The Mistaken (11 page)

She hitched her hands up on each hip. “I’m not a
child, Tyler, and I don’t appreciate being treated like one.”

“Then stop acting like one, godammit!” I roared.

I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my
mouth, even more so when the hurt flashed in her eyes, but Jill
needed to know how serious I was about staying away from Nick and
letting the police and District Attorney’s office handle the
situation. With a stare that could have frozen hell over in an
instant, she stormed off, slammed the bedroom door, and locked it.
I followed, knocking quietly on the barrier between us.

“I’m sorry, Jill. I shouldn’t have yelled like that.
Let me in, okay? We need to discuss this.”

“Go away, Ty. There’s nothing more to discuss.”

I slammed my fist against the door. “Come on,
Jillian, if you want me to treat you like an adult, I expect you to
act like one. Stop pouting and come out here so we can talk about
this.”

From inside the room, I heard her crying. “You said
everything would be okay, but it’s not. You told me you wanted a
wife, a child, a home. Well, this is part of that, and that woman
has taken it away, but you won’t even stand up and defend it. You
won’t defend
us
. I am so sick of always playing by the
rules. Well you know what? Screw your rules, Tyler, and screw you,
too. You can sleep on the sofa tonight.”

I rested my forehead against the closed door.
“Jillian, come on, don’t do this.” I called out again and again,
but she refused to say another word, even after I threatened to
kick the door down.

She unlocked it in the morning, but when I tried to
approach her before I left for work, she closed herself in the
bathroom with the excuse she wasn’t feeling well. So I left without
so much as an “I love you
”
or “goodbye.” I knew I’d have the
opportunity later when she cooled down.

Although Jill and I rarely fought, I learned early
on that it was better to just leave her alone than try to talk
things out before she was ready. She wouldn’t stay angry for much
longer, and I wanted her to approach me. She had to know that, in
this case at least, I was the one who had the right to be angry.
After all, putting risk aside, she went to Nick behind my back.
That in itself was a serious betrayal.

Still, I was surprised at how long it was taking her
to call. Jill wasn’t the belligerent sort. In fact, she often
apologized even if she was right, just so we could get over it and
make up. I bargained with myself, agreeing to be patient for
another hour at most before I called her. I’d been waiting
forty-five minutes when my cell finally rang, but it wasn’t Jill,
nor was it a number I recognized.

“Yeah, who’s this?” I answered impatiently, not
wanting to tie up my line.

“Tyler Karras?” the voice asked urgently.

“Yeah, this is Tyler. Who are you?”

“Mr. Karras, my name is Officer Matthew Reynolds.
I’m with the Napa Police Department. Are you the husband of Jillian
Karras?”

“Yes. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Sir, I regret to inform you that your wife’s been
involved in a serious car accident. She’s sustained significant
injuries and has been taken by helicopter to the trauma center at
San Francisco General.” He paused. “I’m very sorry.”

It took a few seconds to absorb what the officer had
said. A strange skittering cantered up from my feet and settled in
my chest. It was déjà vu, all over again. In an instant, my whole
life constricted to a single pinpoint in time, a moment of dread
down deep inside, as if I were about to be swept over a waterfall.
I stood silently, my senses too stunned to reply.

“Mr. Karras? Are you still there?”

“I don’t understand. Jillian was in an accident? In
Napa? Are you sure it’s Jillian Demetrio Karras? She drives a red
Camry and has long—”

“Yes, I’m very sorry. You should probably get to the
hospital as soon as possible.”

“Is she...um…you know…?” I couldn’t get the words
out. I felt strangled by a thickness caught deep in my throat.
“Please, tell me…she’s not…dead, is she?”

“I honestly don’t know. She was alive when she left
the scene, but her injuries appear to be severe. You really should
get to the hospital. Again, I’m very sorry.”

“Right…right…okay. Um…thank you,” I said and ended
the call.

My feet were like dead weights anchored to the
floor. If I moved, even an inch, I would be that much closer to a
future I dared not face. I sucked in a large breath and willed
myself forward. I ran to my truck and sped off to the hospital up
on Potrero Avenue.

After abandoning my vehicle near the emergency room
doors, I stumbled into the hospital and called out my wife’s name.
My voice rose in high-pitched hysteria as tears pooled up and
clouded my vision. A nurse jumped in front of me and pressed her
hands to my chest, an ineffective gesture to halt my progress. She
shushed me like she would a child and asked if she could help,
retreating backwards against my forward momentum. I tried to step
around her when she blocked my path, but tumbled into a loaded cart
left in the hallway. I fell, careening through the medical
paraphernalia I’d scattered across the floor. At least dozen faces
turned to stare, some concerned, others annoyed.

I scooped up what items I could and held them out to
the nurse. “I’m sorry.”

She pressed her lips together and relieved me of the
contaminated equipment, depositing the packages into an empty bin.
She returned, touched me at the elbow, and pointed back toward the
front door.

“Sir, you need to take a seat out in the waiting
room.”

“No, I can’t. I’m looking for my wife, Jillian
Karras. She was in a car accident. The police told me she was
brought here by helicopter. I need to find her, please,
please.”

She pressed her lips together and looked me up and
down. “All right. Come with me.”

The nurse directed me to a small office by the
triage desk and motioned for me to take a seat. She asked for the
spelling of Jill’s name and checked the computer for an entry while
I drummed my fingers against my thighs. The nurse mumbled to
herself as she read the display then finally looked back up.

“Yes, Mr. Karras, your wife is being treated in
trauma three. I’ll go find out how she’s doing. Please wait
here.”

As soon as she was through the door, I jumped from
my seat and followed after her. She stepped into a trauma room
filled with doctors, nurses, and technicians, all dressed in
various shades of blue and green. I peered in from outside the
large glass doors where I shifted from foot to foot, stretched up
on my tiptoes, searching through the maze of bodies.

Several pieces of equipment were wheeled toward the
center, and wires were hooked up to the patient still blocked from
my view. Urgent alarms of various pitch and pace began to wail all
at once. Fingers sheathed in latex gloves snapped impatiently as
orders were called out. Three members of the crew quickly cleared a
path.

And there she was—Jillian—lying on a narrow padded
table in the center of the room, covered in blood. My heartbeat
surged, and a hissing blast exploded in my ears. I couldn’t catch
my breath, and spots danced across my vision as the world tilted. I
reached for the wall, trying to suck air into my lungs. The doors
swung wide and crashed into my back. I straightened up and forced
myself to focus back into the room.

It was in total chaos with questions and orders
being hurled about simultaneously. The staff dashed about, each
performing a critical task. A young doctor delicately weaved a
narrow tube down into Jill’s throat, while an older one fingered a
hole he’d cut into her side. He shifted his feet around as blood
poured out from the wound. Then he shoved a thick tube through the
incision, allowing the blood to collect in a large, clear plastic
bag hanging from a hook on the side of the table.

Multiple drugs were injected into an IV line
attached to Jill’s arm. The young doctor who had intubated Jill
moved over her chest. He placed one hand on top of the other in the
center and pushed in rapid succession as he counted out loud. A
nurse worked the respirator at Jill’s mouth, pumping air into her
lungs at a pace steady with the doctor’s count. After a minute or
two, a new alarm sounded.

“Crash cart,” an older doctor ordered.

As soon the nurse pushed the rig within reach, the
doctor grabbed the paddles.

“Okay, charge to one hundred,” he commanded as he
laid them against Jill’s chest. He waited for the machine to reach
full charge then called out, “Clear!”

Jillian’s upper body tensed, lurched off the table,
then settled back down. Panic shot through me like tendrils of
electricity slicing through my limbs.

“Nothing. Let’s try again, two hundred this time,”
the doctor ordered. He waited and watched then shouted,
“Clear!”

Again she jumped. Again no response. My heart
rattled at a clipped speed, pitching wildly against my sternum. I
felt like I was going to be sick.

“One more time. Charge to three-sixty.
Okay...clear!” Again, nothing. “How long has she been down?” he
asked a nurse.

The nurse looked up at the clock on the wall and
replied, “Fifty-three minutes.”

The young doctor returned to chest compressions,
again and again, over and over.

I held my hands to my head. The roar inside was
already deafening and getting louder.

“Asystole,” a technician called out as the monitor
sounded an even wail.

The young doctor performing chest compressions
looked at his colleague. “What do you think?” he asked, so
breathless he was panting.

The older doctor returned the paddles to the cart
and shrugged. “Blunt force trauma like this, could be tension
pneumo, aortic dissection. Take your pick.”

“We can’t shock her now. Should we try to get a
chest x-ray then send her up to surgery?”

The older man glanced at the blood collecting in the
plastic bag and all around them on the floor. He blew out a long
sigh. “She won’t even make it to the elevator.”

“Richard,” the young doc warned as he nodded in my
direction.

The older man turned and caught my eye. His brow
came together with a deep crease scoring through the center. He
spun around to one of the nurses. “Let’s push another amp of epi
and see what happens.”

The nurse was so fast she practically had the drug
administered before the order was given. Everyone worked silently
for another ten minutes, each dedicated to their part, but no
matter what they did, nothing changed. The young doc continued to
work over Jill’s chest, his scrubs soaked through with his sweat
and her blood. The elder one shook his head again.

“Still asystole. How long?” he asked the same nurse
as before.

She checked the wall clock again. “One hour, five
minutes, Doctor.”

The older doc pursed his lips, deep in thought. Then
he waved his hand above Jill’s body. “All right, that’s it. I’m
calling it.” He looked up at the wall clock and said, “Death at
sixteen-fifty-two.”

He stepped from Jill’s side, steadying himself as he
slipped in a puddle of her blood. With a snap, he removed his
gloves and tore away his gown and goggles. He slammed everything
into a tall, lined bin then signed a chart held out by a nurse.
With a frustrated kick to the swinging doors, he left through a
side entrance. He was gone without a backwards glance. I stared
after him, praying he would return, but knowing full well he would
not.

It was over.

Oh God, no!
I banged on the glass. “No, don’t
stop! Bring her back! She’s not dead! She’s not dead!”

The nurse who had been helping me earlier stood in
the middle of the room. She turned and spied me through the window
then hurried over and proceeded to console me, but I couldn’t hear
a word she said over the keening that seemed to reverberate off the
glossy tiled walls. It was me, wailing.

I clamped a hand over my mouth, and tried to focus
back into the trauma room. I stared at Jillian’s lifeless body
lying on the table with all the tubes and wires still attached and
her blood splattered on the floor. A nurse disconnected the
respirator from the tube still stuck in Jill’s throat. She shook
out a long sheet and pulled it up over my wife’s head.

“No!” I screamed and barged into the room. I pressed
myself around the nurse and pushed her out of the way. “Jillian! Oh
God, no!”

I yanked the sheet away from Jill’s face and ran my
hand over her forehead. Hands pulled gently at my arms from behind
me, but I jerked free. I bent over and kissed the side of Jill’s
mouth.

She’s still so warm. This is a mistake. It has to
be. This can’t be happening again. She cannot be dead. Please, God.
Please!

“Oh my God, Jillian, no…no!”

The remaining staff backed away when the nurse told
them I was the patient’s husband. I bent over my wife and pulled
her bruised hand out from under the sheet. I held it up to my open
mouth and cried. My hand trembled as I placed it over her womb.

My wife, my child, both gone.

I tipped my face up to the ceiling and screamed,
sobbing with more anguish than I had ever felt in my entire life.
“God, how could you do this to me again? How?”

Then a new panic began to overwhelm me, tightening
across my chest. Jill must have been terrified. She must have felt
so alone as she lay dying. I wasn’t there for her. She died
believing I was angry with her. I wanted her to know that I was
here for her now, for all the good it did.

“I’m here, love. Right here. No worries. I’m
here.”

Then it hit me, like a bag of bricks to the face.
I’m too late
.
She was in Napa, probably doing what I had
forbid Nick to do. This is my fault! Jill is dead because of me.
Because I did nothing. She begged for my help, and I did nothing!
Oh God, no! What have I done?