Ties That Bind

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Marc was worried, but he grinned to cover the feeling. “You know that I’m getting married in about two and a half weeks—dead or alive.”

  The doctor snorted. “I heard your church baptizes for the dead, but I never believed you marry for the dead as well.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.” Marc launched into an explanation of his beliefs, and Dr. Juppe listened with a practiced patience. When he excused himself twenty minutes later, smiling, Marc wondered if the doctor hadn’t brought up religion just to keep his mind off the possible rejection.

  Before he could dwell on the issue further, Rebekka glided into the room, looking healthy and so beautiful that Marc longed to take her into his arms.

  “How are we today?” she asked, bending over gingerly to give him a quick kiss on the mouth. As she straightened, her hand went to her side and she grimaced. “Ouch.”

  Marc grinned sympathetically. He pointed to the sign above his bed that read NO LAUGHING PLEASE. “Brandon brought it today. He made it for me after he came to visit that first day and Josette made me laugh so much that I cried. It felt like someone digging sharp rocks into my stomach.”

  “Sneezing’s worse,” Rebekka said, sitting close to him on the bed. “After I left you last night, I had a sneezing fit. I thought I was going to rip out the staples and start bleeding.”

  “Ouch.”

  She nodded. “Ouch.”

  They sat in silence for a minute and then she asked, “Any more news?”

  “No. They’ll take another test today. I may get to go home next week.”

  “You’d better hurry if you’re going to make our wedding.” Her voice was light, but he sensed an underlying worry.

  “It’ll be okay, Rebekka.”

  “I know.” She didn’t sound convinced. “It’s just . . . well, we’ve been waiting a long time.”

  “Hey, I’ll be at that wedding if I have to drive to the temple in a hired ambulance.”

  She chuckled, and then clutched her side and moaned, “Stop.”

  “I can see us now,” Marc continued with a laugh, followed quickly by a loud groan. “There we are on our wedding night, lying in bed and moaning while we watch TV—something depressing so we won’t laugh.”

  Rebekka smiled. “It’ll be the best day of our lives.”

  Marc agreed with his whole heart. “I love you, Rebekka Massoni.”

  Her eyes misted. “I know.”

  Marc sighed. Despite the pain in his body, he was happy. And he would remain happy as long as she was by his side. Even so, his premonition of their separation hung over him, blurring the happiness.

  With effort, he forced it from his mind.

  Chapter Twelve

  On Friday, one week after Marc’s transplant, André had a particularly difficult day at work. Several crises had arisen and without Marc in the office, André and Raoul had their hands full. To make it worse, Raoul wasn’t up to his normal standard, seemingly distracted with his new wife, who called at least four times during the morning alone. André ended up spending half the day on conference calls, and the other half running to two different building sites where he had heated discussions with two of the foremen about maintaining Perrault and Massoni standards. One of the men, a longtime employee, was chastened, and he immediately promised to right the wrongs in order to provide better service to the customer, but the other man was belligerent and André had fired him on the spot. This left him scrambling for a replacement. Fortunately, the assistant foreman, though young and relatively inexperienced, was knowledgeable enough to take over temporarily. André promised him the job permanently if he could deliver quality work within the budget and time frame stated in the contract.

  When he arrived home, he was already irritated and very late. The girls met him at the door, and he was almost too tired to pick them up for their kisses. All he wanted to do was to fall into bed and sleep.

  “Claire?” he called. There was something odd about the house, but he found it difficult to put a finger on.

  “Where’s your mother?” he asked the girls.

  Ana shrugged her thin shoulders. “In bed.”

  Worry gave strength to André’s weary body. He stumbled past the kitchen, noticing its utter silence. There was no pot boiling on the stove, no roast or cake in the oven, no beautiful Claire smiling at him. The absence of cooking food made his stomach complain more furiously about the lunch it had missed.

  “Claire?” he called again, his anxiety overwhelming him. His voice carried down the hall and into the bedroom, but there was no answer. The door was partially ajar and as André ran toward it, he felt as though it had never taken so long to reach the room.

  Claire was lying in bed in the dark, facing away from him. Beneath the thin blanket, she looked like nothing more than a small lump with dark hair. The next thing he noticed was the terrible acid smell that assaulted his senses, making him gag. As he flipped on the light, she moaned and turned stiffly, squinting.

  “The light, it hurts my eyes.”

  He turned it off quickly and came to her, a deep compassion and sorrow filling his heart. There was a white basin by the bed where she had been throwing up, but by the state of the blanket and the floor, she hadn’t always made it. Her face glistened with fever and her forehead wrinkled with tension.

  She began to vomit again, violently, and she lay with her head half off the bed as the spasms shook her frail body. Nothing came out into the basin except a thin squirt of yellow fluid. She shuddered and gasped in what he was sure was horrible pain.

  André helped her turn onto her back, away from the smelly basin. “Do you want a drink?” She nodded and he sprinted to the kitchen and back again. With an arm around her, he eased her to a sitting position long enough to help her take a few sips of the water. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I did once, but your line was busy.” Her voice was so soft he almost couldn’t hear the words. “I didn’t leave a message. I was going to call back, but then it got bad. I couldn’t get out of bed.”

  “The girls could have called,” he said, but without reproach.

  She managed a thin smile. “I didn’t want to worry them. They’ve been playing in their bedroom for hours.” She gave a little sob. “They were hungry, so I let them eat all the cookies.”

  “It won’t hurt them this once.” André smoothed her hair and kissed her forehead.

  Claire’s body lurched, and she began to vomit again. He held her until the spasms passed. The fear that had been growing inside his chest since he entered the apartment consumed him. Years ago, she had been through terrible illnesses, several of which had prompted a quick trip to the emergency room, but none had ever made her appear this close to death. Or had he simply put those instances out of his mind?

  “I’m so sorry, André. I don’t want to be sick. I wish—I wish I could be strong for you.”

  “Nonsense. Don’t say that. I love you just the way you are.” It was true. It was also true that many times in the past he had longed for her good health, mostly for her, though if the complete truth were told, he had wished it at least once or twice out of pity for himself. “Besides, you haven’t been sick for a long time, not really. That’s in the past. This is just a little bug we have to work through. Come on, let’s get you to a doctor.” He picked her up, blanket and all. She felt as light as air in his arms.

  “Girls!” André yelled, moving swiftly down the hall. “Get out to the car; we’re taking Mommy to the doctor.”

  “I don’t have my shoes,” Marée said.

  “Put them on—quickly!”

  Claire’s head lolled against his shoulder, though her eyes were open and glistening like blue-green jewels in a pond.

  “I can’t find them!” squealed Marée.

  André opened the door to their apartment. “Get out to the car now!”

  “But—”

  “Go barefoot. Now!”

  Marée looked at him reproachfully, but André didn’t
have time to soothe her wounded feelings. Ana, her eyes huge, pushed her stocking-footed sister into the hall and closed their apartment door.

  Claire threw up repeatedly in the car. André hadn’t remembered to bring anything for her to vomit in, but it didn’t make a difference since she had nothing left inside her stomach except a small amount of digestive acids.

  As he drove, he dialed his mother’s number. Please be home, he prayed. She answered on the first ring. “Mom.” He gulped. “It’s Claire. I’m taking her to the hospital. She’s really sick. She’s throwing up, and I think she has a fever.”

  “When did it start?”

  “I don’t know. She seemed fine this morning except for a slight headache and a little stiffness in the neck. We thought she just slept wrong.”

  “Where are the girls?”

  “With us. I didn’t dare stop to leave them with the neighbors.”

  “Tell me where you’re going, and I’ll meet you there.”

  André felt relief at his mother’s words and silently thanked God that she was home when he needed her. Since she lived closer to the hospital, she might even get there before he did.

  Claire was throwing up again where she lay in the back seat. Next to him in the front, Marée sobbed while Ana held her hand. André wished he could hold and comfort his youngest daughter, but there was no time. Instead, he squeezed her tiny knee. “Shush, baby, it’ll be all right. Don’t worry.” Marée quieted some, but her sniffles still tugged at his heart.

  When they at last drove up to the hospital, Ariana had arrived and was hurrying toward the doors. She stopped when she saw him park next to the emergency room. “I’ll take care of your car,” she said, waving him toward the hospital. “Go.”

  Leaving his keys and the girls with her, André hurried inside, carrying Claire. Her eyes were still open, but she didn’t respond to him when he spoke to her.

  “Help! Help me, please!” he called as he approached the desk. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her.” Tears began coursing down his cheeks but he paid them no heed.

  Two employees dressed in green rushed out with a gurney for Claire. They helped André settle her onto it, and then rushed her over the white tile into the back part of the emergency room. André followed them, not really noticing anything around him except the impression of cubicles sectioned off with green or white curtains, each filled with beds, machines, and medical supplies. As they arrived at the last of the curtain sections, two nurses began working on Claire, taking her vital signs and making her more comfortable. Claire opened her eyes and smiled at him weakly.

  André’s tremendous fear began to ease. It’ll be all right, he told himself. She was in capable hands now and would be just fine.

  But everything wasn’t fine. After talking to André and Claire about her symptoms—fever, vomiting, severe headache, stiff neck, back and joint pains—the doctor-on-call ordered numerous tests, including a lumbar puncture, where a small amount of fluid was removed from around Claire’s spine. Laboratory results were conclusive.

  “She has meningococcal disease,” the doctor told André. “It’s a form of bacterial meningitis.”

  “It has a name—good, that means you can treat it.”

  The doctor inclined his head. “We can give her antibiotics intravenously, and we might even cure her, but the outcome is not always positive.”

  “You mean she could die?” André could barely form the words.

  “Now that she’s receiving treatment, she has a ninety percent chance of pulling through, and that’s fairly good. It would have been better if she had come in this morning or in the afternoon, but she has a better chance than if she’d waited until tomorrow.” The doctor shook his head as his eyes shifted to his patient. “She’s very sick. This is a rare disease, and I personally have never seen such a severe case.”

  An impossible lump formed in André’s throat, and he struggled to speak past it. “What is it exactly—meningitis?”

  “There are two types of meningitis, viral and bacterial. Viral is not usually life threatening. Bacterial meningitis, the kind your wife has, is much more serious. It attacks the brain and the spinal cord. About ten percent of cases are fatal and fourteen percent of the survivors are left with a significant handicap.” The doctor hesitated before adding gently, “Last year there were only two recorded deaths in Paris from this disease.”

  André felt as though he were in a nightmare and couldn’t awake. “How could she have gotten it? She’s been trying to eat right, she’s been healthy.”

  The doctor shrugged, his face sympathetic and kind. “The bacteria customarily live in the nose and throat. Between ten and twenty percent of the population carry this bacteria at any given time, and many who do never develop the disease. We don’t really know why one person gets it and another doesn’t.”

  André thought of the past years when she had been sick. Could that be related? But she’d experienced nothing except a cold since Louis-Géralde’s farewell, and her immune system should be fine—or should it? How long did it take to rebuild an immune system?

  “She’ll be okay, right?” André knew the doctor had already answered the question, but he desperately needed reassurance.

  The doctor stared at him gravely. “I hope so, Mr. Perrault. We will do everything in our power. Meanwhile, we would like your immediate family to take antibiotics as well.”

  A sick feeling formed in André’s stomach. “Are you saying my daughters and I could catch this?”

  “The chance is less than one percent, but since her case is so severe and your daughters are so young . . . I’d feel better if they were protected. Of course, feel free to consult with your own doctor. Meanwhile, we’ll get your wife admitted.”

  André was in a daze. He checked on Claire, who was sleeping, and then went to the lobby where his mother waited with the girls. Ana jumped up at the sight of him. “Is Mommy going to be okay?”

  “Yes, honey. It’s just going to take a while.”

  Ariana stood with a sleepy Marée in her arms. “What is it? Do they know?”

  “Ana, why don’t you take Marée and go see the fish right over there in that tank? In a minute I’ll come and we’ll go buy something for you two to eat, all right?”

  “A pastry?” Ana asked hopefully.

  “Sure. Whatever you want.”

  André waited until the girls were out of hearing range. “According to the doctor, Claire has a type of meningitis. It’s pretty bad, but—” His voice broke and he stopped to compose himself. “The doctor gives her a ninety percent chance of living.” He felt numb as he spoke.

  Ariana bit her lip, and her face creased with sorrow. “Then the odds are high that she’ll be okay,” she reminded him gently.

  “He also said fourteen percent of the survivors have some sort of serious disability. That means she has about a seventy-seven percent chance of recovering completely. Three out of four.” He shook his head. “That’s still too low.”

  Ariana hugged him, and André was amazed at the comfort he felt in his mother’s arms. Her head went only to his chin, but he felt like a small child again. “Mom, I love her so much,” he whispered.

  “We’ll get through this,” Ariana answered, drawing away. “We will. Your father is on his way to help you give her a blessing. When he arrives, I’ll take the girls home with me and put them in bed.”

  “The doctor wants to give them—us—an antibiotic just in case.”

  “I can get it at the pharmacy.”

  “Thank you so much, Mom.”

  She squeezed his hand and smiled.

  They took the girls for a snack and then André returned to Claire’s side. She was still sleeping, but restlessly. He bit back tears and fell into the chair by her side. Please dear God, he prayed. Please help her. Through his despair he felt his Heavenly Father’s comfort pour through him and he knew that whatever the future held, his Father would make both him and Claire equal to the task.

 
Chapter Thirteen

  Before visiting Marc on Saturday morning, Rebekka stopped at the hospital to see André, who had spent the night there with Claire. He met her in the ICU waiting room after a nurse went to get him from Claire’s room. There were deep circles under his eyes and his dark brown hair was mussed like a small boy’s.

  She hugged him, ignoring the pain it brought to her abdomen. “I’m so sorry, André.” She felt guilty, too. Everything was finally going well for her and Marc. Poor André! And if there was any woman in the world who deserved an uncomplicated life, Claire did. She was a sweet, wonderful woman, whom Rebekka already considered a dear friend.

  “Thank you for coming,” André said.

  “Can I see her?”

  He shook his head. “No. Her condition is critical now. They’re only letting in immediate family. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “She’ll be okay,” André said. “She has to be.”

  “Of course she will. We’re all praying.”

  “How’s Marc?”

  “Good, so far.” She forced a smile. “As long as you don’t make him laugh.”

  André grinned, although the expression lack his usual exuberance. “Well, you seem to be getting along all right for only being a week out of surgery.”

  “Nine days to be exact, counting the day of,” she corrected. “I feel fairly good.”

  “Good enough to get married?”

  She uttered a short laugh, only to clutch her side. “Yeah. At least, I think.”

  André became serious. “For what it’s worth, I want you to know how happy I am for you and Marc. I couldn’t ask for a better sister-in-law.”

  Rebekka’s eyes filled with tears. “Thanks. It hasn’t been easy waiting all these years.”

  “I know,” he said with a snort. “Marc was so blind. I used to get mad at him for not seeing what was right in front of him. The best thing you ever did was leave France. It certainly woke him up.”

  “Yes, but it might not have.” She frowned. “When I left here, I thought I’d lost him for certain. It was the hardest thing I had to do.”