Crimson Footprints Part 38

Deena's eyes filled with tears.

"Well, we don't live in a perfect world! So you need to decide whether you'd be married to me in this one."

He jumped into his silver Ferrari, staving off her plea with a slam of the door. Tak started the car, backed out of his s.p.a.ce and whipped a furious turn into the street. In their anger, both were oblivious to the wild SUV barreling towards him until too late. With the screeching of tires and the folding of metal, Deena screamed, as the convertible, and the man she loved within it, were crushed.

Ruby red lights pulsed as frantic sirens signaled the severity of Tak's condition. Within the tight confines of the racing ambulance, Deena bit back the threat of hysteria as she took in his lifeless body, blood-soaked clothes and swollen blue lips.

A burly paramedic strapped a pressure cuff about Tak's arm. He paused, then frowned at the gauge.

"I've got BP at 100 and dropping!"

Deena looked in desperation from the thin red head with the messy ponytail to the thick man with the wire frames and wondered which, if either, could save Tak's life.

"90...80...75!"

The red head clamped an oxygen mask over his face and paused.

"s.h.i.+t," she said. "This guy's going into cardiac arrest!"

Deena could see nothing but Tak's dying body and the pale hands as they worked to revive it. An anguished sob tore from her lips.

They arrived at Ryder Trauma Center under a hail of red lights. Men and women in white jackets and scrubs dashed to meet them. A flurry of hands a.s.sisted in the transfer, as Tak was hoisted from ambulance to hospital. Deena rushed after them blindly, padding through the smatterings of blood leaking from Tak, trailing crimson footprints in her wake.

The trauma team burst through the doors of the resuscitation room and swarmed on Tak in a blaze of needles, tubes, sponges, knives, scissors and white jackets. Nurses worked to cut away his clothes as Deena watched in horror-the fitted tee from Old Navy, a gift from her, faded Levis with a perfect fit, and white boxer briefs, Calvin Klein-the only kind he'd wear. Two IVs went into his arms as a tiny blonde slipped a needle into the back of his hand and retrieved multiple vials of blood. A pressure cuff was strapped to him and tape patched to his chest.

The EKG screeched to life, indicating that Tak had flat lined.

"Call a code!" screamed a white jacket.

The hospital's paging system blared to life.

"Code Blue, shock-trauma unit. Code Blue, shock trauma unit."

"No," Deena whispered. "No."

"Code Blue, shock-trauma unit. Code Blue, shock-trauma unit."

They slipped chest tube was slipped into Tak. Crimson flooded from his torso, rus.h.i.+ng to fill a plastic hose.

"G.o.d, please."

He couldn't do this to her, wouldn't do this to her.

"Code Blue, shock-trauma unit. Code Blue, shock-trauma unit."

Her father, her brother and now, the man she loved. The Grim Reaper followed her, haunting her with the promise of everlasting sorrow.

Hot tears streaked Deena's cheeks. She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer wrought with grief and desperation. Never would she take him for granted again. Never, if given another chance.

"Though He causes grief, Yet He will show compa.s.sion According to the mult.i.tude of His mercies"

Grandpa Eddie would whisper that verse from Lamentations as he sat on the edge of his bed clutching a yellowed portrait of his son, her father, Dean Hammond- dead at 28. And as she stood there facing the frantic siren of the EKG monitor, she whispered the verse over and over, the words pouring from her lips in a mangled mesh of despair. Tears filled her eyes as an endless stream of blood pumped from Tak's body into a container on the floor.

A white jacket turned to Deena as if seeing her for the first time.

"You need to go, ma'am. There's a social worker in the hall that needs information from you. And she'll want to contact his family."

Deena thought about the life she could've had. Her life if she'd tried to stop her mother from killing her father, if she'd stayed with Anthony instead of going home the night he was murdered, and if she'd only agreed to let Tak meet her family. Her stubbornness and their argument had sent him barreling into the street. Her words had sent him to his death.

Deena paced, as if to tread a groove in the floor. Her brain went numb, her mouth dry, her eyes a flood of endless tears. In her mind, tires screeched, bones crunched, and there was yelling-so much yelling. Was it her? Was it him? G.o.d, was he really pinned by all that metal? Her stomach lurched.

They'd lived as though they had forever. And there was no excuse. Fate had given her ample warning that time and love were precious. She'd always taken him for granted, up until the last moment. She strung him along, coddling him, humoring him, ignoring his desire to have more than a cloak-and-dagger affair. In doing so, she a.s.sumed that his friends.h.i.+p, his companions.h.i.+p, his love, were all unconditional, irreversible, and timeless. A life without Tak was what she deserved-deserved for never having the guts to love without condition or to purge the demons that haunted her. And so she stood, with an hourgla.s.s in hand, and the sand all emptied out. Their time together was done.

Daichi burst into the hospital like a torpedo. His jacket unfastened, his hair tousled, his face a deep crimson.

"You!" he shouted. "What's going on with my son?"

He grabbed the arm of an orderly near the entrance, who instantly appeared terrified. "Tak.u.mi Tanaka! I demand to know his status!"

Three steps behind him a woman entered with her head lowered. Mounds of freshly styled curls cascaded about her shoulders as alabaster skin sheathed a long, graceful body. It was Hatsumi.

"Deena!"

Daichi spotted her and shoved aside the orderly, who stumbled. He closed the s.p.a.ce to Deena and pummeled her with questions.

"Give me a status report. What's going on? Where is he? What's his condition?"

Deena shook her head, slowly. "I-I don't know."

"What? Well, is he conscious? Dead?"

"I don't know!"

Daichi stared at her, his breathing shallow; his stomach nauseated. His thoughts were muddled, incoherent, as he struggled to concentrate. He was losing control. A white-hot panic brimmed beneath the surface, threatening to overwhelm him. Sweat beaded his temples as Daichi clenched his fists, piercing the palms until they bled. The pain was a distraction, and with it, he was able to refocus. He needed information. With information, he could make decisions, give orders, right this wrong. With information, Tak.u.mi would be all right.

Daichi turned his wrath to the women at the reception desk.

"Tak.u.mi Tanaka. Right now," he slammed a fist on the desk. "Tell me what's happening."

The gray haired woman fumbled with a folder. She was slight and mousy, cowering under the fury of Daichi Tanaka.

"Right G.o.dd.a.m.ned now!" Daichi screamed. "Tak.u.mi Tanaka!"

The woman behind the counter disappeared in search of information. With his head bowed and palms flat on the counter, Daichi took a deep breath, allowing only the slightest tremble to escape. His tears were sudden and silent, and brushed away in impatience. Eyes closed, he spoke to his long-dead father.

"Otosan, please," he trembled involuntarily. "I've done so many things wrong. I've been prideful, arrogant, and abusive. I've taken my son for granted. Please help me." He broke off. Swallowed. "I'm begging you."

Daichi inhaled deeply before lifting his head. He smoothed out his suit. No further grief, no more indulgences. He turned to Deena who sat gasping and trembling, sobbing into her hands. He watched and he marveled. Daichi had seen this expression only once before, such stark bleakness, such wretchedness-on the face of his mother when his father had died.

Daichi extended a hand to Deena and gestured for her to come forward. She looked at him with distrustful bloodshot eyes. She searched his face for some sign of his intentions. The embrace was a surprise.

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE.

When Yos.h.i.+ joined Daichi in the waiting room, he took a seat next to his brother and stared at the floor. A one a.m. flight out of Denver, just four hours after he'd received word of Tak's condition, placed him in Miami at just after nine a.m.. It took a single bag of luggage, a six-hour flight, and a rental car going ninety miles an hour, to get him there at eleven. But even in his haste, he'd not beaten his son John, whose flight from LaGuardia brought him in just before midnight, the night of the accident.

Yos.h.i.+ searched for words. His heart wanted to say one thing, his mind another. Grief crippled his thoughts. They were fractured, incomplete, like a heartfelt letter with pages missing. This was his nephew, teetering on the edge of death. The boy he'd taught to play drums and the guitar against his brother's wishes. The boy he'd spent summers wrestling with and took to Disneyland when his brother hadn't the time. He loved him as if he were Michael or John, loved him more in some ways. He was equal parts Yos.h.i.+ and Daichi, the better of the two without any of the worst. He couldn't lose him. He simply couldn't.

"When you prayed," Yos.h.i.+ said as tears began to blind him. "When you prayed to otosan-did he answer?"

Daichi fell silent for a long time.

"No," he said simply.

Yos.h.i.+ sniffed. "He didn't answer me either."

He paused momentarily. "When we were kids," Yos.h.i.+ began. "I used to think you were invincible. I used to think you could do anything, be anything and have anything. Till yesterday, I think some part of me still thought that."

Yos.h.i.+ brushed away tears, half laughing at a fifty-year-old man who still believed his older brother omnipotent. "I'd give anything to still believe that right now."

Daichi stared at the floor, his eyes shadowed with worry.

"I hope you can forgive me one day, Yos.h.i.+. I've been a terrible brother. Always have been."

Yos.h.i.+ shrugged. "That's not exactly true. A little rough sometimes, but not terrible." He nudged Daichi. "You taught me a lot of things. How to tie my shoes, how to ride a bike and eat a taco at the same time, and how to get a girl to let me kiss them on the first date." Yos.h.i.+ grinned. "All very important."

Daichi shook his head. "I don't know how to forgive, Yos.h.i.+. I've been unable to forgive you for doing as you pleased with your life. And I've been unable to forgive my wife for having an affair."

"She had an affair? When?"

"Eighteen years ago."

"Oh."

"But even that seems to be my fault. You of all people know how intolerable I can be."

"Yeah," Yos.h.i.+ said slowly. "For fifty years I've been trying to get through the door of Daichi's approval. And in that time I've figured out that not only is it narrow, but sometimes it doesn't exist at all."

Daichi rubbed his face as if to wipe away the self-loathing.

"I've made so many mistakes," he said pitifully. "Left so many things unspoken. Every cross and thoughtless word, every moment of neglect and forgetfulness, it plagues me and convicts me, Yos.h.i.+."

Daichi dashed tears away. "I need a second chance. Desperately."

Yos.h.i.+ sighed. "We all do, Daichi. We all do."

CHAPTER SIXTY.

A balding white physician with the face of a cherry pie stood before Deena and the Tanakas in the waiting room a full fifteen hours after the accident. He introduced himself as Dr. Frank Moore and offered a hand as ruddy as his face. He looked from Hatsumi, who continued to dab the corners of her eyes, to Daichi, red-faced and stiff, before turning to Deena, who held her breath altogether, hands clasped in antic.i.p.ation. He recognized her as the woman he'd thrown out of the resuscitation room hours ago.

"Mr. Tanaka," Dr. Moore began, "arrived with cardiac arrest after enduring blunt force trauma to the chest. This resulted in a ma.s.sive hemothorax, or in laymen's terms, blood in the chest cavity. After we performed resuscitation and an emergency thoracotomy, we located and stopped the bleeding. In addition, he suffered a break of the right fibula and tibia and several contusions and lacerations."

"So he's alive?" Daichi breathed.

Dr. Moore grinned. "And awake, no less."

Deena shrieked with delight and hugged first Kenji, then John. Hatsumi clasped a hand over her mouth and stifled a sob. Daichi stared at Dr. Moore distrustfully. It was his brother, Yos.h.i.+, who swept him in a bear hug, the first they'd shared since adolescence.

"My G.o.d. Can we see him?" Deena asked.

The doctor frowned, shaking his head. "He's in ICU. Right now what Mr. Tanaka needs is lots of rest. We'll monitor him tonight. We expect he'll be able to see you tomorrow."

The ICU allowed two visitors every two hours, for a total of fifteen minutes. Visiting hours began at 10 a.m. and ended promptly at 8:15 p.m., allowing each patient a maximum of 90 minutes company a day, should visitors leave and return each hour.

At 10 a.m., Daichi and Hatsumi rushed in, eager to see their son, and thereby relegating Deena to a spot in the waiting room. It was then that the influx of Tanakas arrived-Grandma Yukiko, in on the red-eye from Phoenix, Asami and Ken, who drove all night when they could find no flight from Atlanta, and Mike, who made three connections to get from Seattle to Miami in eight hours of travel time. That was in addition to Kenji, John, Allison, Yos.h.i.+ and June, all of which had arrived within hours of the accident. By the time visiting hours ended at 8:15, Deena found herself still sitting in the cramped quarters of the waiting room, but this time considering the possibility that Tak wouldn't see her.

She returned the following day only to watch it unfold as the one before. She arrived early, resumed her spot in the hard-backed chair near the lone water fountain, and watched as Daichi and Hatsumi lead the usual procession of Tanakas. Tak was angry with her. He had to be. He had to know she was there. Why wouldn't he ask for her?

"Deena?"

A nurse approached her, piercing her thoughts.

Deena followed the nurse down a brightly lit hall and into a s.p.a.cious private suite. Bright lights, stark white walls and polished linoleum illuminated the room. In one corner was a leather recliner, in the other, a matching couch. A small table with magazines sat at the arm of the sofa. A 27-inch flat screen was mounted on the wall. He was there, in the center of the room, as an IV and chest tube protruded from his body and a medical monitor recorded his vitals. His face and arms were covered in bruises, his leg in a cast, but he was alive.

She was eager to hear him, to feel him. But as Deena rushed to his side, he held up a single bruised hand stopped her. She drew back, confused.

Tak cleared his throat, attempted to s.h.i.+ft his body for comfort and thought better of it. The words he'd speak would be hoa.r.s.e and wreak havoc on his chest, but he'd say them nonetheless. They would be the first words he spoke to her, in this, his new life.

"I love you, Dee." He cleared his throat again and pushed on despite the pain. "I've never doubted that you were the woman for me." He paused.