Morgan's Marriage

by Lindsay McKenna

  Morgan was exhausted by the cartwheeling sensations and confusing images. He had no idea of time or place. The conviction that he was a prisoner in a nightmarish world that would never end began to wear on him, to the point where he wished he were dead. At least then he could finally rest.

  But then the face that gave him solace would return, if only for a moment: the woman with the sunlit hair and sky blue eyes. She made him want to live, to struggle against the scenes that would certainly follow the respite she offered. She made him want to try and hang on, even by bare threads, until her face, her serene presence, would once again fill him with the courage to keep living.

  “Ann, you’ve got to tell me what the MRI results show,” Laura quavered. She was standing very still in front of Ann’s desk in an office within the BethesdaNavalHospital. It had been a week, seven horrifying days, since Morgan’s return to them. Her hands were damp, knotted tensely in front of her, and she held herself rigidly because if she didn’t, she knew her knees would give way.

  Dr. Parsons sat behind her large walnut desk scattered with X rays, lab findings and the MRI report. “Please,” she entreated gently, “come and sit down.”

  “I’m tired of waiting for a final answer,” Laura whispered, slowly making her way to a chair next to the desk. How many sleepless nights had she endured since arriving at Bethesda? Every night was fragmented with anxiety. Morgan had gone into a coma shortly after arriving at the naval hospital. Ann had said it was due to the high levels of cocaine combined with truth drugs that had been administered in too high a dosage too often during his captivity. They had clashed chemically within his brain and the result had been a war of sorts—with Morgan the casualty, slipping into a coma from the poisonous assault.

  With a trembling hand, Laura smoothed a strand of hair away from her eyes. She no longer wore the feminine wool suits that she normally did when out in the world. Wolf Harding, another friend and trusted Perseus employee, had retrieved some more casual clothes from the house for her earlier in the week. Today she’d donned navy slacks, a long-sleeved white blouse and a brightly woven red-and-gold vest, though she felt anything but colorful. Her deep sense of frustration and loss at this point was beyond tears.

  Compressing her full lips, Ann fingered the MRI report. Her voice was oddly low and charged with feeling. “It does show some loss of his permanent memory, Laura.”

  Pressing her hands against her mouth, Laura stared at the doctor. “No…”

  With a grimace, Ann put the report aside. “How much, no one knows.”

  “So we won’t know anything more until Morgan comes out of the coma?” If he came out of the coma at all, Laura thought worriedly. She knew that some of Ann’s esteemed colleagues felt Morgan would remain in the coma, to become little more than a vegetable. Ann, however, felt differently. Perhaps because she was emotionally attached to the case, to Morgan, she had argued with her psychiatric colleagues that Morgan could rise from the depths he now inhabited. And Laura desperately wanted to believe Ann was right.

  Knotting a lacy handkerchief between her fingers, Laura whispered, “What should I do?”

  “Keep doing what you’re doing,” Ann said wearily. “Sit at his bedside, talk to him, read to him, touch him….”

  “All right….”

  Rubbing her brow tiredly, Ann sat back in the chair and looked up at the ceiling. “I know how awful Morgan looks to you right now. But you’ve got to overcome your horror at his condition, Laura, and get in there and fight for him. Do you hear me? When I go into Morgan’s room, you’re sitting six feet away from him. You don’t touch him. Your voice is a monotone when you read to him.” Sitting up, Ann clasped her hands on the desk and looked across it with sudden intensity. “I know how much you’re hurting. I know how much I’m asking of you, Laura. But if you want Morgan to have a reason to come out of that coma, you’ve got to put some emotion into what you’re doing. Get close to him, hold his hand, talk to him as if he were there and awake, listening to you. You know what I’m saying.”

  Stung, Laura looked down at her clasped hands. “I feel like it’s my fault,” she whispered after a moment.

  “What? That he slipped into the coma?” Ann got up and came around the desk. She leaned over and gripped Laura’s slumped shoulders. “No one is blaming you for your reaction to Morgan or his condition. I know he looks terrible. I want to cry every time I visit him on my rounds. And I’m angry because of what Ramirez has done. I’d like to kill the bastard personally.” Ann took a deep breath, steadied her own feelings and said, “It isn’t fair to you, Laura. I know that better than most. But I believe that if you give your heart to him, regardless of his present condition, Morgan will respond. I know how much he loves you, how desperately he needs you in his world.”

  Gripping the handkerchief, Laura bowed her head. “Y-you’re right, Ann, as always.”

  Making an exasperated sound, the doctor gently released Laura’s shoulders and crouched down, placing her hands over her friend’s. “I’m worried for you, too, Laura. You’ve got so much riding on your shoulders—again.”

  Laura gave her a small, sad smile. “This reminds me of the time after I was struck by that car at NationalAirport. I remember waking up blind in the hospital.”

  “Then recall those feelings and that time,” Ann pleaded. “Remember what you felt like when Morgan came to visit that first time. Remember what you felt like when he held your hands.”

  Laura lifted her chin and felt a momentary trickle of joy. “He was so strong and capable, Ann. I was terrified at the time. Lost. My sight was gone. I felt out of control. Wh-when Morgan came into my hospital room, he was a stranger. But I homed in on his voice, and when he touched me…” Her voice dropped to a quavering tone. “I felt as if I could make it. Even if I was blind, I knew that with him at my side, supporting me, I could recover.” She shrugged. “It was a silly response, looking back. After all, I didn’t know him from Adam. Yet there he was. Larger than life, filling my room with his energy, his light, filling me with hope.”

  “So do the same for him now?”

  Laura nodded and squeezed her hands gently. “I understand now, Ann. Thanks…”

  It was impossible for Laura to gird herself adequately before entering Morgan’s private room. To begin with, she hated hospitals with a passion. As she stepped into the room now, the door quietly closing behind her, she looked over at the bed in the center of all the medical machinery and instruments. At least Morgan wasn’t on life-support equipment. Somehow, she had to allow her chaos of emotions to come through no matter what the personal cost to her. Laura forced herself to move forward. She took the chair and moved it next to the bed, within inches of her husband.

  Her heart twinged as her gaze moved to his still-swollen face. Morgan was a gaunt shadow of himself. No longer was he larger-than-life, radiating energy much like the summer sun’s. Moving almost robotically, she lifted her hand to touch his, but suspended it in midair. All his fingernails had been torn off, and she shivered, unable to imagine the pain he had endured. What kind of monsters would do that to a man?

  She sat down and stared at that large, square hand—a hand that had loved her so many times and in so many wonderful ways. Closing her eyes, her fingertips barely an inch from his, Laura allowed those sensations to wash across her, to remind her of their love. Ann was right: she had to allow herself to feel again, regardless of the emotional consequences to herself. Had Morgan abandoned her in her hour of greatest need? No. He’d stuck by her, despite the difficulties presented by her temporary blindness.

  Shame wound through Laura as she slowly lifted her lashes and stared down at Morgan’s deeply scarred hand. It was the hand of a man who had been forced to walk through hell and had survived it. Now this latest hell could leave him a vegetable. It isn’t fair, she thought, anger beginning to tinge the depression that had been relentlessly stalking her. Morgan had always fought for the world’s underdogs. His company took the dirty little jobs no
one in the State Department was willing to take on. He fought for the little people who often didn’t have the money, influence or power necessary to rescue their loved ones from some terrifying situation.

  A lump formed in her throat as she slid her hand forward until she finally, for the first time, touched Morgan’s hand. How cool his skin was! Alarmed, she leaned closer and wrapped her hands around his. It was an automatic response, she supposed. If one of their children, Katherine or Jason, was cold, she’d do the same thing for them. The muscles of Morgan’s forearm were weak from lack of use, but the familiar black hair still covered it, and she allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes as she gently skimmed his arm to reacquaint herself with the feel of him.

  How long she’d ached to touch Morgan this way. What had stopped her? Laura knew she was an emotional wreck right now, in so many ways. She was trying to cope. Her therapist, Dr. Pallas Downey, had cautioned her that due to the trauma she’d undergone, plus carrying the responsibility for her children as well as wrestling with Morgan’s uncertain condition, she was literally at the end of her rope. Pallas had helped her see the necessity of living life one hour at a time—minute to minute, and nothing more than that.

  Laura’s mouth softened as she explored Morgan’s limp arm. Her fingers glided slowly up and down his skin, and she allowed herself to experience the emotions that went with touching him, even though, for her, to feel meant to hurt—and to remember the seven wonderful years they’d had together. Oh, how happy she’d been! Her gaze moved to Morgan’s slack features. His lips were parted and chapped. Leaning over, she touched his full lower lip with a trembling fingertip. She recalled that mouth, how it could twist into a wry smile or a boyish grin of delight—or flatten into a tight line when he was worried. She recalled the feel of his mouth on hers…remembering….

  Dragging in a ragged breath, Laura stroked Morgan’s bearded cheek. He needed a shave. She could do that. Yes, she could do small things for him. She felt the first tentative stirrings of hope since Morgan’s return. Maybe, if she did such small, insignificant things as shaving him, holding his hand and reading to him from his favorite books, she could help bring him back—for all of them.

  Laura laid Morgan’s hand across his blanketed belly. “I’ll be right back, darling,” she whispered. She would go to the nurses’ station, get a razor and shaving cream and some towels. Suddenly, she felt some of the dark depression lift from her weighted shoulders. As she hurried toward the door, she felt hope for the first time since the whole horrifying kidnapping ordeal had begun. And for now that was enough. More than enough.

  On the morning of Morgan’s fourteenth day at Bethesda, Laura had just finished shaving him and was gently drying the unrelenting line of his jaw with a towel, when she saw his eyelashes flutter. She froze. Had it been her imagination? She had spent the past seven days at his side almost nonstop, silently pleading with him to wake up and find her here at his side, touching him, loving him in small, insignificant ways. Morgan’s lashes fluttered again.

  A gasp escaped her lips, and she placed the towel on the bedside table next to the bowl of warm water she’d been using.

  “Morgan?” she quavered, pressing her hands to his cheeks and framing his face. “Morgan, it’s Laura. I’m here. Come to me. Please come to me. I love you, darling. We’re all waiting for you to come back to us….”

  His lashes fluttered a third time.

  Laura’s breath jammed in her throat as Morgan’s eyelids slowly opened to reveal bloodshot grey ones. He stared up at her, as if not really seeing her. But he must!

  “Morgan?” she whispered, disbelief in her tone. “Morgan?”

  His mouth closed and then slowly opened. A rasping sound issued from his lips.

  Anxiously, Laura captured his hand as he weakly tried to lift it. He was conscious! A thrill shattered through her as she stood, gripping his hand in her own. His light gray eyes remained cloudy and unfocused, but again he tried to speak.

  “What is it, Morgan?” She leaned forward, her hair spilling across her shoulder as she pressed her ear close to his lips. “Tell me what you want.”

  But only rasping, animal-like sounds came from him. No words. Laura’s heart was pounding with joy even so. Tears stung her eyes, and she allowed her instincts to take over. When Jason was sick and had a fever, he would awake thirsty and wanting water. Sitting lightly on the edge of the bed, Laura took a glass of water from the table. Dampening a clean washcloth in it, she daubed it gently against his chapped lips. Instantly, he made sucking, drawing sounds.

  Trying to still her joy, Laura continued giving Morgan precious drops of water via the cloth. He was so terribly weak! He couldn’t so much as lift his hand, and after a few moments, he couldn’t move his lips, either. Getting off the bed, she saw his gaze following her. He was still thirsty. Torn between calling Dr. Parsons and remaining at his side, Laura made a decision.

  “Here,” she whispered, “I’m going to slide my arm under your neck and put the glass to your mouth, Morgan. Then I want you to drink all you want….”

  His gaze never left hers. His eyes were bare slits, but Laura could feel him following her movement. Elation made her giddy as she gently slid her arm beneath his neck. Using her own body as a support to raise him just enough to drink from the glass, Laura felt a powerful surge of hope tunnel through her. His head rested wearily against her shoulder and jaw, reminding her more of a newborn baby than a man in control of his own body. But the moment she pressed the edge of the glass to his mouth, he sucked thirstily. As the water flowed to him, he eagerly drank the entire contents. Eight ounces!

  Morgan’s lashes shuttered closed, as if the effort of drinking had drained what little strength he had, and Laura eased him back down onto the pillow. With a shaking hand, she put the glass aside. Touching his brow, now furrowed and beaded with sweat, she whispered, “Morgan, I’ll be right back. I’m going to get Ann for you. Rest, darling. Just rest. I promise, I’ll be right back….”

  “He’s come out of the coma.” Ann Parsons couldn’t keep the satisfaction out of her voice as she and three other doctors completed their examination of Morgan, who was staring up at them through barely opened eyes. She looked triumphantly over at Laura, who stood tensely to one side, her hands gripped in front of her. A smile tugged at Ann’s mouth as she said, “You did it, Laura. All your love and care brought him back. Congratulations.”

  Shaking internally with fear that the doctors would say Morgan could slip back into the coma, Laura woodenly moved forward. The other three doctors, all men, nodded in agreement and then, offering congratulations, left the room. Laura moved to the bed and gripped Morgan’s hand. It was warmer now, and Ann had adjusted the IVs to deliver more fluids, since Morgan was so thirsty. Laura’s heart pounded painfully in her breast as she looked down at her husband. How battered and scarred his face was. His old war wound from Vietnam, the scar that carved his flesh from temple to jaw, remained a constant reminder of Morgan’s original life-and-death battle, and it had been joined by more recent cuts and bruises.

  “Why won’t he speak?” Laura wondered aloud as she held his hand and watched him.

  “It may take some time,” Ann cautioned, replacing the stethoscope around her neck. “Just stay with him, talk to him and be there for him, Laura.” She grinned at her with unabashed pride. “You’ve done one hell of a job! It’s got to feel good.”

  Laura nodded. “I feel like I’m caught in the up-drafts and air pockets of a thunderstorm. One minute I’m elated, the next I’m terrorized. I worry that Morgan will slip away from me again.”

  “I don’t think so.” The doctor reached over and gripped her patient’s shoulder, smiling at him. “Welcome back, Morgan. You’ve got a whole bunch of people who love you and want you here with them. I’ll be back later to check on you.” Releasing her grip, she transferred her smile to Laura. “He’s all yours. Just keep doing what you’re doing. It’s working.”

  The room fell quiet. L
aura released a ragged breath as she lowered herself to perch on the edge of the bed, Morgan’s hand resting comfortably in her lap. Facing him, she watched his half-opened eyes train cloudily upon her. A slight smile touched her lips as she whispered, “How tired you must be, Morgan.” She reached over and slid her fingertips through his black hair, pushing several errant strands aside. “All this commotion. All this excitement.” Laura laughed a little. It came out strained, but it made her feel better. “I’m stressed out, too, by all these doctors. What a bunch of eggheads, huh? Three-fourths of them said you wouldn’t come out of the coma. Only Ann, the one woman, said you’d come back to me. Thank God she was right.”

  Laura felt a lump rising in her throat. Sudden tears stung her eyes. “Oh, Morgan, I love you so much…so much it hurts.” Leaning over, she placed her mouth gently against his. His cracked, dry ones. She didn’t expect him to kiss her in return. She merely wanted somehow to breathe her life, her energy, into him. Kissing Morgan for the first time felt so right. So fulfilling. How she’d ached to kiss him before, but she had been afraid to—until now. She’d wanted to kiss him when he was conscious and could remember her, knowing the love they shared.

  Easing her mouth from his, she smiled down into his gray eyes. “I want you to rest, Morgan. I love you. I’ll be here for you. I’m going to have my bed moved in here. From now on, I’ll sleep nearby. Oh, darling, I’m so glad you’re back. We all need you so badly—” Her voice cracked with emotion, and she dashed tears from her eyes.

  “Look at me, Morgan. I’m turning into a crybaby. Pallas said it would happen. That I’d have times when the tears would just come, and I should let them. I guess this is one of those times.” She squeezed his hand gently, leery of causing him pain. His gray eyes remain fixed on her, and she felt a little vulnerable beneath his unblinking gaze.