Mike Wells - Baby Talk

But her motherly instincts overtook her reason. She continued on her previous course, resuming maximum speed. After two more strides, she had caught up with the front bumper of her own car; after another stride, she was in between her car and the truck, with the front end of her car approaching fast.

Now there was only a couple of feet between the two vehicles.

Annie’s hand flew out towards the handle of the door on her car, even though she was too far away to actually reach it.

At that instant, she caught another glimpse of Natasha, smiling at her mother with childish glee, waving her hands in the air at whatever imaginary things babies wave their hands, perhaps thinking that this was all some kind of fun game that Mommy had made up to amuse her.

That was when Annie went down.

The front of her car slammed against her left hip. A split-second later, both she and her car smashed into the side of the truck. Although she felt like she was flying gracefully through space, Annie was in fact spinning wildly, like a rag doll discarded by an angry toddler. She was only dimly aware of her own bones cracking.

The next second or so was filled with the smells, textures, and tastes of tire rubber and concrete.

And then...blackness.

* * *

Neal awoke in the bed with a start.

He sat up, gazing out into the darkness. His mind felt like mush. What time was it? What day was it?

His foot was throbbing...and his shoulder...

Neal remembered the note on the refrigerator, then peered over at the door to the living room. It was open, but the entire apartment was dark.

Where the hell were his wife and daughter?

Gritting his teeth in pain, Neal eased himself out of bed and fumbled around in the blackness until he found the light switch. His foot throbbed as if about to explode.

“Annie?” he called out into the living room, thinking maybe she and Natasha were asleep on the couch. But he could see that they weren’t there.

Neal sighed miserably. His mind was still a little fuzzy from the pain killers, but most of the effects had worn off. He turned around and peered across the room, at the night stand. The clock said 11:38.

“Damn,” he muttered, holding his hand to his dully-aching head. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long.

Then noticed something else—the phone was off the hook.

Maybe something had happened to Annie and Natasha. With the phone off the hook, nobody could get through...

Feeling a groggy sort of panic, Neal limped back across the room and clumsily placed the receiver back in its cradle. As he did this, he noticed something else...things were missing from the room. All of Natasha’s toys were gone. The fish-mobile above her crib, some pictures of Natasha that were on the dresser, Annie’s small library of baby books...

Maybe someone had broken in...

Annie left you a note, Neal. Remember? She went to the grocery store.

The phone rang.

Neal turned and stared at it, confused. With an unexplainable sense of dread, he slowly reached for the receiver.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Neal limped through the main entrance of the Sandy Springs hospital, almost unaware of the pain in his foot, and asked where intensive care was located.

“Sixth floor,” a nurse told him.

Neal limped down the long hallway in a semi-daze, feeling as if he were still dreaming. The bright fluorescent lights and white uniforms and wheelchairs and medicinal smells made him only think of catastrophe and death. Why hadn’t he noticed that the phone was off the hook before he had fallen asleep? The hospital had been trying to call him since six o’clock, when the ambulance had arrived at the emergency room.

He stepped onto the elevator and punched the “6” button, then leaned against the panel to give his foot a rest. At least Natasha was all right, that much he knew. But they would only say that Annie was in a “guarded” condition and that he should come to the hospital right away. The doctor in charge of her would give him more details, they said.

When the elevator doors finally opened, Neal limped out onto the sixth floor, now painfully aware of his own injury. He nearly bumped into an attendant who was pulling an IV cart down the hall.

“My wife’s in here somewhere,” Neal said, “and I don’t know which—”

“Nurse’s station,” the man said sharply. He continued on his way, the IV rattling behind him.

Neal limped down hallway and stopped in front of a desk where three nurses were sitting, one talking on the phone and the other two fussing with file folders.

“I need to know where my wife is,” Neal said. “And my baby daughter.”

One of the file-folder shufflers looked up at him. “The name?”

“Becker,” Neal said, trying to keep his voice even. “Ann Crawford Becker.”

The nurse glanced at a piece of paper in front of her. “Your wife’s in 623. Your daughter...” The nurse ran her finger down the list. “Are you sure she’s in intensive care?”

“No, there’s nothing wrong with her. At least that’s what somebody told me on the pho—”

“Your daughter’s fine,” the nurse on the phone said, covering the mouthpiece. “She’s in the nursery, on the fourth floor. Carla, call down there and have someone bring her up here.” She looked back at Neal and motioned down the hallway. “Room 623 is down at the first corner.”

Neal nodded. Now, all three of the nurses were looking at him. No, they weren’t looking at him, they were gawking at him.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Becker?” the nurse named Carla asked.

“I’m fine.” Neal wiped his forehead self-consciously. He had been sweating like racehorse ever since he had awoken from his long nap. “Where’s the room?”

The nurses exchanged glances with each other.

“Right down that way,” the nurse on the phone repeated, “at the first corner.”

“Thanks.”

Neal turned and began to limp down the hallway, aware of the three sets of eyes on his back. When he reached Room 623, he peered through the doorway and swallowed hard. Someone was under an oxygen tent. There was so much gauze around the person’s head it looked like it might have belonged to a mummy. The eyes were the only part of the face that were visible.

They were both shut—and blackened.

Neal hobbled into the room, aware of the soft hissing and beeping of the machines that surrounded whoever was laying in the bed. With a sinking feeling, Neal admitted to himself that it had to be Annie—there was no one else in the room.

Neal approached his wife with trepidation. She was as motionless as a corpse. He slowly reached out and took her cold fingers in his hand.

“Are you Mr. Becker?”

Neal turned partially around—a pudgy nurse had just glided into the room.

“Yes,” Neal said blankly.

“We’re glad to see you. I’ll go find the doctor who’s—”

“I’m right here,” a male voice said. A middle-aged man came through the door, tall and wearing a pair of teardrop-shaped glasses.

“I’m Dr. Rayson,” he said, offering Neal his hand.

Neal let go of Annie’s fingers and shook Rayson’s hand.

“Your baby’s just fine.”

“Where is she?” Neal said, then remembered that one of the nurses had already told him.

“Down in pediatrics, in the nursery. Somebody’s on the way up here with her right now. After we looked her over in the ER, we sent her up there to make sure she was okay, but there wasn’t much doubt about it. The car was only traveling about ten miles an hour, backwards, and your daughter was strapped into her car seat. The impact was negligible.”

“Backwards?” Neal said, glancing back at Annie’s unconscious face. “What happened, anyway? Is she going to be all right?”