell me they’re okay,” I beg, my voice raspy. “Please!” He doesn’t say anything as I scan his face for answers.