“Thanks,” he muttered.
Then I sniffed, and said, “Ray doesn’t know it. I wasn’t sure until this morning. But we’re going to have a baby.” Damn it. I felt tears rolling down my face when I said it.
Dylan turned and looked at me. Then he whispered, “It’s gonna be okay, Carrie.”
He pulled me to him and put his arms around me. I grabbed onto his shirt like it was a lifeline and I was drowning, and I began to sob. “I don’t want to lose him, Dylan.”
He gasped and replied, “I don’t either,” and I could tell he was about to start crying too. We stayed like that for several minutes, until I felt like I had myself under control.
I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”
He pulled back, keeping his hands on my arms, and said, “Don’t be. If there’s anyone that’s ever been worth crying over, it’s Ray. All right?”
I bit my lip and nodded, and said, “We better get back.”
So, slowly, because his limp was still bad, we walked back up to the hospital entrance. It was 9:45, and the doctors would be there to see me in fifteen minutes. And I was terrified.
Let’s play army (Ray)
Did you know that when you’re a ghost, you can imagine a baseball and it will appear?
I didn’t either until I made it happen. Of course, it wasn’t a real baseball, which was a good thing, because my first throw hit the windshield of a car. Luckily, it went right through, and rolled down the street. Daniel ran after it, his little legs pumping as fast as they could. He’d taken to the idea of things not touching him a little too easily, and ran right in front of a moving truck to grab the ball. My heart screwed up in my chest for a second as the truck ran right through him and kept going, and then he came back with the ball, grinning, and threw it to me.
I caught the ball, and that’s when I saw Carrie and Dylan walking back toward the hospital. I stopped for a second, and Daniel said, “Hey, toss it back.”
“Give me just a second,” I said. I watched them as they walked. Dylan was smoking a cigarette, and Carrie’s eyes were red-rimmed from crying.
We watched as Dylan and Carrie entered the building.
“I’d do anything to be back with her,” I said.
Then I looked over at him, and he said, “Are you sure we’re not going to die?”
I sighed. “I don’t know for sure, Daniel. But we have to live like it matters. You know what I mean?”
He nodded. I don’t think he understood what I meant. I’m not even sure I knew what I meant.
He laughed, and I laughed, and then I said, “About your parents. Remember this. I heard what you said last night. About the seat belt. The thing is, we all make mistakes. Part of being a kid is making lots of them, and learning from them. You got knocked around worse than most, but it wasn’t your fault, okay? It’s not your fault your mom was crying. It’s just ... don’t do that to yourself, okay? You’re a good kid.”
He nodded, and I said, “This is getting way too serious. Let’s do something fun.”
“Okay. Let’s play army.”
I chuckled. “I get to be the sergeant,” I said.
He grinned.
Almost toxic (Carrie)
I didn’t have the strength to go into the meeting alone, and going with Ray’s parents would be just the same as going alone.
If we’d had more time together it might have been different. If Ray and I hadn’t rushed off and essentially eloped, it might have been different. If it hadn’t been for the court-martial, and the investigation at NIH, it might have been different.
But it wasn’t.
Michael was kind, but impersonal. And Kate seemed to hate me. So when the doctors came and said, “Mrs. Sherman? We’re ready,” I did something that surprised me. I leaned over to my mother and said, “Will you come with me?”
I have no idea why I did that. My mother isn’t the most comforting person in the world. In fact, much of my life she’s been ... almost toxic.
But there are times when you need to have a mom around. And this was one of them.
She walked with me to the conference room. I had my arms wrapped across my stomach, and my mouth was dry, my throat clenched, my stomach in knots.
I recognized Doctor Peterson, who was part of the surgical team from yesterday. The other doctor was a woman, with hair just starting to go grey. “I’m Linda Grey,” she said. “Chief of Neurology. And this is Fred Jennings, with social work.”
I introduced Ray’s parents and my mother.
Grey twisted a little in her seat, then said, “I’m sorry to have to ask you this. Does your husband have an advance directive?”
I flinched, and automatically said, “I’m sorry, what?” even though I knew exactly what she meant.
“Mrs. Sherman ... Ray is dying. At this time he has very little brain function.”
Kate, to my left, said in a bitter tone, “How dare you? Are you suggesting we just give up? Well, that’s not going to happen.”
I sank my face into my hands. She wanted to know if Ray had an advance directive. Of course he didn’t. Ray was twenty-six years old, in the prime of his life. Why in God’s name would he have an advance directive? I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I felt my mother put her hand on my shoulder, and all it made me want to do was stand up like Kate and scream at the doctors until they fixed it.
I looked up and whispered, “Are you saying there’s no hope at all?”
Grey looked at me with an empathetic look that didn’t help at all. “I’m not saying that. Your husband is not ... we haven’t diagnosed brain death. We’ll be doing some further testing this afternoon, and then again in twenty-four hours. But ... as
