chapter seven

Dave’s head throbbed. Was everyone okay? He could still hear the sounds, smell the horror of the accident surrounding him. Yet, when he opened his eyes, it was gone.

The sun streamed through the room’s only window. The sheets were tucked in tight, clean and sterile; the smell was clinical. He tried to sit up, but a pain shot down his left arm. A downward glance revealed a glossy translucent tube extruding from a snippet of white tape and gauze attached to his forearm.

“Megan . . . Brad . . . Brittany . . .” His voice was hoarse and raspy. No one answered. He reached over with his right arm and pressed the red button on the side rail. Nothing. He pushed it again, and then again.

The door swung open and a uniformed nurse scurried into the room. With darting eyes, she surveyed his condition.

“You’re awake!” Her eyes carried a look of surprise.

“Where am I?”

“Connecticut Valley Hospital in Middletown.” She moved over to the bed, held his wrist for a moment, then scribbled on the bedside chart. “Please, don’t move. Stay still and let me call the doctor.” Before he could mouth his next question, she whisked herself out of the room. No sooner had the door closed than it swung back open, and in stepped a familiar figure.

Dave glanced up. “Brock?”

His friend’s eyes looked tired, his right cheek red with crisscrossed fabric impressions suggesting he had been sleeping against an upholstered chair. Brock approached the bed with hesitation.

“Uh, how’s it going? I mean—wrong question.”

“Today . . . what’s today?” Dave’s thoughts were clouded. It was difficult to string words together.

“You missed your birthday by a day. The doctors weren’t sure at first if you were going to make it.”

Both Dave’s hands quivered. “Megan . . . how is she?”

Brock rocked back as he rolled in his lips. It was as if he’d been rehearsing his practiced answer for hours, but now that the question had been posed, the words had fled. All that came out was a whisper, “I’m so sorry, Dave, so very sorry.”

Panic pounded at Dave’s chest as he shook his head back and forth, refusing to believe the news. His movement caused the alarm to sound at the central monitoring station out in the hall.

“The kids! Where are my kids?”

Brock cast his glance downward as he continued to shake his head.

Emptiness poured in through the window and door, filling the room and holding Dave hard against the bed. He needed to get up and find his wife and children, but he couldn’t move his arms or legs—he couldn’t breathe. His chest ached and heaved and a pain shot into his left shoulder, but he didn’t care.

He now wished for death to snuff out his life as well.

While he continued to writhe and cry, a doctor entered the room and, with the help of a nurse, pushed a syringe of sedative into the IV tube that was taped to Dave’s arm. Within seconds the room and all of its surrounding agony began to fade into a brilliant white. Dave turned his head on the pillow as his body fell limp into a drug-induced sleep.

• • •

The reporter on CNN detailed the severity of the Midwest flood. Live video of the disaster featured farmers in rowboats floating around barns. Dave witnessed the destruction from the comfort of his living-room couch.

“The president is scheduled to tour the area this afternoon,” the reporter continued, “and it’s widely anticipated that the governor will seek federal disaster area assistance.”

The devastation didn’t faze Dave—it never registered as he looked past the reporter, past the television set, past the events of the day. His gaze was distant, detached.

I enjoy my art, but honestly, I can paint anytime. Watching my kids grow up, being there with them, with you—I’m living my dream.

The picture on the set switched to the weekly forecast, where a young, smiling meteorologist predicted a continued wet year across much of the country.

Climb in bed, Angel, we’ll hide here ’til Mommy catches us.

The doorbell startled him. How long had he been dreaming? He checked the tabletop for the remote—not there. He searched in between the cushions—nothing. Finally, he stepped to the set and pushed the power off. The doorbell rang again. He inched to the door, sucked in a deep breath, and pulled on the knob.

On the porch stood six members of his Red Sox baseball team. They shifted their weight uneasily, looking like they weren’t sure how to properly stitch together the message they had come to deliver. Kevin, curly-haired and lanky, and the most outgoing on the team, had obviously been designated the spokesperson. “Hey, Coach Riley.”

“Guys, how are you?”

“Fine, Coach. We just, uh, well, we haven’t really had a chance to talk. And, well . . . we wanted to come by and tell you again how sorry we are, about the accident.” Kevin’s shoulders lifted, perhaps relieved to no longer carry the weight. He continued, “We’ve missed you at the games and stuff, but that’s not why we’re here.”

Dave inhaled slowly. He couldn’t break down in front of the team.

Kevin continued. “We didn’t know if you’d heard or not, but last Friday we took the region championship.”

One of the other boys pulled out a trophy he’d been concealing and handed it to Dave. The base was polished walnut; the silver statue on top depicted a player solidly hitting a ball.

“This is for you,” the boy added.

“We play on Saturday for state,” Kevin piped up, “and we’ve decided to dedicate the game to Brad. We’ll understand if you can’t make it . . . but we wanted to invite you anyway.”

Dave bit hard into his tongue, vowing to keep his choking emotions at bay. He forced what he hoped would be considered a smile.

“I appreciate it, men. It means a lot, and it would have meant a lot to Brad.” He weighed their invitation before speaking again. “I apologize for not being there for the team the last couple of months. It has been pretty rough. But plan on me for Saturday night—count me in.”

The boys tossed each other affirmative glances, looking happy they’d been able to do some good. “That’d be cool, Coach. We play the Twins from East Windsor and we think we can take ’em.”

“Of course you can. I have faith in you guys.”

“Great, we’ll see you Saturday.”

Dave waved, waited, pushed the door closed, leaned back against the wood, and then slid down to the entry tile in a noiseless heap.