“Hola, Señor Watson?” the male voice on the other end asked.
Raising apprehension as I focused on the call, I had almost convinced myself that this was possibly a client I’d had in Marbella who had no idea that I had left Knightly Industries. “Yes, this is Toby Watson. Can I help you? I’m checking in for my flight to London, and I’m on a tight schedule.”
“Sí, I understand pero su esposa…” he started saying. “Hubu un accidente y Señora…” Your wife had an accident. The words echoed while I instantaneously felt the roaring rush of dread, leaving me hot and cold.
I didn’t even let the guy finish speaking because, the second I heard him say the hospital name, I requested my passport back before getting into a taxi, leaving the airport in a dreadful rush.
The second we got to the hospital, I took all of my euros and shoved them into the driver’s hand, uncaring of the large sum.
Stepping into the emergency room, everything became a chaotic whirl. The attendant asked me to provide proof of identity before letting me know anything about Amelia’s condition, and I was almost thankful that I’d had the wherewithal to get my passport back amidst everything. Spanish folks were quite anal about such things, and I did understand the necessity and security purposes, but since this was happening to me, I could care less about safety procedures.
After the meticulous double-checking, I was told to wait in the sitting area and someone would inform me about Amelia’s condition. So I waited with threadbare patience.
A little over five minutes later, a young looking woman announced my name as she scanned the few faces in the waiting area.
“Here,” I said, standing up, meeting her halfway before demanding, “What news of my wife? Where is she? Was the accident bad? What about the baby? Is it okay? I need to know her room number so I can go up there immediately.”
The flow of questions stunned her from speaking for a moment until she was able to take in one question at a time. With accented English, she replied, “Sir, I’m sorry to inform you, but she was confirmed dead when the medics got to her.”
Confirmed.
Dead.
Amelia…
She was fine last night. It couldn’t be. There must’ve been a misunderstanding.
“I… I—I don’t understand,” I staggered with coherency and speech, barely making sense of anything.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Her face contorted with sorry and pity, as if she knew me, and me not being some random person with whom she had delivered a fateful message to. “We were able to save the baby, but her condition is not promising.”
At five months, the peanut I had seen yesterday hadn’t fully developed into a baby. How could something this horrific happen to an innocent thing? Let alone be delivered to the world early because the mother died before birthing.
“Can I see Amelia first then the baby?” I asked in a hollow voice, feeling helpless, and yet, in a deep catatonic sense of shock.
She nodded. “Sí, Señor. I just need to ask when she would be ready to be seen. They’re still cleaning her up after the C-section.”
“Thank you,” I barely managed to whisper as I backed onto a chair behind me, hitting my legs from behind as they immediately folded with no energy or power to hold my body up straight.
A harrowing pain conquered me, leaving me numb, distraught and shaken. No tears were shed, however inside, I mourned the loss of her. I had been given one day to see the real woman within before she had been taken away.
Regrets and wishful thinking flooded me once more. One regret—and it’s one I doubted I could ever forgive myself for—was not making that bloody call I had debated myself over. Had I made the effort, she still might be alive. Not dead somewhere in this hospital, lifeless like the white walls everywhere around me, witnessing another normal day.
Amelia... wherever you might be, if you can hear my thoughts, I need you to know that I will take care of her, raise her into a fine young lady and love her the way she needs to be loved.
For the first time in years, I was saying a silent prayer, begging for the little peanut to survive this grievous ordeal she had been faced with from the moment she was brought into the world.
Chapter 17
Toby
Someone came to fetch me, gently giving their condolences and sympathy as the nurse ushered me into a section where two large double doors with small rectangular glass in the middle stood in a vast hallway. The kind nurse left me there, wanting to give me space to grieve and come to terms with what awaited me behind those ominous doors.
Could I do this, look at her lifeless body knowing that I most likely was one of the causes of her death?
I stood out there, feeling quite small and hopeless against something so much larger than life—death.
“Señor, are you okay? Can I get you something?” the nurse came back to check on me, probably wondering what the heck I was doing out in the hall still.
“I’m—not so sure.” My mind kept telling me to move my limbs forward, yet my body was heavy, worn down, and still in great denial about it all.
I kept closing my eyes, hoping that I would wake up from this twisted nightmare; that Amelia wasn’t dead. That she was safe in her own house, resting like she was supposed to. I hadn’t gotten the full details yet, but I had been given the idea that she was driving alone. What provoked her to do that? Ever since I had known her, I had never seen her drive anything. She always had a driver—always. So this news came as a surprise.
A shiver ran past me, a mere brush, but it jolted me to life, making me pause as I looked around before I looked at the still, silent doors calling out to me.
“You know you want to go see her. Let me help.” The nurse stood right next to me, nodding towards the doors before she looked straight into me, as if telling me that it was all right to be afraid—that it was okay to show it.
I gave her a curt nod, signaling that I was willing to let her guide me inside. Her hand held my shoulder, gently tapping it as we started to walk to the other side of the door.
I wouldn’t call myself nervous because what I was feeling was a mixture of anxiety, trepidation, being completely at a loss, bereavement, powerlessness, anger; but most of all, guilt. I had it in spades.
It wasn’t far of a walk, and in no time, we reached a swinging, dark gray door.
“I’ll stay here. You go ahead.”
Urging myself to move, I took a few slow, timid steps, stopping as I gently pushed the door, holding my breath before my arm went lifeless and let go of the door. Panting now, I stared into my hand, feeling like I was going out of my mind.