The Husband's Secret(144)

            “Her arm,” interrupted John-Paul. “The main concern through the night seemed to be her right arm.”

            “Yes.” Dr. Yue locked eyes with Cecilia and breathed in and out, as if he were a yoga teacher demonstrating breathing techniques. “I’m very sorry to say that the limb is not salvageable.”

            “Pardon?” said Cecilia.

            “Oh God,” said John-Paul.

            “I’m sorry,” said Cecilia, still trying to be nice, but feeling a surge of fury. “What do you mean ‘not salvageable’?” It sounded like Polly’s arm was at the bottom of the ocean.

            “She’s suffered irreparable tissue damage, a double fracture, and there’s no longer sufficient blood supply. We’d like to do the procedure this afternoon.”

            “Procedure?” echoed Cecilia. “By ‘procedure’ you mean . . .”

            She couldn’t say the word. It was unspeakably obscene.

            “Amputation,” said Dr. Yue. “Just above the elbow. I know this is terrible news for you, and I’ve arranged for a counselor to see you—”

            “No,” said Cecilia firmly. She would not stand for this. She had no idea what a spleen did, but she knew what a right arm did. “She’s right-handed, you see, Dr. Yue. She’s six years old. She can’t live without her arm!” Her voice skidded into the ugly maternal hysteria she’d been trying so hard to spare him.

            Why wasn’t John-Paul saying anything? The brusque interruptions had stopped. He had turned away from Dr. Yue and was looking back through the glass panels at Polly.

            “She can, Mrs. Fitzpatrick,” said Dr. Yue. “I’m so very sorry, but she can.”





            There was a long, wide passageway outside the heavy wooden doors that led to Intensive Care, beyond which only family members were allowed. A row of high windows let in dust-flecked rays of sunlight, reminding Rachel of church. People sat in brown leather chairs all the way along the passageway: reading, texting, talking on their mobile phones. It was like a quieter version of an airport terminal. People enduring impossibly long waits, their faces tense and tired. Sudden muffled explosions of emotion.

            Rachel sat in one of the brown leather chairs facing the wooden doors, her eyes continually watching for Cecilia or John-Paul Fitzpatrick.

            What did you say to the parents of a child you’d hit with your car, nearly killed?

            The words “I’m sorry” felt like an insult. You said “I’m sorry” when you bumped against someone’s supermarket trolley. There needed to be bigger words.

            I am profoundly sorry. I am filled with terrible regret. Please know that I will never forgive myself.

            What did you say when you knew the true extent of your own culpability, which was so much more than that assigned to her by the freakishly young paramedics and police officers who had arrived at the accident yesterday. They treated her like a doddering old woman involved in a tragic accident. Words kept forming in her head: I saw Connor Whitby and I put my foot on the accelerator. I saw the man who murdered my daughter and I wanted to hurt him.

            Yet some instinct for self-preservation must have prevented her from speaking out loud, because otherwise, surely, she would be locked up for attempted murder.

            All she remembered saying out loud was, “I didn’t see Polly. I didn’t see her until it was too late.”

            “How fast were you going, Mrs. Crowley?” they asked her, so gently and respectfully.

            “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”