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McKale my love. And don’t worry, I’ve got your back.”

CHAPTER
Six
    Nothing is more excruciating than waiting for the jury’s verdict. Except, perhaps, hearing the jury’s verdict.
    Alan Christoffersen’s diary
    The next three days ticked by in a surreal limbo, my heart vacillating between hope and despair. The doctors echoed what the social worker had said—they wouldn’t know for certain the extent of the nerve damage for seventy-two hours.
A lot can happen in seventy-two hours
, I told myself. Maybe when the swelling decreased, she would get feeling and movement back.
    She had to recover. McKale in bed, immobile, was about the most unnatural thing I could imagine.
    The rest of my world ceased to exist. I stayed by McKale’s side, and at night I slept in a cot next to her bed, at least tried to, since the nurses seemed to come in every twenty minutes to check on something. I didn’t want her to wake and not have me there. McKale’s father, Sam, arrived Saturday afternoon, and for the first time I left her side and went home to shower and change my clothes. I was only gone for a couple of hours.
    Monday morning I didn’t go home. It had been seventy-two hours since the accident, and the doctors had told us they were coming in the morning for her tests. Finally we were going to find out the extent of the damage. Sam arrived around ten. That morning none of us spoke of the tests. McKale talked to her father about his new home in Florida, then she asked me about work.I realized then that I hadn’t told her about the Bridge
account.
    “That’s good news,” she said.
    Sam was more excited than both of us. “Well done, my boy. Well done.”
    I feigned a smile. I had no real interest in it and spoke of it only to take our minds from weightier matters.
    Around eleven thirty, three doctors entered the room. One of them carried a small vinyl satchel, another a clipboard. I recognized the female doctor from the day of the accident. She said to me, “I’m Dr. Hardman. You’re McKale’s husband?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “And you’re her father?”
    Sam nodded.
    “I’m going to need you both to leave while we conduct these tests.”
    I wanted to ask why but didn’t. I put a lot of faith in the doctors. I realized later that it wasn’t them I put faith in; it was my hope that she would be healed. Sam stepped away, and one of the doctors began pulling the curtains around the bed.
    “May we stand outside and listen?” I asked, pointing to the other side of the curtain.
    “Sure,” she said.
    I leaned over and kissed McKale’s forehead. “I
love you.”
    “I love you too.”
    I parted the curtain and walked outside next to Sam.
    “How are you, McKale?” Dr. Hardman asked.
    McKale mumbled something.
    “I’m sorry. We’re going to run some tests. They’re quite simple. They shouldn’t be painful.” There was some shuffling, and McKale moaned in pain as they rolled her over to get a look at her spine.
    I heard a bag unzipping, and then one of the doctors said, “Dr. Schiffman will touch various parts of your body with this tool.” (After the procedure I saw
the tool
. It looked like a medieval torture device. It was shaped like a wheel, with pins radiating out from the center.) “We will run this along different parts of your body and then ask for a response. Are you ready?”
    “Yes,” McKale said meekly.
    Then I heard one of the doctors ask, “Can you feel this, McKale?”
    “Yes.”
    My heart thrilled. I wanted to high-five Sam, but he was just looking at the floor.
    “Okay. Now we’ll try below your waist. Can you feel this?”
    There was a long pause. McKale said, “No.”
    “How about this?”
    There was another pause. This time her voice was slightly strained. “No.”
    My stomach twisted.
C’mon, McKale.
    “How about this?”
    McKale started to cry. “No.”
    I started silently praying.
Please, God. Let her feel something.
    “How about this?”
    McKale was crying now.