Bad Luck

She looked around and nothing was different in the bedroom. She walked unsteadily through the house and found no sign of him having returned. His car wasn't in the driveway.

Okay, she thought—don't panic, don't freak out. Coffee—a shower—then figure out what's next. She got the coffee maker started and headed for the bathroom.

As she soaped up under the hot water she tried to put things together. R.J. had never called or come home, she'd gone out for some dancing and drinking ... she'd gotten drunk. Very drunk. And she'd let some guy she'd never met take her to a motel room across from the bar and fuck her. Actually, he'd started to fuck her, but he'd been so drunk, even drunker than Maggie, that he couldn't keep it up. So he'd made her suck him to try to get him hard, and he came in her mouth without warning.

She'd yelled at him—drunk as she was, she was furious—but he'd passed out on the bed. She remembered finding a cab outside in front of the bar, but everything else was pretty much blank. Obviously she'd gotten home safely because here she was, but she didn't recall it at all.

In her bathrobe and with a towel wrapped around her wet hair, she sat at the kitchen table. Two cups of hot coffee, several aspirin and a piece of toast made her head throb a little less—just a little. She noticed that the answering machine was blinking, and jumped up at once. Oww, that was a mistake, her head screamed!

There were nine messages, all from the Riverside Methodist Hospital, but she didn't hear a word of any of them after the first. R.J. was hurt! Oh my God, what was wrong with him? Unconscious?

She ran to the bedroom, hurriedly dressed, and spent a few moments brushing her hair before grabbing her keys and heading for the door. Please don't let him die, please don't let him die....

Her car wasn't in front of the house. Shit! It was still at the Ultra Mynt lounge! She called for a cab, told them it was an emergency, then listened again to the phone messages while she waited for the taxi to show up. 13 terrifying minutes. What had she done? What had she done?

*****

"R.J. Renschert?" said the gray-haired woman at the front desk. "Let me see, he's ... here it is. He's upstairs in the ICU—fourth floor, turn left getting off the elevators."

"Oh my God, how bad is he?" Maggie was frantic.

"It says ... serious but stable." The woman gave her a reassuring smile. "It will be all right, dear."

"Thank you!" she called as she ran for the elevators.

*****

Maggie stood aghast over R.J.'s bed. He was unconscious, half his head hidden by bandages. Various IVs and tubes ran from machines into parts of his body. His left leg was in a cast below the knee and suspended above the bed by a sling.

After a minute the doctor on call joined her at R.J.'s bedside. He guided her into the lounge, asked her to sit down, and filled her in—gently, quietly.

"He was in an accident on US 71 yesterday afternoon, Mrs. Renschert—a truck jack-knifed, I think. He's in stable condition now, though as you can see he's unconscious. He's got a broken ankle and a broken bone in his arm, but those will both heal fine.

"The main issue now is the head injury. Often patients with these injuries recover remarkably well, within a few days. But we just won't know how serious the injury is until he wakes up. His EEG shows no fundamental damage, but that's less important than the clinical picture."

Maggie clutched her hands together. "You mean ... his symptoms? How badly impaired he is, like amnesia or something?"

Dr. Warren nodded. "Yes, partial amnesia is possible. Sometimes, I have to say, there can be loss of some brain function. But it's impossible to say whether there will be any, or how long it might last. Many patients recover fully from this kind of injury, but there's never any guarantee.

"We'll monitor him carefully and keep him partially sedated, letting the brain have a chance to heal. And we'll hope to see signs of spontaneous waking-up within a few days. After that, the course of treatment will depend entirely on his mental state."

Numb and terrified, Maggie thanked Dr. Warren and went back to sit at R.J.'s bed, holding his uninjured hand in hers. Over the next few hours her practical thoughts—call R.J.'s brother David, let his office know, arrange a personal leave from her own job, find out about home care nurses and whether they would need a ramp at home for a wheelchair—mixed with bitter self-reproach.

Her husband had been nearly killed on the highway! He might never recover fully! And she was out, drunkenly cheating on him with some asshole she didn't even know—what kind of unfeeling, heartless, selfish bitch was she?

She did a lot of praying that day, a lot of promising to God that she would change, she would be a perfect wife, she would once and for all get her anger under control, if only He would give her her husband back.

"Let him be okay! Let him be okay!" She murmured it to herself like a prayer, almost like doing the rosary, as she sat holding his hand.

The nurses finally sent her home at 8 pm. "Really, Mrs. Renschert, you need to get some rest—take care of yourself. There's nothing you can do for him here, and we'll call you the moment he wakes up or there's any change."

She'd called David; he and Angela were driving down the next morning from Chicago and would meet her at the hospital.

She went home, made herself eat some soup and a sandwich, and cried herself to sleep. And the next morning she cleaned up the house and threw away every article of clothing from her drunken night out: dress, underwear, even the shoes. They all went straight into a big bag, and into the trash can in the garage.

*****

The next three days were a blur: she got up, she went to the hospital, she held R.J.'s hand, and when they made her go home she left. David and Angela stayed all day on Sunday; they were supportive and kind, but had to get back to Chicago and their kids. They called every day but Maggie didn't have any news from them. R.J. was stable but still unconscious. "No change"—those were the cold words on his chart each morning.

On Wednesday afternoon at about 4 pm Maggie was dozing in the chair next to R.J.'s bed when a noise woke her up. She looked over and R.J.'s eyes were open! He looked bewildered and seemed to be trying to speak, though it was impossible with the tube running down his throat.

Maggie jumped up and rang for the ICU nurse. Then she stood where R.J. could see her clearly and spoke gently. "It's okay, baby, I'm here." She held his hand tight.

"Can you see me?" He nodded slightly, still looking very disoriented.

"It's okay—you had a car accident and you're in the hospital. You're fine, honey, you're going to be fine."

She could see his face start to relax a little, and she kept on talking.

"You've been sleeping for a while, and I've been here with you. David and Angela were here too. We've all been talking to you, and holding your hand...."

As she talked, R.J.'s eyes fluttered and then closed. He drifted away again, just as the ICU nurse came in.

Maggie excitedly told her what had just happened, as she checked R.J.'s machines and tubes. The nurse nodded and said, "good—this is good. He'll probably have a few more short intervals like this before he's strong enough to stay awake. I'll let the doctor know."

Maggie found herself back in the chair, crying softly with relief.

Over the next five days R.J. made rapid progress. He had more periods of wakefulness, and they lasted longer. On Friday they removed the tube from his mouth and he was able to talk—just a couple of words at first (his throat was painfully sore), but by Sunday he and Maggie could chat for 5-10 minutes at a time.

He didn't remember anything about the accident—just about driving up US 71, looking forward to a special evening with Maggie.

On Sunday afternoon he suddenly sat up a little straighter and said, "oh my God, baby—I never made it home! You must have been so worried! Were you angry with me?"

Maggie had been dreading this discussion; but she'd worked out what she was going to say. Her goal was not to say anything to jeopardize R.J.'s recovery or his state of mind.

"I was worried and angry both, baby. But I knew you wouldn't miss our evening out, so it had to be something urgent. I did get worried after a while. And then when I heard from the hospital I came straight over here." She smiled at him.

"I've been here a lot since then."

She reassured him about everything: he was on sick leave from his job; his boss had been calling every day, asking if there was anything he could do. She'd taken two weeks of vacation from her own job, where everyone was being so nice and supportive. His health insurance was taking care of the hospital bills; everything was under control.

After eight more days R.J. was moved into an in-patient rehabilitation facility; and once he was settled there the doctors advised Maggie to go back to work. This she did, reluctantly; but R.J. was getting excellent care, improving by the day, and she spent four hours with him every evening.

Friends came by, to talk or play cards, and R.J. quickly recovered his mental acuity. The neurological tests were all very positive, and Maggie began to look forward to the day he could come home, the day she'd been waiting for and praying for.

On a Saturday morning just five weeks after his accident, R.J. climbed out of his wheelchair at the front door of the rehab facility, used his crutches to swing himself out to Maggie's car in the parking lot (he'd been practicing every day for a week), and gently lowered himself into the passenger seat. She was taking him home.

The cast was off his arm and only a small one remained on his ankle, which would be there for another two weeks. The gash in his head was covered by his hair, which had grown back nicely. Best of all was the news from the neurologist: R.J.'s talking, writing, and comprehension skills were all back to normal, and nearly all of his memory had returned (except of the accident itself). He was cleared to go back to work as soon as the cast was off his ankle.

Maggie had planned the day to perfection. When R.J. was settled at the kitchen table she brought out the soup and a fresh Cobb salad, both of which she'd prepared ahead of time. There was a bottle of white wine and some fresh French bread; and after lunch, there was bed.

Both of them were horny as hell—it had been more than five weeks, and the only relief R.J. had had was a couple of affectionate but hasty hand-jobs from Maggie while no one was around. She'd been making use of her vibrator at home, but both of them missed the real thing.

"Gee honey," she teased as she got him out of his clothes and propped up on the bed, his ankle carefully supported by a pillow, "do you think you're up to this? Maybe we should wait a little longer." And before he could answer she disappeared into the bathroom, only to return a minute later in a very sexy floor-length red nightie.

"Wow!" he said. And then he didn't say anything else for a while, just groaned as she went straight for his cock with her hot, wet, sucking mouth. She used her hands and lips on him for no more than three minutes before he shot up ecstatically into her mouth, crying out with the pleasure.

When his hips had stopped moving, he smiled at her, a glazed look in his eyes, and she slid up to nestle against him. "Welcome home," she murmured, kissing his face over and over.

He chuckled and said, "it's nice to be home, Maggie." After a few minutes of quiet snuggling, she slid down and took him in her mouth once again; and when he was hard she climbed up on top of him, lifted her nightie, and slid him smoothly into her wet pussy.

Oh my God it felt good, she thought. And then she stopped thinking--she rode R.J. and kissed him and felt his hands on her, on her hips, caressing her breasts, and she rode him faster, and then she was coming, coming like crazy, and he was groaning and shooting up into her.

And then they were lying together, tight in one another's arms, catching their breath; and Maggie was as happy as she'd ever been in her life.

*******************

Five months. Five months of being happy, of watching R.J. get stronger every day, of the sweetness of having her prayers answered, having her husband safely returned to her.

Maggie was living up to the promises she'd made in her prayer. She was bathing R.J. in her love, being patient and affectionate, balling his brains out on a regular basis, and above all--above everything--keeping a lid on her anger.

She had reconnected with Roberta Simmons, her anger-management counselor, and met with her every week for private conversations. To R.J., Maggie had said only that she felt she "could benefit from a refresher course" in keeping herself under control.

Nothing he did would ever cause her to lose it, ever again, she told herself. At least three times he was shocked at how patiently she'd handled some minor infraction of his, and he told her so.

"Maggie, you almost seem like a different person--in that one way, I mean!" he said, smiling at her. "When I screw up you just take it in stride, you don't chew me out. And I appreciate it."

She came over, sat on his lap and gave him a long, sexy, open-mouthed kiss.

"After almost losing you, baby, I decided that I wouldn't go crazy about anything trivial ever again. Ever! And everything seems trivial, compared to what might have happened."

She kissed him again--and this time he surprised her by picking her up and carrying her straight into the bedroom, Maggie squealing and pretending to resist. Then he licked her pussy until she came twice, and fucked her for the rest of the afternoon.

********

"Dinner and dancing? You sure you're up to dancing again, honey, with that ankle?"

They were side by side, washing and drying the dishes.

"Course I am," R.J. replied, swinging around the kitchen with an imaginary woman in his arms. "Just look at me--another Fred Astaire!"

She laughed, and blew him a kiss. "Okay, Fred--I'll get myself all made-up to look like Ginger Rogers. When shall we go?"

"How about Saturday night? I'll make a reservation at Nicola's first, then Millions Café. Tommy told me he took Diana there last winter and they had a fabulous time."

********

At Nicola's they shared a bottle of red wine, and then R.J. insisted they have champagne at Millions, so Maggie was more than a little tipsy. They'd been having a great time, laughing and dancing and just enjoying each other's company. She felt like she was on her honeymoon again, and as she waited for R.J. to come back from the men's room she thought again, for the thousandth time, about how lucky she was.

She didn't even hear the voice at first, calling her name. It wasn't until she turned around, in response to his tap on her shoulder, that she knew he was there.

"Maggie!" he said, sounding both delighted and drunk, stumbling slightly as he gazed at her with a huge smile on her face.

"Oh my god--Michael!" she gasped. She recognized him instantly, and the shock of seeing him gave way to the horrified recollection of their drunken night together. "What are you doing here?" A stupid enough question, she belatedly realized.

"Jus' looking' for some compan..., some ... companionship, lovely lady--jus' like the night I met you. Damn, that was ... "

He broke off and looked over Maggie's shoulder, and said, "are you Maggie's lucky fella for tanight?"

Maggie swung around and saw R.J. returning, an uncertain smile on his face. She froze for a moment, her mind a blank--and then it was too late.

Michael moved forward unsteadily to shake R.J.'s hand. "Well, you're in for a treat! Our Maggie here's the hottest gal in town. Why, she'll suck your cock 'til your eyes pop outta your head, won't ya Maggie?"

Dropping the drunken man's hand, R.J. gazed at Maggie in shock and confusion. He waited for her explanation of who this man was and what he was talking about.

Then, watching her blush bright red and drop her gaze, his own expression hardened. After a long, long moment of staring at her, he silently turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Maggie jumped to her feet, bumping against Michael and knocking over her champagne, which spilled down the front of her dress. She frantically dabbed at it with her napkin, then grabbed her purse and ran off in pursuit of her husband.

She caught up to R.J. just as he was starting the car. She tried to get in but the passenger door was locked.

"R.J., let me in!" she cried desperately. "I can explain this, it was--"

"No explanation needed, darling," he said sarcastically. "I certainly know what a good little cock-sucker you can be."

He turned on the headlights, and she begged him again to unlock the door.

"Why don't you ask your friend inside for a ride? Although once you suck him 'til his eyes pop out, maybe you should do the driving!"

And without a glance back he lurched the car forward, out of the parking lot and down the street.

Maggie was sobbing, her face buried in her hands, all her tipsiness--and happiness--now a distant memory. After a few minutes she pulled herself together enough to go back into the café, pay the check and request a cab. She saw no sign of Michael, which was just as well--she might have killed him with her bare hands!

It was nearly an hour before Maggie got home, and the house was dark and quiet. R.J. had apparently decided to spend the night elsewhere. She fell onto the bed, great sobs forcing themselves up from her chest.

What could she do? What could she say to him? How could she ever explain this? Would he even listen? The questions whirled around and around in her head, as the sounds of her crying echoed in the bedroom. She cried and cried, until, thoroughly miserable, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

*******************

R.J. sat in a room at the Holiday Inn, his chin in his hand, ignoring the blaring of the TV, contemplating his marriage.

He absolutely couldn't believe that Maggie could ever have been unfaithful to him--but the evidence had been there, as plain as day. That fucking drunk, and the look on Maggie's face: her blushes, her inability to look R.J. in the eye, her silence.

And out at the car? She hadn't said, "listen R.J., he's full of shit, nothing happened!" No, she'd said, "I can explain this." Explain it? Sucking some other guy's cock? How do you explain that?

He would no more have thought Maggie would ever cheat on him than she would have robbed a bank. She had a temper, yes, but she was honest and loving and devoted and....

He looked up, staring unseeingly at himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. She had a temper....

Maybe something had pissed her off--maybe something had happened once and she'd gone nuts, gone out and fucked around on him--"I'll show you, R.J., you asshole!"--something like that.

It seemed crazy; but any other explanation seemed even more unlikely. That drunken guy in the Café certainly wouldn't have been a likely candidate for Maggie to have an affair with!

He turned it over in his mind for another hour, then finally stripped off his clothes and went to bed. He was exhausted, angry, and confused. Tomorrow would be soon enough to sort it all out.

*******************

When Maggie awoke it was no more than an instant before her misery struck her, like a giant wave breaking over her head. She remembered last night and everything that had happened. She couldn't believe it--she didn't want to believe it--but she may just have lost her husband.

Wearily, she went downstairs to start the coffee, looking around in vain for any sign of R.J. She had a shower, straightened up the bedroom, got dressed and made herself some breakfast, hoping all the time that R.J. would return or that the phone would ring. Nothing.