I'm a country singer who's been on the road too long.
It’s just after two am and the joint’s finally emptied. Cal’s counting his take and LeAnn’s waiting for me to pack up my equipment.
I’m feeling rusty like I’ve had too much of people, and don’t want to go back to the motel with LeAnn—just want to go home to bed.
An aching starts inside me as it always does when I’ve had enough and I know the gig is over.
My cell rings and I check the Caller ID and see it’s Bonnie.
A cloud of guilt overshadows me, but I push it away and pick up.
“Hi Babe—it’s kinda late—what’s up?”
“It’s not Bonnie, Charley—it’s Jackie.”
Jackie is Bonnie’s best friend. I feel a tingle of fear start up my spine.
“Jackie—is anything wrong?”
“Yeah, Charley—Bonnie was in an accident coming home from work—she’s in St. Joe’s Hospital in intensive care.”
I’m afraid to ask, but have to. “What’s her condition?”
“Not good, Charley. She’s in a coma. The doctors think you should come.”
“Okay, okay.” My brain’s working at light speed, processing images. I see our entire life pass before me.
“Look,” she says, “I’m going to stay until you get here—how long do you figure that will be?”
I know driving at the limit will take three hours. “I’ll be there just after four, I lie.”
“Hey, Charley—don’t kill yourself getting here. I’m with her. Be careful.”
“I will.”
I’m already heading out the door. LeAnn catches my eye and one glance says it all. We’ll be frozen forever in this moment, caught in the amber goo of sin.
“Take care,” she shouts and I nod to acknowledge her words.
Out on the back roads, there’s no limit and no police patrol. I flick on the high beams and set the cruise control to a hundred on roads posted seventy.
Even pushing it, I’ll be lucky to make it to the hospital by five am.
As the miles flow by I start replaying our lives—Bonnie at eighteen, so beautiful, I couldn’t believe my luck.
I was ten years her senior then, and just coming off a bad breakup—five years with Bente and I was still grieving.
It took me a long five years to put my old relationship behind me, but Bonnie stayed on because she loved me –and maybe the truth is, she simply wanted to win and not be left behind.
A light rain begins to fall and the road goes shiny and blurry, partly from the rain and partly from my tears.
I disable the cruise control, tromp the gas pedal and when I hit Highway 401, open it up and bury the speedometer needle.
At four thirty I make it to the intensive care. Jackie buries her tear-stained face in my shoulder.
“Is she okay?” I ask.
She can barely speak, but nods. “She’s the same—still out.”
The doctor appears and takes me aside.
“She’s stable, but in a coma. The next twelve hours are critical. We stabilized her, at least she’s breathing on her own.”
“What do you think, Doc—what are her chances?”
“It’s too early to make a prognosis—best thing you can do is be with her—talk to her. Sometimes comatose patients can hear loved ones’ voices and it helps.”
My eyes fill up. I can’t speak, just nod. He pats my arm to encourage me. I want to let out everything inside, but can’t. I’ve got to be there to support Bonnie—be strong—talk to her.
When I go into the room I feel sick. She’s lying there in a green hospital gown hooked up to all these machines graphing lines and making beeps. I feel overwhelmed.
A nurse comes by and brings me a chair. I sit down in a daze beside the bed. I wait till the nurse goes back out.
I hold Bonnie’s hand and it’s warm and soft. “Hey, Babe. I’m here.”
No response.
“Jackie called. It’s going to be all right. I’m going to stay right here until you wake up.”
No flicker of eyelashes, no faint squeeze of the hand. Nothing.
I feel panic rise inside and push it down—wait till my heart slows.
I have no idea what to do—I’m as helpless as her lying there in the bed opposite me.
I think of that basement apartment we had when we first married. I was so proud of her and so in love.
We’d come home exhausted, tired out from work, and just lie on the bed—and I’d hold her hand—like now.
I’d lie there beside her as she fell asleep. She has this adorable habit of tucking in her thumb—but not now. Now, her hand’s limp and white, and feels like someone else’s hand. Maybe feels like LeAnn’s.
I squeeze my eyes really tight willing the thought to go away, but it doesn’t, and when I open my eyes she’s still lying motionless in the bed opposite me.
I try talking to her—retelling our life story—confessing my sins, wanting to make amends to her …again.
I can picture her face, as she’d sit there, squint her eyes, and say, "Uh huh." That’s Bonnie all right—always saw right through me and didn’t believe a word I said.
Even I realize how futile it all sounds—how weak the excuses are and know there is no way I can make her understand what she really means to me.
Love, oh love, oh careless love.
“It all went south, Babe, when I got out on the road and got lost in that culture. Country music was a language I had to speak and a way to do the things I had to do. I don’t expect you to understand, because I don’t—not really.”
I look over at her face and swear she’s listening. There’s no movement—more like the way cloud shadows flit across a pond and reflect back the mood of the sky. So, I blunder on.
“Sure, maybe you’re right about me being a hopeless romantic, lost in a breakfast cereal commercial of the perfect life—but at least I had half of it—a perfect wife.”
She’d roll her eyes about now, take a deep breath, sigh and shake her head in disbelief that a man could be so dumb.
“Just give me one more chance, Babe—one more chance in a lifetime of chances—hate me if you want, but just breathe!”
She gives a slight gasp and her eyes flutter open—I’m aching so deep I can’t speak.
She pats my hand and whispers, “I heard everything and I’m holding you to it.”
I let go of the road and come home.
