The past week had been a blur of tears and restless sleep. The twins seemed to always be screaming at the same time, when two arms were never enough to rock two babies. Jamie had insisted Sam come over when she told her what had happened; news like this wasn't one that you wanted to receive on the phone. They had sat next to each other on Don's ratty couch, neither able to comfort the other while her own heart was crushed under the vacuum of loss. Funeral preparations did not, as Jamie hoped, provide any sort of reprieve from the emptiness. Everywhere she went, she felt lighter, somehow, less whole. Don Flack had been poured himself over her life like water, forcing her stone will to bend beneath him, so slowly she had not seen it happening; corners became less sharp, ridges were made where they were not before. And now, the water was gone, and she was left with an inexplicably scarred life.
Jamie had said goodbye to the last dark-clad somber family member, taken her daughters out of their small black dresses, and was sitting on that same goddamn couch. A book that had been open to the same page for the past hour lay in her lap. Her mind had wandered back to a few hours earlier, when she stood at the head of the large group of funeral-goers, flanked by Samantha, Mac, Jo, Lindsay, Danny, her mother. Ella and Adah, for once still and quite, had stood by her feet.
Jamie wondered if they would remember this day later, when she told stories about their father. She wondered if perhaps their only memory of him would be that large wooden box being lowered gently into the ground, of throwing dirt overtop of the final resting place of Don Flack. What would they say when she insisted on visiting his grave? For the next few years, it would probably just be another fun excursion, something to get out of the house. But once they reached the age of self-consciousness, the age of "Drop me off around the block, okay?", would they resist? Would they sit in a teenage slump on this very couch and complain of the weather, of homework, of being tired, anything to get out of going to the graveyard? Would they listen when she talked about how their father was the most amazing man she had ever met? Of how he had loved them, from the moment they were born until the moment he left them forever?
Would she remember these things?
Or would she, eventually – maybe not this week or month or year, but at some point – begin to forget? One day, would a minute go by without thinking about Don, then an hour, then half a day? Would she later struggle to bring his face to her mind, yet alone recall the way he hummed while he cooked breakfast, or played with her hair absentmindedly when they watched TV?
She imagined being a single mother. Dropping her daughters off at day care, going to work, and then picking them up. Always being the one to get up in the middle of the night when there was a nightmare, or a sudden-onset 2am attack of nausea. Always being the one to go on the field trips, the PTA meetings, the doctor's appointments and the drop-offs. Always being on the referee duty that is multi-child parenthood.
She thought of going to work every day and seeing that empty desk, or seeing someone other than her husband sitting across from her. She thought of going to bed every night on the left side of the bed, leaving his side empty. She thought of every birthday, every wedding, every party, where she would no longer have a date. She thought of their anniversary, coming like a hurricane every year, tearing her apart bit by bit, making her mood worse and worse, until March 17th was dreaded by everyone around her.
She thought of filling out forms with the marital status "single". She thought of describing herself as single. She thought of taking off her rings and letting them, like her husband, sit in a box somewhere to be forgotten about. She thought of being a pathetic, lonely fifty-year-old, and having teenage daughters push her to start dating.
A knock on the door interrupted her depression. She braced herself for the impending wails, but apparently the sound had not woken up either of her daughters. She pushed herself off the couch and walked to door, wondering if perhaps a friend had left something in her apartment after the funeral. No one else would come so late.
She opened the door to find Mac, still in his funeral suit, standing in front of Christine.
"Forget something, boss?"
He smiled slightly. "I need you to come with me."
Christine stayed in the apartment in case the children woke up. Jamie got in Mac's car, but he refused to say where they were going. She watched the bright lights of the city pass the car slowly, reading sign after sign without registering any words. The city that never sleeps. When she was little, Jamie could not understand that saying. Surely it couldn't be right. Everyone has to sleep. She remembered her father telling her that there are so many people in this city, all of whom go to bed and wake up at different times, that, at any given moment, it seems like the whole city is awake. Another responsibility left solely on her as the only parent: explain all the confusing phenomena of this never-stopping world.
They pulled up in front of New York General, and a hollow feeling grows in Jamie's stomach. She imagined having to go to another funeral before she had even washed her black dress.
"What's wrong?"
Mac just shakes his head, and leads her from the parking garage into the main lobby. They pass the empty receptionist's desk without stopping. Mac knows where he is going.
The last time she had been here was when she had Ella and Adah. She had been in a completely different wing that time, with pastel-colored walls and excited couples. Here, everything was a shade of grey. The labyrinth of corridors sucked hope from the hopeless; if they couldn't even find their way out of this maze, how would their loved ones ever leave, except in the expert hands of men who went daily from the hospital to the morgue?
They entered a set of double doors into the ICU, where the perpetual beeping created a chorus of bleak futures. Each room had a small window, giving Jamie a view into bed after bed of bodies hooked up to intimidating machines. Who, whom she loved, had landed themselves here? Why wouldn't Mac say anything?
Finally, they reached the room Mac was looking for. Room 392, the utilitarian plaque with emotionless letters above the door said. The shade was pulled down on the window, so she could not see anything. Mac pulled the door open, and motioned for her to go inside.
There were two beds. One housed a middle-aged woman with casts and bindings covering the majority of her chest and head. The other, a man with a ventilator hooked to his mouth, making his chest rise and fall in a perfect rhythm. Bruises had turned his face blackish purple, and both eyes were swollen nearly shut. He was in bad shape, but he was recognizable.
Or at least, he was recognizable to his wife.
Jamie rushed to her husband's bedside, not touching him for fear of messing up the elaborate web of tubes and bandages across his body. A nurse, whom she just noticed, was messing with one of the many machines to his right, and started to semi-politely tell her to fuck off, but Jamie did not hear.
"He's dead," she heard herself say.
The nurse impatiently said "No, he's not. See here? His heart is beating."
Jamie ignored the woman, turning to her boss, who was still in the doorway. "But…"
"I guess a lot of people tear ligaments in their knees," Mac said.
The nurse was now thoroughly confused. "His knees are not the problem."
Jamie turned to look at her. "Will he be okay?"
She was obviously unsettled. "He'll most likely be released within four, five weeks."
Jamie smiled down at her husband. No more than ten or twelve blocks away, her twins were sleeping in her apartment, completely unaware that anything was unusual, other than that their mother had been in a bad mood when they had gone to bed. Somewhere, Samantha Flack was working on the slow and tedious task of piecing her life together in recovery, made even worse by her brother's funeral. Somewhere, babies were being born and old people were dying and business deals were being made and children were being taught. And in Room 392 of New York General Hospital, a wife was convincing a tired nurse to let her spend the night with her not-dead husband.