Ring. Ring. Ring.
I roll my eyes. “It’s probably Pike, calling for the hundredth time.” I lift the phone to look at the caller ID. But I don’t see Pike’s name on the screen. Instead, it’s a local Chicago number.
“Who is it?” Stella asks.
“I don’t know,” I say. I press the button to answer the call. “Hello?”
“Mrs. Greyson?”
The name eats away at my soul. Not wanting to get into a barrage of reasons as to why she shouldn’t call me that, since she’s a stranger, I just go with it. “Yes?”
“This is Officer Butan with the Chicago Police Department.”
My stomach drops.
A wave of nausea stirs within me as I clutch the phone more tightly to my ear.
“Uh, hi. Can I help you?”
“Your husband, Pike, has been in a serious motorcycle accident and has been taken to Kindred Hospital.”
“What?” I ask, sitting taller. Greer, Stella, and Keiko all go on high alert. “Is he okay?”
“We have no other information other than he’s at Kindred and he’s in the ICU at the moment. Do you have someone who could drive you to the hospital?”
“Yes. But . . . what happened?”
“We aren’t quite be sure yet. It seems his motorcycle slipped on some black ice, and he slid into oncoming traffic. I’m very sorry. I wish I had more information. The best thing you can do is have someone drive you to the hospital so you can be with your husband.”
“Okay,” I say, the hand holding the phone starting to shake. “Thank you.”
When she hangs up, I drop the phone to my lap and bury my face in my hands. I let out a wail of a cry.
“What’s going on?” Greer asks, her hand to my back.
“Pike . . . he’s been in a motorcycle accident.” I look up at Keiko, whose complexion turns white. “He’s in the ICU.”
“Mrs. Greyson?” A man in a white coat and a stethoscope around his neck comes out of the swinging doors.
I wipe at my eyes and stand from the chair I’ve been sitting in for the past three hours.
“Yes?”
“Would you come with me, please?”
“Of course.” Greer and Stella both squeeze my hand, while Keiko rocks back and forth in her seat, arms wrapped around herself in a tight hug. Since I hung up the phone at my apartment, she hasn’t said a word. Instead, she’s gone pale and, without a word, has followed at my heels. For some reason, I assumed she’d be spouting off medical terms and conducting research in the waiting room about the probability of surviving a motorcycle crash.
But, nothing.
And that’s making me feel more uneasy than I already felt.
The doctor leads me to a private corridor and rests his clipboard at his hip as he says, “Mr. Greyson is currently stable. He’s lost a lot of blood, so we’re monitoring his blood pressure and cardiac output closely.
“We’ve done a full-body CT scan to check for any possible internal injuries, including whether he has any type of brain hemorrhage or skull fractures. His helmet must have come off at some point, as he has a concussion and a superficial laceration, which we’ve sutured. He has a closed fracture of his left radius, extending to the wrist, with an open wound, and a fractured right tibia with some grazing on both hips.”
The bile that was threatening to rise returns, and I find myself taking deep breaths so I don’t lose the contents in my stomach.
“We’ve done a closed reduction to align the fractured bones. He’s doing remarkably well, considering, but it’ll be a very long recovery.”
I nod, unsure of what to say. “Is he—is it okay to see him?”
He nods. “But I must warn you, even though his helmet saved his life, he’s sustained abrasions—road rash—to his face.”
What the hell happened? And how fast was he going?
The doctor directs me to Pike’s room, and as he opens the door for me, he says, “I’m sure this will be the last time he rides a bike in the winter. If you need anything, please let us know.”
I thank him and then secure my holey, grey cardigan closer around my torso. I tiptoe into the quiet room, a faint beeping the only sound filling the silence.
As his bed comes into view, I hold my breath. I slowly take in the sight of him. His legs are covered by a blanket, and his left arm is wrapped in bandages and secured in place with a sling. The hospital gown makes his usual barrel of a chest seem small, and when my eyes land on his sleeping face, tears immediately fall down my cheeks and onto my forearms.