Rescue

  He feels the movement of her fingers right away.

  “Oh, God. Oh, Rowan.”

  Webster stands, opens the door, and shouts for a nurse.

  The nurse, when she comes, bends over Rowan, prepared to examine her pupils, but his daughter, bless her heart, opens her eyes on her own, startling the nurse. Webster has never seen anything more beautiful.

  Rowan seems dazed, unable to focus. She can’t speak. But Webster is OK. He knows she will.

  Ow,” Rowan says, her first word. “My head.”

  Webster clutches her hand. He may never let go.

  “I’m not surprised,” he says. “You’ve had a nasty crack.”

  “I did?”

  “You don’t remember it?” Webster asks.

  “No,” she says, trying to think, but he can see that the effort is too difficult.

  Dr. Lockhart booms from the doorway, “I hear we’ve got good news!” He walks to the other side of the bed. “Well, I guess so. Welcome back, Rowan Webster.”

  Webster can see that Rowan is confused. Who is this man?

  “I’m Dr. Lockhart,” the neurologist explains. “I’ve been treating you. You had a serious head injury.”

  Webster observes Lockhart as he inspects Rowan’s pupils. He asks her to move her arms and legs, wiggle her toes, press down on his hands, and squeeze his fingers. Then he asks Rowan questions. What year is it? Who’s the president? What month is it? What’s her address? Rowan is OK with the year, a little slow with the president, completely confused about the month, but she knows her address.

  “I’ll give you a B,” the doctor tells Rowan. “I’ll come back and ask you again in two hours, and I guarantee you’ll get a better grade.”

  “I’m at Mercy?” Rowan asks her father when the doctor has gone.

  “No, we’re in Burlington.”

  Rowan glances around the room. “Why are we in Burlington?”

  “You were airlifted here. What’s the last thing you remember?”

  She studies him for a minute. He hopes he’s not the last thing she remembers. “I was at a dance,” she says.

  “You remember anything after that?”

  “It was hot in the gym,” she says. “And someone said we ought to go swimming.” She pauses. “And I remember being afraid, but I don’t know why.”

  It would be surprising if Rowan remembered every minute leading up to the crack on the head. Trauma erases time.

  “I’ll tell you what happened,” he says to her. “You tried to climb a tree over Gray Quarry. You fell and hit your head on a hidden ledge in the water. This was at two thirty in the morning on Saturday. Tommy went in after you, but when he got you on shore, you weren’t breathing. He did CPR on you. You coughed up water and started breathing on your own, but you wouldn’t wake up. Let’s see. The incident happened very early on Saturday. It’s early in the morning of Wednesday right now. You’ve been out for four days.”

  Rowan tries to comprehend this. “Where did I go?” she asks.

  “That’s what I’d like to know!” Webster says, laughing.

  “So that’s why you look like a wreck.”

  “You have no idea,” he says. “The worst four days of my life, that’s for sure.”

  “The nurse said I went up in a helicopter.”

  “You certainly did.”

  “And I missed it? I never even knew I was there? I’ve never been in a helicopter.”

  “You didn’t miss anything,” Webster says. “It was a horrible ride. Someday, when you’re better, I’ll tell you all about it. And you and I will take a helicopter ride just for fun.”

  “Did you know I would wake up?”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, Dad,” Rowan says.

  Webster smiles. “Rowan, you don’t have to be sorry about anything in the world. You woke up. That gives you a totally free pass.”

  “Forever?” she asks.

  He squints. “I didn’t say forever.”

  A team of nurses asks him to move outside the room. He’s happy to do whatever they require. They explain that they want to try to get Rowan to sit up and then to stand. They’d like to be able to take the Foley catheter out, and they might try to clean her up, depending. They suggest he get something to eat.

  “She’ll be right here when I get back?” Webster asks, making sure.

  “She’ll be right here.”

  “Because I don’t like leaving her.”

  “I promise you she’ll be right here,” the nurse says, “but she might be sleeping.”

  “All right,” Webster says reluctantly, reaching in his pocket for his phone.

  By the time he descends to the cafeteria, he’s unexpectedly ravenous. He wants sugar. He selects two pieces of apple pie and a doughnut, accompanied by a cup of coffee. The pie tastes so good, he moans with pleasure. When he finishes, he calls Sheila, Tommy, Gina, and Koenig, in that order. Tommy is speechless, Gina starts to cry, and Koenig whoops. Sheila is the most relieved. She says, I’m so happy, and he can feel the release in her voice, the lifting of the terrible worry.

  “I’ll come right now,” she says.

  “I think you’d better wait. She doesn’t know you’re here. She doesn’t even know I’ve been in touch with you. Let me talk to her first, and then I’ll call you.”

  “Will she make her graduation?”

  “If I have to carry her.”

  When Webster returns to his daughter’s room, she’s asleep. He sits next to her, as he has been doing, but doesn’t wake her, even though he wants to, just to make sure.

  The room looks better for her having woken from the coma. The curtains aren’t as dreary, the television not as dull. Webster knows it’s simply his state of mind. He gazes at his daughter.

  The doctors had to shave the top of her head in order to suture a deep laceration, and, as a consequence, she has a four-by-two-inch bald spot with a little fuzz starting. When she was in a coma, her hair was flattened to her skull, and she seemed to be all widow’s peak. But someone in the last hour has taken the time to comb her hair so that her bangs cover most of her forehead. Rowan will think the bald patch a problem for graduation.

  Though now she might not care.

  A nurse stands in the doorway. Webster turns.

  “She was still woozy when she sat up, so we didn’t try to get her to stand. We took the catheter out, and she was able to use the bedpan. She’ll be moved to a semiprivate room and be there at least two or three days, maybe longer. She has to be able to walk unassisted. There may be issues with balance.”

  “She graduates from high school on Sunday.”

  The nurse chews a lip. “That’s going to be pretty tight.” She pauses. “How are you doing?”

  “A hundred percent better.”

  “You need to get some sleep,” the nurse says. “I can’t order you to do it, but you know I’m right.”

  “I hate to leave her.”

  “This is the ICU. She’s being monitored every second.” The nurse smiles. “She’s out of the woods, Mr. Webster. I think you can start to relax now.”

  He stands immobile in the shower for twenty minutes, letting the hot water remove the kinks. Then he scrubs and washes his hair and slides between the covers. It’s nearly dawn when he shuts his eyes.

  It’s noon the same day when wakes up. He comes alert and has to remind himself that his daughter has come out of the coma. He lies back against the pillow, his arms crossed behind his head, and savors that sweet sensation. A bright sun tries to enter the room at the edges of the curtains. He wonders if today will be too soon to mention Sheila to Rowan. It’s a gamble on his part—the notion that Rowan might better absorb the idea of Sheila visiting in a hospital setting than at home, which is full of memories—but he thinks he should try it.

  He dresses and half jogs back to the hospital. He finds Rowan in her new room, awake, sitting up and eating lunch. He stands, wide-eyed, in the doorway. A simple sight and yet so astonishing.
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  “Hey,” he says.

  “Who are you?” Rowan asks.

  Webster’s heart thuds against his chest.

  “Are you my doctor?”

  “Rowan, this is Dad. You don’t remember me?”

  “My father works with the Hartstone Rescue Squad.”

  His heart kicks again.

  “Rowan. Sweetheart.”

  “Oh, I had you good! You should see your face.”

  “You…” He grabs her foot under the sheet and shakes it.

  She laughs. “I’m having a turkey sandwich. And custard. I never knew how much I loved custard.”

  “You’re a rascal,” he says, still finding it hard to believe his eyes. “You look wonderful.”

  “Dad, I look like a freak! I’ve got a ten-inch bald spot on top of my head and a cast on my shoulder.”

  “The bald spot is four by two inches.”

  “It feels huge. I wish I could wear a hat.”

  “Let’s see what the nurses say about that. I’ll go buy you one.”

  “A Red Sox hat,” she says.

  “How about a UVM hat?” he asks.

  “We’re close to UVM right now, aren’t we?” she asks, as if just registering that fact.

  “We’re at UVM,” he says.

  “But don’t get me a baseball cap. Get me one of those, oh, you don’t know, it’s like a golf cap, except bigger, and I can get my ears under it. I should really pick it out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

  “If only Gina were here. She’d know what I meant. Do you know what happened to my cell phone?”

  He hasn’t seen her cell phone or the purse she took to the dance. Maybe Tommy has them. “I’ll see if I can find out,” he says.

  Webster sits on her bed. Who gets reprieves like this?

  “Want half my sandwich?” she asks.

  He tells her no, even though he’s hungry. “Gina came,” he says. “Tommy came with his dad. Tommy saved your life. Did I mention that?”

  Rowan looks concerned. “I wish I could remember something.”

  “Maybe you will, maybe you won’t,” he says, deciding to take Rowan up on her offer. He picks up the other half of her sandwich. Turkey, white bread, no dressing. Tastes delicious. “It’s probably better off if you don’t.”

  “I was drinking, wasn’t I?” she asks, wiping her mouth with a napkin. She has to do everything now with her right hand.

  “Yes, you were.”

  “Are you mad?”

  “Mad? Yes.” He meets her eyes. “But mostly all I’ve felt is fear. You’re a very lucky girl.”

  Webster won’t tell her about Kerry, the girl who didn’t make it. Not yet.

  “But I’ll be rip-roaring furious if you ever get drunk again,” he warns.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Do you know why you did it?”

  “I just did it,” she says, moving the tray out of her way.

  “You were angry when you left the house.”

  “Maybe I was still angry,” she says. “It’s hard to know.”

  “A lot of people came here to visit you,” Webster tells her. “Tommy’s dad lent me a family car. The cruiser is back at Rescue, and I had the keys in my pocket. They’re a good family.”

  “I knew you’d like them,” Rowan says. “Dad, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine how horrible this was for you. And I’ve been such a bitch.”

  “You certainly have,” he says. “If you feel up to it, I’m going to ask you to do some makeup work. If you fail math and English, you won’t be able to go to UVM.”

  “I’m at UVM, remember?”

  “Do you remember the last time you saw me?”

  “The night of the dance. I was furious with you.”

  “Do you remember why?”

  “You read my diary.”

  “So you’re not angry now?”

  “Now? I’d have to be crazy to be angry now. Though I’m a little pissed off about my hair.”

  “I didn’t read much, if that’s any consolation.”

  She shrugs and sits up straighter. “It doesn’t seem like such a big deal. But I don’t want to think about it. It’s embarrassing.”

  “Nothing’s embarrassing now,” he tells her.

  “I’m still hungry. How long did I go without eating?”

  “Four days.”

  “Cool. I wonder if I lost weight,” she says. She presses the sheets down at the sides of her hips and stomach.

  “The last thing you need to worry about is your weight.” Webster finds her foot again under the sheet and holds on to it. “Look, there’s something I want to tell you.”

  Rowan waits.

  “Your mother has been here nearly the whole time you’ve been unconscious.”

  “My what?”

  “I found her just last week. When I told her about the accident, she came right away. She kept me from losing my mind.”

  His daughter’s eyes open wide. He waits for the fact to sink in.

  “Where did you find her?” she asks.

  “She’s been living in Chelsea,” he says, moving closer to her on the bed.

  “Where is that?”

  “It’s a city near Boston. I think once when you were younger, we talked about where she came from, and I showed you on a map.”

  Rowan leans back and inches the covers closer to her chin. “How did you find her?”

  “On the Internet. It was easier than I thought. I drove to Chelsea and talked to her.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “You weren’t in a mood to hear about it,” he says. “I had to think about how to tell you. And then, next thing I know, I’m in a helicopter with you strapped to a backboard.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “She’s an artist, Rowan, a painter. She’s very good. She’s had a complicated and difficult life. But the reason I’m telling you this now is that she wants to meet you.”

  “She wants to meet?” Rowan pulls the covers right to her mouth. She looks stricken.

  Webster hopes that a nurse doesn’t choose this moment to come to the door. “If you would like to meet her,” Webster says, “it can be arranged.”

  “Meet her here? Like this?”

  “Would you rather wait until you get home?”

  Rowan lowers her eyes, thinking. “Will I make it home for graduation?”

  “Absolutely. But probably not much sooner than that.”

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Of course,” he says.

  Rowan scrutinizes him. “Are you and she…?”

  “Are we what?”

  “You know… like, reuniting?”

  “No,” he says, shaking his head and smiling. “No, Rowan, we’re not. We’ve talked, but it’s mostly been about you.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “The same and different. Not as feisty. Older. All of which means nothing to you, since you don’t remember her when she was younger.”

  “No, but I can imagine. Or try to.”

  “There’s something I should tell you before you and she meet.”

  “What is it?” Rowan asks.

  “Your mother didn’t just go away. I sent her away.”

  Rowan looks blank, as if she doesn’t understand.

  “I sent her away,” he repeats.

  “She didn’t just drive away?” Rowan asks, baffled.

  “Well, yes, she did, but it was because I made her.”

  Rowan glances out the window. All she can see from her bed is the sky.

  “You remember I told you that she left because she was sick, she was an alcoholic, and needed professional help?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, she did. But after the accident with you in the car, I couldn’t trust her with you, and I couldn’t be with you every second of the day. So I sent her away.”

  Webster watches Rowan.

  “If I hadn’t sent her away,” he says, “she’d have g
one to jail.”

  “Then you saved her life,” Rowan says.

  He shakes his head. “No, Rowan. I saved your life.”

  “And your own?”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Rowan nods. “But didn’t she say she would go to rehab?”

  “We couldn’t afford rehab. It wasn’t an option. Not as many places to go then as there are now.”

  Even though he’s a medic and knows what nerves produce—the heart pounding, the dry mouth, the sweaty palms—he’s powerless to prevent the symptoms. He has them all.

  “You couldn’t afford it?” Rowan asks.

  Webster remembers his father’s offer to finance rehabilitation. Only Webster’s pride had kept him from accepting that help. “It wasn’t an option that minute. That day. If she stayed in town another two hours,” Webster says, “the police would have had to arrest her.”

  Rowan’s face is pale. “Would she really have gone to jail?”

  “I believe so, yes,” Webster says. “It was her second DUI, her second accident. In this case, she’d injured a man. They were going to put her away for a while.”

  Rowan raises her knees under the sheets. “Wouldn’t they have made her go to rehab?”

  “Well, I suppose jail is rehab in a way. Though not always. Jail is a bad place to be. Almost no one comes out the better for it. And she was in no shape to survive that.”

  For a moment, Rowan is silent.

  “But she’d have been out years ago,” Rowan says finally, “and maybe she’d have gone into rehab, and we could have been a family again.”

  The words sting. A family again. He’s had this thought himself a thousand times. By sending Sheila away, he had destroyed the family. “The truth is,” Webster says, “I think your mother and I would have been divorced within the year. I couldn’t trust her anymore. I’m sorry to have to tell you this. I’d hoped I’d never have to. The drinking was a clue to who she was. Or maybe it made her who she was. She was reckless, she wanted adventure. She hid things.”

  “If she wanted adventure, what was she doing with you?”

  Webster smiles. “When I met your mother,” he says, “she was outrunning an abusive boyfriend from Boston. They were both drunks. She was looking for a place to rest. I must have seemed like a good place to lie low. She actually said that once: lie low.”