Chapter 1
Sunday the 15th of February, nineteen minutes past noon.
It matters little how bright the lights illuminate the halls, the Intensive Care Unit represents the most sombre part of any hospital.
They all flock through the entrance doors and crash onto the reception desk, those men, women, boys, girls, they all frenetically inquire about a dear and loved one who was just rushed in moments earlier. The pious ones are lost in prayers, the less religious find a sudden new connection with God. Their friends surround them to comfort them with hopes, and behind the walls on which they lean for support when they legs are too numb and weak to carry them, doctors and nurses attempt to save from further harm the one they shed their tears for. And the redundant rings of the phones continuously stinging the ears, compiled with the distant voices of the staff shouting from one room to the other, make up for the loud echoes that numb the spectators’ minds. Gloomy sights and sounds for the sturdiest of souls.
Well, I do not see any reason why I should dwell here any longer.
“Excuse me”, I politely ask one of the reception ladies, “my wife was admitted here after a car accident”.
Without raising her sight from her computer screen, she asks my wife’s name, and I tell her, “Marion”. “Marion Smith!” I dare add, a bit cockily, I admit.
“I do not have a Marion Smith here”, she answers after quick check.
“Try Marion Abbot”, I tell her immediately, with a calm voice.
“Marion Abbot…” She frowns and raises her eyes as her head remains immobile, and as her gaze pierces above the silver frame of her glasses, she says, in utter awe, “She’s your wife?”
“Yes Ma’am”, I answer casually.
“I read here the surgeons intervened as soon as she was brought in Intensive Care, two nights ago. Aren’t you a bit late?”
“Marion Abbot!” I hear behind me. I turn around and face a young man in a white blouse. He looks like a freshly graduated doctor, a mere few years younger than I am.
“And she’s your wife?” the man asks me shyly.
“Don’t chew any word up, Doc!” I tell him.
“I’m afraid I have terrible news, Sir”, he says, and the evident sorrow in his gaze would have totally fazed me under other circumstances. “Maybe you need to sit down”, as he gently waves his left arm to invite me to grab the nearest chair.
“I’m fine”, and my composed demeanour cannot be more alarming. The man must think I am either a sadist, or hearing terrible news is part of my routine.
“The spinal column has been irreversibly damaged. She will never walk again. I’m not even sure she will ever be able to recover motor functions on her arms either. And even before we get to that…”
“Say it, Doctor”, I tell him, a nervous tension dampening the tone of my voice.
“She’s in a coma, Mr. Abbot! Chances for her to wake up are not too convincing”.
Deliciously cold chills run up my spine and electrify my brain.
“Smith!”
“Beg your pardon”, the doctor asks me.
“My name is Francis Smith, not Abbot. Her maiden name is Abbot.”
I turn to the receptionist and ask, “Do you have a room number”?
“113. Take a right after the elevator”, she tells me, pointing with her finger, her puzzled and wide eyes still fixated on my forehead.
I turn to the doctor again and offer my hand to shake his. “I’m sure you did everything you could, Doc!” I tell him.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Sir?” the man asks me, and I can read a mix of amazement, curiosity and oddness in his eyes.
“I have to remain strong Doc, for my son. Emotions cannot get in the way”. I’m lying with a straight face, of course, my heart is full of joy. It’s funny; only a year ago, I would have already flooded the floor with my weeps.
I leave the reception and head towards the elevator; I do not dare to look back, as I know that the stare of astonishment on both the receptionist and the doctor’s faces will crack me up. Were it not for the respect I hold for the people around in apparent pain, anger and sadness, I would be whistling out loud “Pop! Goes the Weasel” as I stroll along the corridor; I do hum it quietly behind my tight lips. Room 109… 110… I make a left turn as I follow the arrows on the wall… Ha! The committee sits on the few chairs facing what I can only suspect to be room 113.
“Daddy!” Johnny shouts in joy and exhilaration as soon as he sees me.
The committee’s many heads turn to the right simultaneously, and the old witch tries to restrain my son, but as he shrieks his little hand inadvertently pokes her in the eye and she lets go of him by reflex. Johnny runs to me, opening his arms, and I lift all thirty pounds of him from the floor while I hug and kiss him repeatedly in his neck and on his belly with all my love. He sits comfortably on the cradle of my left arm, as he is accustomed to do, his head on my left shoulder and his arms wrapped around me for as far as they can reach. I walk towards the committee, but I do not even bless them with a furtive glance, and I completely ignore them. As I grab the handle of the door of 113, I hear the old witch shouting that I have no right to be here, which prompts the nearest nurse to rush to the door and barricade it. I immediately produce a couple of papers from the right pocket of my jacket, and hand them over to the nurse, telling her, “These are copies of my ID, her ID, my boy’s ID, and a certificate of marriage. I am the husband of the woman behind that door”.
“But I cannot let you in, Sir. Doctor’s orders. Mrs. Marion has been unconscious since she came out of the operation room, and no one is allowed in until she wakes up”.
“If she ever wakes up”, I correct the statement.
She rolls her eyes down, lowers her chin and looks at her feet before answering shyly, “I am terribly sorry, Sir”.
I had wished for her nothing but excruciating pain leading to her death, and with time, I learned to sooth my curse on her to an easier and less painful demise, such as a car accident, quick and radical, yet one that will sweep her away for good and leave me in charge of the child she blatantly neglects. The universe conspired to grant me my wish, and a bad and tipsy driver on a dark night and a slippery road will serve time for the car crash.
“Very well”, I answer, as I fold the papers back into the same pocket.
I turn around and head towards the nearest exit.
“Where are you taking Jonathan?” I hear the trembling voice of the witch bleating behind me. “You are not fit to take care of him! He’s better off with us!”
Suddenly, a hand grabs my right shoulder, and I stop. It is the meaningless cu… I mean Marion’s brother, confident enough to think the three inches he has on me will intimidate me. I turn around and take an aggressive step towards him, prompting him to take a step back himself, a reflex fuelled by surprise. I take another step towards him, and with his second move of retreat he touches the wall behind him with the back of his elbow. This is when a complete silence fills the hall, disturbed only by the pounding of his heart into his ribcage. This is when he holds his breath to try to regulate his increasingly rapid heartbeat, as my gaze of hatred and violence tears his eyes in half. In a flash, I raise my right arm, with my fist already cocked in a threatening punch. I completely fake the punch, but he already feared me too much. His reflexes get the best of him again, and he throws his head backward to avoid what he expected to be a targeted hit, banging the back of his skull hard on the wall behind him and knocking him down immediately and crashing to the floor.
“Neal”, the old witch yells, as she rushes towards him, followed by the rest of their nasty tribe, or, in other words, Marion’s father and her sister in law.
Johnny’s head still rests comfortably on my shoulder, and I do not suspect he witnessed or understood any of the incident that had just occurred. I turn around and continue my serene promenade towards the nearest exit, and the reason I cannot help but whistling, “Pop! Goes the Weasel” is because it is the only hymn of victory dominating my mind at this very moment.
Because Victory is now written with a capital V!
Today is the first day of the rest of a much happier life!
