Page 29 of Every Good Thing
They roll me toward the ambulance, rattling off questions and taking vitals. But my thoughts are on Ben, as if my racing worries might force him to materialize.
“I’ll be right behind you,” Jack says as they slide me inside the ambulance. “I’ll stay with you at the hospital until Ben arrives—Alice’s orders.” He tucks my phone into my good hand.
On the drive, Donny affixes me to an EKG and oxygen. He reports his findings to me and the hospital. Elevated heart rate and blood pressure. Possible concussion. Multiple abrasions and minor lacerations. Suspected fracture. But everything he’s saying and doing is secondary. I stare at my phone, willing Ben to call.
Arriving at the hospital and undergoing care feels like background noise, like I’ve left the TV on in the other room while I’m busy with something else. My fears compound the more time passes without hearing from him. Jack checks the hospital to ensure Ben isn’t there, too, in some weird coincidence. No. He calls Ben’s captain to see if he has more information. Nothing. Alice drives to Saddletree and looks for Ben on the off-chance he’s home and lost his phone. Again, nothing.
With every lull, I send wonky, one-handed texts and try calling, only for it to go straight to voicemail.
I add up the time since the first call. One hour to two and now three. Desperation forms in his silence. I remember this feeling from my first marriage—that sickly unease of worry and suspicion when Mark started communicating less and coming home later, until both stopped altogether.
I’d been so stupidly devastated, like an idiot clown, not expecting the pie in the face, though I’d seen the pie, sensed the pie, and knew it could happen.
But no one ever thinks it’ll happen to them. Then, it does.
The hospital curtain waves as shadows move by it. “Lena!” Dot’s voice is unmistakable.
“Here! I’m here!”
She strong-arms the curtain and gawks at me before dropping Ruthie’s hand and rushing into my arms.
“Gentle,” I whisper into her pitch-black hair. “I’m okay.”
“You fucking scared the shit out of me,” she whispers back sternly. She pulls away and takes a long look at me with an expression that’s a strange cross between seething and ecstatic.
“Sorry,” I say, sinking over what I’ve put her through. I spot tears in her eyes as she takes me in—actual tears—and Dot prides herself on her impenetrable outer shell. “You’re the crier; I’m the badass,” she often jokes.
She entangles me in a second hug before stepping away. “Is that mud… and purple icing in your hair? You look like shit, babe.”
Ah, there’s the Dot I know and love.
“Auntie Dot, bad word!” Ruthie’s hands go hip-side as she gives Dot a parental stare-down—I’ve taught her well.
Dot raises her hands submissively. “My bad.”
Ruthie’s boots squeak as she climbs into my bed for a gigantic bear hug. “Mom, are you okay?”
I breathe her in and hold her close despite the aches it causes. With a warm smile, I say, “Yes, I’m fine, honey. Bumps and bruises, that’s all. Thanks for being a good girl for Auntie Dot.”
“Eh, Auntie Dot’s being a good girl for me, too. Mostly.” Ruthie gives a dismissive wave. “Your hair is messy, Mom.”
I tug on my purse, thankfully salvaged by Jack from the wreck, and search for a scrunchie. It’s not until I attempt to put my hair up that I realize I can’t one-handed. Dot comes to my rescue, sweeping my dirty ends into a high knot.
“That’s what I call a messy bun,” she says, and Ruthie giggles.
Down the hall, Cherry calls out in her cheeriest business voice, “Thanks, Elaine!” before the confident clicks of her signature stilettos bang closer. The curtain whooshes aside with her dramatic entry, like she’s taking the stage at a fashion show, especially in her silky green Ralph Lauren halter dress and strapped black heels.
With her typical swagger, she says, “Lena, you little witch! You scared us to death! Just talked to Elaine… I mean, Dr. Langston. I designed a… um, playroom for her last year—very inventive.”
Her wink-wink clearly indicates a sex room. Dot and I share a glance before looking at Ruthie, who seems distracted by the buttons on the side of the hospital bed.
“Anyway,” Cherry says, crossing the room for a brief hug. “She says slight concussion and probably a broken arm. Glad you got her—she’s a great doctor and a fascinating client.”
Cherry’s chuckle perks my curiosity. Though Dot and I love hearing about Cherry’s fascinating interior design clients, we’ll have to save that story for a wine night.
“Sounds like you were lucky, kiddo,” Dot reiterates with a gentle slap on my back.
Then, we all ask each other at once, “Heard from Ben?”
