Seventy-Two Hours (18 page)

I was speechless. I stared at him while my
brain wrestled with what I needed to do first; give in to the urge to bludgeon
Chris or pay attention to the now smirking doctor.

Instead of answering her, she must have
confused my livid silence with embarrassment because she said to me, “You hit
it pretty hard, did you?”

“Yes,” I replied through clenched teeth.
“But I’m fine. Really. It’s not like you can cast it anyway if it is.”

She narrowed her eyes while maintaining the
smirk and said, “Why don’t you allow me to make the diagnosis since you’re here
and all?” She looked at my chart before reaching for my left foot. “I’m going
to remove your sock and take a look.”

I sat back using my hands to rest on the
narrow bed while she peeled the sock off and began her examination. She
performed similar actions to those of Chris’ from earlier. When she palpated
the ball of my foot, I tried to jerk my foot away out of reflex. What she was
doing hurt more than when Chris moved my middle toe from the very tip. Her
face quickly turned into a frown.

“I’m going to order x-rays, Mrs. Gardner,”
she informed me while searching one of those cascading wall-mounted file bins.
Selecting a form from the slot labeled, “Radiology.”

“Do you really think that’s necessary?” I
asked knowing from past experience (I was the mother of three active boys after
all) they didn’t cast fingers and toes.

“I do,” she said as she leveled her serious
gaze on me. “I agree with your husband. Based on my exam, it appears you have
a fracture in your third metatarsal. An x-ray will take away the guess work.
Judging by the general swelling and bruising, compounded with the sensitivity
from palpation, you’re probably experiencing some significant discomfort. I
can’t imagine why you wouldn’t want to have it checked out.”

“That’s my wife; always an eager participant
and willing to play through the pain instead of sitting the bench. Aren’t you,
honey bun?” Chris added.

Dr. Kingsley seemed amused by Chris’ comment,
but was interrupted by a harried nurse before she could respond. “Jill, we have
a firework accident victim en route.”

“Thanks, Meg. I’m on my way,” she told her
before telling me to sit tight and then excusing herself.

An hour later, I was leaving the hospital
with one of those aircast boots that would permit me to walk on it. I refused
Chris’ help. He was gloating. I wanted to knock the smile off of his smug face
once we were inside his SUV.

“Are you pouting because I was right?” he
asked playfully.

“You crossed a line.”

He turned onto Main Street heading towards
Route 14. “You were being so serious. I was just having some fun.”

“At my expense,” I snapped. “I didn’t even
know who you were back there. Since when did you turn into the man bragging
about a make believe sex life?”

“I wonder how Stevie Boy would have handled a
trip to the ER with you. At least it was your husband making the inappropriate
comments and not your boyfriend. That would’ve been really embarrassing.”

Instead of physically attacking him, I found
another way to successfully wound him. “I’m sure Steve would have been fine.
He seems to get acclimated to new situations with ease. It was strange being
with another man after being with you all of these years,” I disclosed while I
watched the scenery pass by my window. “I was worried the kind of intensity
we’d always experienced in the past couldn’t be duplicated, but I was wrong.”

“And
I
crossed a line?”

“You did that in front of a complete
stranger.”

“Lighten up. I was teasing. You’re just
being a bitch.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, thank you. I’m not one for sloppy
seconds.”

“That prospect didn’t seem to slow you down
yesterday afternoon.”

We fell into silence as we drove through
Watkins Glen. Apparently it was only a short break while I got my second wind
of nastiness built up. I had no self control. Especially with what came out
next.

“When I was with him three weeks ago, we
couldn’t even wait to get to a hotel,” I told him. “We drove off to one of the
dirt roads, found a slightly overgrown logging road, and parked. There wasn’t
enough time to get into the backseat or anything. Strategic clothing was moved
out of the way and he took me right there on the front seat.”

“
What the hell is wrong with
you?!” he
yelled sharply. “Why would you feel the need to tell me that?! That’s just so
fucked up!”

“Consider us even.”

“I don’t know what I said to you last night.
I wasn’t myself. What you’re doing now isn’t about getting even.”

“Really? What is it then?” I replied.

“It’s about striking out in the most callous
way possible just to hurt me and you know it!” he shouted and then pounded the
heel of his palm against the steering wheel. “And furthermore,” he grounded
out, “I think the only reason you slept with him was to hurt me. You wanted me
to find out so I could suffer silently until I finally confronted you. You
flaunted your screwing around in a very manipulative way. My stumbling across
what was going on was no accident. Discovering it was supposed to happen.
That was your way of punishing me. You wanted to make me jealous.”

“You stumbled across what?!?” I asked each
word dripping with sarcasm.

“The night you ‘accidentally’ left your
Facebook page up on your iPad. Left it on our bed while you ‘ran to the
store.’ Left it there for me to find. Left it where Carson or Clinton could
have found it instead,” he said with distaste.

“You had no business reading it. There’s no
way you simply found a message open. I wouldn’t have left it on the screen,” I
denied. “Besides, I wouldn’t need to worry about Clinton or Carson because
they at least know how to respect someone’s privacy. You, on the other hand,
must have huge mistrust issues due to your own past dalliances. They say a
guilty spouse always assumes the person they’re married to is cheating. Why
else would you pick up my iPad and scroll through messages that weren’t left up
in the first place?”

“
Dalliances
?!? Did you just fucking
say
dalliances
?!?” he rumbled. “It happened one goddamn time when I was
young, drunk, and stupid! I never slept with her!” he shouted as he looked at
me for a beat too long because oncoming traffic had to blast their horns to get
him out of their lane since he crossed the center line.

I should have dropped it. Arguing in a
moving vehicle wasn’t a smart idea. Not if we wanted to come out of our
commute alive. I should have, but I didn’t.

“Because everyone knows it’s all right to put
your very married dick in some slutty co-ed’s mouth. The same dick you used
the following weekend to impregnate your wife,” I retorted. “Herpes would have
been nice or even syphilis to contend with during pregnancy. But it was
just
a blow job
so it would have been all right!”

“Jesus Christ!!”

“Not that you’ll ever touch me again, but at
least I had the intelligence and decency to use condoms!”

“I guess that makes you a fucking saint while
you were whoring around!”

It was the back and forth of a tennis match.
And just when I thought it couldn’t turn uglier.

“You won’t have to worry about having a whore
for a wife much longer. When we get home, I’m packing my things even if it
takes me all night. You can have the goddamn house just as long as I don’t
have to see you ever again!”

“That’s fine! Don’t let the door hit you on
your cheating ass when you leave!” he yelled hotly. “One thing’s for certain,
the boys stay with me! Clinton doesn’t need to start 10
^th
grade
with the knowledge his mother’s screwing his history teacher!”

“The only way he’d find out is if you told
him! And you can’t make decisions like that! He’s old enough to make up his
own mind, you jackass! You’re delusional if you actually think he would prefer
living with you over living with me! He doesn’t even know you because you’re
never home!”

He was quiet. No return lob. That was when
I noticed he was decelerating for no apparent reason. I looked at him to see
his left hand at his chest and a pinched expression on his face. It took a
moment before realization struck.

“Chris?!? What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
I asked as I put a shaky hand on his arm.

“Can’t breathe,” he said on an uneasy exhale.

“Relax. Pull off the road and get the car
stopped,” I instructed as all the anger of moments ago became a distant memory.

“Take…take the wheel,” he gasped. “Dizzy.”

And I had to take the steering wheel from the
passenger seat. He left me with no other choice as he left go completely.

“Chris, you need to slow down faster!” I
yelled not wanting to startle him, but I needed to get my point across.

We were still going too fast when I began to
steer over to the shoulder. He hit the brakes hard and it jerked us in our
seats. He seemed to regain his wits and applied the brake slowly with just the
right amount of pressure on the pedal. The SVU finally came to a controlled stop.
I reached the center console and put it into park.

I got out of my seatbelt and turned toward
Chris who was perspiring heavily. So much so, he had soaked through his shirt
in spots. His hands were shaking and his breaths were coming in short, hard
gasps.

I met Chris’ panicked green eyes and he said,
“Think it’s…heart attack.”

I knew I needed to switch places with him so
I could drive back to the hospital. It would take too long waiting for the
ambulance to find us. And even then, it may be too late.

April 8, 1997 – Elmira, New York

I hated missing school when I wasn’t sick. I
always felt guilty when I made that 6:30am phone call to take the day off. But
I was glad I did. Clinton’s simple cold had turned into something more
sinister overnight. The cough he’d had for three days had tightened up and he
was struggling for each breath he took. I had spent the night beside his crib
too afraid to leave his side. Chris thought I was being silly. He told me it
was just a cold and he echoed the words of the pediatrician that examined
Clinton on Saturday, “It’s a viral and it has to go its course.” And, yes, by
the third child, I didn’t panic when the kids got sick anymore. But this was
different. It wasn’t a simple cold. That was confirmed shortly after the
on-call doctor placed his stethoscope on Clinton’s back. We were then sent to
the local medical center where I waited for someone from radiology to call
Clinton in for x-rays. And, while I waited, anger began to replace fear for
first place in my emotional repertoire.

Despite my protests that morning, Chris left
for the airport on a business trip. It wasn’t a simple business trip either.
He was going to one of their Asian factories. I couldn’t talk him out of it.
He actually patted me on my back like he was placating a child when I told him
how Clinton’s night was and how I feared it was no longer a simple cold.

A woman in scrubs with cats printed on them
collected us from the waiting area and led us to the x-ray room where another
woman in scrubs waited. The first woman had me strip Clinton down to his
Huggies diaper and then she held out her arms for him. Clinton was not at all
impressed with the cold temperature in the room and began a pathetic, boggy cry
that led to a dry coughing spell between the tears. The other woman began to
sympathetically explain to me what had to be done to get chest films. I
watched the other technician take my nine month-old son and basically put him
in a clear plastic cylinder that came in two pieces that fit together
long-ways. When the two pieces were joined, an oval-shaped opening was left cut
out for his face, and his arms were forced to stay straight up over his head.
The sight was horrific to say the very least.

Clinton’s face was bright red as his labored
crying kicked into high gear. The tech closest to me told me that it was the
best, safest way to get a chest x-ray. Squirming infants would force numerous
x-rays and that was unhealthy. Even while she explained its necessity and my
mind processed this information intelligently, it didn’t stop the tears from
streaking down my face while I helplessly watched my baby’s legs being inserted
into a ring and the tube holding him tight was locked into place so he was in
an upright position.

“Mommy, we’re going to go into this room over
here. It will only take a second to get our x-rays and then we can come out
and you can get your son. Okay?” the older of the two women asked.

I nodded accession even though my slow pace displayed
my reluctance to leave. It took only five minutes. Five minutes that felt
like a lifetime. When we went into the room, Clinton was still crying.
However, his cries were completely muted having lost his voice sometime while
we were behind the protective wall.

They couldn’t give him to me fast enough. I
knew the only way to probably calm him was to nurse him, but even that wouldn’t
be easy since he couldn’t breathe out of his nose. That morning, he’d choked
so hard on my milk, he’d spit up most of his breakfast.