8 June 1989, Night
By 9:00, Meg has been diagnosed with a mild concussion, and had the cut on her cheek bandaged.
Alain is still in surgery. That's all they can, or at least all they will, tell her.
While she waits to have her shoulder x-rayed, Meg insists on calling their parents.
"Someone can do that for you, dear," the nurse tells her.
"I know," Meg says. "But I need to do it."
It's tempting -- it's so tempting -- to call her parents first. They're further away, they'll have a longer drive, they're her parents.
But Alain might be . . . he could be . . . if he doesn't . . . she needs to call the Gagnés first.
"Allo?"
It sounds so much like Alain that for a second she can't say anything, can't even breathe.
"Allo?" Slightly impatient, this time. A little annoyed.
It's Luc, she realizes. He and Alain don't look all that much alike, but their voices are alarmingly similar.
"Luc?"
"Meg, où êtes-vous?"
"We're in Winchester, Ontario," she says, with a silent apology for the English, but she cannot get her brain to think in French right now, and translating takes too long. "At the hospital. We were in an accident."
"Is my brother all right?"
"No," Meg says. "No, he's not. He's in surgery and I don't know any more than . . . they haven't . . . Luc, I think you and your parents should get here as soon as you can. It's pretty bad."
"Mon Dieu."
"I'm sorry."
"It's . . . of course, we're on our way. Where are you? Can you tell me how to get there?"
Meg reads the directions off the paper the nurse brought her, Luc reads them back to her, and promises they'll be there as soon as they can.
Meg holds the phone in her hand for almost a minute before she dials her parents' number.
It's almost 9:30, well past when she should have called to say they were safely arrived in Montreal.
She's not surprised when her father picks up on the first ring, or that he knows it's her. "Meg? Where are you? Are you all right?"
"I'm all right. Or I will be. I'm at the hospital in Winchester. We were in an accident."
"Jesus Christ, Meg, are you--" he breaks off, and Meg hears her mother ask, "Is that her?"
With one notable example, Meg has spent the last four years making sure this never happened. She has called when she was running as little as five minutes late, so they would never have to worry where she was or if she was all right.
"Your mother's picking up the other phone," John tells her, and Meg nods, even though he can't see her.
"Meg?" her mother asks. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. We were in an accident," Meg repeats, before her mother has to ask. "I'm okay. I have a mild concussion and I'm waiting to get my shoulder x-rayed, and I have some minor cuts and bruises. That's all."
"And Alain?" her father asks.
"Alain's in surgery. And I don't . . . I don't know if he's . . . I don't know if he's going to . . . I really need you. Please."
"Sweetheart, of course," Deirdre says.
"Do you need us to bring you anything?"
"Just for you guys to get here," Meg says.
"I'm going to go make a thermos of coffee," Deirdre says. "And you're going to give Dad the directions, because I know you have them, and we'll be there soon. Okay?"
"Okay," Meg says. "Thank you."
Her father doesn't take the time to read the directions back to her, just tells her they love her and they'll be there as soon as they can.
Meg hangs up first because she knows her father will stay on the line as long as she does. And then she lets them take her off for x-rays.
Her shoulder isn't broken, and the doctor is able to get it back in place without surgery. He tells her to keep her arm in a sling for a couple of days, and that it should be fine after that. They want to keep her overnight because of the concussion, but other than that, "You're a lucky girl."
Meg doesn't feel lucky.
The Gagnés arrive around eleven. Meg is told that it's after visiting hours and that she needs to rest, and that she can see them in the morning. Meg doubts she will be doing much resting tonight.
At midnight, there is finally news about Alain. He's out of surgery, and in recovery. His spleen had ruptured and has been removed. His left arm is broken in two places, and he has broken and cracked ribs on his left side. He's still unconscious, though surely they would have had him under anesthesia for surgery, and maybe . . . maybe it's just . . . maybe it's not . . .
They tell Meg, again, that she needs to rest. Meg nods, because it's too much effort to argue, and then goes back to counting the little holes in the tiles on the ceiling.
It's still three hours, at the least, until her parents will get here.
And Kim. She needs to call Kim. But her address book is on her desk in Montreal, and she doesn't know Kim's phone number by heart (and she should, that's another of those things she should just know). Her parents will know, though. They can -- they will -- call Kim when her parents get here.
There's nothing else to do but wait. And keep counting the holes in the ceiling tiles.
It's after 3:00 am, and Meg has reached 1,481 (though she may have counted some more than once), when she hears the voice in the hallway. "I don't give a good goddamn about your visiting hours, where is my daughter?"
"Dad? Mom?"
She doesn't even speak very loudly. She doesn't have to. They hear her.
And ten seconds later, visiting hours be damned, Meg is wrapped in her parents' arms.
"It's all right, Megkin, we're here," John says.
"It's going to be okay," Deirdre says, smoothing her hair back.
It's not all right, and she has no idea if it's going to be okay, but they're here, and it's better.
It's much better.
Meg should say something. She should let them know that she's okay. She shouldn't make them worry more than she already has.
But instead, she starts crying. For the first time since she walked out of her sister's apartment in Toronto, over a year and a half ago.
And she doesn't stop for a long time.