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“Yes,” she said with forced cheerfulness, “of course! Can we do that tomorrow? They said they could discharge me tomorrow. Then if we do that, I can go after and bring the kids home.”
The sergeant paused, and she imagined him looking at a calendar. “Yeah, I can do tomorrow. Tell you what. You call me when they’re ready, and I’ll be your ride home.”
“Thank you, thank you!”
She passed the rest of the day fueled by purpose. She confirmed appointments with the locksmith and the alarm company for the next day when they’d reopen after the Christmas holiday before closing again for New Year’s. Left a voicemail telling her father-in-law she would be discharged tomorrow, would be picking up the kids.
She barely slept. Hit the nurse call button as soon as light trickled in, and asked, “Am I discharged? Can I go?”
But no. There was paperwork, forms, visits from nurses, scheduling of follow-up visits for plastics (“You don’t want scars if you can help it!”), to see the surgeon (she realized she wasn’t sure if she’d met or even seen this person whose hands had patched together her skull), to confirm regular virtual visits with the psychiatrist (“Looking forward to talking with you again”), the ophthalmologist (“Don’t want to go blind, after all, ha ha”). They gave her a ream of prescriptions for pain, to help her sleep, to stave off infection, to help with nausea caused by the other medications. It was so much human interaction in just a few hours that her head reeled with it, her face ached with her put-on friendliness.
Finally she called the sergeant and told him she was ready. An orderly rolled her to the hospital doors in a wheelchair. She wore the clothes the neighbor had given her. They smelled of fabric softener. She suspected one of the nurses had taken it upon herself to wash them. She wondered vaguely where the fur coat had gone.
“You see your ride?” the orderly asked.
“Not yet. But it’s all right, you just go.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
The minute he was out of sight, she stood and walked out the doors, her injured feet clad in her sticky hospital socks. She made her way slowly but capably past the spot where she’d crumpled athearing her husband was brain dead. The air was frigid, the day overcast. She sat on a bench under an overhang and waited.
It was a beautiful, beautiful thing to be outside. She looked out happily at the bare, windy parking lot with its sad little trees, one step closer to herchildren.
28
The sergeant drove with the boyish officer in the passenger seat. She noticed other drivers staring at her in the back seat of the police cruiser, imagined them wondering,What did she do? Why’d she get arrested? Why is she all beat up?
“How long do you think this will take?” she asked.
A half shrug from the sergeant. “Probably a couple hours.”
“And after that, can I stay in the house?”
“Depending what you see, we may need more time there. You may want to stay with a friend tonight.”
“Sure,” she said, thinking of nearby hotels that might have room for her and the children.
She caught the sergeant’s blue eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
“I was reading online,” he said, “about your condition.”
“Sorry—what?”
“Your father-in-law told us about how your mom had it and all.”
She rubbed her forehead, looked out the window.
I bet he did. I bet he had lots to say about me.
She could feel the sergeant’s eyes on her skin, could feel him thinking the usual thoughts. In the sergeant’s gaze, she felt his creeping unease at her difference, her uniqueness.
“It’s interesting stuff,” the sergeant said.
“Is it?” She stared pointedly out the window.
“Sure. Must’ve been hard, it starting so young.”
