All the Time in the World (8 page)

“That's the first time he's said anything since I told them we needed to come and meet you,” I say, as casually as possible, hoping that Georgie won't be shamed into silence again. I can tell that Scotty is also relieved.

“I don't think we can see Mommy yet,” he says to George, picking him up. “I need to speak to the doctor first. What is that Pup doing out of your bed?”

Georgie smiles, rather smugly, and shrugs his little shoulders. “Tahr-lette get him out of my bed and bring him,” he says. His subtext:
I had nothing to do with this
. He knows when he is being funny. Scotty kisses him and kisses Pup and then sets George back down.

“You can watch your movie, buddy. I'll let you know when we can talk to Mommy.”

Rosie Ramsay appears in the doorway accompanied by a white-haired man with square glasses and light-orange scrubs, and she points us out. She does not come over to greet Scotty, however; she disappears back through the doors like her tail's on fire. The man approaches and shakes Scotty's hand.

“I'm Doctor Russell. Are you Mrs. McLean's husband?”

Scotty nods once in a stony, deliberate silence. I want to attribute it to apprehension, but it isn't a huge stretch to imagine it as a strategy of intimidation. The doctor turns toward me, but I don't offer my name.

“Do you want me to go sit with the kids?” I ask Scotty.

“I think they're okay.” Does that mean he wants me to listen? I should have asked that instead. But I assume he would have told me to bug off if that's what he wanted, and I stay.

“Mrs. McLean was hit from the right by a taxi that apparently had no intention of stopping for the red light. She sustained internal injuries, most critically to her liver, and so far, we have been unsuccessful in our attempts to stop the bleeding. She also has several broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and a bit of swelling in the brain. We've induced a coma to see if we can stop the swelling from progressing, but she will need to go back into surgery in a few hours to see if we can repair the affected organs.”

Scotty nods as the doctor speaks, as if he is processing the information appropriately, but I am totally lost. Internal bleeding that they can't stop? They're going to let her bleed for a few hours while they wait to see if her brain stops swelling?

“That sounds like bullshit,” Scotty says, startling both me and the doctor. I'm mostly startled because he has voiced the words in my head, and it's so surreal that I wonder a little bit if it is actually me who spoke. “I'm sorry, Doctor Russell. It just seems unbelievable to me that you're going to let her keep bleeding until you see what her brain's going to do. Doesn't that sound crazy to you when
I
say it?”

The doctor is much gentler than Rosie Ramsay. “I understand how difficult this must be to hear, Mr. McLean, but your wife's body is not in any condition to withstand another surgery until we can get a handle on her brain.”

Scotty's face turns gray. I've never seen such a thing before, not ever, not from anyone. “I have two little boys,” he says in a low, steady tone that I would fear if I were in a boardroom with him.

“We're doing everything we can for her, sir,” Dr. Russell says. “I'll send my scrub nurse Rosie out with periodic updates, and I will talk to you whenever I get the chance.”

“Thank you,” Scotty says, and Dr. Russell disappears through the same double set of doors that Rosie Ramsay disappeared through earlier. Rosie, the scrub nurse. The mystery is solved.

I stand and Scotty stands. After a few minutes, Scotty sits down in the nearest chair, slowly, like you would if you were doing some thigh-strengthening exercise at the gym. He rubs his hands over his eyes and leaves them there long enough to make me nervous. It's not a posture I want the boys to see. But he seems much calmer and of a more normal color when he looks up at me.

“I think I'd better call her parents.”

“Okay,” I say. “Can I help? Phone calls, or anything? Do you want some coffee?”

“What's that you have?” he asks, indicating my half-empty Diet Coke.

I give it to him. “It's still cold. You can finish it.”

“Gretchen hates it when I drink this shit. I'm surprised she hasn't broken you of the habit yet.” He finishes my soda in two swallows.

“Many have tried,” I say. “Gretchen equates it to shooting processed poison directly into my veins.”

“She truly believes that. She's determined to save you from a life of addiction,” he says.

“I don't have any of the family numbers,” I say. “But I can use your phone if you need some help.”

“You know what? Eliza has them. I hate to ask her to come over here after work, but it could be helpful,” he says.

“I can call her,” I say. I think my phone saved her number. “That way you can call Gretchen's parents.”

He has none of the look of command he had moments ago. “I don't know what to say to them.” He looks at the boys. “I don't really know what to say to anyone.” He stands again. He shakes his head, like he is trying to physically move information into place within his brain. “Thank you, Charlotte. If you can call Eliza, that would be helpful.”

I want to reassure him, to tell him that I believe if we keep moving, the doctors will keep moving, Gretchen will keep breathing, the world will keep turning. I want to tell him I'm sure she'll be all right.

I don't tell him that though, because to do so would be a trite way to voice the thing that has to happen for everyone in this room to be all right.

*   *   *

WE ARE ALL
sitting. Scotty, Eliza, me, Matty (getting to the end of
The Lorax
), and Georgie, who is sitting astride me, facing me, with his head resting above my belly, sleeping. Matt is still watching his show, barely blinking, and has somehow usurped Pup from his sleeping brother. The doctor has informed us that Gretchen's brain is now a bit further toward the side of stable, and they will be prepping her for surgery in about a half hour.

Gretchen's parents are at the airport in Palm Beach, getting ready to board a plane. Her sister is driving in from Connecticut, and Scotty's parents and older brother are awaiting news in Maine. His younger brother lives here in New York, but Eliza hasn't been able to get ahold of him.

I'm supremely annoyed by this. I have encountered Uncle Patrick on several prior occasions. He's handsome, arrogant, and I feel almost certain that he won't answer the phone or listen to the messages because it's Eliza calling and not Scotty himself.

“I'm hungry,” Matt says. The credits are rolling on the movie. I thought he would be asleep by now out of sheer boredom, but it's only about a quarter after seven. Of course he's hungry. Everyone here must be hungry.

“I know, buddy. Do you want a pretzel?” Scotty says.

“I hate pretzels,” says Matt with a dark look at me, as if I am the creator of all pretzels on this earth.

“Yesterday you loved them,” I say. “Do you want something out of the machine?”

“M&Ms,” he says. I look at the vending machine across the room, considering it. I'm tempted to give him whatever he wants. I notice that only three of the five other people originally in this waiting room are still here. I hadn't registered the departure of the other two. I wonder where they went and whether their news was good or bad.

“Not chocolate, pal,” I say to Matt, remembering that I still have the afternoon Valentine cupcakes to account for.

“I can run down to the cafeteria and see what I can find,” Eliza offers. She doesn't look very old to me, certainly not old enough to be part of the same workforce as Scotty. Her dark-brown hair is shiny and perfectly arranged in a barrette. Her pencil skirt has no wrinkles, and her pressed white blouse with the tiny ruffles has no stains. I have never imagined Scotty as the kind of man who would screw around with someone like Eliza, but Patrick is a different story. I feel sure that the reason he won't answer her phone calls has something to do with their sordid past.

“Thank you, Eliza,” says Scotty.

“What do you want me to look for, Matt?” Eliza asks.

Matt looks at me.

“Do you know what you want for dinner?” I ask him.

“Pizza,” he says, and Eliza stands up, tall on her Ferragamo heels. I'm still wearing my wellies. Actually, I'm contemplating taking off my wellies and going around in my sock feet.

“Could you maybe use your manners?” I whisper to Matt. He shakes his head and then blanches at the look I give him.

“Please,” he says, in kind of a singsong way, not at all nicely.

“Sure,” she says and clicks off to find out where the cafeteria is. The more I think about it, the clearer my memory becomes on the history of Patrick and Eliza, and the surer I am that it's the reason he's not here. I feel filled with righteous, irrational anger toward Patrick. I shift Georgie onto the chair, laying him on his side, and tuck his jacket in behind him so he won't roll off.

“Can I have your phone, Scotty? I'll try Patrick again.” He hands it over, and I dial out. This time Patrick picks up, as I knew he would.

“Hello,” he says.

“Patrick, it's Charlotte,” I say.

“Who?”

“Charlotte. Scotty and Gretchen's babysitter.”

“Well, hey there, Charlotte,” Patrick says. He speaks loudly, in order to be heard over a rush of background noise, and I hold the phone away from my ear. Scotty's iPhone case is made of some sort of black leather, which makes it massive and hard to hang on to. “It's been a while. What's going on? How are you?”

“Not great,” I say. “I'm in the emergency room with Scotty and the boys. Eliza is here too, and she's been trying to reach you. Gretchen was in an accident, and she's about to go in for her second surgery.”

The background noise on the other end lessens significantly. He must have stepped out of whatever dive he was slumming it in.

“What kind of accident?”

“She was hit by a car crossing Eighty-Sixth Street. We're in the waiting room at the hospital.” I give him the cross streets, and he says he'll be there as soon as he can, which probably means as soon as he can close his tab and weasel his way out of whatever plans with whatever undergraduate.

Eliza comes back with Matt's food and with coffee for the adults. I haven't had coffee since around eleven this morning. Thus it's probable that I'm starting to exhibit the physical symptoms of withdrawal. I try to keep my hands from shaking—with withdrawal, with adrenaline, with fear—as I accept the coffee from pretty, pretty, well-kept Eliza. Scotty's coffee drips a little as he takes it from her, and she looks stricken.

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Mr. McLean! Let me get a damp paper towel—”

“It's fine, Eliza, really; don't worry about—”

“Oh, but your shirt…” They go on like this for a minute. I'm still hung up on the fact that she calls him Mr. McLean. I thought formality was dead. Apparently, I've been in the land of New York City progressive education for too long.

Eliza has hurried over to the drinking fountain, despite Scotty's protests, when there's a flurry of activity beyond the double doors. Scotty notices it too and stands up to get a better look. Four or five people in scrubs are rushing in the same direction, and through the sudden stillness in the waiting room, we can hear a faint whine coming from beyond the doors. Scotty looks around wildly for just a moment—the first involuntary thing I've seen him do since we got here—and then strides toward the doors, pushing his way through them with no regard for the “authorized personnel only” sign that forbids such an action.

“Where is he going?” Matt asks me, the sudden change in atmosphere fueling his panic.

“I don't know,” I say. “Maybe … I don't know.”

“DAD!” he hollers, before I can stop him. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?”

At this, Georgie sits bolt upright and wails.

The day before

I try and make it a rule not to fall asleep when I'm sitting late, but the previous night's lack of sleep has caught me up. By 1:30 a.m., I have long since passed the point where I turned into a pumpkin and am well on my way to rotting in the patch. Gretchen's text (“in cab!!! coming back now!”) startles me awake enough to turn off the TV, check on the sleeping boys, and start getting my stuff together. When I check my phone, there are four other texts, all from Everett, who apparently got increasingly pissed at me as I dozed on Gretchen and Scotty's couch.

“Any idea what time you'll be home?” at 8:15.

“Coming back soon??” at 9:47.

“Starving. Ordering food. Want anything?” at 9:53.

A long gap, and then, “Screw it, I obviously can't compete with your pretend-kids. Might go back to NH…” at 10:50.

My fingers stab at the touchscreen. I miss the satisfaction of pounding on an actual keyboard. “I told you earlier that you should go. Go!!” I send the text, then turn off my phone. I don't want to know if he replies. I scan the room. What needs to be done before Gretchen and Scotty get home? The dishes are done, the toys are picked up, my food containers are recycled, and I am looking for my other shoe (I think Georgie chucked it somewhere earlier) when they walk in the door. Scotty looks tired, like he hasn't yet gotten the canary, and Gretchen looks a little tipsy.

“You have to try this restaurant, Charlotte! We brought you some chocolate cake. I almost ate it in the cab,” Gretchen says, handing me a mashed foil package.

“She asked the guy to wrap it into a swan for you,” Scotty says, and he laughs and gives her the look, THAT LOOK, the two-seconds-too-long look I recognize as the let's-be-alone-together-so-I-can-go-crazy-on-you look. To which she seems oblivious. “And that guy had to find another guy—”

“But the second guy didn't know how to do it either!” she says.