Читать книгу Fall From Grace - Кристи Голд - Страница 10

Delia was no stranger to hopeless situations, or seeing a loved one suffer. She’d kept a twenty-four-hour vigil over her husband some eight years before, only to face the heartbreaking decision to end life support and let him go. Yet that situation was very different from her son-in-law’s. Jack was awake and still alive.

When Jack’s gaze tracked to hers, she moved to the end of the hospital bed, braced one fist on her hip and said, “A fine mess we have here, but only a temporary mess.”

“Maybe not t-temporary.”

At least he could speak—a positive sign, Delia decided as she rolled the hospital tray aside, pulled up a chair and dropped into it. “Now, Jack, you’re a fighter. You won’t let this setback keep you down for long.”

“S-stroke, Delia, not a setback.”

“And people recover from strokes every day.” She chose to save him from the story of her friend Alice, who’d suffered a stroke and amazed everyone by making a total recovery at the age of eighty-five. Jack didn’t need an overdose of optimism. He simply needed a leaning shoulder and a nudge in the right direction after refusing Anne’s offer to let her care for him.

“Does Annie know you’re h-h-ere?” he asked.

She’d purposefully avoided telling Anne for many reasons, the first being that her daughter wouldn’t approve of her meddling. “This is about you, not her.” Only a partial truth. It was about both of them.

She scooted a little closer and took his right hand into hers—the hand that was as lifeless as his eyes. In a perfect world, she would have been in his place due to her age. Yet nothing about this situation—or life—was perfect. Far from it.

While Delia studied Jack in preparation for what she would say next, he stared straight ahead. Except for the absence of hair, he still looked the same, very much the handsome man who’d captured her daughter’s heart and brightened all their lives for a long while. Before the light went out on a love that should have lasted a lifetime.

Perhaps reminding him of that love would serve as a good place to begin. “Do you remember the day you came to the house to ask Bryce’s permission to marry Anne?”

“My mind’s kind of…foggy.”

His mind might be foggy, but Delia’s role had become clear. She could serve as his memory for as long as necessary. “It’s okay. You don’t have to talk. Just listen.”

She brought out those fond recollections of days past. Good days, before the bad. “You were so nervous when you were talking to us about the marriage. In fact, I’ve only seen you nervous three times in twenty-odd years. That day you were going to propose to Anne, your wedding day and the day Katie was born. Anyway, I remember Bryce telling you that he’d give his permission as long as you accepted Anne’s faults, particularly her stubbornness.”

Jack attempted a smile, but it only formed halfway. “She’s not always r-right.”

“But she’s never in doubt.” Delia laughed. “That’s our Anne. Bryce also told you she had a long memory and that wasn’t always a good thing.”

She saw the flash of pain in his eyes and it gave her a much-needed sense of purpose. “I have a long memory, too, Jack. I remember how you looked at Anne from the first moment you met her. I remember that your love for her was so obvious, at least to me. But my best memory of you involves Bryce’s funeral. You didn’t stay with the other pallbearers at the graveside. You came back and sat between Anne and me. Then you took my hand and you put your arm around Anne, but not before you touched her belly, as if you were comforting your unborn baby, too. It was such a precious moment, and I’ve never forgotten it.”

When she glimpsed tears in Jack’s eyes, Delia swallowed around the nagging lump in her throat. “You were a rock. So strong for everyone. You’re still strong, Jack.”

Though he successfully fought back the tears, Delia felt his sorrow as keenly as if it were her own. In many ways, it was.

“Not strong…now,” he said. “I’m n-nothing.”

“You’ll never be nothing. You’re a good man. This stroke hasn’t changed that about you.” She squeezed his hand, even though she recognized he couldn’t feel it. “You told me once that Anne regretted the things she didn’t say to her father before he died. She regretted not forgiving him for his absence in her life and failing to give him a second chance before it was too late.”

Delia released a long sigh when his expression remained impassive. “She needs that second chance from you, Jack, whether she realizes it or not. You both deserve a second chance. Let her take care of you as you’ve always taken care of her.”

“I wasn’t t-there enough,” he said before turning his face toward the wall.

“Yes, you were. When it counted most.” After coming to her feet, Delia let go of his hand and leaned to kiss his cheek. “Think about it, Jack. That’s all I’m asking. Anne needs to be needed by you, and you desperately need her. You need each other. You always have, but never more than now.”

He stood alone in the middle of a room, alone and afraid. A stark hazy room filled with strangers. Not all strangers. Annie was there, at a corner table next to a window. He recognized the man seated beside her, but he couldn’t remember his name. He did know he hated him. Hated the way he looked at Annie, the way he touched her, like he had the right. He wanted to go to them, but he couldn’t move. He wanted to shout to the bastard that she belonged to him, but the words wouldn’t form. Slowly he tried to lift one leg, take one step. Move forward. Move toward her. But he lost the battle. He’d lost her—

“Wake up, Doc. Time for a shower.”

Jack’s eyes drifted open to discover the Samoan R.N. standing over him, a man who had at least three inches on Jack and a massive frame that would rival a West Texas mountain. Despite his casual expression, shaggy hair and close-cropped goatee, Pete the Nurse looked ominous.

Jack’s gaze roamed to the shower chair next to the bed—hell on rollers, with a seat that consisted of an open circle made to accommodate a bare ass. His bare ass, if Pete had his way. “Don’t need a shower. I had a sponge bath…this morning.” A spit-and-shine administered by a young nurse who’d had novice moves, and embarrassment written all over her face. She’d made quick work of her job and chatted nonstop. Enough humiliation for one day, Jack decided. Enough of everything. He wanted only to sleep. To escape from this hell.

Pete sighed. “Come on, Doc. Don’t give me a hard time. Policy states everybody has to have a shower bath every three days.” He put heavy emphasis on everybody—which meant, We don’t give a damn who you are. Or were. Jack felt closer to a nobody than he ever had in his life.

Why couldn’t they just let him wallow in his stink? Nobody cared anyway. “L-leave me alone. I’m tired.”

It was obvious to Jack that Pete had no intention of leaving. The nurse just moved the damn torture chair closer to the bed. “Now we can do this one of two ways,” Pete said. “I can get a lift—and we both know those are uncomfortable as hell—or I can just grab you up and set you in the chair.”

As far as options went, Jack found neither appealing. But Pete continued to stand firm. “G-go away.”

“Not a chance.”

Jack wasn’t so ready to accept defeat, at least where the chair was concerned. “Why can’t I try standing in the sh-shower?”

“You could try, but if you fall, then my ass is grass. You’ll sue the hospital and I’ll be in the unemployment line. So let’s just do it my way, okay?”

Maybe he would fall. More humiliation. “No lift.”

Pete taped up the IV and hung it on a rolling stand, then in one smooth move slipped his arms underneath Jack and grabbed him up with little effort. Jack’s dead arm dangled lifelessly at his side, his leg just as useless. He could imagine what kind of sick picture this would make—Dr. Jack Morgan in the arms of Pete the Mountain. He suddenly recalled the painting of the Pietà in his mom’s dining room, a depiction of an emaciated Jesus in Mary’s arms. Contrary to popular belief, even though Jack had held life in his hands, he wasn’t God.

The back of the open-air hospital gown split, exposing Jack to the elements, sending a burst of cold air across his butt. At least he could feel the cool on the right side of his hip, and in some odd way he welcomed the sensation. But he didn’t welcome the shower chair’s hard plastic surface as Pete arranged him in it and rolled him and the IV pole into the bathroom shower. A shower not big enough for the all the equipment and both men. Somehow, Pete managed.

The effort of sitting up made Jack’s stomach churn and threaten to expel what little he’d eaten for lunch—his first solid meal, if you could call cold soup and runny Jell-O solid. He fought the nausea, determined not to vomit all over the floor.

“I’m just going to take this gown off, Doc.”

Jack didn’t have time to prepare. As soon as Pete said it, he did it, unsnapping the gown’s shoulders with proficiency and peeling it away. Now Jack sat in his birthday suit in a butt-exposing chair with a Samoan sadomasochist standing by. Thank God, Pete laid a towel over his privates. At least the nurse had left him that much dignity in a totally undignified situation.

After pushing the overhead faucet toward the wall, Pete turned on the water. Still, some frigid droplets bouncing off the tiled surface hit Jack on the face, awakening him to the fact he was completely helpless. Anger simmered in a deep dark place in his soul. He was wasted. Useless.

Pete busied himself with removing the paper from the bar of soap and gathering another towel and a washcloth. Jack sent him his best scowl, hoping the guy would get on with it. Once he’d tested the water, Pete pulled the faucet over him, thankfully angling it so it didn’t drown him, and worked the soap into the washcloth, creating sufficient lather to bathe three men. “Heard your little girl’s coming to see you tonight.”

Jack wasn’t surprised Pete knew. The hospital gab line was notorious for getting into everyone’s business. Especially where he was concerned. And Annie. “Yeah.”

“We’ll get you all cleaned up and ready.” Pete then commenced soaping Jack down, raising his arms to wash pits, moving on to his chest, stopping where the towel draped across his lap. He offered Jack the washcloth and nodded toward his lap. “You’ve got one good hand. You wanna do this yourself?”

“Best idea you’ve h-had…all day, P-Pete.”

“Okay. Go to it.”

“You gonna…watch?”

Pete streaked a damp forearm over his chin. “Hadn’t intended to. But I can’t leave. I can just turn my back here and let you give the package a good scrubbing.”

Jack laid the washcloth in his lap and held out his hand. “Soap?”

Pete handed him the bar. “Watch out. It’s slippery.”

“I can still do s-soap.” Even if he couldn’t speak without stuttering like an idiot. Even if he couldn’t do surgery.

Just as Jack lifted the towel, someone called from outside the door. Pete pushed open the door to Melba, another hospital icon, who was changing the bedsheets. She smiled and asked, “How are you doing today, Dr. Morgan?”

Just peachy, he wanted to say. Come in and join the party. Have a look at Dr. Jack Morgan, today’s sideshow, while he scrubs his jewels. Instead he simply said, “I’m g-great, Melba,” with enough sarcasm to melt a steel O.R. table.

When the soap slipped from his fingers, Jack automatically leaned forward. Pete stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Whoa, Doc. I’ll get that.”

A teenage volunteer with a wide-eyed expression joined Melba at the open door, clutching a stack of magazines to her chest. Now Jack really felt like a circus act. At one time he’d thought to encourage Katie to volunteer at the hospital when she got older. A bad idea.

His anger threatened to combust. This was totally dehumanizing. But hadn’t he treated his own patients the same way? How many times had he invaded someone’s privacy for the sake of his schedule? How many people had he reduced to utter humiliation by holding a conversation while they sat on a bedpan? He swore if he ever got out of this mess, if he ever recovered enough to resume his career—and that was a big if—he’d never let it happen again.

Jack clenched his jaw and hissed, “Sh-shut the d-damn door, Pete.”

Pete blinked as though he’d just woken up to reality. “Sure, Doc. Sorry.” He closed the door with a hangdog look and studied the toilet while Jack finished washing.

“I’m done,” Jack pronounced, realizing how much truth rang out in his words.

Pete helped him dry off, replaced the hospital gown with a clean one and rolled him back into the room. He maneuvered Jack out of the chair and into bed, readjusted all the equipment and monitors, then raised the side rails, leaving him feeling like a caged animal. Couldn’t they see he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon? Except maybe home alone to wallow in his pity with a stranger attending to his needs. Unless he decided to take Annie up on her offer. Nope. Couldn’t do that. He couldn’t tolerate her sympathy on a daily basis. They’d both be miserable.

The loud reverberation of activity at the adjacent nurses’ station traveled into the room. Jack would normally welcome the sound, but right now it clanked in his head.

He brought his attention back to Pete, who was finishing cleanup. “When you leave, sh-shut the door. Can’t sleep with all the noise.”

Pete gave him a quick salute. “Yes, sir.” Then he left Jack alone to study the ceiling and wonder how in the hell he would ever survive this mess. How he would deal with the inability to take care of himself in very basic ways. Like now. He had to pee, which had become a major ordeal since they’d removed his catheter that morning. Fortunately some of the equipment still worked, or at least the plumbing. He shot a glance at the bedside table, determined to get the damn plastic urinal and do it himself. But the table was on his right side, out of his reach.

He tried to maneuver himself enough to retrieve it, skirting all sorts of tubes and lines, but to no avail. His body was too dead and the table was too far away. He pressed the button on the bed’s metal arm with his good hand to summon the nurse, but it didn’t work. Raising his head as far as he could, he noticed the cord curled on the floor like a hangman’s noose, detached from outlet.

Goddammit! Trapped like a prisoner with no way to communicate. He considered yelling, screaming at the top of his lungs about the injustice, their incompetence. Rant like a madman who had totally lost his mind along with his ability to function normally.

He had lost everything. His dignity. His pride. So what good would shouting do? It wouldn’t take away the pain, the loneliness. The loss. And he felt it all as sharp as a razor’s edge.

But instead of shouting, he did the one thing no one would expect, not even him.

He wept.