Leon made it through surgery and had been moved to the intensive care unit. We were in the corridor outside his room, waiting for the doctors to finish checking him before they would allow us in. As we watched through the glass, I couldn’t get over the number of tubes and wires trailing to his body from the IV bags and machines surrounding his bed. He’d survived the surgery, but he definitely didn’t look good. All they’d told me so far was that he wasn’t out of the woods yet. I was hoping the doctor would give me something a little more concrete when he finished his examination. Up until now, I’d tried to be optimistic, but after seeing Leon, I was starting to prepare myself for the worst.
I leaned against Jerome for support as I watched the doctors work on Leon, and imagined my life without him. Thank God I’d had my friends by my side throughout the night. Egypt had finally gone home around midnight to be with her husband and baby, but she was still constantly texting words of encouragement and checking in for updates. Jerome hadn’t left me alone, and I was so grateful, because without him there, I would have spent the night beating myself up. It was my own selfish choice, the choice to be with Michael, that led to this whole tragic nightmare.
The doctors and nurses left Leon’s bedside and started coming out of the room. My back stiffened and I started wringing my hands as I waited nervously for their prognosis.
The head doctor held out his hand, and as I shook it, he introduced himself and his team.
“I’m a friend of the family.” Jerome stepped in when he saw I was having trouble speaking. “How is he, Doctor?”
The doctor looked at me as if asking permission to share Leon’s medical information. I nodded. “Well,” he started, “I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. Your husband’s condition is very critical. As you know, we removed three bullets from his chest. Two of those bullets were lodged in his lungs; the other barely missed his heart and a main artery. We lost him and brought him back a couple of times on the operating table. Right now we’ve got him on a respirator, but it’s still going to be an uphill battle. He lost a lot of blood.”
I felt the remaining strength leave my body. Jerome wrapped his arm around me in an effort to prop me up. He asked the question I had in my mind but was unable to voice. “Is he going to make it?”
“Well, that depends. If he gets through the next twenty-four hours, then his chances will be better, but it’s going to be a very long recovery. We can most likely keep him alive with a respirator.”
“Thank you, Jesus,” Jerome cried out. I let out a sigh, but I couldn’t share Jerome’s elation. I knew how Leon would have felt about the doctor’s news.
“He wouldn’t want to be kept alive on a respirator.”
The doctors looked at me when I made my announcement.
“He signed an advance directive a few years ago when he came in here for some minor surgery. We both have them on file. Neither one of us wanted to be kept alive by artificial means. He said if it ever came to that, he’d want them to pull the plug.” Tears were streaming down my face as I said this. When we signed those papers, it had felt like a formality, just something they’d asked us to do in admitting before a minor surgery with minimal risks. I’d almost forgotten the directive existed, yet now I was faced with the reality that Leon’s signature on that paper might mean death.
“You sure you want to do that, Loraine?” Jerome asked with an urgency to his voice.
“Well, unfortunately it might not be a question of what she wants, sir. If a patient has signed an advance directive, we are bound by law to honor his wishes.”
“But what if he changed his mind since then? She said he signed the papers a few years ago,” Jerome argued.
It was clear that things were about to get tense. The doctor defused the situation by saying, “Well, this isn’t a discussion we need to have just yet anyway. It’s too soon after the surgery. We need to give him some time to heal, and then we’ll do a brain scan before we make any decisions or turn anything off.”
“Why a brain scan?” Jerome asked. “You said he got shot in his lungs.”
“He did, but we need to get an idea of his brain function; then we’ll be better able to predict his chances of surviving without the respirator.”
“So you mean he might not die when you take the breathing tube out?” Jerome asked hopefully.
“No, he might not, but he’s lost a lot of blood, so even if he does survive, it’s likely he won’t ever be the same person.”
“What do you mean?” Jerome snapped. “You trying to say he’s gonna be a vegetable?”
“It’s quite possible,” the doctor answered, and I couldn’t take any more.
“Can we talk about this later?” My voice cracked. Tears welled up in my eyes once again, and I was finding it hard to breathe. “I can’t deal with this right now.”
“Sure. Take some time to think about everything we’ve talked about. We’ll go check his records for that advance directive. We’ll come back and check on him in the next hour or two.”
The second they were gone, I turned to Jerome and burst into tears. “This is all my fault! I might as well have pulled the trigger myself. If I had just left Michael alone…I’m not staying here if he dies. I’m gonna go be with him.”
Jerome grabbed me and held me tightly in his arms. I could feel his tears soaking my shoulder. “Shhh. You’re not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
We stayed like that for quite some time, with Jerome’s arms wrapped around me protectively. He alternated between crying with me and comforting me.
“Mrs. Farrow?” Detective Tyndale approached us. I sat up and wiped the tears from my face.
“How’s your husband?” he asked respectfully.
“He’s holding on, but the doctors say he still might not make it.”
“I’m really sorry to hear that. I just came by to share some news about the case.”
As much as I didn’t want it to be true, what he told me next was what I’d already been expecting to hear.
“We found some evidence at Michael Richards’s house that links him to the crime. We arrested him last night.”
If my stomach hadn’t been empty, I would have regurgitated on the spot. There was no more denying it. I had cheated on my husband with a man who had ultimately tried to kill him. How could I have misjudged Michael so completely?
I wiped the tears from my eyes. “I’m prepared to give you whatever information you need to make sure that man is locked up for the rest of his life. He’s taken everything from me.”
In a cruel irony, Jerome’s cell phone started playing the song “Secret Lovers,” not exactly the song I needed to hear as I learned that my lover had indeed shot my husband. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and quickly silenced it, looking quite flustered.
“Excuse me while I answer this,” he said, and rushed away from us.
“Mrs. Farrow,” Detective Tyndale said, “you don’t have to worry about anything. We have a mountain of evidence against Michael Richards. There’s no way that guy is ever going to spend another day as a free man. Matter of fact, my partner and the assistant commonwealth attorney are making that very clear to him as we speak.”
It was little consolation. No amount of jail time would turn back the hands of time and make my husband whole again. I covered my face with my hands and wept. “This is all my fault. If I had kept my damn legs closed, none of this would have happened.”