Page 11 of The River Is Waiting

“Were you in the ER just now? Do you know anything about my boy’s condition?” I ask. The woman shakes her head. Says she’s a phlebotomist and has been told to draw a couple of vials of my blood. “My blood? Is he going to need a transfusion? I know we’re both O positive. That’s good, right?” She nods. I look over my shoulder at Officer Longo. His face is unreadable.

We go into a small, windowless room. The phlebotomist motions toward a chair. I sit. Longo positions himself against the door. “You’ve had blood drawn before?” the woman asks. I tell her I’ve been a donor since high school. Nodding, she grabs my wrists and pokes at my veins. Then she pulls on latex gloves, readies the needle and the attached vial. “Little pinch,” she says. She repeats the procedure twice more. “Okay, you’re done,” she says.

When I get back to Emily, her mother is in my chair. Betsy looks pale, red-eyed, and ready for combat. “Just answer me one thing,” she says. “Why didn’t you check to see that they were both buckled in before you put that car in reverse?”

“What the fuck are you implying, Betsy?” Realizing that I’ve raised my voice, I glance over at Fazio and Longo.

“I’m not implying anything,” she hisses. “I’m asking you a simple question.”

I look at Emily, hoping she’ll defend me or tell her mother to stop with the third degree. Instead, she says, “That’s the thing though, Corby. Youalwaysdouble-check. First you look in the rearview mirror. Then you turn your head and look back. It’s second nature to you. I’ve seen you do it a million times. I just don’t get why this morning…”

I stare at her, saying nothing. There’s nothingtosay.

A doctor enters the room and walks toward us. He’s young, NBA-tall, blond crew cut. “Mr. and Mrs. Ledbetter?” We nod. He gets down on his haunches in front of us, pity overtaking his face. “I’m Dr. Stefanski, one of the ER docs.”

“How is he?” Emily asks.

“You know what? Let’s go someplace where we can talk in private. There’s a family room just down the hall where we can have some privacy, or if you prefer, we can use the chapel.”

“The family room,” I say. Betsy tells him she’s the boy’s grandmother and wants to come, too. The doctor looks from me to Emily, who nods. “Of course,” he says. He glances back at me as if to assess the family dynamic. “Follow me,” he says. Mercifully, the two cops stay put.

We sit around a table on cushioned chairs, the doctor on one side, the three of us across from him, Emily between her mother and me. “I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but your little guy didn’t make it. He died in the ambulance on the way here. By the time he got to the ER, there was nothing we could do for him.”

He’s still talking—his lips keep moving—but I can’t take it all in. I hear “broken pelvis” and “pancreas” and “small intestine,” but I’m still on hedied? Niko isdead? I’m hit with a strange sensation that I’m falling from some great height. Grab the arms of my chair to steady myself. Emily gets up, arms straitjacketed around herself, and, shaking her head, walks to a corner of the room. Her back is to us. To me. Betsy stands and goes to her. She places her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and murmurs something that I can’t quite hear.Ishould be the one comforting her; he’sourlittle boy. But what kind of comfort can I offer when I’m the one who caused his death?

I turn back to the doctor. “I got distracted,” I explain. “I always double-check before I start the car, but the one time…”

He nods and says he’s a dad, too. He mentions something about two grief counselors on staff, one spiritual, the other a psychologist. Do we have a preference? Before I can answer, Emily pivots and approaches the table. “Where is my son?” she asks the doctor. “I need to see him.”

He says she might want to think about that because of the nature of his injuries. “Maybe it would be better for you to remember him the way he looked before the accident.” Turning to me, he says, “Don’t you think so, Dad?” As horrifying as my last look at Niko was, at least he was still drawing breath. Fighting to live. I nod.

Emily shakes her head. “No, Ihaveto see him. I’m his mother. I need to comfort him no matter what he looks like. He must be so scared.” What she’s saying makes no sense.

“I’ll go with her,” Betsy says.

The doctor hesitates, then says, “Come with me then.”

The three of them start toward the door. When I stand to follow them, Betsy swivels around and says, “No! Not you.” Ignoring her, I turn to Emily. She shakes her head. That falling sensation hits me again. After it passes, I go to the doorway and watch them head down the corridor. The doctor, walking between them, towers over both women. He says something to Emily and places his hand on her back—a gesture of comfort for the poor young mother whose husband has caused the death of their child. As they turn a corner and disappear from sight, it’s all I can do not to shout out in agony.

The corridor is busy, hospital workers in scrubs, lab coats, carrying cups of coffee, food on foam trays. Two guys in scrubs chatter on either end of a gurney as they wheel a patient into an elevator. What time is it? Afternoon already? Morning still? I have no idea, but what would be the use of checking my phone to find out? Niko has died, no matter what time it is.

I go back into the meeting room, close the door to the corridor, and sit. Rub my burning eyes.…I need to comfort him. He must be so scared. Is she in denial? In shock?

I caused his death, but I lost him, too, Emily. Can we still hold each other, cry together? Grieve together? I let myself imagine that Ididlook back, saw his empty car seat, and got out of the car. Picked him up off the driveway and buckled him in. I see him over at Betsy’s, playing with blocks, eating the Cheez-Its I packed and drinking from his juice box. Seehim over at the neighbors’ house, laughing with Maisie at the antics of Jodi’s new puppy.

Oh God, poor Maisie! They’ve hardly ever been apart. How can we ever explain Niko’s abrupt disappearance? Will she remember him by the time she’s four or five? Consciously? Subconsciously? And if she does remember him, what then? And what about later when shecanunderstand?…

I’ll go with her, Betsy said.No! Not you.What right did she have to put herself in charge? There’s never been much love lost between Betsy and me; she disapproved of my having left college just shy of my degree, my claim on her daughter. I’m someone she tolerated for Emily’s sake, although she warmed up a little after her grandkids were born. At least I was good for something. But ever since that day I got laid off and came home drunk to the kids’ birthday party…

“I want you to know that it’s not about the quality of your work, Corby. The layoff will begin in two weeks, but why don’t you take the rest of the afternoon off?” Not wanting to give Emily the news that in another two weeks I’d be unemployed, I stopped off at Bid’s for a few, then a few more. Then a guy from our summer softball team strolled in. “How are things going, Ledbetter?”

“No complaints. How about you?”

He bought the first pitcher, I got the second. “Yeah, I guess I’d better take off, too. Keep in touch, bro. Good seeing you, too.”

I ended up getting that DUI and a ride home in a taxi. “Right here is good,” I told the driver. Handed him a ten and got out six or seven houses down from our blue raised ranch. When I walked into the house, still three-quarters in the bag, I was momentarily confused. Had Rhonda called my wife with the news that she was shitcanning me? Why in the world did Emily think balloons were appropriate? “Where have you been?” she asked. “Everyone’s going to be here in another twenty minutes. Don’t tell me you forgot to pick up the kids’ cake. Where’s your car? Jesus Christ, Corby!”

Behind me, I heard a car door slam and when I looked around, there was Betsy, struggling a wooden rocking horse out of her back seat. “Needa hand?” I called, more to dodge the third degree from Emily than from any burning desire to come to the aid of my mother-in-law. When she handed over the rocking horse, she told me I smelled like a brewery. “You’re soused, aren’t you? At your children’s birthday party? Honestly!” My father chimed in from somewhere. “Nonstarter. You’re pathetic.”

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