Читать книгу Her Wedding Wish - Jillian Hart - Страница 7

Danielle Lowell had never felt so cold as she followed the desk nurse along the dimly lit, tomblike corridors of the hospital. Their movements echoed along the barren walls like heartbeats—first the muted pad of the nurse’s rubber-soled shoes, and then the tap, tap of her open-toed sandals.

When she looked down, she saw, in contrast to the scuffed beige floor tiles, the cheerful cotton-candy pink of her toenails. She had painted them just this morning, both hers and her daughter’s while holding the toddler on her lap. Madison had giggled and babbled with glee. Danielle had been happy, as warm as the cheerful June sunshine.

Now, hours later, it was as if the sun had gone down forever. Her veins had turned to ice, her heart to a glacier.

An eternity had passed since that afternoon when she’d answered her cell phone to the sound of Jonas’s supervisor’s voice. She’d known it was bad news even before Rick had said the words. She’d felt a warm embrace, as if comforting arms had wrapped around her chest, as if someone was holding her tightly.

At the back of her mind she wondered if her husband was dead and she felt his spirit, his soul, somehow come to tell her goodbye. But the touch didn’t feel familiar, and maybe it was the effect of too much sun.

Either way, she knew the words before Rick spoke them. Jonas has been shot in the line of duty.

“You have ten minutes.” The nurse’s voice startled her, although she spoke in a modulated, almost whisper. “Your husband is unconscious, so don’t be alarmed. The equipment can look frightening at first. Hold his hand. Talk to him. He’ll hear you.”

“How can that be? They told me he’s in a coma. Has he woken up?” That faint hope flickered like a new flame in a harsh wind and died.

“No, he’s in a deep coma, I’m afraid. That hasn’t changed. But studies have taught us that hearing is the last of the senses to fail. Besides, I believe our hearts are always listening. His will know yours. God bless.” She led the way into the small isolated room.

Danielle stumbled at the sight of the stranger on the bed, waxy looking and motionless. Jonas. Her heart cracked and, like the edge of a glacier, sheared off.

This was her husband? Her knees failed and she hit the ground, kneeling at his side. The beep of the monitors, the ticking that marked his heart, the whir of a ventilator were out of a nightmare. She stared at the bags of fluid and drugs that hung like Japanese lanterns around his bedside. Shock took what little life was left in her.

My poor Jonas. His face was different—two already bruising black eyes, a stitched gash over his cheekbone and his hair shaved to his bare scalp, marred by a zigzagged suture line and bandages.

He looked already gone, despite the rise and fall of his chest.

Lord, don’t let him go. It was a plea that tore up from her soul. Without words, she gathered Jonas’s cool hand carefully in hers. It didn’t feel like his hand, which had always been so big and capable, and was now feeble and still.

“Don’t leave me, Jonas.” Fear shattered her. Choking on grief, she leaned her forehead against the palm of his cool hand.

What had occupied her thoughts earlier in the day—balancing their monthly budget and their minor disagreement this morning and the overgrown hedges needing clipping—slipped away. Nothing mattered but her husband and his life.

Please, Lord, don’t take him, she prayed, but she heard no answer above the noise of the machines. So she held on to him tight, as if she had the impossible strength to hold his soul to his body.

She felt arms wrap like comfort around her again, but she saw no one and nothing in the translucent light. Jonas’s pulse slowed a beat, as if his heart became aware of hers through the void.