Not catastrophic.It's like a buoy in the middle of the ocean as I drift. I grab onto those words and pull them close.
"Sir, are you alright?" Jenny asks, holding her hands out ready to catch me if I should suddenly collapse.
I just might.
"How long?" I rasp.
"I'm sorry?"
"How long will she be in surgery?"
"Oh, two to four hours, depending."
I nod. I can hold on. I have to.
"Can I see her then?"
"As soon as she's out and stable," she says. "She'll likely go to the ICU for observation overnight."
"Was she in pain?" I ask, not able to help it. I want to know, and I don't want to know. "When… when she was brought in?"
Jenny's face softens, and she gives me a small nod.
"She was in pain, but not for long—we managed it very quickly. She was confused, but she knew who she was,” she gives me a small smile. “She was asking for her husband and her boys."
My chest collapses in on itself. I run my hands through my hair and tug until it hurts. Anything to channel this inward hurt outward.
Wendy is hurt.
Wendy was in pain.
Wendy is being cut open and operated on somewhere in this building.
???
"Atlas? Is everything alright?"
Dr. Wilson's voice is concerned, but it's a nice reprieve from my own thoughts tormenting me.
It's been an hour already of waiting in this private family waiting room, fitted with comfortable couches and cheery art, hoping to ease you through the worst time of your life.
My dad stepped out to call my mom and update her. He’s been running himself ragged getting insurance together, talking to the front desk about paperwork that I cannot deal with right now.
Sheriff Grady had stayed, but had stepped out to talk with some of the police at the scene.
On the way, he had told me it was a kid texting and running a red light that hit her. The kid got off with minor injuries, which threatened to skyrocket my anger if my worry wasn't so damn potent.
His ass should be on that operating table, not my wife, who was running a fucking errandfor me.
God, if only I hadn't called her to pick up that fucking wine. I should have gone out instead. My fault. All my fucking fault. She had to go to Mabel's to help out, and I had the audacity to ask her to turn around and pick up wine.
Look what you did, Atlas.
It's all your fault.
She's going to die, and it's all your fault.
When things felt too overwhelming, my body had moved on its own, grabbing my cellphone, dialing the familiar number.
