FOUR

FOUR

BY THE TIME I arrived at St. Benedict's Hospital, several reporters from the local news stations had already gathered. I pushed through them, found the receptionist in the emergency department, and before long was ushered inside.

I pushed open the curtain enough to see David, wrapped in several blankets, an IV in his right forearm. A doctor was examining him. David's eyes began to tear up when they found mine. I rushed over, careful not to mess with anything, and put my hands on his face. "You're okay. Are you? Are you —"

I managed that much before I choked up, bursting into tears.

"I'm okay, Marce," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "God, am I glad to see you."

"Is he okay?" I said to the nurse, a young woman.

"He's being treated for mild hypothermia," she said. "He should be fine. We're keeping him in blankets and giving him a warmed salt-water solution in his veins."

"Hey," David said. "I'm fine."

I pressed my lips against his forehead. I couldn't embrace him, couldn't hold him, swaddled as he was like an infant, other than to gently place an arm around his shoulder. The usual warmth that radiated off him was not there. His skin was discolored and cool to the touch.

"All I could think about … was you," he said, his voice shaky and weak. "You and … the kids … the whole time."

For the next three hours, I didn't leave his side, except to call Grace with updates. Daddy is fine. Daddy is doing better. Daddy is warmer now. They say Daddy can come home later tonight. Our babysitter, who had planned on our being out late anyway for David's birthday celebration — boy, did that feel like a distant memory — said everything was fine at home, that the kids watched the video over and over on Grace's phone in between Grace texting with her friends and Lincoln, age ten, playing PlayStation 5 on our television.

There was video, apparently, of the incident. I remembered the people on the bridge with their phones out.

I could tell David was improving as time wore on by the wisecracks he made. Telling one of the nurses, who called me Mrs. Bowers, that I wasn't his wife but his mistress. Asking me to go check if they had any extra nurse outfits we could bring home for later.

"Knock, knock." A doctor, a young woman with horn-rimmed glasses, swung the curtain open, then swung it closed behind her. "I'll need to take a look at that arm, Mr. Bowers."

David had punched out the driver's-side window during the rescue. He used his left hand, his dominant hand, leaving his left forearm and knuckles bloody and raw. There were additional cuts and abrasions on his head, shoulders, and back, incurred when he reached in, unbuckled the unconscious man, and pulled him out. Just imagining it, I had to remind myself to breathe; how he did all that in so short a time, underwater, was almost impossible to fathom.

If I ever doubted the existence of miracles, I no longer would.

"Turns out glass can cut you," David said, his voice stronger now, as the doctor checked the stitches on one particularly bad wound.

"The driver who lost control of the car — he had an epileptic seizure," said the doctor, looking up at us. "We were able to stabilize him. He's going to make it."

"Thanks to the air trapped inside the SUV," said David.

"Mostly thanks to you, Mr. Bowers." The doctor nodded at him before resuming her look at his arm. "You know how many reporters are out there waiting for you to come out?"

"Ugh." David's head fell back against the pillow.

"The public relations guy here wants to do a press conference when you're able," she said.

"A press conference?" David scoffed. "For what?"

"You should take a bow," I said.

"Take a bow for doing something anyone would've done?"

The doctor looked back up at him. "I'm not sure just anyone would have done what you did. Looked pretty heroic to me."

"You — you saw it?" I asked.

"Oh, the video's gone viral." The doctor chuckled. "You haven't seen it?"

Ah, yes, the video. Our kids had seen it, but we hadn't. David had lived it, and I was not in a hurry to revisit those terrifying moments. Still, I looked at my phone. Typed in a few words — Cotton River Anna's Bridge rescue — and there was the video, already online in several spots, mostly on social media but apparently even on the local news. David and I watched it together.

The video was taken from the bridge; it began as David swam madly toward the spot where the SUV went under and ran all the way through the arrival of the helicopter (which temporarily blocked the phone's view before the person holding it moved), David's reaching for the rescue ladder, victim in tow, and the marine unit of the Hemingway Grove Police Department coming to their assistance.

"Listen to your wife," said the doctor. "You should be recognized."

David let out a big sigh. "Doctor, you know what I want to do? After you tell me I'm free to leave? I want to go home and be with my family. That's what I've wanted since the moment I hit that water. You think I earned that right?"

The doctor looked at David, then at me, and smiled. "I think you absolutely did."

Around midnight, David was discharged. We were pretty sure that the reporters had gone home, but we left by the rear exit just in case. Walking into our home, normally a routine event, felt like a gift from heaven under the circumstances.

The kids were long asleep but had secured a promise that Daddy would come in and kiss them when he got home. Ten-year-old Lincoln, buried under his Avengers covers, moaned and mumbled but didn't awaken. Grace, our twelve-year-old, never opened her eyes as David stroked her hair and kissed her cheeks. As we started out of the room, she mumbled, "Daddy's okay. Daddy isn't leaving."

David crouched back down to her, nuzzled her face. "Daddy isn't leaving, Gracie," he said. "Daddy isn't ever leaving."