Southampton Spectacular (8 page)

“I know,” James said, nodding. But still not really understanding. “But then after that, you – ”

There was another cry from near the wall, this time from maybe-gay Mr. Mahlmann. He was jumping up and down in his excitable, maybe-gay Mr. Mahlmann way, pointing at the entrance of the club. Pointing at someone who had just come in.

“Holy shit,” said the front desk man, who looked as if he could not believe his own eyes. “Here they are.” Silence descended again on the club as the pool crowd tried to put together what it was seeing.

Peter Hall was standing there at the entrance, an exhausted look on his face. His sagging posture gave the impression of someone who had run a very, very long distance to arrive at the club. In his arms was Frankie Dunn, who was wriggling and waving his arms happily. And laughing with unfettered glee.

Fantastic airplane ride. Best ever. Let’s go again.

No one moved. Devon studied her father from a distance, not daring to come any closer, lest he should somehow disappear again. She could see what looked like a thin stream of blood running down the side of his face, and his arms and legs were bruised and scratched in several places. But otherwise he seemed fine.

Ned Dunn was the first to break free from the shock. He ran over to Devon’s father and stood in front of him for a second, saying nothing. James came running close behind him, and he reached out to take Frankie from Mr. Hall. Frankie went willingly into the most familiar set of arms he knew, and he spared a fond, affectionate look for Ned, who had been nice enough to start him on this wonderful ride. Ned put a hand on Frankie’s head and let it rest there, running his fingers through the few strands of silky baby hair on top. Frankie burbled at him. Ned smiled sadly, and then he burst into tears.

Mrs. Dunn ran up, unsteady in her adrenaline rush and hangover. Her shoulders wagged unevenly as she ran. She came and took Frankie roughly from James and cradled him; Frankie began to cry at once. With her free hand, Mrs. Dunn reached out and slapped Ned across the face. Ned took a long, shaky breath, nodded slightly, and continued crying. Peter Hall stepped back automatically from this small exchange of domestic abuse, still looking exhausted. Mr. Dunn and Pauline came running over, and the nanny took her turn with Ned, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him and shouting at him and demanding to know what he had been thinking. Mr. Dunn looked uncomfortable at this, but he did not object. Or make any move to stop the nanny. Ned kept his head down and kept sobbing.

Two little girls at the opposite end of the pool, the Messier twins, began to cry spontaneously.

The rest of the pool crowd turned away. The assembled members of the Beach Club returned to their towels and chairs and chaises. They moved slowly, quietly, like people walking home after an overly long, overly sad opera.

“Close call,” someone murmured.

Peter Hall came walking unsteadily back toward his wife and daughter. He was dragging one of his feet slightly, as though he had twisted an ankle. They came out to meet him halfway. When they had almost reached him, Peter stopped suddenly and put his hand on a chair. He swayed to one side, and then he turned around as though he meant to check behind him. As if making sure he hadn’t tripped over something.

They saw the back of his head, and Cynthia Hall screamed. It was a scream of true anguish, of fear and pain and love, so unlike the sound Mrs. Dunn had made, with its undercurrent of guilt and embarrassment. Cynthia screamed with a rising crescendo of power that made Jerry Dunn cringe, and it silenced Frankie Dunn even though he did not like being held by the shaky, smoke-and-bourbon arms of his mother.

Cynthia Hall screamed again. She put her hands out in front of her like a Catholic priest performing the transubstantiation, as if she could somehow mend the back of her husband’s crushed skull with the sheer force of her horror, the sheer force of her wish that it were not so.

She screamed and screamed, and Peter Hall turned back to face her with an expression that was at once peaceful and afraid. He could not feel the injury – he was too deeply in shock – but his wife’s screams let him know that the injury was there, and that the injury was severe.

He began to fall, but Devon and her mother were both stunned and staggering. They would not make it to his side in time.

From nowhere, Austin Riley appeared.

Devon saw that he was still wet and dripping from the pool, and much larger somehow, now that he was up close and on land. He dropped smoothly down on one knee as Peter Hall crumpled, catching him gently in one arm and letting his legs fold slowly on top of themselves. With the other hand he guided the now unconscious Mr. Hall’s head and neck down to his own outstretched thigh, so that the upper body was supported without putting additional pressure on the crushed and bleeding back of the skull. Austin held out his hand uncertainly, below the man’s head, catching drops of blood as if they might contain pieces of brain matter, precious information, memories. He looked up at Devon and Cynthia Hall. Awaiting instructions.

For perhaps the first time in her life, Cynthia Hall was speechless. In her grief and shock at seeing her husband in such a state, the words would not come. Devon took a single moment to watch and wait, for the commands that had always been there in situations of crisis. But her mother was silent, wide-eyed. And so Devon spoke.

“Austin, you will not move.” She pointed at the front desk man without looking up. “Mr. Bindle, you will call 911 for an ambulance.” She glanced at him to be sure he was doing what she asked, but the phone was already at his ear. She looked back down at Austin, who was still holding his hand underneath Peter’s head as if stray bone fragments might start crumbling off at any minute. “Austin,” she said, as gently as she could manage, “you will stop trying to collect drops and pieces of my father. Take your hand away. Just make sure he doesn’t hit his head again.”

Austin let his hand fall to his side, where it dripped a watered-down mixture of pool chlorine and blood onto the bricks below.

“We’ll wait together,” Devon said.

They waited, but it seemed to take forever before they heard the sirens.

1

Devon’s father was not dead. But the doctors were also not able to say – or even guess – when or whether he would wake up. Devon and her mother sat and waited helplessly, miserably, as Peter was wheeled into surgery, out of surgery, back in and back out, until they could not keep track of which direction he was going. Time sped up and slowed down in unpredictable halts and lunges. They drifted in and out of sleep without being aware of which half of the day they were living in, light or dark, and they ate poorly from the vending machines. They were forced to endure a stream of poker-faced doctors coming and explaining to them the situation after each surgery, every doctor speaking in a way that made no sense. The explanations were couched in words with Latin roots, hidden by surgical terms of art. Cynthia Hall remained uncommonly quiet, and Devon was left to prod for an executive summary.

“Which means…?” she would say.

The doctor would shrug apologetically, and repeat what he or she had said the first time around, about intracranial pressure and the possibility of complications stemming from trauma to the occipital lobe, the specific risks associated with procedures in proximity to the parietal and temporal lobes, and the statistical probabilities surrounding any neurological deficits resulting from such an event, and did that make it more clear?

Devon would sigh, and say no, it did not at all, and turn away, leading her mother back to the emergency room chairs that were cold and stiff and reeking of shock and despair.

After what seemed like a week of waiting, they were put into a private room with Peter. His head was so densely wrapped in white gauze and bandages that Devon could hardly believe the bandages themselves would not cause extra pressure. But her father seemed to be resting comfortably, or as comfortably as could be expected under the circumstances. She hoped that if he were in pain, he would make some sound.

Or give some sign.

She found herself wondering how he could possibly
not
be in pain. In constant, body-wracking pain. This thought made her want to fall to the ground, to cry and wait for her mother to comfort her, but this was obviously not an option. She shook the thought away and pressed one finger to the corner of her eye. Pressed hard, until the pressure made her wince, and her head cleared.

Devon was worried almost as much about her mother as her father. Cynthia Hall had never, ever stayed quiet for this long. Cards and letters and flowers and boxes, actual boxes of food and best wishes, began arriving. They were ferried in quietly and furtively during the short window of visiting hours by Nina and Florin and James and Barnes and even a few times by Austin; each of them glanced briefly at Peter Hall’s still form before turning quickly away with a nod and an expression of support. Then they hurried silently back out the door. Devon acknowledged each of these deliveries with what she hoped was a grateful look, but she did not invite interaction. She took out the letters one by one, reading each one slowly to her mother, glancing up occasionally to see if there might be some reaction. But Cynthia Hall was unmoved. She continued to stare at her husband’s prone form like a cat watching a mouse hole. Devon supposed she was waiting for movement. Waiting for the sign that she herself was waiting for. Hoping for.

On the fourth day in the room, Devon’s mother finally stirred.

“So late,” Cynthia said suddenly.

Devon stopped. And stayed silent for what felt like a very long time. “What?” she whispered finally.

Her mother seemed to have been waiting for a prompt. “You were so late,” she said, turning slightly toward Devon.

“I was late?” Devon echoed, trying to play along. Trying to keep the conversation going. “When?”

Cynthia Hall turned to look at her daughter. Her eyes lost their cloudy covering, and she fixed Devon with the bright, hard-eyed intelligence that had always been there. Since Devon was ten, five, two. Since she could remember.

“You were late being
born
,” Cynthia said, and gave her a fond smile. “Late by a whole month.” She shook her head at the memory, as if still amazed that Devon had finally managed to be born at all. She let out a little laugh. “And those idiotic women counseling me, they told me the best thing was to just let the baby come. Let it come when it would come.” She looked up at the ceiling, then back at Devon, who was hearing only half of what her mother was saying. She was too relieved to have her back. To have her operating at full power again. “
But you weren’t coming at all
,” Cynthia said, her voice rising a notch, and this snapped Devon back to reality. Yes, her mother was back. But now she was moving forward. And she was trying to tell her something. “You weren’t coming,” Cynthia said, “and I had to
demand
that they do something about it. Can you believe that? Do you have any idea what it feels like to be over ten months pregnant?”

Devon shook her head. No, she did not. But she could try to imagine, even if she had never –

“No, you can’t,” her mother cut in gently. “You can’t even imagine it. But never mind. They took me in and they gave me the Pitocin. Do you know what that is? A synthetic hormone that mimics the stuff my body was
supposed
to be producing. It induces labor.” She smiled ruefully again at the thought. Yes, they had finally given her the Pitocin. In April. When Devon’s due date had been March 12th. But they had started her on a 0.5 mU/min solution drip, which would have been conservative even if Cynthia Hall, twenty-three at the time, had not been the strong, athletic, 185-pound-ten-months-pregnant woman that she was. And she
was
. So the solution they gave her was wholly insufficient, and it had no effect until they upped the concentration all the way to the maximum allowable dose of 12 mU/min, when contractions finally began. And this after eight hours of walking around the hospital, which made Cynthia’s swollen feet sing to her that they had had
enough
.

“I’ve had
enough
,” she called out, to the walls and to the supposedly calming lighthouse watercolor pictures decorating the antiseptic-blue hall, where she was shuffling along at one or two steps a minute like an injured tortoise. She was holding her enormous belly in one hand.

Peter was at her side, grasping Cynthia’s other hand and managing their traveling I.V. cart, with it’s tangle of hanging tubes and sensors attached to Cynthia’s belly, arm, heart, and pelvis. “I’m going to my
bed
,” she added, “and I’m going to lie down until this thing is
done
.”

From one of the rooms, a midwife appeared like a gnome. “You should try to keep walking as long as possible,” the little woman said, urgency in her voice. “To keep the baby moving down so that – ”

“Out of my way, please,” said Cynthia Hall, her voice in its full command register despite the pain radiating through her legs and abdomen. “Out of my way before I have my husband put you in some sort of sleeper hold.”