“Where? Is it far? Can you get him on the way?”
“He’s at the Centennial Arena,” I explain, annoyed by the fact that Dad never knows what’s going on with us. “I’ll call Becky and tell her what happened, and she can pick him up.” Thank God for Becky. She’s always there for us. “I’ll get in the car now and come straight to the hospital. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Okay. See you soon,” Dad replies.
He ends the call before I even think to ask what happened and how Mom could have been standing so close to the waves at Peggy’s Cove. She’s always warned us about the dangers, and she’s told us hair-raising tales of tourists who perished because they didn’t know any better. But those of us who grew up in Nova Scotia have always understood the merciless power of the ocean. We know better than to risk getting too close to those treacherous black rocks.
It’s far worse than I could have imagined. I honestly thought my mother would be okay. When I drove to the hospital, I expected her to be hurt, but now I’m sitting next to her bed in the ICU while she lies unconscious. She’s surrounded by medical equipment, and there’s a huge plastic tube down her throat so she can breathe with a ventilator. A heart monitor beeps, and IV lines run into her arms, delivering fluids and medication.
Her arm is in a cast because her humerus snapped in two when she hit the rocks. Someone told me she was dead by that point—drowned in near-freezing water before the ocean decided to spit her out. The waves tossed her ashore, and that’s when two young men grabbed hold of her and dragged her to safety, where they performed CPR.
Worst of all, she’s in a coma because she had no pulse when she was rescued, and it took about twelve minutes to revive her.
So here we are, in the ICU, hanging on to hope because my mother defied the odds and came back from the dead.
I want to believe it’s because she’s a fighter. I’ve always known that about her. She’s the center of our family, the sturdy post we all cling to. I’m still clinging to her now, even though she’s unconscious.
I wish I could stop crying, but I can’t.
Becky brings Connor, but she’s not allowed into Mom’s room yet because there’s a limit of three visitors at a time in the ICU.
Connor walks in, takes one look at Mom, and breaks down. Dad tries to hug him, but Connor pushes him away and bends over Mom, sobbing. It breaks my heart to see him like this because he’s learned how to tough it out on the ice, to take hits and shake them off. But this is a different kind of pain, and I don’t know how to help him. I’m his older sister, and I want to be strong for him, but I’m terrified that Mom’s not going to come out of this.
How will we survive if we’re left alone in the world without her? No one knows me like she does. Certainly not Dad, whose fault this is.
There. I’ve said it. Only to myself, but I can’t be the only one who’s thinking it.
I shift my watery gaze from Connor to my father, who looks half comatose himself. Shell shocked.
God, he could never be what Mom is to us. He’s never home, and I honestly don’t think he even cares about us. He’s a complete strangerto me, and I don’t understand why he took Mom to Peggy’s Cove in the first place, especially during the day, when he’s always at work.
I hate him right now!
But it wasn’t always like this. When I was little, he seemed more like a real dad. I have fond memories of my childhood—like when he’d come home from work and toss me onto his shoulders, run around the house hee-hawing like a donkey. I also remember him playing with Connor and me on Christmas mornings, assembling our toys and taking us sledding.
I’m not sure when he stopped being a good dad. It was such a gradual thing.
Oh, God, I can’t stop crying. I could really use a father right now.
It’s almost ten o’clock. Becky has been in the waiting room for hours, though we’ve taken turns coming in to see Mom, which has given us each a chance to take a break—to use the washroom or get food in the cafeteria. Though I haven’t been able to eat much of anything besides a bag of chips.
Right now, it’s just me, Connor, and Dad.
It’s surprising that we can all sit together in this room, barely talking to each other, while nurses come and go. If we do speak, it’s in hushed tones. We’re either holding Mom’s hand, rubbing her forehead, or retreating to our individual chairs against the wall to watch her. We stare at the machines that beep, and we listen to the ventilator—that eerie click, followed by the sound of the exhalation valve.
I check my phone and answer texts from friends and family who’ve been sending thoughts and prayers.
I’ve been communicating mostly with Jeff, who has offered to come to the hospital and sit with me. He’s been wonderful through all this, and I’m grateful that he had the chance to meet Mom. I feel like he understands everything I’m going through.
Eventually, I set my phone down on my lap and look up. Connor catches my eye and gestures with a toss of his head to meet him outside the ICU. I nod and rise to my feet.
“We’re gonna take a walk,” I say to Dad.
“Sure,” he replies.
I kiss Mom on the forehead and whisper close in her ear, “Connor and I will be right back. Hang in there, okay?”
I straighten and look down at her for a few seconds. Her long dark hair is unkempt, splayed in all directions on the pillow, and the breathing tube in her mouth is doing all the work, keeping her alive. She seems so far away.
