Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set Page 3

  The board was yellow and black like a road hazard sign. Kyle and I simultaneously glanced at Wathen. He showed no emotion. His lack of response made Kyle visibly nervous. “It’s a teaser campaign,” Kyle said. “We’d run this with both a south and north exposure on I-5 and I-45 for two months.”

  “It looks like a detour sign,” Abby said.

  “Exactly,” I replied.

  She continued. “But what if people think that some bridge is really under construction?”

  “Actually, that’s our hope,” I replied. “These potential clients of yours drive past several hundred billboards every day. They’ve learned to tune all those signs out, but not the directional signs. As they discover they’ve been tricked, this will give them a relationship with your development. After thirty days, we unveil the second board.” I pressed a button.

  Bridge opens July 16th

  “This is when we begin the television and radio campaign,” Kyle said. “While up to this point the campaign image has been purposely austere, the campaign now begins to show a luxurious aspect: upscale, beautiful, chic, happy people enjoying the exclusive lifestyle and amenities of The Bridge. You’ll notice that the bright yellow of the first board has subtly changed to a tint more gold.”

  “And then,” I said, “with the opening of Phase I, the final board.”

  The Bridge is now open.

  Cross over to Washington’s premier new Lifestyle

  Wathen smiled and slightly nodded. Stuart leaned over to whisper something to Wathen, and Abby was also smiling.

  Just then Falene opened the door. In a terse whisper she said my name, “Al.”

  Kyle looked at her incredulously. She knew better than to interrupt at such a crucial moment. I gave her a quick headshake. She walked to my side and crouched down next to me. “Alan, it’s an emergency. McKale’s had an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?” I said loud enough that everyone looked at me.

  “Your neighbor’s on the line. She says it’s serious.”

  I stood. “I’m sorry, my wife’s been in an accident. I need to take this call.”

  “Go ahead and take it here,” Wathen said, motioning to the phone in the middle of the table.

  Falene turned up the lights. I lifted the receiver and pushed down on the flashing button. “This is Al.”

  “Alan this is your neighbor, Monnie Olsen. McKale’s been in an accident.”

  My heart froze. “What kind of accident?”

  “She was thrown from her horse.”

  “How bad is she hurt?”

  “She was rushed to Overland.”

  Everything in my mind was swimming. “How bad is it? Tell me.”

  She hesitated then suddenly began to cry. “They think she’s broken her back.” Her voice faltered. “She . . .” she stopped. “I’m sorry, she said she couldn’t feel anything below her waist. You need to get to Overland.”

  “I’m on my way.” I hung up the phone.

  “Is she okay?” Wathen asked.

  “No. It’s bad. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll finish up,” Kyle said.

  As I left the room, Falene put her hand on my back. “What do you need?”

  “Prayers. Lots of prayers.”

  I sped to the hospital, oblivious to the world around me. The drive seemed endless, and the whole way there an adrenaline-fueled dialogue took place in my head—a battle between two polar forces. The first voice assured me that my neighbor was just panicked and everything was fine. Then another voice shouted, It’s worse than they’re saying. It’s bad beyond your worst nightmare.

  By the time I reached the hospital I was nearly crazed with fear. I parked in a handicap zone outside the emergency entrance and ran inside and up to the first admittance window, where a middle-aged woman with thick glasses sat behind a glass partition. She was looking at her computer screen and didn’t notice me.

  I tapped on the glass. “My wife’s in here,” I said frantically.

  She looked up at me.

  “McKale Christoffersen. I’m her husband.”

  She typed the name into her computer. “Oh, yes. Just a minute.” She picked up her phone and dialed a number. She spoke softly to someone then hung up and turned back. “We have someone coming to speak with you. Have a seat, please.”

  I sat down in a chair and covered my eyes with my hand and rocked back and forth. I don’t know how long I had been like that when I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. It was our neighbors, Monnie and Tex Olsen. The moment I saw their stricken faces something burst inside me. I began sobbing. Monnie put her arms around me. “We’re so sorry.”

  “Have you talked with the doctors?” Tex asked.

  I shook my head. “They’re still with her.” I turned to Monnie, “Did you see it happen?”

  She knelt down beside me and spoke quietly. “No, I found her just a few minutes after it happened. Her horse got spooked and threw her.”

  “How was she?”

  I wanted to hear comforting words, but she just shook her head. “Not good.”

  It was another ten minutes before a young woman, boyish-faced with short hair, slacks, and a silk blouse with a plastic name tag hanging from a lanyard around her neck walked out of the double-doored ER into the waiting room. The woman behind the glass motioned to me, though I’m sure it was only for confirmation. It wasn’t hard to pick out the guy in distress. “Mr. Christoffersen?”

  I stood. “Yes.”

  “I’m Shelly Crandall. I’m a hospital social worker.”

  They sent a social worker? I thought. “I want to see my wife.”

  “I’m sorry, but the doctors are still working on her.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Your wife has had a spinal fracture in her upper back. The doctors are stabilizing her.”

  “Is she paralyzed?” The words sprang from my mouth.

  She hesitated. “It’s too soon to say. In an injury like this there’s a lot of swelling, and that can affect the nerves. We usually wait seventy-two hours for an accurate prognosis of the damage to the spinal cord.”

  “When can I see her?”

  “It will still be a few hours. I promise, I’ll take you to her as soon as she’s out. I’m sorry, Mr. Christoffersen.”

  I slumped back down in the chair. Monnie and her husband sat across from me, silent.

  The wait was excruciating. Every minute that the clock ticked off seemed to steal hope with it. I listened anxiously to the overhead announcements about incoming traumas and patient emergencies, wondering if they were talking about McKale.

  Almost two hours after I arrived, the social worker led me back through the double doors of the ER. My first thought when I saw my wife was that there had been a mistake, and they’d taken me to the wrong room. McKale was vibrant and strong. The woman lying in the bed in a hospital gown looked tiny and fragile. Broken.

  My McKale was broken. Her eyes were closed, and her hair was spread out on the pillow behind her. The bed was flanked by monitors. There was an IV running from her right arm. I was surprised to see there was still dirt on her face. McKale had fallen face-first from the horse, and in the emergency effort, no one had taken the time to clean her off.

  My legs felt as if my body suddenly weighed a ton. I leaned against the bedrail as my eyes filled with tears. “Mickey . . .”

  At the sound of my voice, McKale’s eyes fluttered, and she looked up at me.

  I squeezed her hand. “I’m here.”

  Tears filled her eyes. Her voice came softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  I fought back my own tears. I needed to be strong for her. “What are you sorry for?”

  “I ruined everything.”

  “No, baby. You’re going to be okay. Everything’s going to be okay.”

  She looked at me for a moment then closed her eyes. “No, it’s not.”

  The next twenty-four hours passed like a nightmare. McKale’s IV fed her a steady stream of mor
phine, and she dozed in and out of consciousness as I sat beside her. Once she woke and asked if this were a dream. How I wished I could have told her “yes.” Around eight, I went out of the room to make some calls.

  My first call was to McKale’s father. He began to cry and promised he’d be out on the next available flight. Then I called my father. He was quiet when I told him. “I’m sorry, son. Do you need anything?”

  “A miracle.”

  “Wish I had one. Do you need me to come up?”

  “No.”

  “Okay.” He was perfectly fine with that. We both were. That’s just the way it was.

  Later that night I got a call from Kyle. “How’s McKale?”

  “Just a minute,” I said. I walked out of McKale’s room. “Her back’s broken. It’s bad. We just don’t know how bad yet.”

  “But she’s not paralyzed . . .”

  I hated that word. “We don’t know yet, but she can’t move her legs.”

  He groaned. “There’s hope, isn’t there? Miracles happen every day.”

  “That’s what we’re hoping for.”

  We were both quiet for a long time. Then he said, “I called to tell you we got the Bridge account.”

  It took a minute for what he said to register. I was astonished that what had completely dominated my thoughts for weeks before no longer owned space or importance. Had it been another day, we would have been celebrating with an expensive meal and a bottle of champagne at Canlis. That world already seemed like a distant memory. All I said was, “Oh.” I realized just how disconnected I’d suddenly become.

  There was another long silence. Finally Kyle said, “Hey, don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got everything under control.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. Did McKale get the flowers I sent?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Give McKale my love. And don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

  CHAPTER

  Six

  Nothing is more excruciating than waiting for the jury’s verdict. Except, perhaps, hearing the jury’s verdict.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  The next three days ticked by in a surreal limbo, my heart vacillating between hope and despair. The doctors echoed what the social worker had said—they wouldn’t know for certain the extent of the nerve damage for seventy-two hours. A lot can happen in seventy-two hours, I told myself. Maybe when the swelling decreased, she would get feeling and movement back.

  She had to recover. McKale in bed, immobile, was about the most unnatural thing I could imagine.

  The rest of my world ceased to exist. I stayed by McKale’s side, and at night I slept in a cot next to her bed, at least tried to, since the nurses seemed to come in every twenty minutes to check on something. I didn’t want her to wake and not have me there. McKale’s father, Sam, arrived Saturday afternoon, and for the first time I left her side and went home to shower and change my clothes. I was only gone for a couple of hours.

  Monday morning I didn’t go home. It had been seventy-two hours since the accident, and the doctors had told us they were coming in the morning for her tests. Finally we were going to find out the extent of the damage. Sam arrived around ten. That morning none of us spoke of the tests. McKale talked to her father about his new home in Florida, then she asked me about work. I realized then that I hadn’t told her about the Bridge account.

  “That’s good news,” she said.

  Sam was more excited than both of us. “Well done, my boy. Well done.”

  I feigned a smile. I had no real interest in it and spoke of it only to take our minds from weightier matters.

  Around eleven thirty, three doctors entered the room. One of them carried a small vinyl satchel, another a clipboard. I recognized the female doctor from the day of the accident. She said to me, “I’m Dr. Hardman. You’re McKale’s husband?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you’re her father?”

  Sam nodded.

  “I’m going to need you both to leave while we conduct these tests.”

  I wanted to ask why but didn’t. I put a lot of faith in the doctors. I realized later that it wasn’t them I put faith in; it was my hope that she would be healed. Sam stepped away, and one of the doctors began pulling the curtains around the bed.

  “May we stand outside and listen?” I asked, pointing to the other side of the curtain.

  “Sure,” she said.

  I leaned over and kissed McKale’s forehead. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  I parted the curtain and walked outside next to Sam.

  “How are you, McKale?” Dr. Hardman asked.

  McKale mumbled something.

  “I’m sorry. We’re going to run some tests. They’re quite simple. They shouldn’t be painful.” There was some shuffling, and McKale moaned in pain as they rolled her over to get a look at her spine.

  I heard a bag unzipping, and then one of the doctors said, “Dr. Schiffman will touch various parts of your body with this tool.” (After the procedure I saw the tool. It looked like a medieval torture device. It was shaped like a wheel, with pins radiating out from the center.) “We will run this along different parts of your body and then ask for a response. Are you ready?”

  “Yes,” McKale said meekly.

  Then I heard one of the doctors ask, “Can you feel this, McKale?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart thrilled. I wanted to high-five Sam, but he was just looking at the floor.

  “Okay. Now we’ll try below your waist. Can you feel this?”

  There was a long pause. McKale said, “No.”

  “How about this?”

  There was another pause. This time her voice was slightly strained. “No.”

  My stomach twisted. C’mon, McKale.

  “How about this?”

  McKale started to cry. “No.”

  I started silently praying. Please, God. Let her feel something.

  “How about this?”

  McKale was crying now. “No.”

  Sam put his hand over his eyes.

  “And this?”

  “No. I can’t feel anything,” she shouted. “I can’t feel anything!”

  I parted the curtain, but Dr. Hardman just shook her head at me. I stepped back.

  “Now we’re going to test for deep nerve damage. Sometimes nerve damage is just on the surface, and patients retain feeling under their skin. I am going to insert this needle into your leg, and I need you to tell me if you feel anything.”

  I kept waiting for something, but McKale didn’t make a sound.

  I dropped down to a chair and held my head in my hands. I felt sick. She had no feeling. McKale was paralyzed.

  CHAPTER

  Seven

  As a boy I heard this story in church. A man was patching a pitched roof of a tall building when he began sliding off. As he neared the edge of the roof he prayed, “Save me, Lord, and I’ll go to church every Sunday, I’ll give up drinking, I’ll be the best man this city has ever known.”

  As he finished his prayer, a nail snagged onto his overalls and saved him. The man looked up to the sky and shouted, “Never mind, God. I took care of it myself.”

  How true of us.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  In spite of the permanent damage to her nerves, her spine still needed to be repaired and she had to go back in for surgery. We had to wait another 24 hours before the hospital was able to fit her in. Sam had to fly home that morning, so I was the only one at McKale’s side when they rolled her off to surgery. I waited tensely in the waiting room.

  When the surgeon came out to give me an update, he had a large smile on his face. “That went very well. Even better than we expected. We were able to repair her spine without any major problems.”

  His tone elevated me. “Does that mean she might walk again?”

  His expression fell. “No. It just means that the bones of the spine
are repaired.”

  I’m told that there’s a universal pattern to grief and loss that everyone must pass through. The first three stages are denial, anger, and bargaining. I suppose I did them all at once. I promised God everything. I’d give all my money to the poor, spend my life building homes for the homeless, anything that might get His attention.

  I even had a plan for God to make it happen. I would just wake like the whole thing had been a bad dream. No one would even have to know what had happened. But I never woke from this dream. God had other plans.

  CHAPTER

  Eight

  We are such fools. We punish our friends and reward our enemies far more often than we are willing to believe.

  Alan Christoffersen’s diary

  Wednesday afternoon, Falene called. I didn’t really want to take her call but did anyway. She had already called several times over the last week and left messages that she urgently needed to talk to me. She was surprised to hear my voice. “Alan?”

  “Hi, Falene.”

  “How is McKale?”

  “The damage to her nerves is permanent.”

  Falene slightly gasped. When she spoke, there was emotion in her voice. “I’m so sorry.” After a few moments, she said, “What can I do?”

  “There’s nothing anyone can do,” I said angrily. “If there were, we would have done it.” Falene was silent. After a moment I said, “I’m sorry. I’m not doing well.”

  “I understand.”

  “What did you need to talk to me about?”

  She hesitated. “It can wait,” she said. “Things will work out. Give McKale my love.”

  I puzzled over her comment but pushed it aside. “All right, we’ll talk later.”

  Kyle called later that evening. “How is McKale?”

  “She’s paralyzed.”

  Kyle was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry, man. I wish there was something I could do.”

  I sniffed. “Yeah.”

  “I met with Wathen this morning. He asked how you’re doing.”