The Season of Second Chances by Diane Meier

Author:Diane Meier [Meier, Diane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780805090819
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 2010-03-29T13:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 19

Josie called the office with every detail of our team vigil worked out: Be at the hospital at five o’clock, Fran reported, to take over for Josie, who would go home to fix supper for everyone. Fran would take over from me at eight, and Dan would go to the hospital at nine to sit with Donna until midnight. Josie would drive back at midnight and stay the night.

Donna had not awakened, and Josie and Dan did not want her to wake without someone close to her in the room. Donna’s parents were due to arrive from Florida this evening, and Josie was hoping that they would visit her first thing in the morning rather than drive to the hospital, in their apprehension and exhaustion, directly off the plane that night. I had no doubt that Josie’s suggestions would be followed.

“Good grief,” I said, “she’s like Patton.” Fran laughed weakly in acknowledgment but offered no other explanation. She’d worked with Josie, after all, for years.

I followed my instructions and drove to the hospital, found my way to the main entrance and was sent to the intensive-care floor. Josie saw me step off the elevator and came out of Donna’s glass cubicle to greet me; she seemed tired but bright. She reported that Donna had squeezed her hand, and the doctors confirmed some weak response. While this was good news, there was, still, no waking her. Josie told me that it was also important for me to hold Donna’s hand and to stroke her skin and to talk to her. “Talk to her about anything,” she said. “Talk to her about yourself . . .”

Oh, God. I began to panic. Stroke her skin? I’m not good at this. I’m not one to talk to someone awake, no less comatose. Josie needed me to be responsible, but I wanted to say to her, Lizzie and Jackie would be far better at this than I—you can’t trust me to do this right. But Josie hugged me, apparently unaware that I was frozen to my spot. She dashed back into the fishbowl of a room, kissing Donna on the forehead and promising to return.

“Goulash at the house,” she directed as she made her way past me in the hall. “It will be warm and waiting for you, when Fran arrives to take your place at eight,” she said with a smile—warm but commanding, clear-eyed and charismatic, like Joan of Arc. I could imagine legions of men, pious or superstitious, gullible or reasonable, believers and nonbelievers, lining up behind her and marching, like lemmings, right off a cliff.

I stood outside Donna’s room for minutes. A nurse asked me if I needed anything. No, I said. I was fine. She looked at me as though a little amused, as though my being “fine” was not high on her agenda there in the ICU. A large X-ray machine was being wheeled into an adjacent compartment, and the orderly needed me to move out of the way, out of the hall; and so, finally, I had to go into Donna’s terrarium of a room.

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