Kiss Me Awake

by Julie Momyer

  “Too serious. Follow in another vehicle.” The driver rattled off the hospital as he climbed in, the sirens already blaring.

  Spencer shouldn’t have come. This should not have happened. Not to him. She felt Auggie come up beside her. “How did he get in the middle of this?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure myself,” he said. “But no matter what happens, you need to know that this is what he wanted.”

  “He wanted to die?” She wrapped herself in her arms, holding in the pain.

  He looked at her as if she were slow on the uptake. “For you? Yes.”

  She closed her eyes, the earlier pain that pummeled her skull had returned. Or maybe she’d slowed down enough to feel it. He shouldn’t want to die for her. Shouldn’t have to.

  The officer she spoke with earlier approached, peppering her with questions for his report. The area had thinned out with only a few stragglers working around the crime scene. Carl was with them.

  “I can’t do this now,” she said. “I need to go. I have to be with my husband.” Husband. It had been too long since she’d referred to Spencer as her husband. She turned to Auggie. “Will you take me to the hospital?”

  En route to his vehicle parked thirty yards ahead, Auggie said, “Now is not the best time to tell you this, but under the circumstances it’s wrong to keep it from you.”

  Jaida shook her head. Whatever he had to say, she didn’t want to hear it. No more grim news. No more Jerry Springer-like surprises. “Not now,” she said. “Just take me to Spencer.”

  35

  The hospital waiting room was full, the cloying air tinged with the smell of sweat and fear. The room reached legal capacity an hour ago, but family and friends waiting to learn the fate of their loved ones continued to trickle in. Must have been an accident.

  Jaida sat slumped in a vinyl chair, her eyes fixed on the clock above the door. The hands had channeled around twice since she arrived and still no word on Spencer’s condition.

  He’d been rushed to the operating room on arrival, but the nurse she spoke with offered little more than vague replies to her concerns.

  “Has he lost too much blood?”

  “Probably.”

  “Is he strong enough to be operated on?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  “Will he live?”

  “No one can say.”

  What did they know? And what was taking so long? Auggie remained beside her, a sentry standing watch, his back pressed to the wall.

  She pushed herself upright in the chair, stretching the stiffness from her spine. “You don’t have to stay. I’ll be all right.”

  He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Yeah, I’ve heard that one before.”

  Jaida slumped back down. She shouldn’t have left that hotel room. She studied the clasped hands resting in her lap. Dried the shade of Indian clay, Spencer’s blood lined the tips of her fingernails. She’d scrubbed them at the bathroom sink until they were nearly raw, but her guilt still marked her.

  If she hadn’t ventured out on her own, none of them would be here right now. She turned her hands over and gently pressed a finger against the gash from the can. Raw and bruised, it ran the length of her palm, but the blood had congealed.

  “You should have that looked at,” Auggie said.

  She shook her head. “Not now.” When she told him about the blow she’d taken to the head he insisted she be examined. She’d already had her head probed, tests done, and a CT scan. She wasn’t up for anymore examinations.

  Jaida closed her fingers over her palm, hiding the laceration in the center of her fist. Besides, what did it matter if her hand rotted to the bone and fell off? There were holes in Spencer’s chest, and he was dying.

  Fear seized her at the thought of losing him. She squeezed her eyes shut. Please, God, don’t let him die.

  Auggie touched her shoulder. “Go ahead and cry. You’ll feel better if you let it out.”

  She shook her head. “He’s been in there a long time.” How much longer could it take?

  Across from her a young woman’s eyes welled with tears before she broke down and wept. The man with her wrapped his arm around her and led her out into the hall.

  The only reprieve from the somber atmosphere was the random bursts of childish laughter from the two toddlers playing in the corner. The sullen mood was broken long enough to breathe in hope, but that hope evaporated before she exhaled.

  She dropped her head back against the wall, and rested her eyes. She should pray, but she was at a loss. How many more times and ways could she beg God to let Spencer survive?

  “You’re dirty.”

  Jaida opened her eyes. Standing in front of her was a child, her round face scrunched up, her green eyes narrowed.

  “I guess I am,” she said then sat up and smoothed her rumpled shirt.

  A rail-thin woman with fine pale curls swept the little girl away, apology in her face. “I’m so sorry.”

  If it didn’t hurt so much right now she would laugh. “Whatever smart remark you have lurking around in your brain, I don’t want to hear it.”

  When Auggie didn’t respond, she rolled her head to the side and looked up at him. No humor curled the corners of his lips as she anticipated.

  “Why don’t you go wash up?” he said. “There’s a bathroom down that hall.” He jerked his thumb toward the door and to the right.

  What if the doctor came while she was gone? She couldn’t leave. Not yet.

  “I’ll come and get you if I hear anything before you’re back.” He must have sensed her concern. He nudged her shoulder, and she pushed herself to her feet.

  The bathroom was a single occupancy. Jaida shut the door and locked herself inside then leaned her palms on the cool porcelain sink. When would this nightmare end? And how would it end?

  She lifted her face to the mirror. Pale and drawn, dirt smudged her left cheekbone, her forehead, and her chin. She twisted her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head then ran the water until it went from cold to warm. She tested it then plunged her hands in the stream. She splashed it on her face and watched the dirt swirl down the drain. The little girl was right.

  Drops of water clung to her eyelashes and dripped from her chin. She tore off the paper from the bottom of the towel holder and pressed it to her face. She was as clean as she was going to get with liquid soap and paper towels.

  She dropped the wet paper in the trashcan then shook her hair free, running her fingers through the tangles. It was a modest improvement, but an improvement nonetheless.

  Jaida turned out the light, and when she stepped from the bathroom, she saw Auggie speaking with a doctor across the hall. The man was in his scrubs. Her throat suddenly felt too thick to swallow. Good news or bad? She tried to gauge his expression, but it was unreadable.

  She hesitated before joining them. Auggie saw her and reached for her arm. “Jaida, this is Dr. Bowman, the surgeon who operated on Spencer.” He turned back to the doctor. “This is Spencer’s wife.”

  She dipped her head to acknowledge the man then asked, “How is he?”

  His mouth worked as if he didn’t know what to say, or perhaps how to say it; how to deliver the awful news. Didn’t they usually do this in a private room?

  I can’t do this. I can’t bear to hear him tell me what I already know. Sensing her need to flee, Auggie set a staying hand on her arm.

  Dr. Bowman shook his head. “I’m at a loss here.”

  Jaida pressed her eyes closed. Just hurry up and say what you have to say.

  “His survival is nothing short of a miracle. I’ve been a surgeon for over twenty-eight years, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Her eyes flew open. “What?”

  “By no means is your husband entirely out of the woods, Mrs. Gordon, but he is doing very well.”

  “He’s alive?” She didn’t mean to sound so skeptical, or shocked, but he’d sounded so dire and she’d been so sure.

  He nodded
his head as if he still couldn’t quite believe it himself. “Yes, he is. And he’s been asking for you.”

  “Where is he?” She had to see him, had to touch him to believe it was true.

  Dr. Bowman walked her to a room at the end of the hall in the critical care unit and pulled the curtain back, the metal rings scraping across the rod.

  “Oh my…” Jaida gasped, unprepared for what she saw. So still, he lay there like a corpse groomed for the casket, prepared for the grave.

  She hesitated then touched his face, felt his breath on the back of her hand. He was sleeping now. His skin was colorless, nearly translucent, his face and bared arms blending into the bleach-white linens he dozed on.

  The doctor said he was doing well. He didn’t look well. She turned to question him, to reassure herself, but he was gone. Don’t leave me here alone. She stood staring into the empty hall. She couldn’t do this by herself.

  She gripped her hands at her waist and turned back, her throat thickening at the sight of him. “I wasn’t worth this, Spencer.”

  Oxygen was piped in through the tubes in his nostrils, his breathing light and raspy. The doctor said he would be in and out of consciousness, but the potent painkillers transported through his veins kept him so deathly still it frightened her.

  Jaida slid a chair next to the bed and sat down. The pinging of the monitor stole her attention. She watched the numbers flicker and change—Spencer’s pulse, his oxygen, the weak, but steady rhythm of his heart. It was beating, and that was good.

  She turned her eyes on Spencer. God’s will. It was in her desperation that she had prayed for God’s will, not considering what that might mean. What if it was His will to take Spencer from the earth? What would she do then?

  She didn’t want to think about that. She reached for his hand and cupped it in her own, dreading the confession she was about to make. There were no reparations, nothing to right her wrongs, only repentance and a hope for grace. She’d received forgiveness from God, but would Spencer be equally merciful?

  She pressed the back of his hand to her cheek. “You promised me something the day you brought me home. Do you remember? You told me that you would always take care of me.” Jaida paused and watched his chest rise and fall, rise and fall, making sure…

  “I was fifteen when you shared that secret with me.” She didn’t understand the weight of his promise, the burden he carried. Not at the time. “You’re a man of your word, Spencer. You always have been. But you were only a child when you made that promise. You didn’t have to follow through on it.” You didn’t have to marry me.

  “I knew you would never leave me. Not physically, anyway, but it was only a matter of time before you realized your mistake.” Just like her father and her mother. “So I left you first.”

  “The truth is, I’ve always loved you.” Until last night, she thought she’d eluded that love, outwitted it. But it lived. It was a force, a being that possessed a will of its own. She couldn’t run from it any more than she could run from God.

  Hot tears slid down her cheeks. “I’ve done so many unforgivable things, and I am so sorry. I want…I need you to forgive me.” Please forgive me.

  She glanced up at the monitor, at the digits that blinked erratically. The numbers stumbled, falling, falling like a spiraling stock market crash, the steady ping of the monitor replaced with one long uninterrupted tone.

  Jaida leapt to her feet. “Somebody, help!” she cried. But they were already there, a trained faction preassembled before they tore into the room and pushed her out into the hall, the medical team crowding around Spencer.

  No, God, no!

  36

  Jaida folded at the ache in her middle and sank to her knees on the tile floor as though it was quicksand. She startled at the high-pitched cry then sobbed when she realized it came from her.

  Inside the room directives were shouted, and questions asked. The amalgamation of commands and inquiries bounced back and forth like a tennis ball alive in a match, one colliding with the other. And from the sound of it, they were losing him. She was losing him.

  It didn’t happen the way she thought, but her fears had not been unfounded. Predictive or just an unlucky guess, she’d been right all along. Spencer would leave her.

  Hard rubber soles slapped against the tile. A pair of white lace-up shoes stopped in front of her, coffee stains speckling the finish. Or was it blood?

  “Excuse me, but you can’t stay here.” It was a woman’s voice. A thick hand with nails clipped short swung down in front of her face. “Let me help you up.”

  Jaida slapped it away. “Leave me alone.”

  “Honey, we have the best in the field in there doing everything they can.”

  Jaida processed the woman’s words then lifted her gaze from the stained shoes to the round face. It was a nurse. “Are you saying he’ll live?” she asked.

  Her lips flattened. “I’m saying he’s getting the best of care.”

  God’s will. Just like she’d prayed, Spencer’s healing—his destiny—was in God’s hands. Not the surgeon’s.

  The hand swung down again in a second attempt to remove her from the hallway. This time she could sense the demand. Jaida gripped it then rose to her feet.

  The woman’s hand went instantly to the small of her back. “We need to keep this hallway clear.” She ushered her past the nurse’s station and out to the main hall.

  “We have staff available, specially trained to help you through the grieving process.”

  “Grief counseling?”

  “I know this is a difficult time.” Her cold, efficient manner turned motherly, the woman patted her arm. “If you’ll just wait right here, I’ll call someone for you.”

  “No thanks, I’ll pass,” she said.

  The nurse appeared agitated, unsure what to do with her. “The cafeteria should still be open. Why don’t you go downstairs and get a cup of coffee?”

  Coffee? Her husband was dying, and she was sending her for coffee? Was she that desperate to be rid of her, to make her someone else’s problem? Jaida turned and walked away. She found the elevator at the end of the hall and rode it down to the first floor.

  The double doors of the chapel were arched, fashioned in maple, and propped open at the far side of the lobby. She hurried inside, desperate for an infusion of hope.

  Pillar candles on either side of the altar were centered on tapered silver holders, silent white flames licking up the wicks. The light drew her in, and the cross that hung above the altar—it was a beacon for the lost and hurting.

  “Come to me all you who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” The invitation was almost audible, and Jaida responded, moving toward the rough-hewn beams joined by crudely twined rope. She knelt, surrendering to the grief.

  God would answer her, she knew He would, but would it be an answer she could live with? She plucked a tissue from the box tucked under the pew and blew her nose. It was time she went back upstairs and faced whatever awaited her, but she didn’t want to do it.

  “Jaida.”

  She turned. Auggie was standing in the doorway still as a stone, his features flat and unsmiling. He was the messenger, the bearer of bad news. It was written all over his face. She stood and discarded the wadded tissue in the trashcan stowed in the corner then looked up at him, steeling herself.

  He took a step inside and pulled both doors closed behind him. Was he afraid she would make a scene?

  “Is he…?” Unable to finish, she swallowed, warding off a fresh wave of tears.

  His eyes darted around the room, looking at everything but her. “Next to a confessional, I guess this is about the best place to do this,” he said.

  He wasn’t making any sense. She reached for the back of the pew, her fingers digging into the wood. Waiting.

  “I don’t know how to tell you this. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy, but…”

  She was a coward, she kept her eyes on the floor, her fists clutching tigh
ter around the pew back.

  “You need to hear this from me. Not from Baseel, or the news if it comes down to that. And I know this is the worst possible time to drop this on you, but I have no choice.”

  She looked up at him then. “What are you talking about?”

  He slid his hands into his pockets and raised his chin. “I took Gale’s money,” he said. “I was the one who emptied the accounts.”

  What was he saying? Was Spencer dying? She didn’t understand. Wasn’t Spencer the reason he was here?

  His eyes never left hers. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Sorry for what? Did Spencer die? Her mind couldn’t make the leap, but slowly his words sank in. The money. He was talking about the money.

  “It was you?” she asked. How could he have done this? She trusted him.

  “Please, don’t look at me like that.”

  “You betrayed me.”

  He rubbed a hand over his head and then looked away again. “I’m taking care of it, making it right the best I can. I’ve already talked to the head of the agency. He knows.”

  “All this time…you had the money all this time, and you said nothing?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She railed, unleashing her rage. “Spencer is dying because of you.” She closed the gap between them and shoved at his chest. “How could you do this?”

  “I know. I didn’t think anyone would get hurt or that Gale would go after you. I’m sorry.”

  A humorless laugh jerked from her chest. “I thought you came here to tell me that Spencer didn’t make it. That he was dead.”

  “Why would you think that? The doctor said he was fine. I was right there with you.”

  Her gaze fell to the floor. “Not anymore. His heart stopped.”

  “Chica, I had no idea.” He reached out to comfort her, but she held up a hand to warn him off.

  Together they headed back to CCU in silence. Dr. Bowman stood in the hall. He had his head bent over an open chart spread out on the counter at the nurse’s station. One of the nurses saw her approach, whispered something to the doctor and pointed her out.