Читать книгу A Fragile Hope - Cynthia Ruchti - Страница 12

Take hope where you can find it. Hope isn’t stingy. But it is only visible to those who appreciate its presence.

~ Seedlings & Sentiments

from the “Hope” collection

So pale. Karin’s skin was now the color of sun-bleached bones. More color, Catherine? Where? Josiah smoothed the excessively laundered hospital gown over Karin’s shoulder. Her body twitched.

He jerked back and sought out the attending nurse. Their eyes met. Hers registered nothing out of the ordinary. But she’d obviously noticed the movement. Why didn’t she seem excited?

“That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Chamberlain, your wife is experiencing involuntary muscle contractions.”

“But isn’t that a sign of—”

“Not necessarily.” She smiled that pitiful oh-the-poor-man smile that gagged him. “I wish I could tell you differently. There’s been little change. She’s a three on the Glasgow Coma Scale.”

“Three out of ten?”

“Three out of fifteen. There are three categories with numbered levels. The total score comes from her level in each category: stimuli, ability to communicate, and ability to move—intentionally.”

“So, zero is the lowest in each of those categories?”

She looked away briefly. “One.”

Three categories. Three ones. Three can’t-get-any-worse scores. Oh, Karin.

“But, the curiosity is that her eyes are sometimes open. That’s more indicative of DBT—deep brain trauma—than true, full-blown coma. Some rating systems—”

Josiah stared at the now motionless spot on his wife’s shoulder. Move, Karin. Do it again. Prove this Florence Nightingale wrong.

“—use a little different scale to determine brain function.”

Angie, was it? He waited until she addressed the IV pump and its annoying alarm then glanced at her identification badge.

“For instance, the Ranchos Los Amigos Scale,” she said, “uses an eight-level system based on awareness, ability to think, behavior signals, and the way the patient interacts with his or her environment.” She smiled. “And that probably sounds as if I just finished my final exam in neuropsychology, doesn’t it?”

“A little bit.”

“I know it’s a lot to absorb right now. It’s important. But it’s not important for you to know today, at this stage.”

She probably meant well with her smile, but it seemed completely inappropriate in that setting. “So, Angie, you nurses work pretty long hours, don’t you?” Lame. But it qualified as conversation.

“The hospital’s a little understaffed at the moment. Oh, don’t worry. We have your wife’s needs well-covered. But yes, it does require that we work extra-long shifts.”

Her rubberized clogs squeaked with each step as she continued fussing with equipment and moving between the bed and the wheeled stand with its chest-high computer. Logging everything she did to his wife, Josiah assumed. Making sure the billing department knew about every needle, every change of sheets, every alcohol wipe.

“I don’t mind.” Her voice floated to him.

“What?”

She stopped, fingers hovering over the keyboard, and said, “I don’t mind the extra hours. My husband and I are saving as much as we can before our baby comes. We’re going to try to live on one income.”

She’s pregnant. He hadn’t noticed. More than a little pregnant, in fact. What was with this place? Every bloomin’ woman cradled a baby in her belly.

Including Karin.

You had to find someone else who could make that happen for you, huh, Karin? His eyes traced the line of her body under the thin sheet. The hollows on either side of her neck, the gentle rise of her breasts. He didn’t recognize them. They looked fuller than he remembered. And the small mound where her empty womb should be.

Josiah cupped his hand over the mound. It just fit the curve of his palm. He rested his hand there, breathing, imagining, aching to change things so the little life could be his.

Karin, you’ve robbed me. I can’t even ask you what I did that was so wrong, besides failing to make you a mother. When did you decide I wasn’t worth forgiving for that?

He felt warmth growing under his palm, as if the life were responding to his touch. The baby probably would fit into his hand with hand to spare.

God, protect this child.

No more words came. He lifted his hand from the mound. His palm tingled. Stung. The room shook as Karin screamed.

Josiah? What are you doing? Why are you here? Why

won’t you talk to me? Need to talk. Need to—

He couldn’t read too much into Karin’s involuntary muscle movements. Involuntary screams. It wasn’t a reaction to his touch. Or his prayer. She wasn’t demon-possessed. Just unfaithful. And broken.

Deep inside, on a level beyond recognition, her body railed against the pain, the nurse explained. A positive sign, in a way, she said.

Josiah cried the tears Karin couldn’t. He understood soul-deep pain. His own screams died in his throat as he watched her writhe and thrash. Instinctively, he laid his torso over her flailing arms and convulsing chest while Angie tethered her lower extremities and called for help.

He heard a crack and prayed it was his watch crystal or the housing on one of the pieces of equipment, not yet another fragile bone. Karin wrenched, he countered, his weight holding her to the bed for her own good. Her own good.

Within one of those minutes that bloats into distended oblivion, a boost of medication drove Karin deeper into unconsciousness. Theirs. The one they shared.

Crisis averted, Josiah stumbled out of the room. His visiting time expired mid-writhe. He would have fought against leaving the room at all—ever—but the air in there rivaled Kilimanjaro for thinness and lack of oxygen. He felt his way out of the intensive care unit, down the hall, and toward the family waiting room. The door to the visitor restroom stood open. He slipped inside, locked it, and created his own scream. Muffled. Throat-burning. Scalp-tingling.

He leaned over the porcelain sink, his head unhinged at the neck. Unblinking, he reached to flip the chrome paddle faucet handle to the On position and waited while a stream of cold water grew colder. Then he cupped both hands, filled them with glacial runoff, and shocked his face back to reality. Out there in the plum-couched room, Catherine and Stan waited for his report.

It was time to let them know about the baby.

Something was wrong. More than the obvious. Conscious of an irritant but disengaged as one might slap at a fly without reaching for the flyswatter, Josiah flicked the irritation away from his thoughts and took the last few strides toward the waiting room.

“Sharp dresser.” Stan’s eyes glinted with the mischief few knew lay hidden beneath his composed demeanor. “New fad in Paris? Milan? New York fashion district?”

What was Stan talking about? Josiah took a step closer to where his father-in-law sat at Catherine’s side on an appropriately named love seat. He traced the path of Stan’s gaze to the black long-sleeved tee shirt he’d pulled on after his shower. Backwards. And inside out. The label not only showed, it showed under his chin. And he hadn’t even noticed in the restroom mirror.

“Leave the boy alone, Stanley.” Catherine’s smile radiated sympathy. “Just because you don’t want to advertise what size you wear . . .” She jostled her husband with her elbow, then grabbed her arm as if she’d clunked her funny bone.

He let the two play, poking at each other with such good humor that a lump formed in Josiah’s throat. He and Karin used to have interchanges like that—teasing but not really. Finding the comic side of their humanness. How many lifetimes ago?

Comedy and tragedy share office space, he reasoned. Either one might serve as receptionist and pick up the phone when it rings.

At the moment, his home-away-from-home ICU family waiting room served as the stage for the comic tragedy of the scene he could no longer avoid. Stan and Catherine didn’t have to know about Wade. Not yet. But it wasn’t fair to withhold the small matter of the child Karin carried.

How could he describe this child—the one he wanted but didn’t? How does a person begin a story like that? The miracle of life conceived in betrayal? He begged for grace to construct a sentence he wouldn’t trip over. Ease into it, Josiah.

“Karin’s pregnant.” Yeah. Ease into it. Just like that.

Catherine blanched and grabbed the neckline of her blouse with both fists. Stan clamped a hand onto her knee.

Say something, one of you. My words are gone. Catherine, come on. Stan?

“Oh, son. How . . . how wonderful.” Stan’s words sounded strained. Big surprise. “After thinking it wasn’t possible. We’d given up hope of—” Whatever came next caught in the man’s wrinkled neck.

Stan directed his attention to his speechless wife, as if urging a wise response from the one who normally oozed wisdom. Josiah joined him.

Catherine grimaced, rubbing her jaw on the left side. She obviously could only think of the additional threat to her daughter’s broken body, not the wonder of a grandchild they thought they’d never have. Tears collected in the corners of her eyes and escaped down the folds of her face when she squeezed her eyes shut. Poor thing.

Stan turned his grip on her knee into loving pats. Pat-pat-pat, “No matter what, it’s wonderful, isn’t it, Catherine? Honey?”

Whatever else was happening in the room lost all importance when Catherine collapsed against the love seat’s fat armrest. Out cold.

Stan took the news of Karin’s baby better than Josiah expected, his deepened concern for his daughter tempered by pride at the pending title—Grandpa.

Catherine, on the other hand, had a heart attack. Complete with chest pain, jaw pain, and an out-of-the-norm “code blue to the ICU family waiting room.”

It wasn’t funny at all. Not one bit. The sounds coming from Josiah weren’t laughter. They claimed origins in the emotional word hysteria, not the amusing hysterical.

Nice one, God. What’s next? Don’t answer that.

Welcome to the Woodlands Regional Circus. The place should consider changing its logo and offer popcorn and soft drinks between acts.

Hours of chaos and two stents later, Catherine settled into a room in the cardiac wing, her pain under control for the time being, the rest of her medical protocol yet to be determined.

On the positive side, visiting Catherine on the third floor would make the waiting time between ICU visits more productive and focused.

Poor Stan. Stan, the Man. Strong as a barn timber externally but a pile of kittens on the inside. And Catherine stayed married to him for how many years to this point? Maybe the timber-kitty principle needed exploring by a marriage workshop expert. One who wrote books that changed lives. Books like the one Josiah still hadn’t submitted to his agent. Morris would be on his case. The guy had a capacity for sympathy that would drown in the shadow of a kidney bean.

Assured that Catherine now rested comfortably, awaiting the cardiologist who would decide the next course of action for her, Josiah excused himself from her room and made his way through the maze of corridors to a quiet sitting area away from the flow of foot traffic. He slipped his laptop case strap off his shoulder and set up the computer on the low coffee table in front of the love seat. Within moments, he moved instead to one of the chairs closer to an outlet.

Free wireless access. Nice perk for the hospital to offer. Perk? Like anything about this place was a gift.

He checked his e-mail inbox first. Anything urgent? Reader mail—equivalent to writer food. Tempted as he was, he had to let it go for now.

A note from Nate. The distance between Josiah and his friend—half a continent—mattered. Now more than ever.

Ah, good friend. I’ve neglected you, too. Have to rectify a few things once we know where all this is headed.

True to form, Nate kept his message short. Never one to waste words—as opposed, said Nate, to Josiah’s indiscriminate flinging them onto paper—or to waste an opportunity to create a chuckle, Nate had written:

“The church I grew up in was so conservative, we couldn’t even raise our hands on a roller coaster! (I just made that up.)”

Clever. Pack your bags, Nate. You can audition for a comedy channel show with that one.

Josiah stared at the laptop screen. It didn’t blink or beep or register respiration and heart rate. It didn’t flash an alarm for a sudden drop in blood pressure or a spiked fever. Words on a blank background. His territory. A medium he understood.

So conservative. Roller coaster. Funny.

Two of the most important women in his life—other than his mother, God rest her weary soul—lay in separate corners of the building, fighting to breathe, hanging ten over eternity. And Josiah sat entranced by a lame, homemade joke.

He rested against the back of the chair. Retreating from the edge of insanity, he inched closer to the scarier option—reality. With a skeleton-rattling sigh, he leaned forward and starred Nate’s post. He’d reply later, when he could think. When he’d formed a way to express the story of how his life had spun apart over the weekend—

No. He couldn’t wait until the ability to think returned. He penned an e-mail to Nate that left out any detail that would make his friend drop everything and book a flight.

Before the last vestiges of energy drained from him, he composed a concise e-mail to Morris with a one-sentence, nonspecific update about Karin, attached his manuscript now dubbed Love Him or Leave Him, and hit Send.

His watchband pinched. To be more precise, time pinched. He shut down the laptop and stored it in its case.

His message to his agent might have held the last words he’d ever write.