Forever Spring

by Joan Hohl

“Yeah, he does!” Mark blinked, startled. “He swears a lot!”

  “Yeah.” Rand’s tone aged with a hint of cynicism. “Dad swears an awful lot.”

  In Karen’s opinion, Charles’s penchant for the more colorful expletives left a lot to be desired. She also thought that this particular vein of conversation had run out. “Well, given a choice,” she observed, “I prefer tears to cursing as an outlet for easing stress.” She ran an appraising glance over their faces as she picked up her purse. “You guys ready?”

  Mark’s face pinched. Karen noted the boy’s frozen expression at the same instant Rand did. Rand moved faster. Stepping to his brother, Rand slung a thin arm around Mark’s drooping shoulders.

  “C’mon, punk,” he said roughly. “Whaddaya wanna bet Dad’s gonna be all right?”

  “D’ya think?” The hopeful, trusting look on Mark’s face was enough to break a mother’s heart.

  Somehow, from some hidden wellspring of maturing strength, Rand found a grin. “Sure,” he said with a confidence Karen was certain he didn’t feel. “I’d put my allowance on it.”

  Strong words indeed. Karen smiled mistily, her chest expanding with pride for her boy, who was almost a man. Fighting back a resurgence of tears, she walked briskly to the door. “Come on, Mark,” she said, extending her hand to him. “We’d better go, before your brother discovers he’s wagered all of his junk-food money and goes into pizza withdrawal.”

  They found Judith Mitchell pacing the visitors’ lounge outside the closed doors of the coronary unit. Tears flooded the slender, attractive woman’s eyes at the sight of her grandsons.

  “Oh, my poor darlings!” Judith rushed to embrace the boys.

  Alarm flared inside Karen as Judith enfolded the boys protectively in her arms. “Is Charles worse?” she asked in a voice hoarse with strain.

  “Worse?” Judith glanced up and blinked. “Oh! Oh, no.” She shook her head distractedly and tightened her hold on the now-squirming boys. “In fact, he’s much improved.”

  The boys made good their escape; Karen’s relieved breath escaped. Suddenly she wanted to hug Judith— dear, sweet, vague Judith. Giving in to the urge, she stepped into the older woman’s deserted arms.

  “I’m so glad,” she murmured, hugging the woman tightly before stepping back. “Tell us everything, please.”

  Judith’s hand fluttered, the absent, helpless motion a clear reflection of the woman herself. Karen had' always loved her former mother-in-law; it was impossible not to love the endearing woman. But Judith was just a trifle airy.

  “Well, I don’t know too much myself,” Judith began, fortunately not noticing Rand’s “tell us about it” expression.

  Karen was back to shooting quelling glances at her not-yet-a-man son. “Then tell us what you do know,” she said, gently prompting the frowning woman.

  “When we arrived this morning,” Judith replied at once, “the nurse told us simply that Charles was much improved.” She glanced wistfully at the coronary unit’s closed doors. “The specialist is in with Charles now, and so is Randolf.” Her gaze drifted back to Karen. “They’ve been in there a long time, since right after lunchtime.”

  “I see.” Karen gnawed on her lower lip, trying to decide whether the lengthy consultation boded good or bad. The fact that Charles’s father, Randolf J. Mitchell, had been allowed to be present during the doctor’s visit was unsurprising; Randolf was a member of the hospital’s board of directors. She was beginning to get fidgety when she noticed Mark squirming in the chair he’d dropped into. Karen expelled a sigh and looked at Judith.

  “Are there public rest rooms nearby?” A maternal smile curved her lips. “Your youngest grandson is in dire need.”

  “Of course!” Judith literally leaped at the excuse to be doing something. “Come along, darling.” She held her hand out to Mark as if to a toddler. “I’ll take you.”

  For a flickering instant, sheer horror was reflected in the boy’s eyes. Rand hid a burst of laughter behind a cough. Then, realizing his grandmother wouldn’t dream of actually going into the room with him, Mark sprang from the chair. As the two exited the room, Karen heard her baby go to work on his doting grandparent.

  “Is there someplace we could get something to eat in here?” Mark was heard to ask plaintively. “We didn’t stop all the way down here, and I’m hungry, Grandma.”

  Though her reply was unintelligible, Judith’s tone conveyed anxious concern for her darling. Karen smiled, and Rand shook his head.

  “What a little con artist,” he said, grinning his respect for his brother’s talent. “Boy, he can always hook Grandma with one soulful look from his big brown eyes.” His grin faded, and he was quiet for a moment. “I guess,” he finally continued, a smile that was too wise and too full of acceptance curving his lips, “it’s because he looks so much like Dad.”

  Karen wanted to deny his assertion, but in all honesty, she could not. Mark was a smaller image of his father. It was an unalterable fact. Karen could even understand why Judith had favored Mark from the instant she had looked into his face. Judith had seen her only child all over again in the infant. In all fairness, Karen acknowledged how very hard Judith had worked at being impartial. Staring into her son’s eyes,

  Karen also acknowledged the near-impossibility of deceiving a bright child. An intelligent, sensitive child saw through the adult games with laser sharpness. At odd, weak moments, Karen had wondered exactly who was leading whom along the path labeled life—the adult or the child?

  In possession of far more questions than answers, Karen merely stared at her son in aching despair.

  Rand’s smile forgave his grandmother, exonerated his brother and complimented Karen. “It’s okay, Mom,” he said, shrugging off her concern. “I don’t mind looking more like you.” His smile grew into a grin, revealing the man yet to come. His voice lowered dramatically. “You look like a sizzling sex poodle.”

  It was altogether improper. It was the wrong time and most assuredly the wrong place, but Karen couldn’t help herself; she burst out laughing.

  “A sizzling sex poodle?” She fought to compose herself. “Randolf Charles Mitchell, where in the world did you pick up that expression?”

  “Around.” Rand smirked.

  Karen shook her head. Around. Around whom? She couldn’t help but wonder, yet she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. Nevertheless, she was on the verge of launching into the time-honored parental third degree when two men pushed through the heavy doors leading to the coronary unit. Their appearance wiped her mind of all but thoughts of Charles. Springing from the chair she’d perched on, Karen reached out to grasp Rand’s hand. Her eyes darted from one man to the other before settling on Charles’s father.

  “Randolf?” Her voice held a strained mixture of hope and fear. “How is—”

  “Better,” Randolf answered before she could finish the question. “The attack wasn’t as severe as originally feared.” With a smile relieving the taut lines of worry on his face, he crossed the tiled floor to gather Karen and Rand into his arms.

  “Grandpa?” The budding man had once again deserted the boy; Rand’s tone pleaded for further reassurance. “He’s not gonna—” he gulped audibly “— Dad’s not gonna die, is he?”

  “No, son, your father is not going to die.” The authoritative answer came from the man beside Randolf. “I expressly told him I would not permit it.” The doctor’s compassionate smile contrasted with his stern tone. “It’s bad for my image, you know.”

  Confusion flickered in Rand’s brown eyes. The confusion gave way to understanding, which surrendered to appreciation. Rand’s grin was back in place, accompanied by a suspicious brightness in his eyes. “Can we see him now?” he asked.

  “Yes, you may—”

  “Mom?” Mark’s squeaked call interrupted the doctor. “Mom?” Sheer thirteen-year-old terror whispered through his lips.

  “He’s all right, honey.” Stepping away from Randolf, Karen extended her hand, silently
urging him to release his death grip on his grandmother’s hand and join them. “The doctor has just told us your dad is better.”

  Mark’s face crumpled, and he began to sob. Karen moved, but as he had earlier, Rand moved faster.

  “Hey, Weepin’ Willie, did ya hear that?” Much like his grandfather moments before, Rand gathered his brother into his arms. “Dad’s gonna be okay.” While stroking Mark’s arm with one hand, Rand used his free hand to deliver a gentle punch to his brother’s other arm. “Will you lighten up? Mom’s nearly out of tissues.”

  “Besides which,” Karen said, gently prying Mark from Rand’s amazingly fierce embrace, “the doctor said we may go in to see your dad, and you don’t want him to see you crying, do you?”

  “No.” Mark sniffed. “Can we go now?”

  “In a moment,” the doctor said. “But first let me brief you.” As he’d expected, he received immediate attention. “Your mother is quite right, young man.” He smiled at Mark. “You don’t want your father to see you crying. It might upset him, and though his condition is much improved, he must not be stressed.” His gaze shifted to Karen. “The preliminary test results are favorable. The attack was a warning, and though I won’t go into detail at this time, I will tell you it was a warning that must not be treated lightly.” Pausing, he stared steadily into Karen’s eyes.

  Karen experienced a shivery sensation of intuition or premonition; she wasn’t sure which it was, but she didn’t appreciate either. She wanted to shake her head in repudiation of whatever it was she felt. However, pinned by the doctor’s intent regard, she nodded.

  Satisfied, the doctor smiled. “Now then,” he said briskly, returning his gaze to the boys. “I must urge you not to be frightened by your father’s appearance. He is a very sick man, and it shows. Also,” he continued, unperturbed when Mark blanched, “I don’t want you to be alarmed by the assortment of machines and tubes attached to him. Though they are somewhat uncomfortable, they are necessary.” He raised his heavy eyebrows. “Do you think you can handle it?” “Yes, sir,” Rand said at once.

  “Yes, sir,” Mark echoed, if waveringly.

  The strength of his smile eased the strain on both boys’ faces. “Good.” He nodded sharply. “Now, regulations allow only two visitors at a time, but in this instance 1 will countermand the rules.” He looked at Karen. “Ms. Mitchell, you may take your sons in to their father for ten minutes, no longer.”

  “Very well.” Grasping one of each of the boy’s hands, Karen moved to obey. She halted when he continued to speak.

  “I will consult with you later, while Randolf and Judith are visiting Charles.”

  The chill of premonition shivered through Karen again. For one instant, rebellion sparked. Then the spark died, and she nodded once more. “Of course, Doctor.” She managed to meet his eyes; she even managed a faint smile. He returned the smile, then escorted her and the boys into the coronary unit and to the door of Charles’s room. As she crossed the threshold, Karen heard him give instructions to the nurse hovering near the door.

  At the sight of his father, looking pasty and gray against the white pillow, Mark began to tremble; Karen could feel the tremors ripple the length of his arm and through the hand clasped in hers. Rand sucked in one sharp breath. A cry of denial rose to her own suddenly unsteady lips.

  This could not be Charles Mitchell! The protest rang in her mind in a loud attempt to refute the evidence before her stricken eyes. This man who appeared so lifeless, so bloodless, in no way resembled the Charles Mitchell she knew and had once loved! Everything vital inside Karen rejected the validity of this man’s identity. The man himself confirmed it.

  “Karen?”

  Having believed him asleep, Karen started. The voice was not—and yet strangely was—the voice she remembered. Her fingers tightening convulsively on her sons’ hands, she walked to the side of the bed.

  “Yes, Charles.” With a tiny part of her mind, Karen recognized that her voice was not the same, either.

  “Thank you for coming.” Charles moved slightly, restlessly. The movement brought the boys into focus. “Rand, Mark?” A smile feathered his pale lips.

  “Yes, Dad?” Rand’s voice cracked just a little.

  “Daddy?” Mark whimpered for a word of assurance.

  Even ill, there was no way Charles could miss the abject fear his sons were feeling. For an instant, he appeared mildly annoyed, as if put-upon. Then a hint of compassion flicked in his eyes, and his lips twisted into a wry smile.

  “Helluva way to get sprung from school, isn’t it, guys?”

  By the time she crawled into bed near midnight, Karen felt as if she’d been awake for a solid week. A variation on a tired joke ran persistently through her equally tired brain.

  I spent a week one day sitting in a hospital with an ex-mate.

  Ta da dum dum.

  Muffling a sob, Karen buried her face in the unfamiliar pillow. Jokes. She longed to rant and rave and wail in frustration, and her weary mind was recounting jokes.

  The midnight quiet was shattered by the trill of a giggle. Her eyes widening, Karen flopped onto her back and clapped her hand over her mouth. She was giggling! The thought contained an edge of hysteria. She was giggling, for God’s sake! Grown-up women didn’t giggle! Babies giggled; teenagers giggled! Mature adults did not giggle!

  I don’t want him in my home!

  The silent protest screamed in Karen’s head and defined the reason her mind was skipping along the edge of hysteria. She was tired—no, she was emotionally exhausted. Her response had been a delayed reaction to everything that had happened, beginning with Judith’s phone call the previous morning and ending with her astonishing consultation with the heart specialist, Dr. Rayburn.

  The good doctor had given her a concise description of Charles’s present condition based on his examination of both patient and tests. In the doctor’s opinion, the attack had been a definite warning. He had then concluded on a note of hesitant optimism for the future. Karen’s tension had eased and she had been beginning to relax when the doctor had tossed a verbal bomb at her. Karen was still reeling from the explosive reverberations.

  As clearly as if he were standing beside her bed, Karen could hear the even tone of Dr. Rayburn’s voice, relaying to her Charles’s suggestion that he could recuperate very well in her house in Maine. Now, as then, she cried out in protest.

  “No!”

  Karen’s cry in the quiet room had as much effect as it had earlier in the small consulting room in the hospital. The doctor had offered her a chiding smile and a full measure of disapproval.

  “Surely you would not deny your husband the ideal location in which to get well?”

  The doctor’s softly spoken charge echoed inside her head.

  “Charles is not my husband,” she had retorted immediately, reminded of the fact that Ben Rayburn was not only a physician but a close friend of the Mitchell family.

  “But he is still the father of your children.”

  It was an irrefutable fact; there was no argument against his statement. “Yes, of course,” Karen conceded. “But—”

  Rayburn verbally closed in for the kill. “Don’t you agree that the boys would feel relieved to know that their father is safely installed under your roof and under your care?”

  “But what about Charles’s parents?” Karen had demanded, recalling the comfort of the elder Mitchells’ spacious suburban home and the guest room she now occupied. “Won’t they want him close by?” “Perhaps.” The doctor’s smile was too wise, and wry with understanding. “But Randolf is still very actively involved with his company, and Judith, though charming, is frankly quite helpless in a sickroom situation.” He smiled again. “As I’m sure you know.”

  Having had firsthand experience, Karen did know how very useless Judith was in an emergency. Against her will, Karen had relived the time Rand had been thrown from his first two-wheeled bike. Karen had been at her shop, Charles had been out of town, Judith had been
baby-sitting. Karen would never forget the sheer panic in Judith’s voice when she’d called, begging Karen to tell her what to do. As calmly as possible, Karen had advised Judith to get Rand to the hospital, while assuring the older woman that she’d meet her there to take over. Karen had arrived at the hospital to find a pale but calm Rand and a devastated Judith.

  Oh, yes. Karen knew exactly how useless Judith was in a sickroom situation. She had had little option but to nod her head, both in agreement with Dr. Rayburn and in defeat. Should she remain steadfast in her refusal to house Charles while he recuperated from the effects of the attack, and her sons learned of her refusal—which they most definitely would—they would never forgive her. Karen knew that she was well and truly trapped. She might, and did, rail silently against Charles for placing her in such an untenable position, but she had no choice but to offer him succor.

  The deed was done; the plans were formulated. Upon release from the hospital, Charles would accompany Karen back to her home in Maine where, it was fervently agreed upon by all but Karen, he should fare well in the quiet atmosphere.

  Now, hours later, Karen wanted to scream her frustration aloud. She was literally surrounded by people, yet she was very much alone. Unlike the night before, her bed was cold and empty.

  Karen moved restlessly; she couldn’t, wouldn’t, think about the night before. Remembering Paul’s fiercely tender possession would only undermine her dwindling store of strength, and she needed her strength for the days and weeks ahead. Yes, she wanted to scream her frustration, but she wouldn’t. She was too tired, too susceptible, too close to tears. And she couldn’t afford to give in to tears because she feared that if she allowed herself to start crying she might wail the house down.

  But in the midnight quiet of the guest room in her former in-laws’ home, with her children asleep in the room next to hers, Karen silently cried out in protest and desperation.

  Paul.

  Oh, fool! she chastened herself mutely. Why did you refuse his plea to come to you in Boston?

  “Dammit!”

  The edgy sound of his own voice echoing back at him, Paul tossed the tangled covers aside and sprang from the unfamiliar motel-room bed that had afforded him precious little relaxation or rest. The bed was not at fault. Indeed, the bed was firm and comfortable—but Paul wasn’t. He was not firm in his conviction that he was doing the right thing by leaving Karen, nor was he comfortable with the miles now separating them.