Chapter 3

Blake sat by himself in the hospital waiting room, surrounded by others also agonizing over their loved ones. From time to time, a doctor would enter and command everyone’s attention, their faces filled with hope, and fear. Blake, like the others, would sit up straight and slide to the front edge of the chair. The doctor would call out a person’s name and, when their relatives identified themselves, would consult with them. Most times the relatives shook the doctor’s hand in joy and sometimes even hugged him. One time a relative dropped to her knees and sobbed with her face buried in her hands. The policewoman rushed over to help her up and took her out of the room through a back door Blake hadn’t noticed. He prayed he didn’t find out what was behind that door.

The room thinned out with Blake never getting out of his chair. Hours passed. The only time he moved was to look up when a doctor entered the room. Tiffany was shot in the head. What did that mean? The policewoman had said she didn’t know anything more. He could do nothing but wait, and pray.

A doctor entered the room. Blake knew it was about Tiffany since he was the only one left. Blake stared at the doctor who stared back at him while sliding his surgical cap off his head. He crushed the cap in his fist.

“Are you here for Tiffany Conner?” the doctor asked.

“I’m her husband. How is she?”

“She had surgery and is in recovery. She had a bullet lodged in her brain. What took so long was there were fragments of her skull in her brain that we had to remove. We had to make sure we got them all. And do it without causing further damage to her brain.”

Blake jumped to his feet. “But she’s in recovery! The surgery is done and she’s recovering.”

“Yes, the surgery is done, but we won’t know the extent of the damage until she wakes up.”

“What kind of damage?”

“Too early to tell. The brain is very complex.”

“But she’ll live.”

The doctor was silent for a few moments and then said, “Too early to tell.”

“Why? The operation was a success.”

“We extracted the bullet and all the bone fragments, so the surgery was a success. But we don’t know the extent of the damage.”

“When will you know?”

“When she wakes up.”

“When can I see her?”

“You should go home and get some sleep. She won’t be awake for a while and it’s very late.”

“No! I want—”

“Trust me,” the doctor said, “if you don’t get some sleep you’ll be useless when she wakes up. And she’ll need you then. And there’s no sense in being here while she’s in recovery. You can’t see her there.”

The doctor patted Blake’s shoulder. The first sign of empathy. “Go get some sleep and come back later.”

Blake looked around the empty room and nodded without looking at the doctor. He thanked the doctor for his help and left. Even the reporters had gone. Blake lumbered to his car and drove home, all the while visualizing his wife lying in a hospital bed, alone. He needed to be there when she opened her eyes. But the doctor was right. He needed sleep.

As soon as Blake’s head hit the pillow, he was snoring.

Blake awoke with a start. His eyes shot to the clock radio on the end table in his bedroom. It was almost ten o’clock. What if Tiffany had awoken without him at her side. He tore off the clothes he had slept in, took a quick shower, and dressed in clean clothes. In no time he was pulling into the Good Samaritan hospital parking lot.

Blake stormed up to the lobby desk and asked a little too loudly, “What room is Tiffany Conner in? She was shot yesterday.”

“Who are you?” the elderly lady asked.

“Her husband.”

“Can I see your drivers license?”

“Why?”

“To make sure you’re not a reporter.”

Blake pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and flipped it open, showing the woman his drivers license.

The woman rose halfway out of her chair and leaned forward, peering at the drivers license. After sitting back down and checking her computer screen, she said, “Room 312.”