A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five)

by Moody, Diane

  It made no sense. We’d known each other less than a week! How can you really know a person in a matter of mere days? Such a big decision shouldn’t be made on a whim, should it?

  But of course I said YES!!!

  We laughed and cried and talked for another hour. It was almost one in the morning by then. Gary had to report for duty at 8:00 this morning, so we finally said goodnight after a thousand more kisses.

  He plans to pick me up at 6:30 after saying goodbye to his folks at home. He assured me they would understand that he wanted those final moments alone with me to see him off at the station. I’ve felt badly that he’s spent most of his leave with me, and worried that they might resent me for it. But at this point, all I can think of is having to let my lieutenant go.

  Chapter 8

  As I turned the next page, Dr. Bradley entered the room after a quick knock on the door. I set the diary aside and stood to greet him.

  “Good afternoon, Lucy,” he said, shaking my hand. “How’s our patient doing today?”

  “The same. Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. The same, the same, the same.”

  He peered over his glasses at me with an understanding smile. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but sat back down while he pulled the other chair over and took a seat facing me.

  “Wait‌—‌should I call Mark’s sister? His parents are coming in today, but‍—‍”

  “No, I’ll be glad to talk to his family later. For now, I want to assure you we’re doing everything we can for Mark until he wakes up.”

  “But that’s just it. What if he doesn’t wake up?”

  “Then we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Traumatic brain injuries are extremely complicated, which, of course, makes it difficult to predict the short-term and long-term effects, or even how long a patient might stay comatose. Mark’s TBI is severe based on the nature of his injury. You’ve watched me check for his response to light stimuli, waving my flashlight in front of his eyes, and testing voice and motion stimuli. So far we’ve had no response. But as I’ve said all along, that’s not always a bad thing. Mark’s body is trying to heal the injury. Think of it as shutting down all the extraneous activity in order to use every ounce of energy it can to help heal the trauma to his brain.”

  “I need you to be honest with me, Dr. Bradley,” I whispered. I still wasn’t sure about the whole concept of coma patients hearing what goes on around them, but I wasn’t going to risk it. “Will Mark be the same if‌—‌when he wakes up? Or will he be . . .” I couldn’t say it. The words just sat there, stuck in my throat. “Will he be‍—‍”

  “Vegetative?” he whispered, pinning me with eyes that understood.

  I was thankful he said what I couldn’t. “Yes.”

  He sat back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “You asked me to be honest. So yes, Lucy. It’s a possibility. But only a possibility. And considering we’re just a week in, I’d say it’s a remote possibility at best. We’ll continue to monitor Mark, run some additional tests later this week.

  “But for now let’s focus on the bigger picture, the healing that’s going on. The body is an amazing thing. As doctors we like to think we’re pretty smart and know every intricacy of the human body. But the fact of the matter is, God designed these earth suits with incredible resiliency, with capabilities we still don’t fully understand. Meaning, we’ll do the best we can on our end, and trust God with the rest. Does that work for you?”

  I took a deep breath and slowly blew it out. “Yes. I keep trying to remind myself about God’s part in all this. And I truly believe He can heal Mark. I do. But sometimes . . .”

  “Sometimes it’s tough to keep holding on, isn’t it?” he said, standing. He patted me on my shoulder. “Keep the faith, Lucy. Let the staff know when Mark’s folks arrive. If I can, I’ll stop by and update them.”

  By now he’d made his way to the door. “You get some rest, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

  “I’ll try.”

  With a wink, he slipped out the door.

  I was so tired, so weary of all this. I stood up and stretched this way then that, arching my clasped hands way over my head. I rolled my neck, hearing it snap, crackle and pop. Then I blew out a long cleansing breath and stood beside Mark’s bed. I stared at him for a few minutes, then took his lifeless hand in mine and sat on the edge of his bed.

  “Y’know, I think Dr. Bradley’s a good guy, and I don’t doubt for a minute that he and the staff here are providing the best possible care for you, Mark. But the thing is‌—‌they don’t know you the way I do. They don’t know how you always go the extra mile for others. They don’t know how you always find the good in people‌—‌even the crankiest, nastiest people on the planet. They don’t know how your lopsided smile lights up a room. How it still makes me melt like butter.”

  I leaned closer toward him, holding his palm against my cheek. “And they don’t know how much you mean to me. How you’ve changed my life, Mark.” I closed my eyes, willing his to open.

  They didn’t, of course.

  I felt my cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I kissed Mark’s hand then carefully placed it back on the bed. I dug out my phone and saw my editor’s number on the screen. I couldn’t dodge her again, so I took the call as I headed back toward my recliner.

  “Hello, Samantha.”

  “Lucy? Is that you, Lucy?”

  “Yes, Sam, it’s me.”

  “I’m so used to talking to your voicemail, I guess it caught me off guard to hear your actual voice. How are you, Lucy? How’s your UPS guy?” Samantha was never good with names, but I didn’t hold it against her.

  “I’m okay. Mark? Not so much.”

  “Wow. That’s gotta be tough. What’s it been now? A couple of weeks?”

  “No, just a week. Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Sam. I’ve just been‍—‍”

  “No need to apologize. You’ve got your hands full. And I wouldn’t be calling again, but I’ve got to make a decision about your next novella. We’re already under the wire to get it out well in advance of the holidays next year, so I think we might need to put it on the back burner‌—‌until this thing with Mark blows over.”

  I stared out the window, wondering exactly what she was envisioning as “this thing with Mark” blowing over. I dropped my head back and tried to let that go for the moment. I’ve always been baffled by the publishing process. How it takes a year or more to get a book in print. Sam’s explained it to me, but with the whole print-on-demand technology today I still don’t get it. But none of that mattered to me right now. And I wasn’t particularly interested in fretting about contrived deadlines a year down the road. Not now.

  I could hear Sam’s long, loud exhale and imagined the cloud of smoke encircling her head as she continued. “It’s just that I don’t see how you could possibly get this one written in time. You know, under the circumstances.”

  Now it was my turn to exhale. “I’ve never missed a deadline, Sam, and I won’t start now.”

  “Sure, sure. I know. But I’m getting pressure from upstairs wanting some conceptual ideas for the cover, a blurb for advertising‌—‌the usual. I don’t want to harass you with all that while you’re‌—‌y’know, keeping vigil and all. So I was just thinking we could move it back a few months. Pull it out of the queue and shoot for a later release.”

  “No. I’m not okay with that. Besides, I’m working through my aunt’s diary. It’s a gold mine of information, giving me so much to work with. All kinds of possibilities.”

  “Really?”

  “Remember how I’ve always told you what a great story teller she was? Well, her diary reads like a storybook. It won’t take that much to tweak it here and there. And it’s such a heartwarming love story. You’ll love it. I promise.”

  “I’m sure I will. But the question remains. Can you focus enough to have it ready in time?”

 
I shrugged. “Piece of cake.”

  “You sure about that?”

  “Positive. I’ll get an outline to you by the end of the week.” I heard the words come out of my mouth, not quite sure where they came from. Maybe it was my subconscious mind begging for something‌—‌anything‌—‌to grasp onto. I had no control over Mark’s situation, but writing a novella? That I could do.

  We said our goodbyes, then I wandered down the hall to get a cup of coffee. The staff were all busy which suited me fine. I didn’t have time for the usual chit chat. I needed to make some serious headway in Aunt Lucille’s diary.

  “Where were we, Mark?” I asked once I was back in the room. I took a sip of coffee and reached for the diary. “Gary proposed to Lucille. Right?” I peeked over at him, choosing to imagine him wracking his brain to recall. “It was their last night together before he headed back overseas.”

  I opened the diary and noted the date on the next entry‌—‌a full week later. I flipped back a few pages, thinking I’d missed something. “That’s odd. No way Lucille would see Gary off at the station then not write about it in her diary. Strange, huh? Well, I guess we’ll just pick up where we left off.”

  Dear Diary,

  I simply haven’t had the heart to write. One moment, my life was full of promise and romance and dreams about our future together. Then the next thing I know, time stood still, and I feel as if I haven’t breathed in all the days that have passed.

  The morning Gary was to leave, he picked me up at 6:30. He planned for me to drive his father’s car back to their home after his train departed. It was freezing cold when we arrived at the station, so we quickly parked the car, intending to spend what time we had left together inside the terminal where it was warm. Gary had just heaved his large duffel bag over his shoulder when we heard someone scream. We looked across the parking lot and saw someone accosting a woman. Suddenly, Gary dropped his bag and cap, told me to stay there by the car, and off he went, racing toward them and shouting at the guy. “Let her go!”

  My heart was pounding as I watched Gary scuffling with the man. “GARY!” I yelled. But no sooner had his name left my lips than I watched as the man slammed the butt of a pistol against Gary’s head. He dropped to the ground, but I couldn’t see where he landed‌—‌a parked car obscured my view. “GARY!” I screamed again, this time running toward them as fast as I could.

  The man turned to look my way, the woman’s purse clutched to his chest, then he bolted around a corner and out of sight. The woman’s hysterical cries filled me with dread as I rounded the back end of the car. There on the ground, Gary was sprawled in an unnatural position, his head bleeding profusely. I dropped to my knees and held his face in my hands, saying his name over and over. His eyes found me for a split-second then rolled back in his head.

  I was so sick with fear, I couldn’t even think what to do. My mind flashed images of a funeral . . . a spray of white roses on a flag-draped coffin. Then the woman’s garbled cries snapped me into action. I grabbed the wool scarf from around my neck and stuffed it gently under Gary’s head.

  “GO FOR HELP! Find a policeman‌—‌anyone! Please! GO!”

  She stood there trembling, tears running down her wrinkled face as she blubbered something that made no sense, and it was only then that I realized she spoke another language. Italian? Polish?

  I tried to remember the words. “Polizia? Policja?”

  Her hysteria increased as more of the foreign words flooded from her mouth.

  I went positively blank, unable to think what to say, and I could feel the panic rising in me.

  Then suddenly others were there to help‌—‌a group of travelers coming from the station who must have seen or heard us. They called for help and in a few moments the wail of an ambulance siren filled the air.

  Even now as I write about what happened, it still seems like a nightmare . . . as though I’m totally disconnected from reality, though I have only to look up to see Gary lying in that hospital bed to know the nightmare is real. We’ve been here a week now and‍—

  I slammed the diary shut and sat up as an icy chill sent long shivering fingers down my back. How was this possible? I’m sitting in a hospital beside my Mark who’s been in a coma for a week now . . . and I’m reading words written by my aunt as she sat in a hospital keeping vigil beside Uncle Gary.

  “Whoa.” I let the diary drop to my lap, my mind spinning. I rubbed my eyes. “This can’t be right. I never heard about this before. Why didn’t Aunt Lucille ever tell me? Why didn’t Dad‍—‍”

  I scrambled to dig my cell phone out of my pocket and called home.

  “Lucy!” my dad answered. “We were hoping to hear from you. How’s‍—‍”

  “How come you never told me about Uncle Gary being in a coma?”

  “What?”

  “The day he was supposed to leave to go back to the war. He was trying to stop a mugger from attacking an old lady, and the guy cracked his head open with the butt of his gun. Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this?”

  “Lucy, I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Has something happened? Is Mark all right?”

  I huffed. “He’s exactly the same, Dad. He’s in a coma. It’s been a week now. And I’m reading Aunt Lucille’s diary and just read about this, and frankly, I’m a little miffed that no one ever told me about this!”

  “Okay, sweetheart. Just take a deep breath for me, will you?”

  I imagined my father pulling off his readers, running his hand through his thinning hair, and trying to calm me down. I could see this in my mind because it happened so often when I was growing up. Especially during my teenage years. Which probably accounts for most of those missing hairs on his head.

  So I took a deep breath, exaggerating it for his benefit. “There. All better. Start talking.”

  “I’ll be glad to if you’ll explain to me why you’re so upset. Where did this come from?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. It just feels like something was kept from me. Something so pertinent to what I’m experiencing right now. And I guess I feel like Aunt Lucille should have told me! All those years, when she used to tell me stories, she never once told me about this. All she ever said was that she’d met Uncle Gary when he was home on leave during the war. Why would she leave this part out?”

  “Did you ever ask her? Ask for more details about their courtship?”

  Dad’s question caught me short. “Well . . . no, I guess I never did. Which is odd, actually. Because I was always so mesmerized by the two of them. How they still acted like a couple of young lovebirds after all those years.”

  Dad chuckled. “That’s true. Gary treated Lucille like a queen. Always did. And Lucille pampered him something terrible.”

  “Whenever I was with them, it was almost like watching a love story on the big screen. Know what I mean?”

  “I’d never thought of it that way, but you’re right. Course, I was just a kid when they married, so that kind of thing didn’t really register in my mind at the time. But later‌—‌oh my goodness, they not only doted on each other, they spoiled me rotten.”

  “Which is why you adored your sister.”

  “Still do, Lucy. Still do. I miss her more than you know.”

  “Me too, Dad.”

  Chapter 9

  Shelly and Mark’s parents arrived shortly after I got off the phone with Dad. I have to admit, I had mixed feelings about them coming. As selfish as it sounds, I was feeling a peculiar mix of territorial jealousy. I’d been with Mark since the whole hostage incident. Others came and went, but this room, this vigil‌—‌it was mine. And I wasn’t sure I wanted to share it with Mark’s mom and dad.

  I was so wrong.

  When Lisa Christopher walked in the room, I heard her gasp. I watched her hands cover her mouth, her brow wrinkling as she took in the sight of her son stretched out in the hospital bed.

  “Oh, Mark,” she rasped as she slowly moved toward the bed.

  I s
tarted toward her but stopped myself. My ridiculous territorial jealousy disappeared as I put myself in her shoes‌—‌seeing her grown up baby boy looking so pale, bruised, and lifeless.

  “Oh, sweetie,” she whispered edging closer to him.

  “Lucy.” Brian Christopher approached me with outstretched arms. I’d been so focused on Mark’s mother, I hadn’t even noticed Shelly and her dad walk in.

  I started to respond but couldn’t find my voice. He engulfed me in a bear hug and the dam inside broke. Again.

  He kissed the top of my head and turned, his arm still over my shoulders. “How’s he doing, Lucy?”

  I pressed my lips together then croaked, “Pretty much the same. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  He hugged me again then moved aside as Mark’s mom approached me. “Oh Lucy, how are you?” She hugged me so tight. I tried not to slobber on her coat before pulling back to face her.

  “Um, I’m okay. I guess. All things considered.”

  She leaned her forehead against mine. “How can we ever thank you enough for taking such good care of Mark? Shelly told me you haven’t left his side since the day he was admitted. You have no idea how much that means to us.”

  I tried to shrug it off, but she had no idea how much her words meant to me. I felt such a tremendous relief just having them here‌—‌the complete opposite of what I’d expected.

  For the next half hour, we talked. I tried to reassure them of Mark’s prognosis, telling them what little I knew. I stepped out briefly to ask the nurse in charge to page Dr. Bradley. He arrived twenty minutes later and took the Christophers down the hall to a room set aside for consultations.

  While they were gone, I made an unexpected decision. Maybe it was utter fatigue. I don’t know. But I sensed such an intense compassion toward Mark’s parents after watching them see their son for the first time. And I realized, if I were Mark’s mom or dad, I’d be desperate for time with him. Alone. Time to process. Time to come to terms with the reality of what had happened. What might still happen.