The Loft Read online

  He continues talking. His lips move, but Annie hears only snippets. “Drunk.” “Injured. “Mercy Hospital.”

  None of it makes any sense to Annie. Oliver is a good driver, a sensible driver. He’s the kind of driver who’s ready to step on the brake if some idiot pulls in front of him unexpectedly.

  “Are you sure you’re talking about Oliver Doyle?” she asks nervously.

  Keith gives a solemn nod. “I’m certain. I was with your husband, and before he lost consciousness he asked for Annie.”

  Annie’s heart starts to hammer against her chest. She has a million questions, but the only thing she asks is, “How bad is it?” What she wants to know is, will Oliver live? But to ask that takes courage, the kind of courage she doesn’t have right now.

  “I think you’ll want to be there,” Keith says. “Mercy is a good hospital, and I’m sure they’ll do whatever they can…” He stops there and leaves the remainder of the thought unsaid.

  Annie is about to follow them back to the hospital when Max screeches to a stop in the driveway. She jumps out of the car, rushes over to Annie and clasps her in an embrace.

  “I heard,” Max says.

  ~ ~ ~

  When Annie and Max arrive at the hospital, Oliver has already been taken to the operating room. They are told to have a seat in the waiting room, and Doctor Sharma will speak with them as soon as he has something to report.

  “Can’t you just tell me how he is?” Annie asks.

  The nurse shakes her head. “Sorry. You’ll have to talk to Doctor Sharma.”

  Annie sits in the grey plastic chair beside Max, and they begin the long wait. At first the room swarms with anxiety: a crying baby, a bloody hand wrapped in a dishtowel, an elderly man doubled over in pain. All of them waiting. Frightened of what the diagnosis will be. The waiting, Annie knows, is often worse than the injury.

  “How much longer?” the old man says, moaning. “I can’t take the pain.” A few minutes later he is taken back to an exam room. After him, the bloody hand disappears. One by one the emergency room seats empty out, and by midnight only Annie and Max are left sitting in the cavernous room.

  Annie again goes to the desk to ask about Oliver.

  “Does Doctor Sharma know I’m waiting to speak to him?” she asks.

  The nurse has a look of intolerance. It has been a long day, and the weariness of it is written on her face.

  “Yes, he knows.” Her answer seems short and abrupt.

  “Well, is there anyone else?” Annie asks. “Someone who can give me an update on how my husband is doing?”

  “Only Doctor Sharma, and he’s still in surgery.”

  Annie returns to her seat and clutches Max’s hand. “If only they’d tell me something…”

  Max wants to say something encouraging, but there is nothing to say. Not knowing is a hell of its own. The uncertainty tugs at them and begs them to ask again. It whispers this time there will be good news. This time the answer will be he’s resting comfortably and they can now see him. So they ask again and again, but still there is only the ugliness of uncertainty.

  After what seems like an eternity of waiting the nurse calls for Annie and tells her to go to the reception lounge on the second floor. She waggles a finger toward the hallway.

  “Take the first elevator on the left,” she says. “Doctor Sharma will join you there shortly.”

  Annie asks if she has word of Oliver’s condition.

  Nothing changes. She again shakes her head and replies, “I can’t say. You’ll have to—”

  “I know,” Annie cuts in. “Talk to Doctor Sharma.”

  The second floor lounge has the appearance of an ordinary living room. The smell of fresh-perked coffee comes from the pot on the corner table. The glaring overheads and bolted-down chairs of the emergency room are replaced with shaded lamps, cushioned sofas and carpeting. On the wall is a still life of flowers; beneath it a brass plaque reads “In memory of Benjamin Thurgood.”

  Max and Annie sit next to one another on the sofa. They are the only ones in the room.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Annie says nervously.

  “Why do you say that?” Max asks.

  Annie gives a fearful looking shrug. “I can feel there’s a lot of sorrow in this room.”

  “Nonsense,” Max says, but the truth is she also has that feeling.

  It is a half-hour wait before the dark-eyed doctor arrives. Rahul Sharma has a gentle manner but the face of a boy. Even before he has introduced himself, Annie starts to worry he is too young. Too young to have Oliver’s life in his hands.

  “Oliver…” she says fearfully. “Is he…”

  Doctor Sharma raises his palm. “Not to worry.”

  He sits in the chair next to Annie. “Your husband is a lucky man. He is alive because they got him here so quickly.”

  “Thank God,” Annie says with a loud exhale.

  “Indeed.” Sharma nods.

  As he details Oliver’s condition to Annie, his words are wise and his expression compassionate.

  “When you see your husband, his head will be very swollen,” he warns. “But I am hopeful that, given time, this swelling will go down and he will regain consciousness.”

  He explains the accident caused an epidural hematoma.

  “Mister Doyle had blood leaking into the area of the brain,” he says, “so we had to surgically create openings to alleviate the pressure.” He deliberately does not say “drilled holes in Oliver’s skull” because, although it was a life-saving necessity, the sound of such an action is harsh and difficult to understand.

  Annie’s eyes never leave Doctor Sharma’s face as he speaks. She listens to every word, then tries to pick through them. Hopeful—Dr. Sharma said he was hopeful, yes—this is a word to keep, but there are so few others.

  “Oliver has additional problems but none as serious as this,” Sharma says. “The broken sternum is indeed painful, but with time and rest it will heal itself. The leg will need a second surgery and to be in a cast for maybe two months, but, again, this is not a worry.”

  As he slowly goes through the challenges facing a comatose patient, Annie realizes there is a painful truth hiding behind his words. Oliver may never wake up.

  It is a thin line that separates living and dying, a line held in place by a single word: hopeful.

  Her head drops into her lap and the tears come.

  “No,” she says through her sobs. “This can’t be…no, please, no…”

  Max wraps her arm around Annie’s shoulders and hugs her closer.

  “It is too soon for tears,” Doctor Sharma says. “It is not good to waste yourself on tears while there is hope. Sorrow is the enemy of hope.”

  Annie lifts her head and looks into his face. “Please tell me the truth,” she begs. Although she asks for truth, what she actually wants is reassurance, reassurance that her husband will live. She hesitates a moment then asks, “Is Oliver going to be okay?”

  Without changing expression, he nods. “Yes, I believe there is a reasonably good chance. If Mister Doyle regains consciousness within the week, it is quite probable that he will make a full recovery.”

  “What if it’s longer than a week?” Max asks cautiously.

  Sharma gives his head a shake that is barely perceptible.

  “Not as good,” he says. “Eight days, yes, nine days, yes, but the longer a patient is in a coma, the less likely they will make a full recovery.”

  “Will Oliver know I’m there with him?” Annie asks.

  Doctor Sharma tips his head; it is neither a yes nor a no. “That question medical science has yet to answer,” he says “Some say yes, some say no. I believe when a bond is strong enough, anything is possible.”

  When he stands, Annie stands also. They shake hands, and she tearfully thanks him for all he has done for Oliver.

  After he is gone, Max wraps her arm around Annie.

  “Don’t worry,” she says.

  Such a request is
like asking a mountain to rise up and dance.

  Annie

  Yesterday I could see the years of my life stretched out in front of me like a solid gold runway. Now I wonder if I’ll make it through another day.

  Poor Oliver looks worse than I could have ever dreamed. His head is one-and-a-half times what it should be, and the skin across his face is stretched so tight it looks paper-thin. He doesn’t even blink an eye, just lies there and lets the machine do the breathing for him.

  I don’t know if he can hear me or not, but I keep talking to him. I tell him how much I love him, and I say when he gets better we’re going to take that honeymoon we missed. I talk about all the places we’ll go and the things we’ll see, but the whole while I’m talking I’m praying maybe he will open one eye.

  I won’t let myself think about the possibility he won’t wake up. Doing that would be the same as giving up. Oliver would never give up on me, and I’m not going to give up on him.

  I asked Max to pray for us both. I know Max is not a praying person, but she said she would.

  For Max that’s the same as saying she loves us.

  Day One

  Oliver is now in the ICU ward. His room is a tiny square with machines on both sides of the bed and space enough for two small chairs. A few steps away there is a nurse’s station. Someone is always at the desk.

  The ICU is a place where death can happen in a heartbeat. There are no specified visiting hours. Family members can come and go at any hour of the day or night, and they can stay as long as they want. No nurse is willing to say go home when a loved one might breathe their last within the next few minutes.

  Annie stands beside the bed holding Oliver’s hand, touching his cheek, bending to kiss him. The face she touches is not the one she has etched in her mind. This face is oddly misshapen and covered with darkening bruises. But she sees beyond that; she sees Oliver as he has always been. She tells herself this is a temporary thing. In a day, maybe two, the swelling will go down and he will open his eyes. She whispers in his ear that soon this will be over, and one day they will be able to look back, breathe a sigh of relief and thank God for having made it through such a horrendous ordeal.

  One day. Perhaps. Again and again the word “hopefully” comes to mind.

  When her legs grow so weary she can no longer stand, Annie pulls the metal chair alongside the bed and sits. Still she holds his hand.

  Max has been there throughout the night, but when morning comes she says she is going home to shower and grab a bite to eat.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours,” she tells Annie. “Call me on my cell if you need anything.”

  “Take your time,” Annie replies. “I’ll be fine.”

  She glances at her watch. Eight-thirty. It is time to make some phone calls.

  Annie’s first call is to Oliver’s parents. The telephone rings twice; then Ethan Allen answers. His caller ID tells him this is Annie calling from her cell.

  “Getting the day off to an early start?” he says laughingly.

  Annie thought she had the words ready, but the warmth of his laugh stops her.

  “Hi, Dad,” she says.

  Ethan has insisted that she call him Dad just as Oliver does. “We’re family,” he’d said.

  “Dad, I’m so, so sorry to have to tell you this…” Annie stumbles through an explanation of what has happened. She details Oliver’s injuries just as Doctor Sharma has detailed them to her.

  “Did he say what the prognosis is?” Ethan asks.

  She repeats Doctor Sharma’s explanation, word for word. “With brain trauma there’s no guarantee of anything,” she says. “They can’t determine the degree of damage or even if there is any until Oliver regains consciousness and can speak.”

  Laura, Oliver’s mom is on the extension. “Oh my God,” she gasps.

  A number of questions follow: how does Oliver look? Has he been at all responsive? How are you holding up? Is this doctor any good?

  The only question that has a positive answer is that of the doctor.

  “He’s great,” Annie says. “He was here at seven this morning checking on Oliver.”

  “But is he capable?” Laura asks.

  “Very,” Annie answers. “He probably saved Oliver’s life.”

  “You shouldn’t have to go through this alone,” Ethan says. “We’re coming up there to be with you.”

  Annie is tempted to say there is no need, but the thought of having Oliver’s parents with her is comforting so she says she is glad they are coming.

  The next telephone call is to Charlie, Oliver’s brother. It is barely five-thirty in California and when he answers the sound of sleep is still in his voice. Annie repeats what she has told his parents.

  “I can be on the next plane,” Charlie says.

  “No,” Annie answers. “There’s nothing you can do right now. All anyone can do is wait and pray.”

  Oliver is Charlie’s older brother, the rock he has always leaned on. The thought of losing him is is more than Charlie can bear. “There must be something…” he says sorrowfully.

  Behind his words Annie hears the sound of a sob. “Don’t worry,” she says although she realizes such a thing is impossible. “As soon as I know something more, I’ll text you,” she promises.

  “Call me,” Charlie replies. “Call me if you need anything, anything at all.”

  Annie’s third call is to Ophelia. This one is perhaps harder even than the call to Oliver’s parents. Ophelia asks many of the same questions and Annie gives many of the same answers, but with Ophelia Annie drops the pretense of bravery.

  “I’m scared to death,” she says. “I keep talking to myself and trying to think positive thoughts, but when I see Oliver like this I can’t help wondering what if he never wakes up?”

  This time Annie cannot stop the tears. “It isn’t fair. Our life was perfect; then in a split second some idiot driver takes it all away.”

  “I know,” Ophelia says. “I know.”

  The truth is she does know. She remembers only too well the horrible days following Edward’s death. She waits until Annie’s sobbing subsides, then offers a word of advice.

  “You’re better off than I was,” she says. “Oliver is alive and breathing. As long as there is breath in his body, there’s hope.” Although she thinks of it, she does not say with Edward there was no such hope; he was gone when she got there.

  “You’ve got a gift,” Ophelia says, “and now is the time to use it. If you can reach inside a rusty old bicycle and pull memories from it, you can surely do the same with Oliver. Don’t let go of him, Annie. Find the right memories, and you’ll be able to pull him back to you.”

  “But how will finding—”

  “The memory of the accident is probably stuck in his subconscious. It’s blocking everything else. You’ve got to find a memory powerful enough to push that one aside.”

  “What if he can’t hear me? What if he doesn’t even know I’m here?”

  “Did the bicycle hear you?” Before Annie can argue the point, Ophelia answers her own question. “You know damn well it didn’t. It was nothing but a rusty pile of junk. You gave it life, and you can do the same with Oliver.”

  When they hang up, Ophelia’s words remain in Annie’s head. She pictures the bicycle and remembers how she spent endless weeks scraping the rust from it, polishing the fenders, banging the wheel back into shape. Even when she wasn’t working on the bicycle she was thinking of it. The first time she touched it, she knew it was something special.

  She also remembers the night she knocked on Oliver’s door. The first time he smiled at her she knew he also was something special. It was a magic moment. A moment more vivid than all of the others in her memory. A moment that is forever locked in her mind. Surely it has to be the same for Oliver.

  Annie turns back to the bed and leans across Oliver’s body. She takes both of his hands in hers and touches her chest to his. “Remember the night we first met…” she whisp
ers.

  When Max returns early that afternoon Annie is still in the same position, but she has moved on to talking about all the things they’ve shared. She can feel Oliver’s heartbeat and is determined not to let him go.

  “I can stay here with him while you take a break,” Max suggests.

  Annie shakes her head. “I’m not going to leave him.”

  “Don’t you want to shower and maybe take a quick nap?”

  Again Annie shakes her head. “I’ll have time for those things after Oliver is well.”

  “Annie!” Max gives a reprimanding glare. “You’ve got to take care of yourself. You won’t be any good to—”

  “I’m not leaving here until Oliver regains consciousness,” Annie says.

  “It could be days, weeks, months even!”

  “It won’t be,” Annie replies. “But if that’s how long it takes, then that’s how long I’ll stay.”

  Her words are filled with determination. She is Doctor Seuss’s elephant. She meant what she said and said what she meant. Annie is faithful one hundred percent!

  Annie puts her mouth to Oliver’s ear and whispers, “Have you ever read Horton Hatches an Egg?”

  The Long Night

  Rahul Sharma is a neurosurgeon. It is said that he has great success with his patients because his touch is deft and his voice gentle. Rahul believes it is because he has inherited the humble soul of his father. Long after most of the other surgeons have gone home for dinner with their family, Rahul is still at the hospital. He takes nothing for granted. Every patient who walks away whole is another miracle to be celebrated.

  Tonight he is making one last visit to check on Oliver Doyle. When he enters the room, Annie is leaning over the bed with her eyes closed and her mind focused.

  Doctor Sharma circles the bed, leans over with his face on the same plane as hers and asks, “Are you okay?”