Page 44 of The Destined SEAL
There’s always a first day, and there’s always a last. I remember the last day in vivid clarity because it was my fault.
After Marcus called me and asked me to come to the hospital, I went. I’m not sure why. Maybe I was feeling nostalgic after talking to Martina all morning. Perhaps it was the destruction in his voice or pure stupidity for caring when I shouldn’t any longer. Instead of driving to my office in the city, I turned to go in the opposite direction. He didn’t give me any details on the phone, but no one can mistake terror when they hear it, and Marcus was terrified. Darren was in an accident. That’s as much as I caught.
There’s a hollow sort of feeling that accompanies tragedy. Even when it’s not your own. If you wear the empty like armor, you have a thin layer between you and destruction. It’s there for a reason even if you don’t realize it at the time. The day the attacks happened I had this same empty feeling. When my father told me my aunt died, I remember nodding, like he was telling me what he cooked for dinner. It wasn’t that I didn’t care, I cared deeply, but all my shock was used up. I cried myself to sleep the next night, and for a month after that, too. It was an emotional delayed response.
The hospital is buzzing when I walk in—an unfamiliar destination that I try to avoid at all costs. After stopping by the front desk for a visitor sticker and a security screening, I head to the floor and area that Marcus directed me to. If the phone call was my first indication of how bad this situation is, the second is the heavily armed police officers standing outside of the room I’m supposed to be visiting.
In an effort to do something wise, I text my mom and Martina that I’m at the hospital and give them the basic information Marcus gave. Marcus exits the room and has to wedge himself in between the officers guarding the room. His eyes light, if you can even call it that, looking as horrible as he does when he sees me.
“Thank you for coming. I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call,” he says, swallowing and stopping when he’s a few feet from where I’m standing. At least he’s wise enough to not overstep my imaginary boundaries. “It’s bad, Harp. So bad,” he says, eyes glassing over. “I didn’t know who to call,” he repeats.
I let my gaze flick to the officers and back to him. “Looks like an attorney, Marcus. What happened?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder and then back at me. Shaking his head, he motions to the sitting area I passed on my way here. “Not here. Will you sit with me for a bit?”
Nodding, I turn and walk slowly to the seating area, my heart pounding out a warning. Why is he pulling me into this? Because he truly doesn’t have anyone else to call on this coast. And it’s my fault he’s in this state to begin with. My inner guilt is having a field day.
Marcus sits in a chair in front of me, his back to the hospital door that’s just out of sight.
“Is he okay?” It seems we’re in some sort of intensive care unit. Doctors are buzzing around, and nurses with grim faces and tired eyes carry charts and push carts loaded with technical equipment. “He’s okay, right?”
Marcus breaks down, his head in his hands. Shaking his head, he cries. “Even if he lives, it’s not good. He messed up. He was drinking,” he admits, raising his head to meet my confused gaze. In the past Marcus has been very forthcoming with information and storytelling. I nod for him to continue, or at least give me a little more to put the pieces together for myself. “He was drunk.”
“This early in the morning?” I wrinkle my brow. All the years I’ve known Darren, a drinking problem wasn’t something ever mentioned. Sure, I’ve seen him drink on one or two occasions, but not more than any other single man his age.
“He didn’t come home last night. That’s nothing new. He’s been drinking a lot since he got here. I’ve been taking care of him. His life went to shit when his girlfriend in Boston broke up with him. That’s why he’s been here for so long. His firm laid him off at the same time. He has nothing to go back to.” Marcus clasps his hands together in fists and looks down at them. “He drank all night and was on his way home early this morning when he got into an accident. He’s in a coma.”
This is when my mind starts working. “What did he hit?”
Marcus squeezes his hands harder and then releases to grab his cell phone from his pocket. “I drove past the accident on myway here this morning and snapped a couple photos. It’s so bad,” he says. “He was going sixty in a thirty-five. The person in the other car died on impact.”
He hands me the phone. The same phone, in the same navy-blue case he’s had for the past two years. I take it from him, and the first photo is from far away, so it’s hard to make out what I’m looking at. A bad accident, for sure. I recognize the horrible intersection, and I see shards of the silver truck that belonged to Darren. The other vehicle has been demolished, fully and completely. Tears spring to my eyes. “This is so awful. What was he thinking?” It’s rhetorical, because I know that Marcus doesn’t know—wouldn’t know what he was thinking or why he chose to get behind the wheel of a car while inebriated.
I swipe right to look at the other photo. It’s a closer view, and it is obvious Marcus took these from his car while approaching the accident from behind. Police cars and ambulances are swarming in this one, and I have to close my eyes for a second when I realize someone lost their life. I’m looking at someone’s death moment, and it picks at my fragile emptiness. I turn the screen face down in my lap.
“Harper. I don’t know what to do. They’re going to arrest him and take him to jail as soon as he wakes up. I don’t know what to tell my parents or if I should call his ex-girlfriend. It’s all on me, and I don’t know what to do with this.”
Taking a deep breath, I tell him I need a few moments to process everything. I stand and walk to the little window that overlooks the bleak parking lot. Life moves on around us, as if it’s a normal day. I shudder when I sense Marcus standing behind me.
“Please. Tell me what to do. He’s a murderer. He’s guilty. Nothing is going to change that.”
“Even murderers get attorneys, I think. I don’t know why you thought I’d be able to help you in any way. I think Martina’ssister practices law, but I’m not sure what kind. What was that one friend we had at Harvard? He was pre-law, right?” I shake my hands to the sides. “This isn’t my business,” I say, shaking my head. “This isn’t my mess. How could you bring me into something so…awful?”
“I didn’t know who else to call. You were the only person in my life for years, Harper. You have to understand that fact. It was you and me and school, and then there was nothing. Darren didn’t help me recover from losing you. He was basically using me for a place to stay while he got drunk and hooked up with bimbos impressed by his Ivy League degree and Ferragamo loafers. You were the person I wanted next to me, that’s all. I lost all privileges to you, I know. I had to ask. Don’t fault me for that.”
I turn to face him. A doctor running down the hallway steals my focus for a second. “This isn’t your mess. He’s your brother, but it’s not your mess. Go to work. Live your life, and he can deal with the consequences when and if he wakes up. Call your parents and tell them. That’s what I’d do. Don’t complicate this any more than it already is. I really need to get going. I’m really sorry. I am. I feel for you, but I don’t want to see you again.”
I lift the phone when I realize it’s his to hand it back, but the image pops back up on the screen. Once more, I look at it. Closer this time. Someone’s death moment should be painful for me to view. It’s hard to decipher where one vehicle starts and ends because of the destruction. I trace the edges of the windows and imagine what their last moment felt like.
As I envision what I’d think about during my last moment, I see the white sticker through the smoke. It makes it less visible, but now that I’m looking at it and know exactly what it is, I know what kind of SUV it is, what it looked like in perfect condition, and who drives it.
I cover my mouth with my free hand as the tears come in full force. “Do you know who was in the other vehicle, Marcus?” I ask, my tone low.
He clears his throat. “No. A woman. They won’t give us a name until next of kin is notified.” No one has to tell me. I slide down the wall until I’m seated on the floor.
“What’s the matter?” Marcus asks.
Shaking my head, I hand him back his phone. I cry, burying my head between my knees. It’s soft sobbing at first, but as the ramifications of this hit home, my cry turns into a soul-flaying wail.
