The bright lights of the hospital played with my vision as I followed a brown-haired nurse through the heavy, black hospital doors. I struggled to keep up, dizziness setting in as I scanned each room for Justin. I expected him to be sitting up in bed, laughing with the doctors, telling stories and jokes as he waited for me.

When I found him, I had a whole speech ready about being responsible and wearing a helmet. The whole scene was planned out. First, I would hug him, breathing in his smell while showering kisses over his soft face. Then I would deal with him – tell him how scared I'd been, how much I loved him, and threaten to sell his motorcycle.

That night, I would rub the stiffness out of his injured muscles, change bandages, and give him his pain medication. I would care for him, make sure he was comfortable, and watch over him like he had done for me so many times. I would love him, then forgive him.

Yes, everything was going to be okay. I just had to remember to stay positive and not think the worst. He was fine, healthy, and strong. A little tumble from his motorcycle wouldn't keep him down. I had to believe that everything was going to be normal.

My body felt off, with the floor closer than it should have been. Each step felt forced, my muscles working against me, as I made my way after the quick little nurse. Each room we passed didn't hold Justin, and with each room, my heart got heavier, my feet dragging more.

The clean antiseptic smell slowly got replaced by the bitterness of blood and death. I wanted to cover my face with my hands, to back away from the smell, and run back to the ER waiting room to hide in the bathroom.

My breath caught in my throat as I was led further into the hospital, taking various turns and down a few hallways. Acid burnt my throat as vomit gurgled up into my mouth, the smell of fresh blood coating my tongue with its sour metallic odor. Instantly I wished for a shower to wash away any fragments of its tart smell.

Feeling ashamed, I picked up the pace, forcing my legs to work harder. The nurse finally stopped at a small room, and I paused as I glimpsed the body lying on the hospital bed. Relief rushed through me as I told myself that it couldn't possibly be Justin. There were open lacerations with blood still slowing oozing out of the open wounds. This had to be the wrong room.

My feet moved backward, trying to exit the stifling space that reeked of flesh. Turning to ask the nurse where my husband was, I realized she had gone. I was alone. Pity filled me as I dared to gaze at the person on the bed again. They were hardly recognizable but definitely male. Even his family would have a hard time recognizing him.

"Excuse me," I called out to a different nurse who was walking past. "I'm trying to find my husband, and I think the other nurse brought me to the wrong room."

The nurse looked at me, sympathy in her eyes. "What's your husband's name?"

"Justin Poole." I held my breath; it was the wrong room. That is not my husband, I told the universe forcefully. My husband was in a different room. Maybe he had a few small cuts, a few stitches, possibly a broken arm. This was not him. This deathly-still bloody man was not Justin.

"You're in the right room. I'm his nurse. You must be his wife." She herded me back into the small room, pulling the white canvas curtains closed behind us, locking in the nauseating smell of blood and death. Once again, the smell made me want to vomit.

"The doctor that called said my husband was going to be okay and that I didn't need to hurry. This person is NOT going to be okay," I insisted, bordering on sounding hysterical.

"He isn't in a life or death situation. He'll live..." The nurse shrugged, pulling the chart off the end of the bed and looking at it.

"This man," I cried out, pointing a shaking finger towards the figure lying there. My body shook with fear and the unknown. My other hand reached out for something to hold onto.

I surveyed the room, examining each section, searching for something to prove this wasn't Justin; some kind of possession that didn't belong to him. There was nothing. Not a single personal item was in the tiny room; just hospital equipment and general furnishings.

"Mrs. Poole, please calm down. I'll go get Dr. Layton, the doctor that called you, so he can go over everything with you. Why don't you go sit down in the chair? I'm sure that once you get closer, you'll see that it's your husband." The nurse gestured to a nearby chair, then hooked the medical file back onto the bed.

Sucking in a few deep breaths, I felt myself calming down. It couldn't be this bad.

I stared at the poor man, trying to identify his features under all the blood and grime that covered his face. Then, like an epiphany, all my denial evaporated. The man in the bed was Justin. His right foot poked out from under the thin white blanket, revealing a thick, ragged scar on the bottom. He got that scar from stepping on a sharp rock in the lake last year during a fourth of July party.

Justin had refused to see a doctor; not wanting to leave the celebration until after the kids had seen the fireworks. He had held the three of us tight in his arms as we all silently watched the beautiful colors light up the night.

After the fireworks, he'd surprised us with s'mores; his wounded foot long forgotten as we ate gooey, creamy marshmallows and told scary stories around the fire. Unfortunately for me, the scar shoved the hard truth right into my face, ridiculing the hope that I previously had about him just being a little scratched up and shaken.

I breathed through the urge to rub my fingers over the scar, wishing to return to the night he got it and feel the safety of being in his arms again. I bit my lip and nodded, hesitantly walking towards the chair by the bed.

"Justin?" I whispered, the swooshing of the oxygen machine filtering through the air, noisily reminding me where I was in case I should forget. The beeping of the heart machine faded away as I leaned over him.

"I'm here," I whispered hoarsely, watching his chest move up and down, but seeing the movement wasn't enough. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to feel the warmth of his skin; the life flowing under it.

Softly, I placed my hand on his chest, closing my eyes to the rhythm of his heart throbbing under my palm. Tears welled in my eyes as I counted each breath he took. Then I gently laid my head against his chest, the wetness of the blood there touching my cheek as I listened to the strong, slow pounding of his heart beats. Each one calmed me; brought me back to him.

"Don't leave me," I said into the stagnant air, hoping that he could hear me.

He quietly groaned under my touch, a small painful grunt. The sound unnerved me, and I wished for a small closet to curl up in and hide. My anguish only heightened as the groaning continued.

"Mrs. Poole, I'm Dr. Layton. I talked to you on the phone," a man said, coming up to stand beside the bed. Slowly, I lifted my head off Justin's chest, still aware that I had blood on my cheek. Dr. Layton pulled an antibacterial wipe off the small table next to the door and handed it to me. I cleaned myself up then just stared at the soiled wipe in my hand; it was like it was accusing me of not being there when I was needed.

"I thought you said he'd be okay?" I asked, locking eyes with the doctor. Anger took me over again as the bloodied wipe disappeared into my fist.

"He will be. To be frank, your husband is a very lucky man," Dr. Layton replied, peering at the monitors that tracked Justin's pulse and heart rate.

"What is wrong with him?" I asked, just wanting to know what I would be facing but, at the same time, fearing it.

"His left wrist is broken and will need to be casted. He has several small fractures, which are associated with motorcycle accidents. The fractures are in his wrists, right elbow, and some small ones in his spine and neck. As you can see, multiple lacerations are on the left side of his face – those will be stitched up soon. From the CT scan, we picked up a small bleed in his frontal lobe." He read from the file he'd picked up at the end of the bed.

"Slight bleed?" I asked, alarmed. His brain was bleeding?

"It's so slight that I had to squint to even see it. There is no swelling at the moment. Right now, we are waiting for the plastic surgeon to fix the cuts, then we will set his wrist." The doctor replaced the file and smiled sadly at me. His brown eyes must be so used to telling wives bad news; I wondered if it affected him anymore or if it ever did.

"After all that what will happen next?" I know I was asking lots of questions, but I had to. This time I hoped that he would tell me Justin would be okay and could even leave today.

"Your husband will be in the hospital for a while," Dr. Layton stated.

"Why?" I didn't want to accept the answer. Why couldn't he go home and heal there, away from the smell of sickness?

"He was in a motorcycle accident and wasn't wearing a helmet. Like I said, he is a lucky man. Most motorcycle accidents we get, the patients aren't this well off, but your husband will have a long journey to recovery. At the moment, he is sedated and on morphine. He was conscious and aware of everything going on when he got here. He was in a lot of pain." He was talking to me like I was a child, each word slowly rolling off his tongue. It irritated me, but at the same time, I needed the slowness of the words in order to understand everything.

"When can he go home?" I asked. If Justin was awake when he got here, why did he have to stay? I could care for him at home.

"I can't tell you that. When a room opens up, he'll be admitted to the ICU. Even though the bleed on his brain is small, it can get worse. He has to be monitored. I'm not saying he will be here for weeks, but I'm also not saying he'll be out tomorrow. For all I know he can come out of this absolutely fine."

"You said he'd be fine..." I stammered. The ICU was for critical patients. Confusion swarmed again.

"He'll live, but he has to be monitored. Any kind of head trauma can get worse."

"Dr. Layton, Dr. Mosey is here to stitch Mr. Poole up." The first nurse, from earlier, walked into the room, followed by a man in blue scrubs.

"Ah yes, that was quick. This is the patient's wife," Dr. Layton said, gesturing to me as he shook the other doctor's hand.

"Mrs. Poole, nice to meet you. Fortunately, your husband's lacerations will be a quick job. Most of the skin is still attached and looks great. He'll have some battle scars though. There is a total of five on his left side, plus one in his ear. You can wait in the waiting room; I'll have the nurse come get you when we are done," Dr. Mosey told me, grasping my hand firmly, then moved onto Justin, examining the left side of his face.

"I can't stay?" I asked, not wanting to leave Justin's side. I wanted to know everything that was going on. Maybe the more I saw, the more I would understand.

"It won't be pretty. Even though he's on morphine, he's not going to like this," the nurse chimed in as two more medical staff entered the room, forcing me to step closer to the door and further away from Justin. The gap between us was small, but it felt huge, and with each moment, I felt him getting further and further away.

"I.. Um.. Okay. Just as soon as you are done, I'd like to come back. I need his wallet and whatever else was on him when he was brought in." I shook my head to clear the scattered thoughts; he'd want me to get his stuff. Although he was a trusting man, he wouldn't want his wallet to be in someone else's hands. I had to do what he would do in order to get through this and make sure he wouldn't be worried about anything. I had to think like him. Do what he would do. Be him in his absence.

"I'll get those for you, just follow me." The brown-haired nurse motioned for me to follow her out towards the large double doors that we'd walked through before. I followed; that's all I could do.

The nurse, while kind, soon left me at the ER's check-in counter and promised to get me once they were finished stitching up Justin.

"Just sign here, and you can have his stuff," the older lady at the check-in desk told me as she handed over a form.

I attempted a smile, but my lips felt dead. After I handed the paper back, she handed me a brown paper bag and smiled. The bag reminded me of one from the store, just big enough to hold a handful of groceries. Not large enough for everything Justin had with him when he'd left that morning.

"Is this it?" I asked as I opened the bag and only saw his boots, phone, and wallet inside. "Where are his clothes – his sweater? I know he was wearing a sweater; I saw him put it on before he left." I felt hysteria building up inside my chest again. It wanted out, and soon I wouldn't be able to contain it.

Justin was my rock, and without him, I felt wild and out of control. He'd know what to do in this situation. He'd have everything in control. Me, however... My world was tilting on its axis.

"Ma'am, his clothes were cut off and thrown away," the older lady replied, reading off a sheet. Her eyes were soft and full of sympathy.

My voice hit another octave. "Thrown away?"

"Sweetie, did you really want clothes that were covered in blood?" she asked kindly, reaching over the desk and taking my hands.

"I guess not. Thank you" I whispered, closing my eyes, praying that when I reopened them, the world would be back to how it should be.

But when my eyelids fluttered open, it wasn't.

Pulling my hands out of the older lady's grasp, I then slowly shuffled over to a seat to wait.

My phone went off as I slumped into the chair, and I pushed my panic away for as long I needed to. It was Charlie calling.

Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself for the phone call I had to accept.

"Hello, Charlie," I said.

"Why didn't you take my phone call? A doctor called about Justin," he stated, his challenging voice grating my every nerve. I didn't need or want to have to deal with Charlie right now.

"I am at the hospital with him," I replied softly, trying to stay calm.

"Let me talk to him."

"He can't talk, Charlie. He's being stitched up and will then be taken to the ICU."

"What happened?" His voice sounded smaller now, less overpowering.

"He was in a motorcycle accident... I don't know..." My voice trailed off as I watched the other people in the waiting room, wondering what they were there for.

"Was he wearing a helmet?" Charlie asked.

"No," I answered.

"Why wasn't he wearing his helmet?" I knew he'd ask next, his voice booming over the phone. It was the question of the morning. Why didn't Justin wear his helmet? Not that a helmet would have stopped him from being in the accident but maybe he wouldn't have all the injuries or maybe the outcome would be different.

"Susan will call you when I get our flights booked," Charlie said instead. "It'll be okay Jess." Then he hung up.

Well, that had been a surprise. Charlie was never overly warm or caring towards me. He was never mean as such, but just not affectionate. His last statement was warming. For some reason, I believed that when he said everything will be okay, it would be.

It would be nice to have Susan and Charlie here to help with the kids and Justin. I wasn't sure what the future held for me now, but it would be nice to have someone to help.

I had other phone calls to make; this would be the perfect time to make them. It would keep me busy while waiting for the nurse to come back and tell me I could be with Justin again.

Dialing Mike's number, I rehearsed what I was going to say. Mike Lakewood was Justin's boss, best friend, and bike riding companion. They'd been friends for ten years.

"Mike?" I hesitantly asked into the phone when he answered.

"Jess, where's your hubby? He was supposed to meet me at Starbucks on the way to work. We were going to grab breakfast before heading in. Did you keep him in bed this morning?" his deep voice teased me.

Yesterday I would have teased him back, imagining his dark coal eyes filled with humor and laughter. But today all I saw was Justin riding off to meet with him. New anger swept through me. The words almost caught in my throat.

"Did you ride your bike this morning?" I asked, my voice wavering.

"Yes, ma'am. We were going to have a quick ride after our meeting. Didn't he tell you?" Mike replied, his laughter dying in his voice.

"Yes, but he was supposed to come back this afternoon for his bike. Why did he ride it this morning?"

"We changed our minds at the last minute. Is everything okay, Jess?" he asked, worry crowding into his voice.

"Why did y'all change your mind?" My voice was getting louder. Why couldn't they have stuck to their plan and picked the bikes up after work?

"Jess, is everything okay?" he repeated.

"No, nothing is okay!" I wanted to shout into the phone. I wanted to blame him. If they had stuck to the plan, Justin wouldn't be in this situation.

"No. No, it isn't." I broke down then, tears flooding out, my throat closed off. All I could do was pull my knees up to my chest and bury my face in them. My heart wanted to stop; my body felt dead.

"What's happened?" Mike asked, the panic clearer in his tone. I heard something crash behind him and his booted feet thumping on the floor as I assumed he was walking out of his office. He wasn't at fault though. He didn't cause this.

"Justin... Accident... University hospital." It was all I could get out as I wept into the phone.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes. It'll be okay. Trust me, Jess." Then, like Charlie, he was gone.

My hands were shaking as I dropped the phone into my lap and hugged the brown bag closer to my heart. Mike was wrong; nothing would be okay. I wanted to trust him, to believe everything would be okay, but my brain refused to believe that, even for a moment.

A new feeling crashed down over me. Helplessness. I was completely helpless, sitting there alone, waiting for the doctors to finish stitching up my broken husband, terrified of the struggle lying before me. Life felt different. The air felt heavy with turmoil and anger.

My stomach turned with anticipation; the chains of our life together had snapped. Nothing would be the same, I knew it; felt it deep in my bones. The only thing I didn't know was if this change would eventually come good... or be all bad.