by Leen Elle
The two doctors rolled him out of the room and headed quickly down the hall towards the operation room. Gail stood silently, watching him go with Maureen still beside her.
"You ought to go now, miss," said the young nurse, "They won't be through for a few hours. If you like, we can arrange for a messenger to be sent to the tavern as soon as Mr. West's awoken."
But Gail shook her head, "No, no, that's quite alright. I'll be staying here."
"But miss . . ."
"I'll be downstairs. So as soon as he's come out of that room . . ."
"Of course. You will be alerted immediately."
So, with her heart trapped in her chest, Gail slugged back down the steps towards the kitchen, where she would eat stale biscuits and bitter tea and wait.
*****
His lanky legs bent beneath him and a brush in his hand, Brook leaned towards the canvas and carefully added a few darker strokes of gray to the stones of the bridge. Then, dipping the brush in the glob of blue paint and the black, he dashed a bit of the navy along the ripples of the water. These were adorned with a few tiny specks of white, making the water appear as lifelike as it looked running beside him.
Glancing back towards the bridge, he caught sight of Emy, gazing off wistfully at the river and standing as still as a statue, as she'd been doing for him for the past three days. Nevertheless, as she caught a glimpse of him staring at her, her eyes dropped for a moment and her cheeks turned rosy. Brook smiled and, after washing off his brush, he mixed it into the red and white and dabbed it on the canvas to make his portrait of Emy blush. He'd already decided what he would name the painting. Sweet Emmeline.
After three weeks spent in at the festival in Clarendon and Norrance, it was nearly time to head home again. Brook looked forward to heading back to Brighton, of course, but he was really very disappointed that this would all end so soon.
The past few weeks felt like a dream, free of worries and filled only with glorious artwork, a bashfully sweet girl, and the intoxicating scent of paint. Nothing was ever planned. They roamed the streets as if they'd lived there forever and wandered into cafes and theaters like wide-eyed children. They'd listened to the street performers and sketched passersby from a bench; Brook was always willing to lend Emy a hand the days she wanted to try herself.
Heading home could only change things, he thought. She would retreat again, silently hiding behind her sisters and scarcely saying a word. Now, when it was just he and Emy, although she was still rather reserved and didn't always speak freely upon her thoughts, she wasn't quite so hidden from him and she wasn't able to sneak behind anyone else.
A cold wind blew past and Brook rubbed his bare fingers together for some warmth; he could never paint with gloves on. Then, picking back up his paintbrush, he dipped it into the paint and headed again towards Emy, feeling as though something weren't quite right. He'd had this nagging feel all day. As though he should just change one thing about the painting, one minor detail that might perhaps make the Emy on the canvas appear more like the Emy on the bridge before him. But it hit him just then, as he glanced quickly from the painting to Emy and back to the painting again. Nothing he could do would fix it. He could never, try as he might, paint something as lovely or as sweet as she.
It should be stated that Brook was a man who believed very strongly in acting upon impulse. If one didn't follow their impulses, he believed, and act exactly as their heart wished them to in all acts of life, they would end up leaving too many things unsaid and too many desires unfilled.
As soon he realized that nothing could be added to the painting to make it any better, a sudden impulse came over him. And, accordingly, he determined to act upon that impulse. Setting down his paintbrush and palette, he stood up and brushed off his pants. Then, sticking his hands in his pockets, he strolled slowly over to the bridge.
Seeing him walking towards her, Emy glanced over instinctively but tried, nevertheless, to remain a motionless model.
As he neared her, Brook called out, "Emy! Hey, Emy, come over here!"
"I can move then?"
Brook laughed, "'Course. Come here."
Emy blushed but came to the edge of the bridge, following Brook's lead. Just as she had the first day, she wore her white cloak with the broad collar and her black-ribboned hat. Brook stopped just before the end of the bridge so Emy did the same. They were still separated by the bridge's short, stone wall.
"Is something wrong?" asked Emy, looking down over her clothes and then trying to tilt her hat a bit, "Is my hat not in the right position? I felt sure it was off kilter and I was afraid it would ruin your picture but I . . ."
"No, no," he shook his head, "It's fine."
"Are you sure it's not . . . ?"
Brook reached a hand forward, letting one of her soft locks of hair run through his fingers, "It looks lovely, Emy."
Needless to say, he'd rendered Emy speechless by this point. She stood perfectly still again, feeling her cheeks grow hot.
And then Brook, resting his hand upon that blushing cheek, acted upon his impulse. He leaned forward and he kissed her. And it was not a quick, childish kiss that ends a moment. Nor was it silly, joking kiss shared between friends.
It was a sweet, lingering kiss that left Emy quite breathless.
*****
After nearly eight hours of waiting, Gail's table in the hospital's dining area was almost entirely filled. And Nathaniel was completely right, she'd found out. The food really was slop. But she ate it anyway because her stomach was rumbling and she refused to leave the hospital.
There were dry, crumbly biscuits, watery soups, and mushy vegetables. They filled the plates before her, some partially eaten but most only nibbled at. Nearly a quarter of the table was covered in tea glasses, all empty. It was a pitiful sight, truly, but whenever the cook tried to clean up some of the dishes Gail refused to allow it. She wanted to see how many different things she could eat before the day was through. And she promised that if she was still there by six o'clock she'd wash everything clean herself.
And as the clock's hands neared five thirty, she felt rather certain that she'd be in the kitchen in no time at all. So, with a tired sigh, she rested her feet upon the chair across from her and leaned back to continue waiting.
But it was only moments before Maureen appeared in the entryway. And as soon as she did, before she could even say a word, Gail spotted her and jumped up from her chair.
"I can come up now?" she questioned quickly.
Maureen nodded, "Yes, Miss St. James. But he's not awake yet and . . ."
"I don't mind!"
Gail breezed past Maureen, bounded up the stairs two at a time, nearly knocked into a few doctors, and was yelled at by the Chief of Staff. She arrived at Nathaniel's room only to find him, as Maureen had suggested, fast asleep. His sheets and pajamas had either been cleaned or replaced, for there was no blood in sight, much to Gail's relief. The horrifying image of this morning, blood everywhere and Nathaniel as white as a ghost with those blackened eyes, would occur in her nightmares for years to come.
Dr. Fitzgerald entered the room, giving only a nod towards Gail before heading across the room to fetch a paper and some medication from the bedside table.
"Good afternoon, Miss St. James," he said offhandedly, reading through the paper.
"Hello, doctor," she said quickly, "So how did everything go?"
"He'll be fine a few days."
"So I shouldn't be planning for a funeral?"
"No. I don't believe so."
Gail sighed, a smile sweeping across her face, "Well that's . . . That's wonderful! If he's not dying than that must mean he'll be getting better, right?"
"Not necessarily," the doctor murmured, his voice gruff.
Gail's grin vanished and she raised an eyebrow, "What do you mean? He has to! You told us it was a 50/50 operation. He's not dead so he has to be . . ."
"These things are never certain, Miss St. James."
"But you told
us . . ."
"His disease is mysterious. We never know exactly what sort of effects surgery or medication will create. We try our best and that's all we can do."
"Why didn't you say it was uncertain? Why didn't you tell us?"
"I thought surely you must realize that everything with Mr. West is uncertain."
"So he's not going to get better?"
"I don't know! I don't know and I'll probably never know! I'm making a guess, based on the surgery, that no, he will never be the perfectly healthy man you desire him to be, Miss St. James. Surely that can't be a great surprise. He's been lying in a sickbed for his entire life. He has barely any muscles left in that decrepit, bony white body of his. I'm not saying he won't live a long life and I'm not saying he won't be happy, but if you ever had any dreams of Nathaniel West being a healthy man who can walk beside you with strong legs of his own, you are mistaken. For his legs are too weak already to ever be strong again. Even with practice, even with physical therapy, even with all the hope in the world, he will never make it out of a wheelchair. Perhaps, perhaps if he is very lucky, I could see him using crutches or a cane for a bit. But it could never be permanent. He'd fall over in a faint if he had to use his legs that often. And it's not only because the muscles are weak. We know that his disease, though we are very uncertain about a lot of its details, does weaken the muscles dramatically. It's no one's fault. It's simply the truth. And you can't deny the truth, even with all the faith in the world. I don't enjoy dashing all your precious hopes and dreams, Miss St. James, as much as it may seem like it. But I have an obligation as a doctor to tell the truth in all situations and I don't want to give you any false hopes. I'm sorry the surgery didn't work out as perfectly as we'd hoped. There was a chance of full recovery and we did everything we could, but it was simply impossible. I'm terribly sorry and I wish I could stay and discuss this longer, really I do, but I am a very busy man and there is another patient waiting for me downstairs. So," he shook Gail's hand, "Good day."
Only moments after he'd left the room, leaving Gail's mind reeling with both anger and disappointment, she heard Nathaniel stirring upon the bed. He opened his eyes wearily and furrowed his brow, as though the sight of Gail sitting near him so quietly and in a room so white was quite a shock to behold.
"Hello there, mister," Gail said with an offbeat smile, her head tilting to the side a bit.
"Hello," Nathaniel murmured, a hint of a smile upon his face as well, "I wasn't expecting you to be here."
"Do you mind?" Gail stood and sat down upon his more comfortable bed, pulling her legs up beneath her Indian style. "But why didn't you think I'd be here? Of course I'd be here. I've been here all day!"
Nathaniel squinted his eyes, "You have? Why? I was in surgery, you know."
"I know you were in surgery, that's why I was here. I didn't want you to wake up to an empty room."
"Well that's awfully sweet, really it is, and I appreciate it. But I don't know why you'd spend your whole day in a place like this. At least tell me you went out lunch."
Gail shook her head, "I ate slop in the dining area. Every kind of slop you can imagine, Nathaniel West! I tried it all. And I did it all for you. Really I did. You should be proud I made it through the day without starving to death."
Nathaniel grinned, whispering hoarsely, "Bravo, my dear, bravo!"
Gail giggled.
"You should be happy you weren't here this morning though," Nathaniel mumbled "It was a mess."
"Oh but I was here."
"You were?"
"Not for too long, Maureen rushed me out. But I saw enough, I assure you of that. It's a scene I'll never forget."
"I suppose I'm the lucky one then. I can barely remember it but for a few images. Fitz put me out pretty fast so the details are still foggy."
"Well if you should ever need a fresh reminder, you know who to ask."
"Of course."
"So . . ." Gail began to rock back and forth, "How are you feeling?"
"Never better."
"Really?"
"Gail . . ."
"Sorry. Just thought I'd ask."
"So, anything important happen while I was asleep?"
"No, not really . . ." Gail shook her head, "But I did have a little conversation with Dr. Fitzgerald."
"Oh really?"
"And all I can say is that you were right. He is a lunatic. Not only that, but he's a liar too. He told us, he promised, that you'd either live or get better. And I believed him, as I have a right to when someone makes a promise! So, when I'm quite certain you're not dead, I assume that must mean you'll be getting better. And then he decides to tell me, after the entire surgery is through and the decision's already been made, that nothing is certain and that you're not ever going to be healthy again! I've never met such an ill-hearted, unkind, lying man in my life!"
"Well, I may not be healthy but at least I'm not dead yet."
"No! No, Nathaniel! You should be mad about this! You should be furious! He promised that you'd be healthy again! He promised!"
"Nothing's certain, Gail."
"Don't go spouting off the words of that evil . . . that evil . . . !"
"He's a doctor. He told you the truth. Isn't that what he's supposed to do?"
"Why are you on his side now? You hate the man!"
"I'm not on anyone's side. It's an unfortunate event but I . . ."
"But he promised! He said you'd die or live a healthy life! I have a right to be mad!"
"You know I'd love to have a little shouting match right now too, Gail, but I'm awfully tired and I've got a terrible pain in my side. Plus, I can barely raise my voice any louder than this and you can barely hear me as it is. I'm not debating your right to be angry with him, but I can see his side as well. He tried his best. Nothing's certain."
Gail crossed her arms, "All I know is that these doctors are liars and fools. I could take better care of you on my own and that's exactly what I intend to do."
"What are you talking about?"
"As soon as you're well enough to travel we're leaving this place."
"So you've already got it all planned out, have you?" Nathaniel grinned, "I would appreciate it if you'd asked me before you decide my entire future, but nevertheless, continue. Where exactly will we be going?"
"I don't know. Anywhere but here. We can go back to Brighton. I'm sure the Lindseys wouldn't mind. And Ethan's studying to be a doctor! It's perfect!"
"Gail, you can't just go dragging me to some random . . ."
"It's not random, it's wonderful! You'll love it there. We're going."
"Alright, love, whatever you want," murmured Nathaniel, curling up against his pillow and closing his eyes sleepily, "I don't care enough for an argument and I really wouldn't mind getting away from this place for a while. Just be sure to alert me before you stuff me on some train in the middle of the night, alright?"
Gail smiled, "Alright."
CHAPTER 36
Two Arrivals and a Thunderstorm
"You really are a disgrace, Gail."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You show up here with barely no money . . ."
"Nathaniel lent me some."
"And where's he getting all this money?"
"His parents are filthy rich, you know."
"Why didn't you just come home earlier?"
"I couldn't. I had to stay, Sara. He was having surgery. I couldn't just leave him there alone."
"Well why didn't you just write to us and ask for some more money?" asked Sara, "I'm sure Mr. Lindsey would have been happy to . . ."
"Nathaniel didn't mind. He's got plenty to spare."
"Yes, but that's not the point. You can't just ask people to give you money, Gail. It's improper. It's rude!"
"I didn't ask," said Gail, "He offered."
"But that's not all, Gail. There's also the matter of that letter you sent," Sara said, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear and heading across the room. She
kneeled down beside a basket in the corner and began flipping through a stack of papers.
"I don't see what was so disgraceful about it," Gail replied, crossing her arms and leaning back upon the sofa of the Lindsey's parlor, "I told you what you needed to know."
"No, no, no," Sara stood, the letter at hand, "You just decided to shock us all by informing us that, not only would you be returning home in the next few days, but your friend Nathaniel was coming as well."