Regret

After several loud knocks, followed by a loud boom, the engine stopped. The wind howled around Dewayne Wolverton’s worn-out Bronco as rain beat against his windshield.

The lumberjack stared at the bright red ER sign, then at his watch, 7 pm. Was it only an hour ago he was at the Had-A-Call Bar celebrating with his crew over the 1000-acre timber contract they acquired?

“They were supposed to start cutting Monday! Leave it to Marsha; to slow me down.”

Firm fingers started drumming the steering wheel, still bothered about the interruption.

His wife always did reckless things and called the bar to get his attention sooner.

The scene replayed in Dewayne’s mind. The cold beer tasted good going down, ignoring his men’s laughter and the ringing phone. When the bartender, Randy, exclaimed in a harsh tone, “Julie said Marsha was in an accident to get your ass to the hospital as soon as possible.” His mood changed.

“Damn woman, good thing, I’d only downed two beers during the four hours I was at the bar; usually I’d be on my sixth by that time.”

Thirty-six-year-old, Dewayne Wolverton ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Groaned, unable to delay his presence another second used to doing what he wanted, and being at the hospital was not on his to-do list.

Grind, pop, squeak, the door opened in protest; the once white but now rust-colored Bronco complained.

Dewayne walked up to the admittance desk with an attitude as water dripped off his jacket. “Excuse me, where can I find Marsha Wolverton?”

A fluffy lady, with her hair, pulled up in a bun, wearing large-framed glasses, looked up from her paperwork, undeterred. “Only immediate family can see her. What is your relation to the patient?”

His gaze squinted in irritation, absently thumping his fingers on the counter. “I’m her husband,” Dewayne gritted out.

“Mr. Wolverton, your wife, was taken to an ICU room soon after the emergency procedure Dr. Lee and his team performed.”

A nurse rushed over after catching his name. “Mr. Wolverton, I’m glad you’re here. Your wife’s condition has stabled.” She motioned for Dewayne to follow.

“Hold up! What in the world was going on?” His mind raced as he followed the nurse down the hall to the elevator. It was the longest ride in his life.

“Your wife’s room is close to the nurse’s desk on the ICU floor; she’s in excellent hands.” The nurse opened the door and ushered him inside a room.

“If you need anything, Mr. Woverton, push this button on the side of her bed, or this one on the remote to get me.” She showed Dewayne.

“I’m the nurse on call tonight; my name is Tammy.”

Dewayne nodded, then closed the door and looked down at his unconscious wife. His body tensed. The seriousness of the situation sank in; his gaze froze on the figure in the bed. The unrecognizable woman could be any female, but the distinctive red hair gave Marsha away.

Since his arrival at the Denver Medical Center, the severity of the accident; struck hard, leaving him unprepared to see Marsha’s accident wasn’t simple.

“Why didn’t Julie call me and tell me Marsha almost died? That blasted sister of hers enjoys making me look like a fool for not knowing Marsha’s accident was bad. No, that B, wanted me to think she only broke her arm or leg.” Dewayne stood in a daze looking at his wife, fumbling in his pocket to check his phone, and saw the volume muted. He flicked to calls; he had ten missed calls from Julie. “Oh, shit.”

His head fell forward, and his massive shoulders sagged as helplessness struck. His eyes fixed on the lifeless body, moistened. Standing six-three, with a strong, well-defined, agile body, anyone that knew him would never consider Dewayne Wolverton capable of tender emotions.

Marsha’s face was wrapped in gauze; a tube came out of her trachea, and her head swelled to the size of a basketball. The bed’s circumference had various machines hooked up to her body, monitoring her heart rate, pulse, plasma count, and oxygen levels. Marsha had wraps; on both lower limbs plus two IVs.

Time passed slowly as the large man stared at his wife. The door opened.

“Mr. Wolverton.” A middle-aged, Asian man offered his hand. “I’m Dr. Lee. I’m the doctor on call. I’ve seen to your wife’s care along with my internes.”

The doctor clasp Dewayne’s shoulder. “This isn’t easy to say, Mr. Wolverton. Your wife suffered traumatic brain trauma. It’s a miracle she survived. Her maxilla is severely crushed, and part of her facial bones will rapidly deteriorate. She will lose the front teeth left, and half of her teeth are lost. Her mandible is dislocated and shattered. Her mouth ripped to the chin bone, her jaw; is wired shut to hold it stationary until we can do a proper craniotomy Monday. . .”

While the doctor continued to discuss Marsha’s condition, Dewayne’s consciousness faded. The detailed description lost him only understanding of the complexity of the damage to Marsha’s appearance.

“We placed a feeding tube into her abdomen to administer medications she needs to swallow. That’s how she will eat until her jaws heal; she won’t be able to talk or eat normally. If she wakes up.

“What?” Dewayne screamed.

“Your wife is only pieced together right now. I need to go over her x-rays with my team to see what technique will be the best to correct the massive facial damage. The surgery could last six to nine hours.”

When the doctor stopped speaking one sentence rolled around in his brain like a pinball.

“Why not tomorrow?” Dewayne said loudly.

“I’m not going to sugarcoat the seriousness of her trauma. This is the worst injury I have ever seen. Mr. Wolverton, I’m going to do all I can to save her life. If I operate before knowing all the facts. It would be like going into battle unprepared. The results would be the same.”

Dewayne didn’t like the answer. His teeth clenched, body stiffened. “She could die if you wait.”

“She could die if I operate too soon.” After a moment the doctor continued. “First thing Monday morning, her surgery will be complex; I will do evasive work on the damaged bones, removing bone fragments and tissue.”

Dr. Lee escorted the distraught man to a chair.

*****

“Marsha, you really did it this time.” Dewayne pulled the bedside chair closer as the weight of her condition settled. He’d have to feed Marsha through the tube in her abdomen if she left the hospital. He rubbed his temples; the words rammed him, abruptly shot up. “Buttercup had to live!”

Unable to face his wife a moment longer, Dwayne stared at the empty washed-out walls, unable to catch his breath; his lungs burned, clasping against a wall frozen. Moisture coated his ashen face as he slowly sank to the floor, dazed; everyone else, be damned.

Raising a heavy head, the bones in his neck cracked from the movement wide-eyed. The room became a cage feeling trapped; he'd been in larger closets taking deep breaths to get air into his lungs. They began to burn, never realizing how much he hated the smell of sterilization. Dewayne positioned himself on his hands and knees, pushing to get off the floor.

The lumberjack started to pace in the room with nowhere to go and found himself beside Marsha. Dewayne’s heart pounded in his chest, staring at his wife. Various hospital sounds inside the room vanished, but the ticks from the clock outside the door clicked in his head. His mind buzzed, and the room spun out of control; he grabbed the rail to steady his wobbly legs until he collapsed in a seat.

*****

Dewayne leaned forward in the too-small chair drinking thick-bitter hospital coffee, unable to eat or sleep since his arrival Friday night. Tomorrow was the big day. He told his men to start cutting without him; he needed to be at the hospital for Marsha’s surgery. “What will I do if Buttercup dies?”

A sharp pain pierced his heart. His stomach churned, swiftly pulling the trashcan over, vomiting.

“She had to live!” He stared at the floor. “Was it two weeks ago I considered leaving.”

Their fights were derived from Dewayne’s jealous rages, caused by Marsha’s ability to stay home and have fun. Dewayne never considered Marsha’s enjoyment meant caring for their small farm, yard, and house and keeping three boys, one ten, one five, and a toddler.

The big man stood; and walked to the window to look out and saw nothing pondering his marital trouble. “I bust my butt to keep food on the table and the bill collector away. Marsha never keeps the house clean enough to suit me. Hell. She even cooks crap; I don’t care for bad at that, plus her ability to never agree with me when I’m right.”

The next thing Dewayne knew, he was standing at his wife’s bedside after he heard an odd noise. His eyes scanned the room. His plans of departure vanished, clasping her unmoving hand.

“I can’t leave you, Buttercup. Why did it take this for me to realize I have always loved you, no matter what?”

Thrashing in the bed drew his troubled attention. Dewayne turned loose of her hand, hovering over his wife. A nurse rushed in.

“Excuse me. I need to give your wife a dose of morphine.”

Dewayne looked intently as the nurse-administered medicine through the IV. “How much pain is she in?”

The nurse’s smile faltered. “We don’t know; when the alarm at our station goes off, we only know your wife is uncomfortable.”

Dewayne watched the nurse check all the machines and not once look at him. After the door closed, he sank into the upholstered chair beside the bed, releasing a strained breath. As soon as the drug took effect, Marsha’s body became inert.

He became acutely aware of the sounds issued from the apparatus connected to his wife, fixated on the calm, even breath of the ventilator, punctuated by the rhythmic blips and beeps from the screen above the bed. A sniffle escaped. He coughed to hide. His past ten years of unhappiness seemed misplaced.

“Buttercup tried to make you happy, you fool. You just stubbornly refused to notice. How can a house be spotless with three boys trashing it just as fast as she cleans it? The boys clean their plates, wanting seconds of the crap you scream is uneatable.” His head dropped, briskly rubbing his legs and arms as guilt chewed at him.

Dewayne reached over and squeezed a limp hand as tears he’d kept at bay poured down his face.

The doctor’s words hounded him. “It’s a miracle she survived.”

He slumped in the chair with his head cradled between his trembling hands, burning eyes, and a pounding headache. “How will I explain to the family why Marsha tried to ride Jim Bo? Everyone knows he’s dangerous, a workhorse, not a pleasure pony. I pushed her too hard. I planted doubt about her riding abilities. She made me mad when she told me she saddled Jim after he refused to let me harness him earlier that day. I wanted her to feel incapable, to cover my faults. Buttercup needed my encouragement instead of me telling her she couldn’t ride worth a damn on a real horse.”

Marsha had proven herself to be an excellent rider, noted by all the trophies and awards she’d won in their den before the babies came.

Dewayne inhaled deeply, facing the bland, white-tiled floor, unaware of anything around him as time stood still. A nurse’s brief visit interrupted his hell.

The new nurse changed the IV, then smoothed the sheet under Marsha’s arm. “I’m Harley. If you need a break, grab some coffee or a bite to eat. I’m close by if your wife needs something,” Harley said pleasantly.”

Dewayne looked at the woman. “Just do what you have to I’m staying.” His gaze followed her movements, not bothered if she noticed the black circles under his bloodshot eyes rooted to the seat.

After the nurse’s final check, she smiled, cheerfully. “All your wife’s vitals appear stable. If you need me, just push the call button.”

After the woman exited the room, Dewayne delicately squeezed Marsha’s arm and cleared his throat. “Buttercup, can you forgive me for the misery I’ve caused you?”

Dewayne choked, uncomfortable admitting his thoughts out loud. “I know you work hard. You make me feel useless. That’s why I take my frustration out on you. It’s no excuse. Hell, I’m like one of the boys, unruly and out of hand. I’m sorry. I don’t think, just demand.”

Dewayne rubbed the sides of his wooly face and sighed. “The Amish picked Jim Bo up Saturday; you won’t ever see that horse again. I never told you once I realized he wasn’t suitable for our place, I made arrangements for him to leave. Buttercup, I never wanted you to mess with that horse. I needed you to feel . . . insecure.” He started gasping, choking, and bawling like a baby. “I’m a selfish Ass.” He sniffed, leaning back.

“I need you to know. I’ve always loved you, and I’ve never cheated on you. You were wrong about another woman; being in the picture when you caught a whiff of perfume on me that night. It was Mikey’s sister. She got shit-faced and couldn’t drive. I helped him get her into his truck.”

Dewayne lifted Marsha’s hand and kissed each finger tenderly. “I harshly send women away if one gets too friendly. I don’t think of other women that way. Forget about the harsh things I said to you. I was afraid if you knew how much I loved you, you would hurt me. It’s taken me this long to realize how lucky I am to have you. Now that I’ve had time to think about our issues.” Dewayne wiped his sleeve across his face. “I’m the damn problem.”

He reached over and caressed Marsha’s fingers. “I’m a jealous mean man. I can’t see straight.” His features tensed. “I’ll control my anger. It’s not your fault your smile, with those expressive, green eyes, says a million things you’re not aware of. I know; too many men like me that could take your friendliness the wrong way. Can you forgive me, Buttercup?”

Dewayne didn’t care; he looked like shit, only exiting the room so other family members could visit. He rose and eased to the window rubbing his hands through his grimy, greasy hair, powerless to leave his wife.

He looked at his watch. Marsha’s parents would arrive in two hours. They wanted to bring the boys, but after he explained only children above the age of twelve were allowed in intensive care, they understood.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Marsha’s eyes start to flicker. She was conscious, rushing to her side. “Baby, hold on. I’ll let a nurse know you’re awake.”

Marsha attempted to shake her head, motioning him closer with a finger.

Dewayne stared at his wife as fresh tears fell; and sat down to lean closer, swiftly jerking some tissue out of the box on the bedside table. He applied pressure to Marsha’s oozing bloody nose; unaware blood seeped out of her ears.

Marsha weakly squeezed her husband’s hand, gesturing towards her mouth.

“You want to talk? Buttercup.”

She nodded.

Dwayne anxiously searched for some paper and a pen.

“You look a mess.” She scribbled. Her eyes were glazed.

Dewayne radiated. “Thank you.”

“Did you mean what you said?”

Dewayne nodded, remaining positive, while Marsha searched his face. She could barely squeeze his fingers. Her eyes drooped the pen fell to the floor. He quickly retrieved it. His breath caught while her scribbling became harder to make out.

Her eyes squinted wearily, accepting the ballpoint, which fell several more times as she wrote.

Words gushed out of his mouth. “When we get home, I’ll make it up to you. “I’ll do all those things you wanted me to do that I put off. I love you. The boys miss you.”

Dewayne took the note once Marsha stopped writing and read it aloud, “Tell the boys I love them, and I always will. I’ll constantly watch over them, even when they can’t see me, I will, Buttercup.”

Dewayne clasped Marsha’s hand feeling like jumping up and down; he’d make up for his shortcomings. He would be better than the man she married.

Marsha’s eyes closed.

The rhythmic blips and beeps from the monitor made a constant buzz after Marsha’s chest stopped rising as blood gushed out of her nose and ears.

Dewayne’s newfound happiness vanished. His eyes flashed to the monitor staring at a flat line on the screen, jumping up gripping his wife’s hand, refusing to let go.

Frantic, screamed, “Buttercup, don’t leave me! Nurse! Nurse! Nurse!”