Song of Renewal (25 page)

Liza slept even more fitfully the next night. She tossed and turned, wrestling demons of insecurity and guilt. She went to the kitchen for a glass of water, moving in a pall of guilt so thick and consuming that she could barely stand under its burden.

She tried talking sense to her brain but it persisted in telling her there was no hope for her marriage and that she was responsible for the tragic accident. It told her that her daughter most likely would not survive. That she’d failed both Garrison and her daughter. And Troy. Dreadfully. She crawled back into bed to stare into the darkness. In the murky predawn hours, she plunged to her lowest point ever.

Then something her dad had said after their mother’s death years ago swooped in like a beacon of light. She sat up in bed, allowing it to wash over and soak into her. “Always maintain a sense of normalcy. Keep on doing it, and soon it will feel right again.”

He’d been right before. Liza hoped it would work again for her. She slipped from her bed and quietly climbed the staircase
to the guest room. She found Garrison flat on his back, arms thrown out like wings, his breath that deep, even kind of complete slumber.

Can I endure all this guilt…along with the life-or-death vigil at Angel’s bedside?
She truly didn’t know. But she had no other option. Right now, she simply needed to see her husband.

She was tempted to fling herself across him and cling like a June bug.

The realization exploded inside her…profound…reverberating to infinity. She silently returned to her own bed, staring helplessly into the darkness.

God, how she loved him.

The crisis came suddenly, without warning. Liza was alone when Dr. Abrams delivered the bad news. “She’s losing ground,” he said without preamble. “She’s not responding to treatment as I’d hoped.” Then he propped against the bed, arms crossed over green scrubs. “Angel’s bones are very fragile. Borderline osteoporosis, as evidenced by the X-rays and the bone breaks. Osteoporosis is abnormal for someone her age.” He looked at Liza gravely. “Did she – I want to put this delicately. Did Angel ever show signs of having an eating disorder? She is, after all, painfully thin, even with the nutritional IV. With all the other complications arising…makes me wonder.”

“No,” Liza replied quickly. “Oh, she watched her weight like a good ballerina. It goes with the turf. But no, she didn’t have an eating disorder.”

The doctor looked at Liza for long moments, clearly skeptical. “Well, think about it. The condition of her bones suggests otherwise. Another thing – her kidneys show strain, possibly the beginning of failure. I don’t like it.”

Liza felt bile rising as terror spliced through her. Had she missed something? Those videos had shown just how thin Angel had grown. But she’d shown none of the classic signs. No. Liza would have known. “Is she – ” Liza couldn’t get the words out. She tried again. “What will happen – with the kidneys, I mean?”

He took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and looked her in the eye. “I can’t tell you that, Mrs. Wakefield. I wish I could. The kidneys could be only the beginning. The one thing Angel has going for her is her youth. But that’s not a guarantee. We’re administering drugs for the kidney infection, hoping to stem it before they go into failure. She also has ARDS, acute respiratory distress syndrome.”

He shifted his weight and continued. “It often results in multiple organ failure and it is very serious. We’ll carefully monitor her urinary output. Also, the ventilator now requires higher settings, which is a bad sign – her breathing is growing more labored. Organ failure is our major concern now. Her lungs are inflamed because they were bruised in the accident. Her long-term illness – as well as prolonged use of the ventilator – probably triggered ARDS.”

Liza’s head reeled. Her voice was wispy. “What can be done for her?”

“We’re going to do a tracheotomy – insert a smaller tube directly into the trachea. This will make her more comfortable. We’ll do cultures to determine which appropriate antibiotics to use for ARDS. We’ll also use moderate doses of corticosteroids for the inflammation.”

“Oh Lord. I need something to give me hope,” she whispered. Liza felt so drained…. Numb. “Can you give me some idea of whether – if she survives this and wakes up – whether she’ll know us?”
Oh God, please – give me something
.

Dr. Abrams shook his head, his weathered face grave. “It’s all in His hands.” He pointed upward, pushing away from the bed. “I should warn you to prepare for the worst, and pray for the best.” He shrugged tightly.

As soon as he left the room, Liza dialed Garrison’s number, fingers trembling violently. He’d earlier told her he wouldn’t be by the hospital until later. She ignored the buzzing in her extremities now. She also refused to take a darned tranquilizer. She didn’t need to be a zombie on top of all this. Good deep gulps of air would have to suffice.

Angel needed her more than ever. “Garrison?” she croaked into the cell phone.

“Yes? Liza, is everything all right?” Alarm rang in his voice.

She filled him in on Dr. Abrams’s bleak prognosis. “Garrison, he’s not at all encouraging. He also said the longer she’s in the coma, the less chance she has of surviving.” Her voice broke. “He’s rather fatalistic.”

Silence. Then Garrison said with male logic, “He can’t afford to give us false hope, Liza, is all. Else, if things don’t go well, he figures we’d take him to task. And we would.”

“Yeah.” She sniffled.

“Anyway, we want her back, no matter what. And even with the worst case scenario – if she doesn’t recognize us –
we
know
her
.

His declaration was so passionate that Liza felt more tears gather. For this instant in time, no matter what happened, they were solid.

Together.

Another thing filled her – the golden certainty that Garrison loved their daughter with everything in him. His love for their creation was such that Garrison would lay down his life for her. In that instant, she forgave his lapses of the past, knowing
in her deep, deep soul of souls that if he had the chance, he’d make it all up to their daughter.

“Absolutely,” she replied huskily, her whole heart humming…singing it.

“We’ve gotta believe this is going to happen, Liza. With everything that’s in us, we must believe,” he murmured hoarsely, with a fervency she’d not heard from him in a while.

“I agree,” she whispered and swiped at a runaway tear. For that heartbeat, she would bask in his strength. Draw from it. She closed her eyes and flowed with it.

“Liza – I have an important business meeting this evening to close one of the biggest deals of our life. It will help us through these medical expenses. I’ll cancel it if I have to. Tell me what to do. Do you need me there right now?”

Of course I need you; like oxygen
. “I’m good. Go ahead to the meeting. It’s okay. Really. I’ll call if there’s a change.”

She shut off the phone. She didn’t want to need him so desperately.

But her heart didn’t know that.

Liza drove straight home, heart pounding with dread. She began a search of Angel’s room. She looked in her nightstand, and then rummaged through the chest of drawers. She rifled through Angel’s footlocker, her daughter’s secret squirrel-away place.

Dropping to her knees, she sorted through secret things a girl hides away. Old photos of boys she’d had crushes on. A T-shirt given to her by her coach in appreciation of exemplary cheering squad teamwork. Souvenirs from everywhere meaningful;Troy’s and her favorite pizza parlor, movie stubs, ballet programs with Angel’s name way down in the credits. One old program, yellowed and crinkled, featured Liza’s
picture on it. She was the principle ballerina that year in
The Nutcracker
. Angel had saved it.

The tears came from nowhere and everywhere. Liza lovingly replaced the treasures as she wept, and then resumed her search. On a hunch, she lifted the mattress and felt under it. Nothing. She went around to the other side and lifted that corner. Still nothing. Further probing closer to the center was fruitless.

Liza wondered where she herself would hide something she didn’t want found. She thought for a moment and then got on her knees and looked under the bed. There, taped to the bottom of the box spring, was a large plastic Ziploc bag. She stretched to pluck it loose and sat atop the bed to dump its contents over the pink bedspread. Among the cache were packets and bottles of laxatives along with Ipecac to induce vomiting. Other containers held over-the-counter appetite suppressants.

“Oh, Angel.” Remorse oozed through Liza like hot molten rock.

But she couldn’t buckle under that right now. Some day, she owed herself a good old-fashioned nervous breakdown. She gathered the items up and then dumped them all into a small garbage bag stored in Angel’s bathroom cabinet. Her heart thumped loudly as she wondered how long her girl had been torturing her body with these substances.

How could I not have known?
Memories swarmed in on a kaleidoscopic swirl. She regretted every time she’d cautioned Angel about overeating. Other things zoomed in…Angel’s immediate after-meal bathroom trips…pre-recital appetite loss…picking at food. Desperate pleas for help when she relayed her ballet instructor’s rude comments following any healthy weight gain.
How stupid can I be?

Liza would deliver these medications to Dr. Abrams and confirm his suspicions. That way, if – no,
when
Angel awoke from the coma, he would know what to work with in her recovery. Liza had to believe there would be a recovery. A renewal.

She recalled Garrison’s words. “We’ve gotta believe…with everything that’s in us, we must believe.”
Garrison, how I love you.

Urgency gripped her. She must confirm for the doctor what he already suspected.

Liza’s discovery of Angel’s grim paraphernalia further stretched her tenuous hold on self-control. She’d given over Angel’s arsenal to an unsurprised Dr. Abrams. He informed her that he’d scheduled Angel’s tracheotomy and new medications for early the next morning.

Now, after leaving Restorative Care at ten o’clock, Liza drove across town, her mind like a sped-up old-time movie flickering horrific images of Angel starving and dying, of Troy’s funeral. Guilt churned it all until its black, vile froth rose to unbearable putrid heights.

Liza pulled into the garage at home and shut off the motor. There, she laid her head on folded arms at the wheel. For long moments, she sat there, head spinning and nerves vibrating like an old washing machine agitator she remembered in her maternal Gramma’s country cottage, where freshly baked bread fragranced the air.

What she’d give to be back there, in the haven of Gramma’s arms, away from the wreckage at home, when it was just her and her Gramma, who unconditionally loved Mama just as Liza did, who whispered in her ear, “Shh, everything’s gonna be okay, honey.” With none of these cataclysmic events rocking her very existence.