Angel Falls (5 page)

He would not come to the rescue of his bastard daughter.

Rosa stood in the darkened living room. Here and there, watery moonlight peeked through the worn, tattered curtains, illuminating the garage-sale sofa, the wood-grained plastic end tables, the religious paintings on the walls. Mikaela and Liam had often tried to get Rosa to move from this house, or to accept money to repair it, but she always refused them. She was afraid that if she left, she would forget the mistakes God wanted her to remember.

It had all started here, in this house she never should have accepted. It had seemed safe enough at the time, a present from a man who loved her. In those days, she had still believed he would leave his wife.

Candlelight illuminated the streaks of condensation that slid down the too-thin glass windows.

When Mikaela was young, she used to love that condensation. She would shout to Rosa,
Look, Mama, it’s raining inside the house
.

Rosa wondered now if Mikaela had ever understood why her mother never came to stand beside her at the window. Rosa had seen tears instead of raindrops, had always known that this old house wept at the sadness it had seen.

Bad love.

It was the heart of this house; it had purchased every nail and paid most of the bills. It was mixed into the paint. Bad love had planted the hedge and made it grow tall; it had crafted the gravel walkway that led to a front door designed to conceal that love from all who would recognize it; it was woven into the fabric of the curtains that hid the windowpanes.

She had always known that she would pay for these sins. No amount of confession could cleanse her soul, but this … she’d never imagined this.

“Please God,” she said, “save
mi hija …
”

Again, silence. She knew that if she stepped outside, she would hear the rustling of the bare willow tree, and that it would sound like an old woman weeping.

With a tired sigh, she walked into her small bedroom, pulled her only suitcase out of the closet, and began to pack.

The bedside phone rang at six o’clock the next morning. Liam had been dreaming—a good dream in which he and Mikaela were sitting on the porch swing, listening to the children’s distant laughter. For a second, he could feel the warmth of her hand in his … then he noticed the boy sleeping quietly beside him and it all came rushing back.

His heart was clattering like a secondhand lawn mower as he reached for the phone.

It was Sarah, a nurse from the hospital. Mikaela had made it through the night.

Liam leaned carefully over Bret and hung up the phone. He crawled out of bed, showered—not realizing until he’d gotten out that he forgot to use soap or shampoo—then went to wake his children.

Within an hour, the three of them drove to the hospital. Liam settled the kids in the waiting room, then went to the ICU.

He went to Mikaela’s bedside, hoping—absurdly—to find her sitting up, smiling …

But the room was deathly still; she hadn’t moved.

She looked worse. The right side of her face was swollen almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were hidden beneath puffy discolored flesh.

Clear plastic tubing invaded her left nostril, and her mouth was completely slack. A tiny silver trail of spittle snaked down her discolored cheek, collected in a moist gray blotch on the pillow. The flimsy blanket was drawn up high on her chest; it had been folded with methodical precision and tucked in tight to her body in a way that made Liam think of death.

The team of specialists arrived. They examined her, tested her, and talked among themselves. Liam waited silently beside them, watching as his beloved wife failed one test after another.

Truth is, Liam, we don’t know why she’s not waking up
.

Some of the best doctors in the country, and that was all they could say. They didn’t know why she wasn’t waking up.

Just wait and hope. Pray she lives another day, then another day after that. Pray she wakes up on her own …

Although Liam hadn’t really expected a medical miracle, he’d certainly hoped for one. Even a radical surgery would be better than this … nothing.

The next time Liam glanced at his watch, it was eleven A.M. Through a sliver opening in the curtains, he saw a rosy line of morning sunlight.

It was time to tell his children … something.

He walked slowly toward the waiting room.

What a joke. As if expectation would sit only in that particular space. From now on, he knew, every room would be a waiting room. They would bring it with them, him and the children. At home they would see the empty spaces as clearly as their own hands. A vacant chair at the dinner table, an empty place on the sofa.

He allowed himself a moment’s pause before he turned into the alcove beyond the nurses’ station.

The room was good sized—big enough for large families to gather in grief or celebration. It was antiseptic white, with brown Naugahyde chairs and fake wood-grain tables that held scattered magazines and a few carefully placed Bibles. Like all such rooms, it seemed to amplify the ticking of the clock on the wall.

Jacey stood at the window, with her back to him. She appeared to be intently studying the parking lot, but he doubted that she saw anything except the image of her mother, broken and bleeding on the arena’s dirt floor.

Bret was on the gold sofa, his small body curled into the fetal position, his eyes squeezed shut. God knew what
he
was seeing. Again today he was sucking his thumb.

Liam found just enough strength to remain where he was. Maybe that’s how it would be from now on; he would make it through on “just enough.”

“Hi, guys,” he said at last, his voice so soft he wasn’t sure for a second that he’d spoken aloud at all.

Jacey spun to face him. Her long black hair—normally manicured to teenaged perfection—hung limply along her arms. She was wearing a pair of baggy flannel drawstring pants and an oversized knit sweater. Silver tear marks streaked her pale cheeks. Her eyes were red and swollen, and in them he saw the agonizing question.

“She’s still alive,” he said.

Jacey brought a shaking hand to her mouth. He could see how hard she was trying not to cry in front of her younger brother. “Thank God.”

Liam went to the sofa and scooped Bret onto his lap. The little boy was so still he seemed to have stopped breathing. “Sit down, Jace,” he said.

She sat down on the chair beside them, reaching out for Liam’s hand.

Bret snuggled closer and opened his eyes. Tears rolled down the boy’s pink cheeks. “Can we see her today?”

Liam drew in a deep breath. “Not yet. Yesterday I told you that her head was hurt, but there’s … a little more to it than that. She’s in a very deep sleep. It’s called a coma, and it’s the body’s way of healing itself. You know how when you have a really bad case of the flu, you sleep all the time to get better? It’s like that.”

Jacey’s colorless lips trembled. “Will she wake up?”

Liam flinched. Any answer—every answer—felt like a lie. “We hope so.”

He looked at Jacey and saw the sad, desperate knowing in her eyes. She was a doctor’s kid; she knew that not everyone woke up from a coma.

God help him, Liam couldn’t say anything to save her from the truth. Hope was something he could offer, but it wasn’t a prescription he could fill. “She needs us to believe in her,” he said, “to keep our hope fresh and strong. When she’s ready, she’ll wake up.”

Bret wiped his eyes. “Fix her, Daddy.”

“The docs are doing everything they can right now, Bretster, but she’s asleep …”

“Like Sleeping Beauty,” Jacey said to her little brother.

Bret burst into tears. “Sleeping Beauty was asleep for a hundred years!”

Liam pulled Bret into his arms and held on to his son tightly. Jacey scooted closer and hugged them both.

When Liam felt Bret’s tiny shudder, and the warm, wet rush of his daughter’s tears, he buried his face in his son’s coarse, red hair.

And he prayed.

There were too many cars in the hospital parking lot. Absurdly, that was Rosa’s first thought as she drove into the Ian Campbell Medical Center that afternoon. It took her several minutes to find a vacant parking space. Finally, she pulled in between a battered Ford pickup truck and an old Impala, and turned off the engine.

She took a deep breath and released her grip on the
steering wheel, one finger at a time. When she finished, she found that she was sweating, though the heater hadn’t worked in years and it couldn’t be more than forty degrees outside.

She gazed at the small figurine of the Virgin Mary anchored to the beige plastic dashboard. Then she got out of the car and walked toward the hospital.

The electronic doors whooshed open; the bitter, astringent smell of stale, medicated air assaulted her.

Rosa’s step faltered. She tucked her black vinyl purse against her narrow body and focused on the floor at her feet. It was an old habit, one she’d never been able to break. When she was nervous, she counted every step between where she was and where she wanted to be.

At the front desk, she stopped, barely looking up when the receptionist greeted her.

“I am here to see Dr. Liam Campbell,” she said.

“I’ll page him,” the girl answered. “Please have a seat.”

Rosa nodded and turned away. She kept her head down and counted the steps back to the collection of gray plastic chairs. Fourteen, to be exact.

She heard her son-in-law’s name echo through the halls. A few minutes later, she watched him walk toward her.

He looked as she would have expected, tired and beaten. He was a tall man, her son-in-law, although you didn’t notice that most of the time. There had been several occasions over the years when Rosa had turned to speak to Liam, or hand him something, and
had been startled by his height. Ordinarily, he just didn’t seem to take up that much space. But he had the heart of a lion. Rosa had never known anyone who loved as completely as her son-in-law.

“
Hola
, Dr. Liam,” she said, pushing to her feet.

“Hello, Rosa.”

For an awkward moment, she waited for him to say something. She stared up at him. In his green eyes, she saw a harrowing sadness that told her everything she needed to know.

“Is she still alive?” Her voice was barely a whisper.

He nodded.

“Ah … thank God. You will take me to see her now?” she said, her fingers toying nervously with the brass closure on her purse.

Liam looked away. His sandy blond hair was clumpy and tousled, as if he’d forgotten to wash it. “I wish …”

His voice, always quiet and carefully modulated, was now as thin as a strand of silk thread. The whispery tenor of it sent a chill down her back.

“I wish I could spare you this, Rosa,” he finished, and when he was done, he tried to smile. It was a desperate failure that frightened Rosa more than his words.

“Let us go,” was all she could say.

They walked down one hallway after another. All the way, Rosa kept her head down, counting every step. Liam’s body beside her was like a guardrail, keeping her on course.

Finally Liam stopped at a closed door.

Then he did the most remarkable thing—he touched her shoulder. It was a brief, comforting touch, and it surprised her. They were not that free with each other. She couldn’t remember him
ever
touching her.

That he wanted to comfort her now, in the midst of his own pain, moved her deeply.

She wanted to smile up at him, or better yet, touch him in return, but her fingers were trembling and her throat was dry.

“She doesn’t look good, Rosa. Do you want to go in alone?”

She meant to say yes,
thought
she’d said yes, but she heard herself say no. Liam nodded in understanding and followed her into the room.

When she saw her daughter, Rosa stopped and drew in a sharp breath.
“Dios mio.”

Mikaela lay in a narrow bed—a child’s bed, with silver railings. All around her, machines hissed and beeped. The room was dim; thank God. Rosa didn’t know if she could stand to see this under harsh fluorescent lighting.