Accident - A Novel Part 4

"Meaning what?"

"She could remain in a coma permanently, or be extensively brain damaged if she regains consciousness at all, loss of motor skills, powers of reason. She could in essence be severely brain damaged, if she has sustained too great a shock, too many injuries, and we are unable to repair them. How much swelling occurs in the brain will have a lot to do with it as well, and how successful we are in controlling the swelling. We'll need all our skill, Mrs. Clarke, and a lot of luck ...and so will your daughter. We'd like to operate immediately, if you'll sign the papers."

"I haven't been able to reach her father." Page felt a lump in her throat the size of her fist. "I may not be able to get hold of him until tomorrow ...I mean today ..." She felt and sounded panicked as Trygve watched her, aching for what she was going through, and unable to help her.

"Allyson can't wait, Mrs. Clarke ...we're talking minutes here. We've already done a CT scan on her, as I said, and skull X rays. We have to get in as soon as possible, if we're going to save her, or any normal brain function whatsoever."

"And if we wait?" She had to ask Brad, she was his child too. It wasn't fair to him to proceed without him.

He looked at her honestly for a long moment. "I don't think she'll live another two hours, Mrs. Clarke. And if she does, I don't think there will be any viable brain function left, she'll probably be blind too." But what if he was wrong? What ever happened to the theories about second opinions? The trouble was, they didn't have time. They barely had time for one, if he was saying Allyson wouldn't live another two hours without brain surgery. What choice was there?

"You don't leave me many options, Doctor," Page said miserably, as Trygve squeezed her hand, and she held his tightly.

"There aren't any, Mrs. Clarke. I'm sure your husband will understand that, when you reach him. We'd like to do everything we can." She nodded as she looked at him, not sure if she trusted him or not. But she had to, she had no choice. Allyson's life depended on their skill and their good judgment. And what if she lived, but was totally brain damaged as they had warned, or was in a coma for the rest of her life? What kind of victory would that be? "Will you sign the consent forms now?" he asked quietly, and after a long moment's hesitation, she nodded.

"When are you going to operate?" she asked hoa.r.s.ely.

"In about half an hour," he said calmly.

"May I be with her until you do?" Page asked, feeling panicked. What if they never let her see her again? What if this was the last time she ever saw her? Why hadn't she held her for longer that night before she went out? Why hadn't she said all the things to her she had meant to say in her brief lifetime? Without even knowing it, she found herself crying again, as the doctor leaned over and touched her shoulder.

"We're going to do everything we can for her, Mrs. Clarke. You have my word." He looked around at his two a.s.sociates, who had said very little in the past half hour. "And you have one of the best neurosurgical teams in the country. Trust us." She nodded, unable to say more to him, and he stood up and offered to take her to her daughter.

"She's deeply unconscious, Mrs. Clarke, and she's sustained a number of minor injuries as well. In some ways, it looks worse than it is. A lot of what you'll see will heal. Her brain is another story."

But nothing he said to her prepared her for what she saw when they let her into the room where Allyson lay, watched by a resident and two specially trained ICU nurses. There was a breathing tube in her throat, another tube in her nose, a transfusion in one arm, an IV in her leg, and machines and monitors everywhere. And in the midst of it all, beautiful little Allyson, her face so battered, her own mother could scarcely recognize it, and her head covered by a sterile drape that concealed the hair they were going to cut off in only moments.

It was almost impossible to recognize her, except that Page would have known her anywhere, would have found her, and recognized her as her child. She would have known her with her heart, if not her eyes, and she went to her now, and stood quietly beside her.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetheart." She bent low, and spoke softly into her ear, praying that with some distant part of her, her daughter would hear her. "I love you, baby ...everything's going to be fine ...I love you, Allie ... we all love you ... we love you ..." All she could say were the same words over and over, as she cried, and stroked Allie's arm and her hand, and the one cheek that hadn't been damaged. She looked so battered and so pale, and if it weren't for the monitors, Page would have thought more than once she was dead. Her heart ached as she looked at her, unable to believe what had happened. "Baby, we all love you ...you have to get better. For all of us ...me ...and Daddy ...and Andy ..."

Page stood next to her for a long time, and then finally, they asked her to leave so they could prepare Allyson for surgery. She asked if she could stay, but they said she really couldn't. She wanted to know what they were going to do to her, and they explained that they wanted to start her on some drugs, and they had to shave her head, and put a catheter in place. There was a lot for them to do, and Allyson would be aware of none of it. But it would have been much too upsetting for Page to watch it.

"May I ...could I ..." She found she couldn't say the words and then she forced herself to. "May I have a piece of her hair?" It sounded horrible, even to her, except that she wanted to have it.

"Of course," one of the ICU nurses said gently. "We'll take good care of her, Mrs. Clarke, I promise." Page nodded and turned to Allyson again, she bent close to her ear, and kissed her gently.

"I'll always love you, sweetheart ...always and always." It was something she had said to her when she was a little girl, and maybe in some remote part of her, she might remember.

Page was blinded by tears as she left the room, and she literally had to tear herself away from Allyson's bedside. It was unbelievably painful knowing that she might never see her alive again, and yet, she reminded herself again and again, there was no choice. They had to operate on Allyson now, if there was any hope at all that they'd save her.

She found Trygve waiting for her again in the hall, and he ached when he saw her. Everything she had just been through was written on her face. She looked ghastly. He had only gotten a glimpse of the child as Page went in, and it had torn at his heart to see her. Chloe had been bad enough, but this was much worse. And having heard what the doctor said, he secretly thought there was a good chance they might lose her.

"I'm sorry, Page," he whispered, and then pulled her into his arms, as she stood there and cried for a long time. There was nothing else she could do. It was the longest night of both their lives, a never-ending nightmare. He knew that Chloe was still in surgery, a nurse had come to say that it was going well, but that it would go on for several more hours.

The nurse from the desk brought the papers for Page to sign, and after she did, Trygve insisted that they go to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee.

"I don't think I could drink it."

"Water then. You need a change of scene. It's going to be a long day." It was already four in the morning, and the chief neurosurgeon had told Page that the operation would take twelve to fourteen hours. "Maybe you should go home for a couple of hours, and get some rest," he said with a look of concern. They had grown closer in the past few hours than they had in eight years, and she was grateful to have him with her. She would have gone crazy alone, and she knew it.

"I'm not going anywhere," Page said stubbornly. And he understood. He didn't want to leave Chloe either. But in his case, his oldest son, Nick, was at home to take care of Bjorn, and he had explained as much as he knew when he left, and he'd called home since then. But in Page's case, she had Andy to worry about, and he'd probably be panicked without his mother and sister.

"Who did you leave Andy with?" Trygve asked as they sipped bad coffee in the cafeteria. Both of their daughters were in surgery by then, and Page had finally, reluctantly, agreed to go with him.

"I left him with our neighbor, Jane Gilson. Andy likes her, he'll be all right when he wakes up. And I can't help it. I can't leave now. I'm going to have to do something about finding Brad in a few hours though. It's the first time in sixteen years he forgot to leave a number."

"That's always the way." Trygve looked rueful. "Dana went skiing with friends once and forgot to leave me the number too, and of course that was the weekend that Bjorn got lost, Nick broke his arm, and Chloe came down with pneumonia. I had a great time."

Page smiled thinking of it. He was such a good guy, and he'd been so decent to her tonight. It was still difficult to a.s.similate what had happened. "I don't know what I'm going to say to Brad. He and Allie are so close ...it'll kill him."

"It's a nightmare for everyone ...and the poor kid who was driving ...imagine what his parents must be feeling."

They had an opportunity to see it firsthand, when the Chapmans arrived at Marin General at six o'clock in the morning. They were a nice-looking couple in their late fifties. She had well-groomed white hair, and Mr. Chapman looked like a banker. Page saw them arrive at the front desk, looking exhausted and worn. They had driven all the way from Carmel the moment they had been called, unable to believe what had happened. Phillip was their only child, they had had him late, and had never been able to have any others. He was the light of their life, which was why they hadn't wanted him to go East to college. They couldn't bear the idea of his being so far away, and now he couldn't be farther. He was gone from their life forever.

Mrs. Chapman stood with her head bowed, crying softly as they listened to the doctor, her husband had an arm around her and cried openly as he told them that Phillip had been killed instantly from a head injury and a broken neck that had severed both his spinal cord and his brain stem. There had been no hope of his surviving from the moment of impact.

The doctor told them too that there had been a small amount of alcohol in his blood, not enough to make him legally drunk, but maybe enough for a boy his age to be slightly affected. He did not say that the accident was due to him, it still remained unclear who had hit whom, or why. But the implication was there, and the Chapmans looked horrified when they heard it. The doctor in the examining room told them that the other driver had been Senator Hutchinson's wife, and that she was devastated over it, not that that changed anything for the Chapmans. Phillip was dead, no matter who the other driver had been. Mrs. Chapman's grief turned suddenly to anger as she listened to him and the implication that Phillip might have been drinking. She asked if the other driver had been checked too, and was told that she hadn't. The patrolmen at the scene had been certain she was sober. There had been no suspicion about her at all. And as he listened, Tom Chapman grew visibly angry. He looked outraged by what they'd just told them. He was a well-known attorney, and the idea that Phillip had been tested, and even subtly slurred, while the Senator's wife was a.s.sumed without reproach seemed like an appalling injustice, and one that he wasn't going to stand for.

"What are you telling me? That because my son was seventeen, half a gla.s.s of wine, or roughly its equivalent, makes him presumed guilty of this accident? But a grown woman who may well have drunk a great deal more than he, and possibly been severely affected by it, is above the law because she's married to a politician?" Tom Chapman was shaking with grief and rage as he spoke to the young doctor who had just told him that Laura Hutchinson had not been checked for alcohol, only because the patrolmen on the scene "a.s.sumed" she was sober.

"Don't you dare imply that my son was drunk!" Tom Chapman roared at him, as his wife began to cry again beside him. Their anger was a buffer against the inconsolable grief they were feeling. "That's slander. The blood test showed that he was nowhere near legally drunk, not even close to it. I know my boy. He doesn't drink, or if he does, rarely, and very little, and certainly not if he's driving." But he wouldn't be doing anything anymore, and suddenly Tom Chapman's anger began to fade as he began to realize what had happened. He wanted to blame someone, to hurt someone as much as he was hurting. He wanted it to be the other driver's fault, not his son's ...but much more than that, he wanted it never to have happened. Why had they gone to Carmel? Why had they left him alone, and trusted him? He was only a boy after all ... a child ...and now look what had happened. His eyes welled up with tears again, and he turned to his wife with a look of desperation. For a moment, the brief burst of rage had helped a.s.suage the pain, but now it hit him again full force, and when he took his wife in his arms in the emergency room, they were both crying, and the issue of blame no longer seemed important.

A photographer took their picture as they sat in a corner of the emergency room. They looked confused at the flash of light. So much had already happened to them, it was just one more incomprehensible moment. And when they realized that the press had photographed them, they were understandably outraged by the intrusion. In the midst of their grief, they were being subjected to indignity as well, and Tom Chapman looked as though he were going to physically a.s.sault the man who had taken their picture, but of course he didn't. He was in great distress, but he was a reasonable person. But it was then that they understood that their agony was going to become a news event because of who the other driver had been. It was news, something hot, something to tantalize people with. Was it the Senator's wife's fault, or was she a very lucky innocent victim? Was it the Chapman boy's fault? Was he drunk? Irresponsible? Merely young? Or was there some malfeasance on the part of Laura Hutchinson? Were any or all of them into drugs? The fact that a seventeen-year-old boy had died, his parents' lives had been shattered, another child had been crippled, and a third nearly killed was merely more fodder for the press, or better yet for the tabloids.

The Chapmans looked devastated as they left the hospital, but the most devastating of all had been seeing Phillip. Mary Chapman knew she would never forget the horror of that moment, of seeing him broken and pale, so deathly still as they stared at him and cried, and bent to kiss him. Tom sobbed openly, and Mary bent over him and gently touched his face with her hands, and then kissed him. All she could think of was the first moment she had seen him, seventeen years before, when she had held him in her arms, and been overwhelmed by the sheer joy of being his mother. She knew she would always be, time could never take that from her, but death had taken Phillip from her. She would never see him laugh again, or run across the lawn, slam the front door, or tell her a joke. He would never surprise her again, with one of his harmless pranks, or his sweet surprises. He would never bring her flowers. She would never see him grow old. She would see him forever as he was now, heartbreakingly still, his soul gone on to another place. For all their love for him, and his for them, in one swift unexpected moment, Phillip had left them.

It made the next photographer's attack on them as they left even more repulsive. But seeing what was happening, Tom Chapman vowed to see that Phillip wasn't blamed for this disaster. If need be, he would clear his son's name. He didn't want Phillip's memory sullied by innuendo, or used to protect the Senator's wife, or the Senator's seat in the next election. Tom Chapman felt certain that his son was not to blame, and he was not going to allow anyone to say anything different. He said as much to his wife, as they drove away, but she seemed not to hear him. All she could think of was Phillip's face when she had kissed him.

The night seemed interminable to all of them, as Page sat with Trygve. Both girls were still in surgery then, and Trygve and Page were beginning to feel as though they had been there forever.

"I keep thinking about the options," Page said quietly as the sun came up over Marin, and she tried to view it as a hopeful sign. It was another gorgeous spring day, but she no longer felt excited by the warm weather. In her heart, winter had come, with ice and snow, and all its desolation.

"I keep thinking about what Dr. Hammerman said ...she might end up brain damaged, or severely affected in some way, physically or mentally. How would we ever begin to deal with that? How do you live with something like that?" she said absentmindedly, talking almost as much to herself as to him, and suddenly she remembered Bjorn, and felt awful. "I'm sorry, Trygve ... I wasn't thinking."

"It's all right. I understand what you must be going through. Or at least I can guess at it ... I feel a little bit that way about Chloe's legs, and I remember what it was like when they told us Bjorn had Down syndrome." He was being honest with her, they were both trying to understand what adjustments might lie ahead.

She looked over at him. His hair was as rumpled as hers, and he had worn jeans and an old plaid s.h.i.+rt, bare feet and an ancient pair of sneakers. She looked down at her gardening sweater then, and remembered that she hadn't bothered to comb her hair. She didn't really care, and it made her smile to realize what they looked like. "We're a sight, the two of us." She grinned. "Actually, you look better than I do. I ran out of the house so fast, I'm surprised I remembered to get dressed at all."

Trygve grinned at her for the first time all night, looking very boyish and very Nordic with his big blue eyes and blond lashes. "These are Nick's jeans, and Bjorn's s.h.i.+rt. G.o.d only knows whose shoes. I don't think they're mine. I found them in the garage. I was about to drive here barefoot."

She nodded, knowing only too well what he had felt when he heard the news. She couldn't bear to think of it, and she still had to tell Brad, yet another nightmare to survive. If only she could tell him that Allyson was still alive, and there was some hope. But it was unlikely they would know by the time she reached him.

"I was just thinking about Bjorn," Trygve said softly, as he leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful look. "It was awful when they first told us. Dana hated everyone and everything, mostly me, because she didn't know who else to hate. And Bjorn, too, at first. She just couldn't accept that we hadn't had a perfect baby. She talked about him being a vegetable, and painted a grisly picture of what the future would be like. She wanted to put him in an inst.i.tution."

"Why didn't you?" She was intrigued, and felt she could ask him anything. She knew Brad would have balked at accepting a child who wasn't normal.

"I don't believe in that. Maybe it's the Norwegian upbringing, or just me. I don't think you walk away from things because they're difficult. I never have anyway," he smiled ruefully again, thinking of his twenty years in a bad marriage, "though I probably should have in some cases. But that's part of life to me, old people, kids, people with infirmities, people with limitations. This is not a perfect world, and it's not fair to expect that. I don't know, I just thought we ought to make the best of it. Dana said she wanted no part of it, so it became my mission to help Bjorn. And actually, we were very lucky. He isn't as severe as some. He's limited, but he has a lot of capabilities too. He's very gifted with carpentry, he's artistic in a childlike way, he loves people, he's incredibly affectionate, he's very loyal, he's a great cook, he's got a good sense of humor, he's responsible, to a point, and he's even learning to drive a car now. But he'll never be like Nick, or you, or me. He'll never go to college, or run a bank, or be a doctor. He's Bjorn, and he's good at what he can do ... he loves sports, and kids, and people. And maybe he'll have a good life in spite of his limitations. I certainly hope so."

"You've given him a lot," Page said softly. "He's a lucky man." He wanted to tell her he thought Brad was too. From what he'd seen that night, he thought she was a remarkable woman. She had taken a blow that would have shattered most people on the spot, and she was weathering it, and helping him, and still managing to think about everyone else, her husband, her son, even the Chapmans.

"He deserves it, Page. Bjorn is a great guy. I can't even bear to think of what his life might have been like in an inst.i.tution. Maybe he'd never have grown to this point, or maybe he would have. I don't know. He buys our groceries, you know, and he's very proud of it. Sometimes, I can rely on him more than I can on Chloe." They both smiled at that, teenage girls definitely had their own sets of limitations.

"Doesn't it make you angry sometimes, wis.h.i.+ng he would have been more?"

"He never could have, Page. This was the very best he could be. Maybe it's easier that way. All I am is proud." They both knew it would be different if Allyson were seriously brain damaged, after all she had been.

"I just keep asking myself how you adjust to it. Maybe you have to throw away all the old measuring sticks, and start all over again, grateful for every step, every word, every tiny bit of growth and accomplishment ...but how do you forget? How do you forget what she was, and learn to accept so little?"

"I don't know," he said sadly, unable to even fathom it. "Maybe you just have to be grateful she's alive, and take it from there," he said, as she nodded her head, realizing how lucky she'd be if Allyson lived through it.

"I guess I'm not even there yet."

It was almost eight in the morning by then, and Page decided to call one of Brad's a.s.sociates, to see if she could locate him in Cleveland.

With apologies, she woke Dan Ballantine and his wife, and explained briefly to Dan what had happened. She said that Brad was planning to play golf with the president of the company in Cleveland that day and if Dan had no clues as to what hotel he'd used, maybe he could call the president and leave a message with him for Brad to call her. It was a roundabout way to get hold of Brad, but it was the best she could think of. And Dan promised to get on it right away, and leave the number at Marin General for Brad without saying too much to frighten him. Dan told her too how sorry he was about the accident, and hoped Allie'd be okay.

"Me too," Page said, thanking him again for his help. And it was less than an hour later when Dan called her in the emergency room. He had called the president of the company they were dealing with in Cleveland, and he did have an appointment with Brad the next day. But according to him, they had never made plans to play golf, or meet on Sunday morning.

"That's odd. Brad said ...never mind, I probably misunderstood. I'll just have to wait till he calls," she said tiredly. She was too exhausted to worry about why he had said he was playing golf with the man when he wasn't. She figured it had probably gotten canceled, and Dan had misunderstood. At least they had tried, so he'd hear eventually. And maybe by then the news would be a little better.

"They couldn't locate him," she said to Trygve as she came back and sat down next to him in an uncomfortable chair. His beard had grown overnight, though it was pale, and he looked as tired and worn-out as she did. "He'll call eventually, and Jane will tell him to call here. Poor guy. It makes me sick to think of telling him."

"I know. I called Dana in London while you were on the phone. She just got back from a weekend in Venice. She was horrified, and blamed me, as usual. It was all my fault, why did I let her out of the house, why didn't I know who she was going with, what was wrong with me not to suspect she was up to no good. Maybe she's right. I was awfully dumb, but once in a while you have to trust them, or they drive you nuts. You can't play cop constantly, and to tell you the truth, most of the time she's pretty good. Just now and then, she does something foolish."

"Allie's like that too. It's pretty rare for her to go off the deep end. I guess they were just trying their wings. Normal stuff, I guess ...except for some very rotten luck in this instance."

"Yeah, really ...anyway, Dana says it's all my fault."

"Do you believe that?" Page asked quietly.

"Not really. But a part of you always wonders. She could be right, you know. Though I don't like to think so."

"She's not right, and you know it. This isn't your fault. It's a miserable twist of fate, but it's no one's fault, except maybe the other driver's." They both wanted to feel it was Laura Hutchin-son's fault, and not Phillip Chapman's. At least if the accident had been a terrible stroke of fate, and not Phillip's fault, it might be easier to bear. Or maybe it wouldn't make any difference.

And before they could discuss it anymore, the orthopedic surgeon came to tell him that Chloe's operation had gone well. She had lost a lot of blood, and she would be uncomfortable for quite a while, but they felt optimistic that she would regain the use of her legs. The pelvis was in place, the hip had been replaced, and she had steel rods and pins in both legs which would be removed in a year or two. There would be no more ballet, but with any luck at all, there would be walking and even dancing ...and maybe even one day, children. A lot would depend on how the next few weeks went, but the surgeon was very pleased with his repairs and how Chloe had come through it. Trygve cried as he listened.

She was still in the recovery room, and the doctor wanted her to stay there until at least noon. And then they would move her into intensive care for a week or so, and eventually to her own room. He said he might like to give her a couple of transfusions later in the day, and asked if he or either of his sons were the same blood type. And he was pleased to hear they all were.

"Why don't you go home and rest for a few hours. She's all right now. And then you can come back this afternoon, when we move her to ICU. It's going to be a long haul, you know. She's going to be in the hospital for at least a month, or more. There's no point wearing yourself out in the first few innings." Trygve smiled at the image, and a quick nap held a lot of appeal, but he hated to leave Page, with Allyson still in surgery, and no one to keep her company. In the end, he decided to stay, and stretched out on a couch in the waiting room. She would have done the same for him, and he felt an obligation to stay with her.

Noon came and went, and at two o'clock, they finally moved Chloe to the ICU. She was still all doped up, but she recognized him, and she seemed to be out of pain, which was remarkable given all they'd done to her, and the mountain of apparatus that seemed to be attached to her body. But he was relieved that the doctors were both pleased and hopeful.

"How is she?" Page asked when he returned. She had just called Jane and talked to Andy. He was worried about her being gone, and even more so about his sister. But Page was still trying to underplay it. It was too soon to explain the situation to him, and she hadn't even told Brad yet. He still hadn't called, but Jane was waiting to hear from him so she could give him the message.

"She's pretty stoned," Trygve explained with a smile. "But she looks okay, if you don't look at all the stuff hanging off her. She's got all sorts of tubes and rods hanging out of her hip, more rods and pins in her legs. She'll get casts eventually but not yet. She's a mess, but I guess we've got to be grateful."

"I've always wondered about that," Page said, looking and sounding exhausted. "In situations like this, people are always telling you to be grateful. This time yesterday, Allie was a perfectly normal, healthy fifteen-year-old girl, nagging me about borrowing my pink sweater. Today, she's in brain surgery, fighting for her life, and I'm supposed to be grateful she's not dead. I am ...but compared to yesterday, this is the s.h.i.+ts. You know what I mean?" He laughed, it was perverse, but he understood it. People used to tell him that about Bjorn, too, that he should be grateful he wasn't more r.e.t.a.r.ded. Why did he have to be r.e.t.a.r.ded at all? What was there to be grateful for? A lot maybe. Things could have been worse, it turned out, with very little effort.

He finally went home at three that afternoon, just to shower and change, and see his boys. He was going to bring them by to see Chloe in the late afternoon. Nick had said that Bjorn was very worried about her, and very agitated, and Trygve thought it might be better for him if he could see her. He worried a lot about people dying, which was typical of young children, and in his case, the fact that he was eighteen didn't change that.

Trygve told Page to call him if she needed anything, and she continued her vigil alone, and thought about calling her mother. But she just couldn't face it. And she still hadn't told Brad. It didn't seem fair to tell her first. She sat there for an hour, willing Brad to call her.

She hadn't heard anything about Allyson since four o'clock, when they had come to tell her that she was weathering the surgery well, and her condition was as stable as could be expected. She was going to need several more transfusions, too, and Page was relieved to know that she was the same blood type. She went ahead and let them take a pint of blood from her, and it was right after that that Brad finally called. He called the number at the desk at the E.R., and they let Page take it in a separate office.

"My G.o.d, Page, where are you?" Jane had only told him to call her at the number she gave him. "It sounded like they said Marin General."

"They did." She fought back her fatigue, looking for the right words to tell him, and not finding them for a moment. "Brad ...baby ..." She started to cry and could go no further.

"Are you all right? Did something happen to you?" For a crazy instant he wondered if she had been pregnant and hadn't told him, or had fallen off a ladder again. What else could it be? He couldn't even begin to imagine.

"Sweetheart ...Allie had an accident." She paused for breath and he immediately questioned her.

"Is she all right?"

Page shook her head as the tears coursed down her cheeks. "No ...she isn't ...she was in a car accident last night. I'm so sorry to tell you this. I tried everything I could to reach you, but you'd canceled your golf game."

"I ...oh ...yeah. He was busy or something. Who'd you call?"

"Dan Ballantine. He called the guy in Cleveland, and left a message for you. You didn't leave me the name of your hotel, or the number."

"I forgot." He sounded annoyed and curt, which surprised her, as though he was irritated with her for having Dan call Cleveland. "So how is she? And what do you mean, a car accident? Who was driving her? Trygve Th.o.r.ensen?"

"No, he wasn't. That's what she told us, but she was out with a bunch of kids. They got in a head-on collision, and ..." It made her sick to tell him, but she knew she had to. "She has a head injury, Brad, a very serious one. She's critical, and she's in surgery now."

"You let them operate? Without asking me? For chrissake, how could you do that?"

"Brad, I had to. The surgeon told me she'd be dead by six o'clock this morning if I didn't."

"Bulls.h.i.+t. You had a right to a second opinion. You owed that to me, and to Allie." He wasn't sounding rational, but Page knew it was his way of coping. The shock of the news was just too great to withstand in a single moment.

"There was no time, Brad. No time for anything." Except prayers. And miracles. It was all in in G.o.d's hands now, and the surgeons'. G.o.d's hands now, and the surgeons'.

"How is she now?"

"She's still in surgery. It's been over twelve hours."

"Oh my G.o.d." There was a long silence at his end, and Page suspected he was crying. "How did did it happen? Who was driving?" What did it matter? it happen? Who was driving?" What did it matter?

"A boy named Phillip Chapman."

"The little sonofab.i.t.c.h. Was he drunk? I'll sue the s.h.i.+t out of them for this ..." His voice was shaking as he said it, and Page shook her head.

"He's dead, Brad ...there were four of them in the car. One had a minor concussion. Chloe is very badly injured too, but she's going to be all right ...and Allie ...she may not make it, Brad ... or if she does ...you have to come home, sweetheart ... we need you."

"I'll be there in an hour." That was impossible, they both knew, but he could be there in six, if he got a plane immediately. She was sure he'd be able to pull strings and get a seat on the first plane out, for special circ.u.mstances, and she was glad he had finally called. She needed him desperately. Trygve had been a G.o.dsend, but Brad was her husband.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Brad said worriedly.