Saving Meghan(5)

Becky’s hands trembled as she fished her license from her wallet and her phone from her purse. She handed the ID to Reginald and then checked her phone, which showed a series of texts from Carl. The last one eased her anxiety considerably.

Meghan is resting in the ER. Seems stable. She’s asking for you. Are you able to get here?

Becky texted back: Don’t let them discharge her. Be there soon.

“I need to leave now,” Becky told Reginald. “I have to get to the hospital. Am I under arrest?”

“Well, Mrs. Gerard,” said Dave the air marshal, taking it upon himself to answer. He stood and exhaled loudly in a way that pushed out his ample midsection like a balloon. “You’ve created a serious situation for yourself.”

“Stop it, just stop it,” Reginald snapped. He handed Becky back her license. “No, Mrs. Gerard, you are not under arrest. You’re free to go. And we owe you a sincere apology. I also suspect you’ll have your airfare refunded and a free trip coming your way.”

But Dave was not through. He had to save face somehow. There was a brief, albeit stern, lecture on how to properly engage the flight crew during an emergency, and then some forms to sign, and threats of a stiff fine and possible jail time if she ever disrupted a flight again, all of which Becky said she understood just so they would hurry up and let her go.

Eventually, Reginald took Becky to another dingy room where piles of confiscated luggage languished, each piece representing someone’s horrible day. There Reginald explained at least one reason why he’d shown her such compassion.

“I had a son who died of leukemia a few years back,” he explained. “Those last moments we had together were the most precious of my life. If I were in your position, I’d have done the same thing.”

“I suspect you wouldn’t have been on that plane in the first place,” said Becky, who had yet to forgive herself.

She felt Meghan’s pain, her daughter’s illness, as though it were her own. Exhaustion took root inside her bones, where it calcified to make activities once routine (grocery shopping, laundry, cooking, yard work) an effortful chore.

Of course, the brunt of Meghan’s care had fallen on her, the mother. At times Becky felt angry for the burden, and immediately afterward she’d be consumed with guilt. How dare she feel anything other than tremendous empathy when it was Meghan who suffered the most? These were things Becky wrestled with in the quiet dark—dreading what tomorrow might bring—while Carl slept peacefully beside her.

Becky’s community of online friends, built up over a year and a half through her Facebook group, Help for Meghan, regularly posted positive affirmations, which she’d turn to when in need of a mental pick-me-up.

I breathe in calmness and breathe out fear.

I let go of my anger so I can see clearly.

I may not understand the good in this situation, but it is there.

She had invited friends whom she knew would want regular updates on Meghan’s health to join the group, but word spread the way word does on the internet, and before long, strangers began opting into the public group. Initially, Becky kept the group public, thinking it would be good to cast as wide a net as possible. Members offered advice on doctors, made assured diagnoses, and suggested treatments without ever having met Becky or Meghan, all to no avail.

Becky was never one to turn to God for answers. Cora had instilled in her children no sense of the divine, which left Becky unmoored as Meghan’s condition worsened. Her online group had evolved to become her church as well as her religion. It was there she’d turn when needing solace and support. Carl tended to focus more on solutions and answers, at the expense of a compassionate ear. Becky knew not to cast blame. They were both pushing through the dark, and in the process, sometimes, oftentimes, losing sight of each other.

Becky thanked Reginald for his kindness as she got ready to depart. Instead of a handshake goodbye, Reginald pulled her in for an unexpected hug, something she so often wished Carl would do.

She thanked Reginald again before rushing out the door, luggage in tow, in search of a cab to take her to the hospital, praying that if her worst nightmare came true, she’d arrive in time to say a final goodbye to her precious daughter before she was gone.





CHAPTER 3


Becky thrust a fifty through the Plexiglas divider to the driver of the yellow cab—who, at her request, had disregarded the speed limit for most of the trip.

“Thanks,” she said, even before her taxi had come to a stop beneath the ambulance entrance of Saint Joseph’s Hospital. Saint Joe’s did not have the same renown as the Boston hospitals, but it was closest to her Concord home.

The red neon glow of the emergency sign on the portico overhang lit Becky’s face as she rushed through the automatic double doors, through the waiting room, and directly to Reception. The opaque sliding-glass window opened on cue, and a receptionist greeted her with a halfhearted “May I help you?”

“Yes, I’m here to see my daughter.” Becky huffed out the words, a bit winded from her short sprint. “Meghan Gerard. She’s in the ER.”

“Just a moment,” the receptionist replied, showing no great concern for Becky’s obvious agitation.

“My husband is with her,” Becky announced. “I shouldn’t have to wait out here.”

“Just a moment,” repeated the receptionist. To punctuate her request, she slid the glass window closed shut, leaving Becky in the company of the ten or so folks in the waiting room.