Chapter Three: Waiting

CHAPTER THREE:

Waiting

Officer Sanchez stepped through the automatic doors into the lobby of the Pelham Medical Center Emergency Department. A bored-looking nurse sat behind a desk straight ahead, alternately reading a paperback and scrolling on her cell. She didn’t even glance up at the sound of the doors whooshing open. Sanchez scanned the chairs in the waiting area. He saw an Asian couple, the woman cradling a crying toddler; an elderly black man holding a bloody towel to his forearm; a young woman with stringy hair hugging herself and rocking back and forth in one of the plastic seats; and a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a large nose chewing on his nails. Sanchez walked over to the nail-chewer.

“Mr. Neil Baker?” Sanchez said.

At first, the man continued to stare down at his feet, gnawing at his fingers like a dog with a rawhide bone. He seemed to notice Sanchez’s shoes first then let his eyes trail up the officer’s legs and torso before landing on his face. “Um, yes, I’m Neil Baker.”

“My name is Carl Sanchez,” he said and held out a hand. “I’d like to talk to you about the accident?”

Neil shook and eyed the officer’s uniform. “I already told the cops who showed up at Walmart everything.”

“I know,” Sanchez said, taking the seat next to Neil. “I’ve read the preliminary report, but I have a few follow-up questions.”

Nodding, Neil returned to nibbling on his fingernails and staring at the floor.

“So you’ve been here since they brought Mr. Wilson in?” Sanchez asked.

“Yeah. They wouldn’t let me go back with him, but they said they’d let me know how he was doing. I don’t know if they’ve called his family or not.”

“Doesn’t have any family,” Sanchez said. “Lives alone, and my understanding is that all of his relatives are dead.”

Neil looked at him, eyes wide and moist. “That’s terrible. God, I hope he’s going to be okay. I’ll never forgive myself if . . . you know, if he doesn’t . . . ”

While it wasn’t Sanchez’s job to coddle or comfort, he wasn’t a heartless man. He didn’t enjoy seeing anyone suffer, which was not without its irony considering his line of work ensured he saw much in the way of human suffering. “What happened was a tragic accident, but it was an accident. All the witnesses say he bolted right out into the parking lot without even checking for traffic.”

“He seemed to come out of nowhere,” Neil said. “I’d stopped at the edge of the crosswalk area, but all I saw were those Girl Scouts selling their cookies. I started forward and then suddenly he was right in front of me. I hit the brakes but he was too close.”

“Mr. Wilson is lucky,” Sanchez said.

Neil looked at him as if he’d said that it was raining gumdrops. “Lucky? How do you figure?”

“If you hadn’t stopped at the crosswalk first, if you’d been traveling at a greater velocity, he would be in much worse shape. Probably lying in the morgue right now instead of the hospital.”

“I suppose you’re right, but that’s little comfort to me right now. You weren’t on the scene, you didn’t see all the blood. He was still unconscious when they brought him in.”

Sanchez remained silent, knowing that nothing he could say would actually ease this man’s guilt. They sat quietly for a moment then Sanchez cleared his throat and said, “There is something we need to discuss.”

Neil sighed and leaned back until his head touched the wall behind him. “It’s about the tickets, isn’t it?”

“Yes. You have two outstanding speeding tickets on your record.”

“I know, I know. I’ve been meaning to pay them, I’m sure that’s what everyone says, but I mean it. Of course, intentions don’t amount to anything if they never become actions. My wife used to say that. She also used to say I had a lead foot, and on that matter she was one hundred percent correct. How much trouble am I in? Should I hire a lawyer?”

“I don’t think you’ll be charged with anything regarding the accident,” Sanchez assured the man. “It seems clear you were not at fault.”

Neil looked at him for a moment, one corner of his mouth raised in a humorless half-smile. “But . . . ?”

“But . . . the tickets are an issue.”

“Am I going to lose my license?”

“Actually, because you had failed to pay those tickets, you’ve been driving on a suspended license for about a month.”

Neil winced. “What’s going to happen to me?”

Instead of answering, Sanchez asked a question of his own. “Do you have the money to pay the tickets?”

“Sure, I have plenty of money. Like I said, I meant to pay, it’s just . . . well, I don’t have any good excuse which I guess makes it worse, when you think about it.”

Sanchez took a moment to consider his options. He’d been told that if Mr. Baker seemed noncompliant or belligerent, he had the right to take the man into custody. However, he didn’t think that would be necessary; the man didn’t seem to pose any type of threat and he had been through enough today. “I’m not making any promises, but if you can pay the tickets as well as all the fees that have built up, maybe we can reinstate your license and let you off with just points added to your driving record.”

“Perhaps I should have my license taken,” Neil said softly. “After what I’ve done, maybe I should be off the roads.”

Sanchez placed a hand lightly on the man’s shoulder. “Well, you certainly need to slow down on the roads, but I don’t think you’re responsible for what happened today. Beating yourself up isn’t going to change anything.”

Neil seemed about to say something when a door opened to their right and a tall man in black scrubs walked out. Not a doctor, Sanchez thought, but maybe a male nurse. Both Neil and Sanchez stood.

The nurse came over to them, and he said to Neil, “You’re the one waiting for word on Mr. Wilson, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m waiting as well,” Sanchez said. “I have a few questions about the accident if Mr. Wilson is conscious.”

“I’m afraid not,” said the nurse. “The head trauma has caused a cerebral edema, or swelling of the brain. He’s in a coma.”

Neil sank back into the seat. “Oh God, oh God, oh God!”

“Any ideas how long this coma may last?” Sanchez asked.

“It’s hard to say with these types of injuries. Dr. Bice has him on a respirator to keep the blood oxygenated and is pushing hypertonic saline through an IV to help combat the edema. If the swelling does not begin to go down soon, surgery will be our next course of action to relieve the pressure.”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Neil continued to say like some simple but fervent prayer.

Sanchez handed the nurse one of his cards. “If there’s any change, please contact me.”

“And I’ll be here,” Neil said. “I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

The nurse left them, and Sanchez sat next to Neil again. “You know, last year my sister’s oldest had a bad wreck on a motorcycle.”

Neil looked over at him with a slight frown.

“His brain swelled up too,” Sanchez said. “He was in a coma for two weeks, and then one day he opened his eyes, looked over at my sister and said, ‘Hey Ma, I’m thirsty.’ Just like that, and now he’s good as new. Except he’s not allowed on a motorcycle again until he’s forty.”

“Officer Sanchez, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but we both know there are plenty of people who never wake up from comas. I have to start making peace with the idea that I may very well end up responsible for a man’s death.”

Sanchez recognized this as another of those moments where silence was the best response.

Neil leaned forward, placing his face in his hands, and muttered, “Maybe it’s a blessing Mr. Wilson has no family.”