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I wake up on Carol's couch at five in the morning. The wind is howling so strongly, it's rattling the glass in the windowpanes. I feel terribly disoriented at first, having forgotten all the horrific events of the night before, until my head starts to pound with the memories. After I poured my heart out to my mother, she cracked open a bottle of wine, and we drank it all plus half of another bottle. I have never gotten drunk with my mother before, but let me just say, she's even more of a trip under the influence. Or maybe it was because I was under the influence.
I am pretty sure there was a point in time last night when I went out on her lawn in the freshly falling snow and belted out the song “I Will Survive” at the top of my lungs. I am also pretty sure we both laughed so hard that I very nearly peed my pants. And I'm additionally pretty sure when I admitted to almost peeing my pants, she recommended some all-natural herb that's supposed to prevent incontinence. Even shit-faced my mom is all about her homeopathic crap.
I find my phone buried under a pile of clothes, shoes and my purse that my mom's gratuitously furry cat has sat on all night long, as if it's a nest of eggs she needed to incubate. There is long gray cat hair all over everything. I swear I could scoop it up and easily fashion a whole new cat.
Not surprisingly, there is an abundance of missed texts and phone calls. The only one I answer came from Eli: Hope you're ok. Was hoping we were going to have those cinnamon rolls you promised to make when Eric got here & opening presents of course.
I text back: I'll be home by 6.
As soon as I start to stir, Carol wanders in from her bedroom. She is already dressed in a velour tracksuit and is wearing a sweatband to hold back her unruly gray hair. I had forgotten she claims to do yoga every morning at 5 AM. Never having witnessed it, I couldn't be too sure, but now it appears she really does. That or she's putting on a damn good show for me.
“You okay?” she asks.
I nod. “A little hungover but I'll live.”
She kisses me on top of my head. “Of course you will. Want to join me for yoga?”
“I really need to get home. The boys are expecting cinnamon rolls this morning.”
She puts on her wisest, most maternal look. “Come do a few poses. It will center you before you have to go home and face Rob.”
One thing we had not addressed the night before is what I should do. That's kind of the issue now, right? As if it's not bad enough that my husband, lover and best friend all shit on me in one night, it's not like time just freezes and we're done. Oh, no. Now I have to deal with the aftermath.
“So what am I going to do about all this?” I seek her wisdom, bending down to touch my toes and stretch, mirroring her movements.
“Well, first you need to straighten things out with Rob. He needs to get some help and commit to fixing your marriage. And as for swinging: maybe you should give it a rest until he has a chance to get back on track. And then if you want to try again, maybe it's something you can do together. You know, something to enhance your relationship.”
The idea of my mom knowing I swing is still pretty appalling to me. She says it so nonchalantly, so naturally, as if it's the most normal conversation in the world for a mother and daughter to have. But despite the weirdness of it, the truth is that I don't know if I want to stop, even temporarily.
The website and parties, even though I have only met a few people, have changed my life. They've changed the way I look at myself. I went into this thinking I'm over the hill at forty-two; who would possibly want me? Now, dozens of flirts and hundreds of messages later, not to mention the attention from John, Dave, Chris and even Alex, have changed all that. I do have something to offer. Before, I was on a dangerous path of self-loathing and depression. But I no longer think of myself as that woman whose husband doesn't want me. Who would have thought I could transform this much in so little time?
I don't know if I want to go cold turkey on those affirmations. I don't know if I want to give up having a lover. Obviously I'm not keen on John at the moment, but if there is one thing I have learned through all this, it's that there are plenty of fish in the sea. As Brandi told me once, “Sometimes you have to throw a fish back, but there are really good catches out there if you just keep fishing!”
By now Carol and I have transitioned into warrior pose. I feel my core muscles stabilize my body as strength flows through me like an electrical current. I'm still thinking about how swinging has empowered me. I've lost ten or fifteen pounds since I started this journey, pardon the pun. I think knowing that people are going to see me naked motivates me to eat better. And there's nothing wrong with that. Plus, the original reasons I got involved stand: it has provided me with the attention Rob wasn't giving me and served as a distraction when I miss my sons.
I complete three sun salutations, then decide I need to head home. “Come over tonight for dinner and we'll open presents,” I say.
She straightens to her full height. “Okay, honey. Six?”
I nod, noticing that the tears are starting to sting at my eyes again. For all her idiosyncrasies, my mother is truly remarkable. No matter what, she has always stayed true to herself. And that is something I have to admire and respect even if I don't always agree with her. I think one of my greatest regrets in life is that I've always held her at arms' length so I could do things my way. But then again, I learned independence from her. She's the master.
“Can I bring Steve?” she asks, a glint in her eye.
“Of course!” I'm full-on crying now. It's pretty cool that she's still dating Steve. Rob and I really liked him. But that's not why I'm crying. I'm crying because I'm a sap, and as strong as I feel about standing up for myself and demanding my loved ones treat me with respect, well, my insides are still pretty soft and squishy. I don't know how to thank my mom for being cool and not making this as awkward as it could have been.
I give her a hug. Not the bodies barely touching, still six inches of space between us type hugs that I sometimes give her, but a real hug of the bodies all smooshed together variety. I head out to my car, which is covered in a thick white blanket. Great. I start it up, then head right back inside for a broom to sweep off the snow.
The wind is unbelievable as I work my way around the car to clear the three or four inches that have accumulated. Even though Maryland is not technically part of the south, there's something about the rural Eastern Shore that makes us feel more southern than our neighbors to the West. We generally have pretty mild winters and freak out about snowstorms. As a matter of fact, had I ventured out for retail therapy the night before, I probably would have gotten caught up in the throngs of locals depleting store shelves of bread, milk and peanut butter, not to mention every available snow shovel and square of toilet paper in a fifty-mile radius. What usually transpires is three or four days of everyone glued to the weather forecast, panicking about the impending doom, and then we only get a half inch.
Yet even a half inch of snow here can cause pandemonium and serious traffic issues. This is because seemingly good drivers, who are ordinarily quite stable and level-headed people when weather conditions are clear, somehow become batshit crazy at the sight of the first snowflake. I know I'm taking my life into my hands by driving across town, but I just have to hope it's too early for most people to be out on the roads.
“Should you wait until it's light out to leave?” Carol asks me when I head back to return the broom.
I shake my head. “Going to try to make it before rush hour.
“But it's Saturday,” she reminds me.
This is what happens to teachers over winter break and summers. We never know what day of the week it is. “I'll be okay, I promise,” I try to reassure her. “I don't know how much we're supposed to get, but if it's really nasty tonight, don't come, okay?”
She nods. “Be careful,” she says sternly. As if she might punish me if I disobey.
It takes me a full thirty minutes to get home for what is usually a ten minute trip. It's still pitch black out, but the snow flurries rushing toward my headlights make me feel like I'm traveling through space at hyperspeed. This close to the winter solstice it's still dark until a little after 7 AM.
I'm relieved when I finally pull into the garage. I tiptoe into the house through the garage door, hoping to start the cinnamon rolls and have no one the wiser to my reappearance until they are beckoned down the stairs by the wafting fingers of freshly-baked awesomeness. Unfortunately, I clatter one too many pans together while looking for the one I want to use, bringing heavy footsteps to the stairs. I have known this house and the pairs of feet therein for so long, I would bet money on it being Eric coming down to the kitchen. When his face appears around the corner from the hallway, I metaphorically pat myself on my back for being correct. Homemade cinnamon rolls and correct footstep identification? I am definitely up for Mom of the Year.
“Hey,” Eric says, still groggy. I'm certainly not used to seeing him out of bed this early. His cinnamon roll radar must have been triggered by the sound of the clanging pans.
“You're up early!” I observe, finding the mixing bowl I want to use without adding to the earlier cacophony. Eric wanders over to the bar and groggily takes a seat, resting his elbows on the counter as he attempts to wake up.
After the angry, scowling winds have quieted, the view from my kitchen windows seems as tranquil as a forest in a snow globe. The backyard is turning a pale blue as the gradually lightening sky reflects on the fallen snow. Everything feels warm and cozy inside, just like the holidays should feel.
Except here my son is sitting across from me and suddenly, he's a man. I can just barely see a trace of the little boy I once knew. It's hard not to search his face for the Eric who loved running down the stairs on Christmas morning to see what Santa had brought and to gorge himself on homemade cinnamon rolls. I know he's in that big body somewhere.
“Did Dad find you?” he asks as the gears in his brain slowly start to grind.
“What do you mean?” I turn away from my dough-kneading to look at him. I didn't answer Rob's calls or text him back last night. But I didn't really think he expected me to, either.
“He went out to find you.”
I snap out of contemplative slash nostalgic mode, scanning my son's face for clues as to what he means by he went out to find you. “What? When did he go?!”
“A few hours ago. He came in my room to ask if I'd heard from you.”
I pick my phone up from the counter where it's charging. I'm glad it still works after it was under the cat's butt all night. I press the green phone icon by Rob's picture, but his phone doesn't ring. It goes straight to his voicemail.
“The roads are really nasty,” I say just as my own phone starts to ring in my hand. I answer without looking to see who it is. “Oh, god, maybe it's him? Hello?”
The color starts to drain from my face as soon as I hear, “Journey? It's Trevor Williams at PRMC. Rob was in an accident a couple hours ago...”
Eric watches my expression change from one of hope to one of worry in a flash. In one footstep he's by my side, trying to hear the other end of the phone call. I listen to my husband's pal in the ER explain to me what's going on, and I have no idea where the blood in my veins is going. It's drained from my face, hands, and feet. I feel so numb, I think there's a pretty clear danger of fainting. Being half-hungover is not exactly helping my case either.
I don't even know if Trevor is done talking before I hang up. “We have to get to the hospital. Go wake up Eli. We should take the Navigator.”
So many things flash through my mind that I can't grab onto anything for more than a few seconds. I can't believe I made it home in my tiny rear-wheel drive Mercedes by the grace of a higher power. I wonder where Rob was when he wrecked? Why am I so stubborn? Why didn't I at least text him back to let him know I'm safe? I guess I should prepare myself for seeing him in the bed hooked to a million tubes and wires. Thank god he's alive. Or at least Trevor said he was. What if it's not telling the whole story?
I offer to drive because the boys don't have that much experience driving in snow. Eli is just barely awake as we depart for the mile or two drive to Peninsula Regional Medical Center. By virtue of my husband being a doctor, I am well familiar with the facility. But that doesn't make me feel any less scared.
The snow has eased and more drivers have been on the roads, so they aren't as slick as when I drove home from my mother's. I pass a snowplow going down Carroll Street as we turn toward the hospital. I start to compile a list of people I'm going to have to call to let them know what's going on: my mother, Rob's sister, his office manager. That's a good start. Probably my principal too. Who knows how this will impact me going back to work next week?
I'm preparing myself for the worst as we make our way up the elevator and down the hall to the ICU. Just knowing that's where he is causes a host of black, menacing fears to loom over me. It's amazing how your mind is all at once pragmatic, hopeful, and pessimistic, cycling between all three states sometimes in a fraction of a second.
When we get to the nurse's station, they say only one of us can go back to visit Rob at a time. I don't see any familiar faces, but they immediately know I'm Dr. West's wife. They probably know he has twin college-aged sons which may have given away my identity. Then the realization slaps me in the face: I recognize one of the nurses from the party I attended at Dan and Jessica's house, my first house party. Her name even comes to me in a flash: Beth. I saw her making out with another woman in the living room toward the end of the night, both their shirts off, breasts hanging out and smashed together as they went at each other.
I shake my head, attempting to erase the unwanted image from my mind as I follow her down the corridor to Rob's room. I take a deep breath as I enter, wishing I was flanked by my two sons, but at the same time wishing they didn't have to see their father like this, especially if only one of us can go in at a time.
Rob looks pale, even against the white sheet. His eyes are closed and he's receiving oxygen, but he's not intubated. Seeing that is a big relief. I instinctively grab his hand, feeling the warmth of it against my still-cold skin. His eyes flutter behind the lids and then open to narrow slits. He starts to move his mouth, but nothing comes out.
I hear Trevor's footsteps on the tiled floor before I hear him speak. “He's pretty drugged, Journey. We're just trying to let him rest.”
I step away from my husband and whisper as if I don't want him to hear, “What happened?”
I've known Trevor ever since he came to Salisbury five years ago. He's one of my husband's golf buddies, a young good-looking African American man in his mid-thirties. He always comes to our Harvest Parties with his lovely and gracious wife Alana. I am so relieved that he is the one taking care of Rob and not some stranger. I can't even imagine how much more difficult this would be otherwise, and it's already pretty terrible.
“I don't know what he was doing out in the middle of the night, but he lost control of his car on that curve on Camden Avenue near Tony Tank, the one right before the bridge. Slammed into the guardrail pretty good from what I understand. The police said his car is a mangled mess. He's pretty damn lucky, Journey.”
I start to speak, but the words are trapped in my larynx, unable to take flight. That is the exact spot I was in last night when I left John's and wanted to smash my car into oblivion. Rob knows John lives back in Tony Tank; I guess he was trying to track down his house so he could find me?
“Journey?” Trevor asks, seeing my obvious struggle to form speech.
My head is pounding with too many thoughts, too many questions, and too many what-ifs. I feel a burning sensation in my stomach as if the ghosts of all the alcohol I imbibed the night before are threatening to make an appearance all over the shiny, pristine floor.
“I was lucky to be on duty this morning when they brought him in. I told the police I'd call you, but I wanted to wait until we knew the extent of his injuries.”
“And?” I finally squeak out.
“He's a lot better off than he could have been. You should be thanking Audi for making such a safe car. He's got some broken ribs and contusions from the seatbelt. Otherwise he's in pretty good shape, just traumatized and probably still cold from being out in that mess. Did CT scans already, waiting on the MRI and tox screen. He's going to be okay; I think he's just pretty shaken up right now. Oh, he's got pain meds for the ribs. Those really hurt,” Trevor tells me.
“So when do you think he'll wake up?” I ask as Nurse Beth comes into the room to check on her patient.
“He's probably going to be in and out all day because of the pain meds,” he explains. Rob stirs a little in the bed but isn't lucid enough to speak.
Trevor hands Rob's chart to Beth, and she begins to make some notes. He turns back to me. “So, you weren't home last night? You don't know what happened?”
I shake my head.
“The police want to talk to you.” He hands me a business card. I forgot my reading glasses at home, forcing me to hold the card at some distance. It belongs to a sheriff's deputy named Timothy A. Ryan.
“I stayed at my mom's house last night,” I explain. It's not a lie, right? My phone is buzzing in my pocket. I pull it out to take a quick glance, and it's Shanna, probably the last human on earth I want to speak to at this moment.
“If you could just give Deputy Ryan a call when you get a chance...” He smiles at me reassuringly. “Okay, Journey, I'm about to head out. My shift was over two hours ago, but I had to stay and keep an eye on my boy.” He winks at me. “I'll stop back by tonight and see how he is, but I don't work again till Monday.”
I take his hands into mine and squeeze. “Thank you so much for everything, Trevor. I can't think of anyone I'd rather have treating my husband. Give my best to Alana, okay?”
He gives me a hug. It feels really good to have strong arms around me right now while I'm trying so fucking hard to keep from breaking down. Beth finishes her report and stands in the corner by Rob's bed watching Trevor hug me. Her face is stoic and cold.
As Trevor leaves I expect her to follow him out so I can be alone with Rob, but instead she stands glaring at me. Surely she is not going to say something rude while my husband is incapacitated in the bed between us. She seems tempted to speak, but finally lets out an exasperated sigh and exits the room. I wonder if she assumes I lied about my identity and am cheating on Rob. I shake my head as she stomps down the hall. Honestly, I give zero fucks what she thinks of me at this moment.
I know I need to go back out to the waiting room to tell the boys what's going on, but I can't seem to get my feet to move in that direction. I collapse in the small plastic chair across from the supply closet and feel my body surrender to the wall of emotions that has been building ever since Trevor's phone call. Only one thought seems to rise above all the feelings, and it is the one I had as soon as I discovered Shanna at John's house: when you play with fire, you get burnt.
