Hours of Change - Chapters Six and Seven

Six
11:03 p.m.

The hospital parking lot asserts itself with moving headlights, a parked ambulance at the front entrance, and the dark presence of an accident that never should have happened. Serena’s mind moves faster than her car. She leans over the steering wheel, squints to the dark, and searches. Doug points out appropriate signs, worries about her driving.

“Careful honey. You almost drove over the curb.”

“It’ll live,” she says, banging a sharp left into the first aisle of cars. An open spot sticks out in the row like the missing tooth of a child’s smile. She zooms toward it. “What did McKenzie say again about the ambulance report?”

“He said that Josh was lucky to be in the passenger seat. The impact of the hit to the driver’s side caused his head to hit the window.
Miraculously…that’s the word he used…he still had his helmet on so he saved himself a brain injury. Also, the snowy roads actually helped in his case. The driver of the other car was actually going slow when he fishtailed and more or less bumped right into Roth, who was outside of the car, at his hood.”

He begins to choke up, “Josh fell forward just right in the passenger seat…he was still coherent and everything. You were right, Ser…God rescued him.”

From his window, his eyes measure the parking spot. Given the careless parking job of the monster SUV beside them, the space is tight.

“You sure you want to chance this one, Serena?”

Without answering, she cuts the wheel, measures precisely, and glides in before killing the engine. “I just want to see him…I can’t deal with all of the insurance crap, Doug. Can you check us in with your card?”

“They’ll make an exception for this,” Doug says with a sense of optimism that she does not have.

“I doubt it.”

Without ample room to open the doors, she and Doug maneuver themselves awkwardly from the vehicle, pushing the doors shut.

They scurry ahead to a revolving set of doors, eager to enter, despite the ER’s taboo, and circulate to the waiting room. Faces greet them immediately, tired faces, wrinkled faces, wanting faces. Serena shoots them a modest nod of apology—perhaps they are not as lucky as she—then heads to the ‘check-in’ window, the block-lettered sign of which demands that insurance cards be ready. Doug is beside her but his body language speaks of compromise. Serena takes over.

“Hi. My son was brought in after a car accident, after being abducted. I will need to see him now. We carry solid insurance…” she gestures to Doug, “my husband has the card.”

“It will just take a moment, ma’am. You’ll need to wait here. We just got slammed.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t wait,” she says in motion, the useless voice fading like dissolving fireworks in the sky.

Serena makes herself blend into new voices; urgent voices, voices that contain sharp edges and critical direction. She hears blood pressure readings, EMT reports, and technical medical language. They remind her of medical shows, of movies. A pale faced man is being wheeled in on a stretcher, his body impossibly frail and still. His glassy eyes seem to study the ceiling as he speeds by, his tiny wrist hangs limp. He is there and gone. She moves on, power walking, and the energy, the sheer chaos of the hallway, seems to blur. Her mind focuses only on Josh.

She notes the sign, PEDIATRICS, and her heart back flips. He is there.
She confidently pushes through a double set of doors and heads for the triage area. Instinctively, she seems to know where it is located and, with equal intuition, a nurse looks up. Her smile is inviting, unlike that of the woman at the waiting room. Rebecca. “May I help you?”
“Hi. Serena Davis,” she says in a huff. “My son Josh was taken in by ambulance after being—”

“Oh my gosh, yes!—he’s here,” she says, snapping up. “What a brave little man you have. Right this way… I’m so sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“Thank you,” she says, following the nurse, one step closer to Josh. Along the hallway, she passes a poster, smiley faces with feelings, followed by a larger one on CPR. They keep walking, passing an open room with a mother an infant inside, then two more closed doors, and finally—
“He’s right here, 215...” the nurse gestures.

The door is open. Josh is there, laying flat, his hands folded atop his chest, his head propped up on pillows. His eyes widen in a flash of relief.

She carries herself to him and the weight of the passing hours seems to float away. They embrace. She is flooded by sobs and she can see him as a newborn again, the pink face, the small nose, in her arms, at the hospital bed, and then being wheeled away. She is swept up in the moment, in the feeling of his nine year old body conforming to her taller one.
His body feels solid to her thinness. She stretches her arms long to look at him, “I’m so sorry this happened to you, honey.”

“Where’s Daddy?” he asks, his bottom lip quivering.

“He’ll be right here, honey. He was just checking in.”

“Is his wrist okay?”

“His wrist is going to be just fine,” she says, squeezing back tears, pinching her nose.

“Can we go home now?”

She is about to answer when Doug enters. For a second, he stares at Josh as though in disbelief before rushing to his side. They hold each other for awhile and the nurse begins to tear up, her clipboard in her hand. Serena reads her nametag. Elaine.

Elaine quietly places a box of tissues on Joshua’s bed for all of them.
Doug awakens from the embrace, his face pink. “I’m so sorry, Josh…I’m so sorry I let this happen to you. You’re okay now, right? Are you okay?” He sweeps a finger across Josh’s cheek.

“Dad—Mr. Roth was driving soooo fast in the snow! He should have gotten’ a ticket! Then he got hit by a car that swerved into him…” he goes on, creating hand motions as dramatic as the story. “ I thought I was going to be blind when I shot forward in the car!”

Doug and Serena exchange a knowing look. Kids don’t think things through the way we do. They live in the moment and they are resilient. Joshua will be okay. But will they be? Will they ever be the same?

A doctor enters, interrupting her thoughts. “Hello folks, Dr. Asaan,” he
reports, extending a hand shake to Doug, to Serena.

They nod to him.

“You’ve got quite a champion here,” he says, rubbing Josh’s knee.

“We sure do,” she says, facing Josh.

“How…I mean have you completed any tests?” Doug asks.

“This guy’s good to go. We ran a full battery, vision, hearing, internal...” He knocks on Josh’s head, jokes, “You sure this skull isn’t made of steel?”

Josh smiles. “I had my helmet on.”

“Aahhh…that’s right, you did. Good man.” He turns to Doug again. “At his shoulder, there is a mild laceration… let me show you,” he says, sliding Josh’s jonnie to one side, exposing the skin there.

Serena and Doug both move closer to see. There is a small cut in the center of a swollen bump, nothing worse than a football bruise.

“Treat this with an antibiotic, Neosporin, or any of the over the counter creams will do.”

Serena asks, “He’s…he’s really going to be o.k?”

Again, Dr. Asaan jokes. “Can you do this?” He flaps his arms like a chicken. “How about this?” He taps his head while standing on one foot. Josh giggles.

“I think he’s good to go.”

Dr Asaan, Serena decides, is insensitive, his glib antics a mask to the darker happenings that he must face every day. Perhaps it is better to act this way, she thinks, forgiving him already. She will endure all of his jokes, given the positive outcome of the situation. But just as they are ready to collect their things, Dr. Asaan surprises her with a more serious tone.

“Mom, I just need to chat with you in the hallway for a minute.” He winks to Josh, “Medical paperwork is kind of like homework that you don’t want to do but you have to.”

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll stay here,” Doug says, holding his son’s fingers.
They exit and Dr. Asaan gently shuts the door.

“A few things. One...when you leave here, you’ll notice that reporters have been hanging outside of the ER. The media can be a double-edged sword. You and your husband will need to decide how you want to handle them. From what I have seen, you’re better off giving them a little, then walking away with a polite ‘thank you very much’.

“Oh, gosh. I didn’t even think of that. But, you know what. I just feel so blessed that thing is over with, I don’t mind sharing the happy ending with the news.”

“Perfect.” She can see his thoughts moving forward as he studies the floor, two fingers over his chin. Just as he is about to speak; a pudgy nurse waddles into the vicinity with speed that does not conform to the rest of her.

“Dr Asaan…we have a critical in 203.”

“Shelley...” he says, backing up, “send Detective Hearns in to speak with Mrs. Davis about the news, please. She's been waiting.”

Serena feels the onset of a tap dance inside of her chest that has become rudely familiar.

“Wh-what is this all about?”

Shelley offers Serena the one minute signal with an index finger, activates her beeper, and whispers, "A detective hassled us earlier about speaking to you guys. We put her off. She'll be here in just a minute."

As though she was pasted to the Pediatric doorway waiting, Detective Hearns appears immediately. She is wearing a long navy trench coat and black leather boots. The sight of her reminds Serena of a female superhero cartoon.

“First of all, congratulations in getting your boy back,” the detective says, leaning in close, touching Serena's arm.

“Thank you for all that you’ve done to bring him back to me.” Serena says back, wiping away a layer of damp beneath her eyes.

“We thought you should know,” Hearns says sternly, “that Roth is still alive. He was taken by life flight from the accident…and revived through resuscitation," she adds, palming her chest unnecessarily. "He’s fighting for his life in intensive care right now." She looks down, up again, "I know this isn't easy to hear, Mrs. Davis...but I have more news to share with you on Roth. He had actually been watching your son for longer than you knew.

In hearing this, her body feels weak. “Excuse me. I just need to sit down,” she says, searching the white walls for a place to process the dark.

“Here…right this way. I’ll grab an open room,” Shelley says, craning her neck to find a room. “Hold on a minute.” She scurries away to search.

“I don’t need a room,” Serena says to Detective Hearns. “Just tell me now…how—I mean where had this man been watching my son?”

“Your boy trained at Gilmore Hill in Westborough, Massachusetts, correct?”

The day of his first lesson flashes through Serena’s mind. There were lines and groups of skiers everywhere. Erin, the group instructor, a pretty seventeen year old, had helped Josh with his boot straps. She blinks the memory away. “Y-yes, he trained there.”

“According to the facts of our investigation, Mrs. Davis… Steven Roth had been operating the chair lift for a total of two ski seasons.”

Serena takes in a deep breath, closes her eyes momentarily. “Do you have a warrant for his arrest at this time? I mean…this man had been watching my son, then kidnapped him. I expect that if and when he leaves intensive care, he will be behind bars immediately. Am I right, Ms. Hearns?”

“I can assure you, Mrs. Davis, that we’re going to do everything in our power to be sure that this man pays for his crime.”

Serena studies the detective’s face. She is not convinced.
 
Chapter Seven

It is a cloudy Wednesday morning, five days following Josh’s kidnapping. Serena’s kitchen, chilled by December’s night air, feels different, almost as though aware that something sinister has happened while the family was gone.

Tightening her robe, Serena bends to the thermostat to turn the heat up while Doug enters the room in a tan blazer and faded pair of jeans. Being a sixth grade male teacher, Doug can get away with wearing jeans to work. The kids love him. The principal loves him. His diplomatic ability to work well with people, to see the other side, is contagious and Serena, still un-showered, feels inadequate to him suddenly. Her naturally stunning Swedish looks do nothing for her disposition.

“Taking a sick day?” Doug asks, helping himself to the first cup of coffee.

She meanders to Josh’s vitamins at the counter, unscrews the cap of a multi. “I’m taking a personal day. I have a few things to take care of.”

At the coffee maker, Doug pauses to her response. Serena can see that, in his quiet gaze, he knows the possibilities that lie beneath the words. He rips open a sugar packet and Josh arrives, his energy derailing troubled thoughts.

“Hey Champ.”

“Hey Dad,” he answers, settling himself atop the usual breakfast stool, eyeing Serena. His hair is matted to one side and he is wearing a rugby shirt buttoned as high as possible at the neck. “You’re not being a teacher today, Mom?”

She hands him a vitamin, followed by a glass of juice. “I’m taking one of my personal days, honey.”

He gulps down a sip. Next, she knows, he will spin himself around; causing the chair’s back to miss the counter’s edge by only a smidge and threaten to chafe the leather, a habit resulting in the spike of Doug’s blood pressure. Serena wonders what his colleagues would think if they knew of Doug’s other side, of how, in his own home, he is the opposite of calm.

But, no matter, this morning is different and neither of the two habits takes place.

“What’s a personal day, Mom?”

Doug, waiting for two pop tarts at the toaster by now, answers. “The school understands that we all need days off once in awhile, just to get personal things done….so they work a few days into our contract. That way, we still get paid.”

“How come kids don’t get personal days?” Josh asks, rather casually.

“Kids…” Serena cuts in, “have many days off. You have the summers, school vacations, snow days—”

“Yeah, but you guys are teachers, so you have those days off, too,” he interrupts with undeniable logic.

Doug and Serena exchange a smile as the pop tarts spring to life with an emphatic squeak. The timing is impeccable. Doug pulls out a hot one with a quick finger and slaps it onto a paper towel for Josh. “Here you go, pal, only thirty grams of sugar.”

“Thanks, Dad. Do you have one for Mom?”

“Oh, I’m good, honey,” she says, “I’m going for a grapefruit today.”

“You don’t like to eat too much sugar, right Mom?”

She looks at her son, crumbs already dotting his lips along with an entire section of counter.

“Well, I like a little bit of sugar…but the grapefruit is enough for me. Would you like some strawberries?”

“How about orange slices?”

“You got it.”

She rummages through the refrigerator fruit drawer and Doug, from behind, zooms in for a peck at her neck, his bitten pop tart dangling from one hand. “I have to run. We’re conferencing,” he says, enunciating the word with quotation fingers, “on the new reading program.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll come to a decision sometime before the ball drops,” she jokes, handing him his lunch while setting two oranges down at the counter.

Doug makes his way to Josh and offers his son a bear hug before shuffling down the basement stairs. The scent of his cologne lingers. Doug has not left yet but, already, he is missed.

“You comin’ home early today!” Josh yells down the staircase.

“Definitely!” Doug hollers back, adding, “Floor hockey re-match!”

Josh grins and splits his pop tart into yet another piece. Then he tackles the orange slices.

“The problem with these oranges,” he says, showing his teeth like an angry dog, “is that the pulp gets stuck in my teeth.”

Serena, pushing the faucet on to prepare the sink for dishwashing, nods back to him, “How about you give your teeth another quick brush, then grab your silent reading book upstairs while you’re at it.”

“What time is it? I don’t want to miss the bus.”

“You have plenty of time, Josh. It’s only 7:45.”

He scurries upstairs. Serena grabs a moment to think. The number to the hospital, she needs the number, intensive care. She rubs her hands dry on a dish towel, snaps open the junk drawer, and decides, almost instantly, that the chaos is too much to bear in finding the number in the phonebook. The internet will be quicker.

Rushing over to the kitchen table, she presses open her laptop screen, turns on the computer, and taps her feet impatiently to the ‘booting up’ process that never ceases to feel eternal.

The first screen, a tropical ocean, springs to life and she begins to sign in, entering her password wrong the first time. She proceeds with a second try and, finally, she is able to access the web page. She mouses her cursor to the google window box and types in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire, Hospital Intensive Care Units. Go. Instantly, she is bombarded by information about lost hikers, accidents, and other tragedies. Then, scrolling down the page, she finds the name: Littleton Regional Hospital.

Josh is back.

“I got my book, Mom…and a chapstick,” he adds, revealing the stick. She watches him unzip a small pouch at his backpack in the usual methodical fashion before putting on his coat. Josh is the same. How can it be?

She is suspicious, worried about the sameness of Josh, despite all that he has endured. She and Doug have already sat down to discuss his feelings about what has happened during the trip. Surprisingly, he had somehow related to Roth’s insanity, even shared a story about the kidnapper’s divorce with his ex-wife. It had all seemed too easy.

“Josh…?” she asks tentatively.

“Yeah, mom?”

“Are you—I mean, did you—did you pack your homework?” she asks, changing the course of her question.

“I always pack it up at night…” he says, giving the backpack a final zip. “You know that, Mom.”

“Oh, what was I thinking,” she says, shaking her head. “It’s freezing out. Let’s go grab a hat and gloves for the bus stop.”

“I’m going to Tyler’s today.”

Tyler lives only two houses away, yet a jolt of fire burns her insides to the thought of him walking alone. “You’re going to Tyler’s?”

“Tyler’s—you know, the kid you knew since he was in Kim’s belly, the kid whose house is right in front of a bus stop.” The sarcasm is both daunting and appropriate.

“Hey wise guy,” she says, seeing him to the front door, grabbing his hat and gloves from a winter basket on the floor. “Tell Mr. Tyler that I said hello.”

He pulls a Red Sox hat over his head and flashes a wide grin. “Have a good personal day, Mom.”

She kisses the wool flap of his hat and shuts the door. Then, racing to the nearest window, she watches him walk to Tyler’s, his backpack weighing him down slightly. He passes the stop sign, then the Halloways house, until there is a small section of street where he disappears from her view.

From the deck door she will be able to see him better. She scurries to that door to await his appearance at Kim’s driveway.

He does not arrive. Her heart pounds. She waits another few seconds. An intruder enters her mind, a strange car. She is about to call Kim when the spaces between the shrubs become mottled with Joshua’s moving body. He is there, safely there.

Hastening to finish her computer task; she grabs the cordless phone from the receiver and pulls up the Lincoln hospital number she had been searching for. She reads and dials simultaneously. An automated voice lists options for her to follow. She waits for the ‘intensive care’ option. Four. She pushes the number and a person answers immediately.

“Intensive care, how may I help you?”

“Hi. My name is Cecilia Roth, great aunt of Mr. Steven Roth, a patient on your floor. Would you mind telling me of his status? I want to take a ride in to see my nephew but want to be sure it’s o.k with the staff and doctors first.”

“Can you hold, please?”

“No problem.”

The sound of classical music plays briefly before the voice is back.

“Hi. Thank you for holding. I’m happy to say that your nephew has made some fine progress. He’s moved from critical to fair condition. Visiting hours are from one to eight p.m. When were you thinking of coming in?”

A wave of panic, of anger, consumes her. “I’ll—I mean I’d like to come in today if that’s alright.”

“Certainly, Mrs. Roth. Should I tell him to expect you as a visitor?”

“Ahh….actually, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to surprise my dear nephew…he’s been through an awful lot. I’d like to pick up a present for him at the gift shop before visiting. What are the hours there?”

“The gift shop is open from ten o’clock to eight p.m., Mrs. Roth.”

“Oh, perfect.”

“Very well, then, Mrs. Roth. We’ll see you shortly.”

She hangs up, her mind frozen to the devilish vision of a recovering kidnapper, the same one who took her son.