walls and the shiny orange chairs seemed to grow brighter minute by minute. Rather than diluting her anxiety, the decor made her twitchy, and periodically she had to close her eyes.
By 11:15, she had been in the hospital for an hour, and Jack had been in surgery an hour and a half. Those in the support group—which now numbered six—were unanimous in their judgment that so much time under the knife was a good sign. If Jack had been mortally wounded, they said, he would have been in the operating room only a short while, and bad news would have come quickly.
Heather wasn’t so sure about that. She wouldn’t allow her hopes to rise because that would just leave her farther to fall if the news was bad after all.
Torrents of hard-driven rain clattered against the windows and streamed down the glass. Through the distorting lens of water, the city outside appeared to be utterly without straight lines and sharp edges, a surreal metropolis of molten forms.
Strangers arrived, some red-eyed from crying, all quietly tense, waiting for news about other patients, their friends and relatives. Some of them were damp from the storm, and they brought with them the odors of wet wool and cotton.
She paced. She looked out the window. She drank bitter coffee from a vending machine. She sat with a month-old copy of
Newsweek,
trying to read a story about the hottest new actress in Hollywood, but every time she reached the end of a paragraph, she couldn’t recall a word of it.
By 12:15, when Jack had been under the knife for two and a half hours, everyone in the support group continued to pretend no news was good news and that Jack’s prognosis improved with every minute the doctors spent on him. Some, including Louie, found it more difficult to meet Heather’s eyes, however, and they were speaking softly, as if in a funeral parlor instead of a hospital. The grayness of the storm outside had seeped into their faces and voices.
Staring at
Newsweek
without seeing it, she began to wonder what she’d do if Jack didn’t make it. Such thoughts seemed traitorous, and at first she suppressed them, as if the very act of imagining life without Jack would contribute to his death.
He couldn’t die. She needed him, and Toby needed him.
The thought of conveying the news of Jack’s death to Toby made her nauseous. A thin cold sweat broke out along the nape of her neck. She felt as if she might throw up, ridding herself of the bad coffee.
At last a man in surgical greens entered the lounge. “Mrs. McGarvey?”
As heads turned toward her, Heather put the magazine on the end table beside her chair and got to her feet.
“I’m Dr. Procnow,” he said as he approached her. The surgeon who had been working on Jack. He was in his forties, slender, with curly black hair and dark yet limpid eyes that were—or that she imagined were—compassionate and wise. “Your husband’s in the post-op recovery room. We’ll be moving him into ICU shortly.”
Jack was
alive.
“Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s got a good chance,” Procnow said.
The support group reacted with enthusiasm, but Heather was more cautious, not quick to embrace optimism. Nevertheless, relief made her legs weak. She thought she might crumple to the floor.
As if reading her mind, Procnow guided her to a chair. He pulled another chair up at a right angle to hers and sat facing her.
“Two of the wounds were especially serious,” he said. “One in the leg and one in the abdomen, lower right side. He lost a lot of blood and was in deep shock by the time paramedics got to him.”
“But he’ll be all right?” she asked again, sensing that Procnow had news he was reluctant to deliver.
“Like I said, he’s got a good chance. I really mean that. But he’s not out of the woods yet.”
Emil Procnow’s deep concern was visible in his kind face and eyes, and Heather couldn’t tolerate being the object of such profound sympathy because it meant that surviving surgery
By 11:15, she had been in the hospital for an hour, and Jack had been in surgery an hour and a half. Those in the support group—which now numbered six—were unanimous in their judgment that so much time under the knife was a good sign. If Jack had been mortally wounded, they said, he would have been in the operating room only a short while, and bad news would have come quickly.
Heather wasn’t so sure about that. She wouldn’t allow her hopes to rise because that would just leave her farther to fall if the news was bad after all.
Torrents of hard-driven rain clattered against the windows and streamed down the glass. Through the distorting lens of water, the city outside appeared to be utterly without straight lines and sharp edges, a surreal metropolis of molten forms.
Strangers arrived, some red-eyed from crying, all quietly tense, waiting for news about other patients, their friends and relatives. Some of them were damp from the storm, and they brought with them the odors of wet wool and cotton.
She paced. She looked out the window. She drank bitter coffee from a vending machine. She sat with a month-old copy of
Newsweek,
trying to read a story about the hottest new actress in Hollywood, but every time she reached the end of a paragraph, she couldn’t recall a word of it.
By 12:15, when Jack had been under the knife for two and a half hours, everyone in the support group continued to pretend no news was good news and that Jack’s prognosis improved with every minute the doctors spent on him. Some, including Louie, found it more difficult to meet Heather’s eyes, however, and they were speaking softly, as if in a funeral parlor instead of a hospital. The grayness of the storm outside had seeped into their faces and voices.
Staring at
Newsweek
without seeing it, she began to wonder what she’d do if Jack didn’t make it. Such thoughts seemed traitorous, and at first she suppressed them, as if the very act of imagining life without Jack would contribute to his death.
He couldn’t die. She needed him, and Toby needed him.
The thought of conveying the news of Jack’s death to Toby made her nauseous. A thin cold sweat broke out along the nape of her neck. She felt as if she might throw up, ridding herself of the bad coffee.
At last a man in surgical greens entered the lounge. “Mrs. McGarvey?”
As heads turned toward her, Heather put the magazine on the end table beside her chair and got to her feet.
“I’m Dr. Procnow,” he said as he approached her. The surgeon who had been working on Jack. He was in his forties, slender, with curly black hair and dark yet limpid eyes that were—or that she imagined were—compassionate and wise. “Your husband’s in the post-op recovery room. We’ll be moving him into ICU shortly.”
Jack was
alive.
“Is he going to be all right?”
“He’s got a good chance,” Procnow said.
The support group reacted with enthusiasm, but Heather was more cautious, not quick to embrace optimism. Nevertheless, relief made her legs weak. She thought she might crumple to the floor.
As if reading her mind, Procnow guided her to a chair. He pulled another chair up at a right angle to hers and sat facing her.
“Two of the wounds were especially serious,” he said. “One in the leg and one in the abdomen, lower right side. He lost a lot of blood and was in deep shock by the time paramedics got to him.”
“But he’ll be all right?” she asked again, sensing that Procnow had news he was reluctant to deliver.
“Like I said, he’s got a good chance. I really mean that. But he’s not out of the woods yet.”
Emil Procnow’s deep concern was visible in his kind face and eyes, and Heather couldn’t tolerate being the object of such profound sympathy because it meant that surviving surgery
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