“Have fun,” I said.
Other colleagues came by on their way out to dinner or to gatherings further down the island and several invited me to join them, but I had other plans.
I stopped by an ATM to replenish the cash in my wallet and twenty minutes later I was in the ICU waiting room at the New Hanover Medical Center. I was not the first judge to come by that evening, but none of them had been able to persuade Martha Fitzhume to break her vigil. She had been there since sunrise, almost as if it were her personal willpower that was keeping Fitz alive. I was encouraged to hear that his condition had been upgraded from
Martha herself was moving a little stiffly after the tumble she had taken. One of the nurses had given her an antiseptic ointment for the scrape on her face and it was starting to fade a bit, but there were dark circles under her eyes.
She told me that Gary Edwards had been by earlier and had told her of Kyle Armstrong’s death.
“Maybe I’ll be able to pray for him later,” Martha said. “Right now I’m still so angry for what he did to Fitz that there’s not an ounce of pity in my heart.”
“Come on, Martha,” I said. “You need to get out of here for an hour and breathe a little fresh air. The rain’s stopped and it’s a beautiful evening. Come have supper with me. We’ll go eat a crab in Fitz’s honor.”
That got a smile and her son chimed in.
“Yeah, Mom. Go. You could use a break and I’ll be right here till you get back.”
“I don’t know, Chad. What if he—?” She stood up as if to come, then sat back down a moment later. “I don’t think I should. I’m not very hungry.”
Chad shook his head. “C’mon, Mom. It’s not going to help Dad for you to keep skipping meals.”
I was surprised and saddened to see her this indecisive. It was so unlike Martha to dither. She stood again. “You’ll call me if there’s any change?”
“I’ll call,” he said patiently.
“All right then. Let me just take one more look at him,” she said. “Do you want to see him, Deborah?”
It was as bad as I’d imagined. Poor Fitz had a huge bruise on the side of his pale face and there seemed to be a dozen different tubes and wires attached to his body—drainage tubes from his surgery, an IV drip to keep him hydrated, catheter, heart monitor, and God knows what else.
“His color’s so much better tonight,” Martha said to the nurse. “Don’t you think?”
“I do,” the nurse said kindly.
Martha walked over to him, took his hand, and in a normal tone of voice said, “Deborah’s here to see you, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes and say hey to her?”
To my total amazement, not to mention Martha’s, Fitz’s eyelids fluttered and actually opened. He tried to speak but his words were unintelligible. He squeezed Martha’s hand and tried again.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Martha crooned with tears in her eyes. “You’re in the hospital. You got hit by a car but you’re going to be all right.”
The nurse who was monitoring him came over to the other side and fiddled with the dials on the equipment. “How you doing, Judge Fitzhume?”
More slurred syllables, then his eyes closed again and his grip loosened.
“His blood pressure and pulse rate are looking better,” the nurse said. “And his heartbeat’s almost back to normal.”
Martha was more reluctant than ever to leave, but the nurse finally convinced her that Fitz needed to rest undisturbed after his first exertion. “For all we know about comas, he could be wide awake tomorrow morning or it may take him another few weeks, but I think the doctor will say this is encouraging.”
It was a little after seven before we got to a nearby seafood restaurant recommended by the nurse.
When we were seated and a waiter came over to bring us our menus, Martha didn’t look up while he told us that his name was Michael and that he’d be our waiter and if there was anything special we needed—
“I’ll have a vodka collins,” she interrupted coldly. “What about you, Deborah?”
“A glass of Riesling, please.”
When he had gone away to get our drinks, Martha said, “Between Kyle the actor and Jenna the slut, I’m through making nice to waiters. From now on, I don’t give a damn where they go to school or what they want to do when they finish growing up. If you hear me ask this Michael one single thing other than if the soft-shelled crabs are fresh or frozen, please kick me.”
I laughed. The old Martha was back.
* * *
We were assured that the crabs were indeed fresh and we both ordered them. When they came, Martha dug into hers with relish.
“I guess I was hungrier than I realized,” she said sheepishly.
Fitz’s attempt to speak had her almost giddy with relief.
“I don’t mind telling you, Deborah. I’ve been really, really scared.”
“Of course you were. Who wouldn’t be?”
“I know that Fitz and I are down to the short rows—no, don’t look at me like that. Death is a fact of life, sugar. I’m not being morbid and I don’t need you or anybody else to pat my hand and tell me that these are the best
