–
“Mountains don’t get smaller for looking at them,” the admiral had said.
Shying away was not an option. But Mary had never shied away from a challenge in her life, or from anything else, for that matter. Her mother liked to brag that Mary lived “with her elbows out.”
Her youth was a record of plucky survival or divine miracles. She fell off her first pony at age seven. The pony’s hoof caught her in the head, slicing her forehead from port to starboard and leaving her unconscious for God knows how long. When she stumbled into the kitchen, her mother screamed so loudly that the neighbors called 911, certain that someone was being raped, robbed, or tortured with a sharp instrument.
In the hospital afterward, the admiral pinned one of his Purple Hearts on her hospital gown and admitted he’d never seen so much blood in his life, and that included his time running PT boats up the Mekong Delta in Vietnam.
Mary’s next brush with mortality came at twelve. While sailing the family Razor on Chesapeake Bay, she misjudged a change in the wind and was knocked clean off the boat by a wild boom. It was December. The ocean was 42° and the current was running strong. By the time she hauled herself back into the boat and returned to the dock, her body temperature had plummeted to 94° and she was shaking like…well, like she was shaking right now. A bout of double pneumonia followed, accompanied by a 106° fever. At some point a priest was brought to her, though Mary had no recollection of any of it. She only remembered the Bible she found at her bedside when she woke up, the ribbon placed at the Twenty-third Psalm.
Later there was a bike accident, a broken leg playing soccer, and concussions playing lacrosse. Mary never considered any of them a big deal. The gash on her forehead was a scratch. The two weeks spent in the hospital, a cold. The priest who came to administer last rites, parental hysteria. She lumped them all together as proof of her invincibility. She’d suffered so much and overcome so many obstacles that she could no longer summon up any situation that might frighten her.
Queen Mary the Lionheart.
All that changed with Grace. The past two years had used up all that confidence and then some. There were only so many nights a mother could spend by a bedside, only so many prayers she could utter. Sooner or later even the most stalwart faltered.
And now Joe.
This was one challenge too many. One mountain she was not equipped to climb.
She was not ready to be a widow. Not now. Not with Grace and her illness and Jessie and her attitude, not with so much of life still in front of her requiring her efforts, so many days to be gotten through.
Stand fast, girl. One hand for the boat and an eye on the horizon.
The elevator reached the fifth floor. The door opened, but Mary didn’t move. She remained where she was, her father’s baritone loud in her ears.
Order refused, Admiral.
Mary was no longer invincible.
Queen Mary the Lionheart was ready to give up her throne.
–
She saw Joe through the window-the sole patient in the ICU, eyes closed, respirator protruding from his mouth, more tubes than she could count running in and out of his body. An army of machines monitored his vital signs. There was a heart monitor. An automatic sphyg-momometer to measure blood pressure. An electroencephalograph for brain function. And many more, all of which Mary knew by name.
“Do I need a gown or mask?” she asked, eyes never leaving her husband’s inert form.
“That won’t be necessary,” said Dr. Alexander.
Mary stepped inside the room and approached the bed. “Joe,” she said softly, as if there were others there she might disturb. “It’s me. I came as soon as I heard. You doing okay?”
Dr. Alexander had been forthright in his explanation of Joe’s injury and his prognosis for recovery. He’d been shot in the chest by a high-caliber weapon. The bullet missed his heart by an eighth of an inch, nicked an artery, then struck the spinal cord before exiting his back. Paralysis below the neck was a foregone conclusion. The bigger issue was loss of brain function because of oxygen deprivation from the prolonged cardiac arrest.
“The paramedics estimate that your husband’s heart had stopped for thirteen minutes when they found him. It’s a miracle he’s alive at all.”
To every profession a code, thought Mary. The FBI had its own vocabulary. Debriefings went sideways. Snitches were CIs. And families didn’t have a “need to know.” Doctors were no better. They spoke of prolonged cardiac arrest and cerebral oxygen deficiency and significant tissue damage. Mary spoke their language, too. She knew the doctor meant that Joe was brain-dead, unable to breathe on his own, and that he had a hole in his back the size of a softball.
What were you doing in Dripping Springs? she inquired silently as she ran a hand through his hair. Why did you call me instead of Don Bennett? Who’s Sid?
A married couple has its code, too. Everything’s copacetic, baby. Meaning “I’m in deep shit and need your help.”
Mary pulled a chair close to the bed and sat. “I’m here, baby,” she whispered in Joe’s ear. “Me and the girls, we know you love us. Take your time. Rest and get better.”
In the elevator she’d asked Dr. Alexander a question: “How many patients have ever come back after being dead for thirteen minutes?”
“None that I’m aware of.”
Mary didn’t like the answer, but at least there was no BS.
She threaded her arm through the protective railings and took her husband’s hand. She looked at the EEG. The gray line ran flat. Pulse: 64. Blood pressure: 90/60. She listened to the wheezing of the respirator.
“But if you need to go, I understand,” she went on. “I’ll make sure Jessie gets to MIT or Caltech or wherever geniuses like her learn all that stuff. You know, she unlocked my phone on the way back from the hospital today. Where does she learn that? And I’ll take care of Gracie. The doc said the spike in white blood cells was just temporary. The blasts haven’t come back. He’s not sure why, but he said we shouldn’t worry. She threw up on the way home. It might have been carsickness. Jessie wouldn’t help clean up. She said she didn’t do floors or windows. That girl knows how to push all my buttons. You two couldn’t be any more alike. Anyway, three more years and Grace is over the hump. Maybe you can give me a hand and watch over her.”
Joe’s hand squeezed hers.
Mary jumped in her chair. “Joe!”
Her eyes locked on the EEG monitor. She willed the gray line to move, to assume its jackhammer pattern, but it remained flat. There was no spark of electrical activity in Joe’s brain. His heart rate didn’t budge, nor did any of the other vital signs register so much as a blip. Mary squeezed his hand, but it was limp to the touch. It had been a spasm. Some last reflexive and wholly unconscious response.
She gazed through the window into the corridor. Dr. Alexander and Don Bennett were deep in conversation. The resigned expressions on both their faces spoke volumes.
For another hour Mary held her husband’s hand. She told him about the first time she saw him walking across Healy Lawn at Georgetown. He’d just completed his second summer of Officer Candidates School at Quantico. His hair was high and tight and his muscles were practically bursting out of his sleeves. He was one good-looking slab of All-American meat. I want me some of that, she’d told herself.
That fall they had shared a theology class called “Jesus in the Twentieth Century.” Lots of essays by Karl Rahner and Martin Buber. And she saw that Mr. Joseph Grant wasn’t some dumb jarhead. He was smart, and funny, too. And like her, he believed in some higher power. Not believed. He knew. Rahner called it love. She was good with that.