by Moody, Diane
Which is why I told them I’d like to go home for a few hours to rest. Shelly looked at me like I’d grown a third eye, then a moment later she mouthed—thank you. I told them I’d like to come back later after dinner and stay with Mark overnight, if that was okay with them.
“Lucy, that’s perfectly okay with us,” Lisa said. “We’re both exhausted from jet lag, so a good night’s sleep in our own bed will be heavenly. As long as you promise to call us if anything happens?”
“Mom, we’ve been at this for a week now,” Shelly added. “Lucy knows the drill.”
“Absolutely,” I said. “And the same applies to you—you’ll call me if anything happens while I’m gone, right?”
“Right,” Shelly answered, giving me a side hug. “Now go home. Get some rest.”
The Christophers hugged me on my way out. I knew it was the right thing to do. To give them time alone with Mark. But still—it felt so weird to leave. As if I’d left my heart back in that room. Which, I supposed, was exactly what I’d done.
I realized I was fingering the heart necklace Mark had given me as the elevator dinged its arrival. As the doors opened, there stood my uncle.
“Lucy! I was just coming to see you.” He gave me a hug as I got in the elevator with him. “Is everything okay?”
I pushed the button for the first floor. “The Christophers just got here. I wanted to give them some time with Mark.”
Uncle Ted leaned back against the elevator wall. “That’s nice of you. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Okay if I take a rain check? I haven’t been out of this hospital in over a week, and all I want to do is go home and go to bed.”
“I don’t blame you a bit. A rain check it is.”
“Oh, wait. I just realized I don’t have a car here. Could you give me a ride to my house?”
“My pleasure, Lucy.”
We chatted on the way to Uncle Ted’s car in the hospital parking garage. It wasn’t until I saw his Buick sedan that I realized what I’d gotten myself into. My uncle’s driving was the stuff of family legend.
“Oh, Uncle Ted, I, uh, forgot that—”
“Hop in, Lucy.” He unlocked the doors with his remote and motioned me toward the passenger side.
I uttered a quick prayer for survival, too tired to grapple with finding another ride home. I’d just fastened my seatbelt when he peeled out of the garage, leaving a patch of rubber on the pavement behind us. Which is why I uttered a second prayer.
Oblivious to the blur of wintry scenery flying past us or the possibility of ice on the roads, Uncle Ted carried on a one-sided conversation while I tried hard to stifle the multiple warning cries piercing my mind.
“You like Mark’s folks? Y’know, it’s important to have a good relationship with a prospective mate’s parents. It’s also a good idea to make a keen observation of his relationship with his parents. Find a man who admires his father and honors his mother—not just in word, but in deed—and that’s the guy you want to marry.”
There were so many responses I could make, but speaking was impossible given the fact that my teeth were tightly ensconced on my lower lip. My half-hearted “uh huh” would have to suffice.
“Now take your own mother and father. Those two sweethearts have tremendous respect for each other. Not to mention the way your father loves and adores my sister. And I don’t have to tell you what a goner she is for him!”
I closed my eyes for my third prayer. Oh Lord Jesus, forgive me of every sin or possibility of sin or even the tiniest inclination toward sin—just please let me get home in one piece! I peeked just in time to feel the sharp thrust of my shoulder against the passenger window as Uncle Ted made the final turn onto my street. The neighbors’ houses rushed by at warp speed, and I began to panic—will he stop at my house or will I have to eject myself outta here as he flies past it?
His tires squealed in protest as he slammed on the brakes, our heads jerking forward as the vehicle of death came to an abrupt stop in my driveway. He put the gear in Park and turned toward me.
“And what’s so wonderful about that is, when Mark recovers and you two get back on your path to marital bliss, Mark will easily note that your parents have given you a legacy of a home filled with warmth and love and respect—which all add up to making you a great catch.”
Still panting from the Grand Lemans trip home, I stared at my uncle, wondering how my calm, sensible mother could possibly have come from the same womb. Then, unbuckling my seatbelt, I opened the car door and paused before getting out.
I looked over my shoulder at him. “Uncle Ted?”
“Yes, Lucy?” His eyes gazed at me with rapt attention, a smile of expectation on his lips.
I shook my head again and decided not to address the whole “path to marital bliss” issue. “Thanks for the ride home.”
“Anytime, kiddo.”
I nodded, then got out just as he revved the engine. My “goodbye” was lost in a flurry of exhaust.
Inside, my house felt strange, much like it feels after being away on an extended vacation. Everything looks the same, but the soul of the structure seemed to keep me at arm’s length. I cringed at the pathetic metaphor, but there it was. I’d been gone a week, not months. And without Gertie’s nails tapping on the hardwoods to welcome me home, I felt as though I were intruding somehow. I thought about calling Chad and asking him to bring Gertie home, but even in my sleep-deprived fog, I knew that was silly. I’d only be home a few hours.
I ignored the pile of mail on the table beside the door and shuffled my way down the hall, dropping my coat and kicking off my sneakers along the way. Half an hour later, after a long and hot bubble-filled soak in the tub, I set my alarm and climbed under the covers of my bed.
Turns out I slept through two alarms. Which is why it was close to nine o’clock when I drove back to the hospital. I was still groggy, but those few hours at home made a world of difference. The urgency to check on Mark kept tapping at my heart, but each time I remembered Lisa’s expression when she saw her son, I knew he was in good hands.
On a whim, I stopped by Chad’s to see Gertie for a few minutes. Hospitals should make it a practice to allow pets in patient rooms. Fifteen minutes of love and affection from my sweet Scottie was good medicine. The best. Mark loves her as much as I do, and I imagined sneaking her in and letting her lie on Mark’s bed alongside his legs. He would love that.
The Christophers had just finished sharing a pizza when I knocked on the door. They insisted on leaving the last piece for me plus some humongous chocolate chip cookies Shelly had picked up. We chatted for a few minutes before they left, and I quickly noticed how reticent Lisa was to leave her son. How well I knew that feeling. I assured her I’d keep a good eye on him and call if anything came up.
I felt so much better as I settled back in my “lair” as Chad now called it. Clean from my bath, clean hair, clean clothes, and even a clean mouth—flossed and sparkling. I sat on the edge of Mark’s bed, asking about his visit with his parents. I told him Gertie sent her love, and how I wished I could have brought her with me. Holding his hand between both of mine, I wished for the ten-billionth time that he would wake up. I needed to see those warm sable eyes of his and his lopsided dimples. And oh, how I needed to hear his laugh.
I kissed his hand and gently placed it back on the blue hospital blanket next to his leg. He seemed to prefer it there.
Once back in the recliner, I reached for Lucille’s diary, suddenly anxious to find out more about Uncle Gary’s coma—and wishing Lucille would talk to me through the decades and tell me how to handle all this. Did she teeter back and forth between anxiety and faith like I did? Did she fret over the possibility that Gary wouldn’t make it? Did she pray for hope when it seemed there was none?
And did she feel the same guilt I felt whenever I asked God to take Mark rather than leave him a “vegetable” or forever lost in a coma?
“Okay, big guy. I know you enjoyed spending time with your family, but it’s time to get back to the story. I still can’t believe Uncle Gary was so brutally attacked like that. He was just trying to help that little old lady!” I looked over at Mark. “And don’t you find it ridiculously bizarre that he ended up in a hospital bed in a coma—just like you? It’s so crazy. I always felt a special bond with Aunt Lucille. You know how much I adored her. But that doesn’t even come close to what I feel now, after discovering what they went through and how much our situations are alike. I mean, it’s almost a little creepy, don’t you think?”
I waited for the answer that didn’t come. “Anyway, let’s see. Where did we leave off? Oh—here we go. I’ll pick up the last paragraph before we got interrupted.”
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 nothing has changed. The doctors keep telling us to give it time, to hold on, to not lose faith . . . but each hour that passes fills my heart with so much sadness, I can hardly breathe at times.
Whoa. The hairs on the back of my neck just prickled. Talk about creepy. I’m reading Lucille’s description of how she felt—using many of the exact words I’ve thought myself, day after day since we’ve been here. I’m not sure anyone else could understand these emotions except for my Aunt Lucille. Strange. Unbelievably strange.
I glanced at Mark then found my place again.
Gary’s parents come every day, of course. I’ve grown to love them both so much. They seem truly grateful that I’m willing to stay with Gary around the clock. I’m so glad this hospital allows loved ones to stay with patients as long as they like. It’s a good thing because I would have fought them on the matter.
Mother comes every morning. She leaves Jack with our neighbor, Mrs. Trussell, so she tries to stay no more than half an hour. I suspect she keeps it short so she doesn’t impose on the Reynolds’ time with Gary. In a peculiar way, my parents and Gary’s have gotten to know each other fairly well over the past week. He’d be so happy to know they genuinely like each other.
I want so desperately to tell them about Gary’s proposal the night before all this happened. But I can’t do it until he comes around—I mean, WHEN he comes around. I don’t want to share such special news without him.
A nurse reminded me today that Christmas is the day after tomorrow. I was absolutely stunned. Time has stood still since that morning at the train station. It’s strange—the way I felt when she told me. I remembered the beautifully decorated windows at Marshall Field’s, and how we shopped that day so Gary could leave presents for his family when he left. I remembered the tree in the corner of the Reynolds’ living room, the lovely lights and garlands of cranberries and popcorn.
I’ve always loved Christmas. It’s my favorite holiday. And yet, when the nurse asked about my plans for Christmas, I wanted to slap that starched cap right off her head! I didn’t, of course. I tried to keep a kind tone in my voice when I told her we’d be spending Christmas at Gary’s bedside. She stopped and looked at me, her eyes moist with tears, then reached for my hand and squeezed it, asking me to forgive her for saying something so insensitive. I thought that was sweet of her.
Still, I can’t shake the added gloom of knowing Christmas may come and go without Gary coming around. I smile, remembering his constant medley of Christmas songs in the days we spent together. He can be such a ham at times! Oh, how I miss those carefree days of Christmas carols and dancing and laughing so hard, our sides ached.
But those happy memories last only a few moments before the gravity of all this sneaks back under my skin. I look at his face, hardly recognizing it without his contagious smile and those sparkling blue eyes. Oh Gary, please come back to me.
Mother prayed with me this morning before she left. We stood by Gary’s bed, our hands covering his. Mother prayed for God’s healing hand to reach down and touch Gary. She prayed for his doctors and nurses and those who bathe him each morning and keep his room clean. I never would have thought to pray for those people. How I wish I had my mother’s faith.
And then she prayed for me, asking God to keep me safe in His care. Asking Him to calm my spirit and help me learn to trust Him completely. When her voice failed, she squeezed my hand, urging me to continue her prayer. Instead, I turned and wept on her shoulder.
I’m so blessed to have a mother who loves the Lord with all her heart. I only wish I had half the faith she does.
Chapter 10
Later—
The strangest thing happened this afternoon. The hospital visiting hours began at 2:00 p.m. Around 2:45, someone knocked on the door to Gary’s room. A man I’d never seen before opened the door and asked if he and his mother could come in. Of course I said yes, and when he stepped aside, I recognized her immediately—the woman Gary had tried to rescue in the parking lot at the train station. Her face was filled with such unmasked sorrow.
“My mother doesn’t speak English, but she has been most anxious to find out about—” he paused, glancing over at Gary then back at his mother—“to find out about the man who saved her life. We have tried for days to find him. Only today would the police tell us his name, and that he was here, brought to this hospital. My mother has been—uh, most, uh—anxious to know how Mr. Gary Reynolds is.” He nodded as if to assure himself he’d said it right. I recognized his heavy accent as Italian.
“Please come in,” I said, extending my hand to her and then to her son. “I’m Lucille.”
“Yes, please. Nice to meet you. I am Marco Bertolucci, and this is my mother, Abelina Bertolucci.”
Mrs. Bertolucci mumbled something to her son.
“She said she remembers you from that day. You are Mrs. Reynolds?”
“No, I’m not—I mean, he’s not my—well, we’re engaged, but no one knows about that yet. I’m his fiancée.”
“Ah,” he said with a hint of a smile that quickly faded. “I am sorry for your, uh, for his injuries. Is he going to be . . . okay?”
I started to say something but couldn’t find my voice. I motioned for them to join me closer to Gary’s bed.
“Oh—” Marco held his index finger to his lips and whispered, “He is sleeping. We do not wish to disturb him. We will go—”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I admit, I prefer to think that he’s just resting, but the doctors tell us he’s actually in a coma.”
Marco translated for his mother. “Co-ma?” she asked, looking between us.
“Coma, yes. Think of it as a deep, deep sleep.”
He translated again, then his mother asked a question through her son. “She wishes to know if he will wake up.”
I blinked away the tears stinging my eyes. “Yes, we hope so. Soon.”
After Marco translated, Mrs. Bertolucci lifted her gnarled hands toward me, cupping my face in her palms. She uttered something barely over a whisper, her brows arched in sympathy as she spoke.
Marco continued. “My mother wishes you to know that God will take care of this man, her hero, who saved her that day. She knows this because God told her to make him her famous Christmas Cannoli Siciliani. And God would not tell her to do so if Mr. Reynolds were—uh, if he was not able to, uh . . . eat.”
I felt my lips quivering as I tried to smile. “That’s so sweet, and I know Gary will love them.”
Mrs. Bertolucci reached into the large bag over Marco’s shoulder and lifted out a silver tin with a r
ed and white checked bow tied around it. She handed it to me with such care, as though they were the crowned jewels instead of pastry.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bertolucci. This is—”
Another exchange. “She wishes for you to call her Abelina.”
“Abelina. Thank you.”
We couldn’t communicate with words, but I hoped she could see the joy she’d given me reflected in my face. “Abelina, I will look forward to sharing these with Gary. And when he wakes up, I want him to meet you. Promise me you’ll come back.” I nodded toward Marco, anxious for him to tell her.
A broad smile creased her face as she chuckled, mumbling again as she clutched my hand.
“My mother says she would like that very much. Very much.”
“As would I. Marco, could you write down your telephone number so I can call you when that happens?”
As Marco jotted his number on a scrap of paper, Abelina motioned for me to join her beside Gary’s bed. She held my hand and placed her other hand on Gary’s. I smiled, remembering how my mother had done the same thing just a few hours ago. Abelina smiled at me then closed her eyes. In her native tongue, I could tell she was praying. Marco joined us, quietly sharing her prayer with me.
Moments later, they left. I returned to Gary’s bedside and took his hand in mine. I felt it immediately—the heaviness that had shrouded me seemed to have lifted. And for the first time I let myself hope—truly hope. I glanced over at the tin of cannoli and smiled.
“Gary, Mrs. Bertolucci said God told her to make those cannoli for you. And she said He wouldn’t have told her to make them if you couldn’t eat them. Isn’t that something?”
I kissed his hand and set it back down. I made my way over to the tin, curious to take a peek. But as I started to untie the homespun ribbon, I stopped and peeked back at Gary.
“Okay, okay. I’ll save them for you. But just so you know, it’s a tremendous act of sacrifice on my part. I’ll bet you those cannoli are absolutely divine.”