by Terri Meeker
“It’s my fault,” Rose offered.
“Miss Lewis?” Sister Newell asked.
“I’m new to this, Sister. Miss Curtis was instructing me and I’m afraid I’ve slowed down the pair of us.”
Sister Newell exhaled a puff of air. “Very well. Do try to pick up the pace, ladies. There are other patients waiting.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rose said.
Lily pulled the warming blanket from him and added it to her small stack of dirty linens. After tucking his covers around his hips, she gave him a very professional nod, under the watchful eye of the Sister, and moved out into the aisle.
A freshly scrubbed Gordy watched as Rose scrambled to pack up her cart. Lily had been so engrossed in Sam that she’d neglected the pair of them and she felt vaguely guilty. Neither of them looked the worse for it, however, deep blushes notwithstanding.
“And Gordy’s fresh as a…polar bear?” Lily asked, trying and failing to hit some kind of Canadian wildlife metaphor. “Well done, Rose.”
“Not exactly,” Rose whispered to Lily once she’d stepped over to her cart. “I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly thorough when it came to the lower extremities.” She glanced up to Lily and her expression changed from defeat to surprise. “But look at you, Lily. You look positively delighted, as if you’ve been out dancing.”
“Ah, nothing like the satisfaction of a job well done.” Lily winced inwardly at how much she sounded like the matron just then. But she was desperate to not call attention to her happiness at having spent so much time with Sam.
“Let’s just carry on then, shall we? We’ve got another ten baths to give out.” Lily turned her cart down the aisle, ever the professional.
At least, by outward appearances.
Chapter Eleven
Sam woke in the middle of the night to the sounds of the dying. The latest surge had brought another two dozen to the officers’ ward, Major Miller among them. He’d suffered a head injury that seemed quite similar to Sam’s own and they’d placed him a few beds away. The major had not fared well, however, and had died in what sounded like a great deal of pain sometime around four in the morning. Sister Cudahee had been with him when he passed.
Sam watched them in the dim light. The sister held Miller’s hand, wiping his brow while the poor man writhed in a tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, crying out to God.
They’d wheeled the major away before daybreak crept through the windows of New Bedlam, but Sam couldn’t get back to sleep. A wire of guilt had begun to tighten around his conscience and left him too disturbed for slumber.
What if his seizures truly gave him the ability to ease these men’s suffering? If that were the case, wouldn’t that make Sam the worst kind of coward—to sit and do nothing while his countrymen died?
Certainly, there were compelling reasons to not chance another seizure. He knew he risked further brain injury each time. According to Lily, it could kill him. Assuming he should survive, Lily would still be terribly distressed by his actions. When he thought of hurting her, something twisted tightly inside his chest, another twist on the wire of guilt.
A memory stirred: in the barn with Baden and Evie—making a toast with Father’s tin cup on the eve of war. What had he said back then? “To making a difference for good in the world.” What a great, bloody fool he’d been. It had all seemed so simple at the time.
You could do something about this, Sam. You could trigger a seizure and ease their suffering, but you play it safe. Perhaps the real reason you won’t try is cowardice. Let others fight the war for you. Maybe if Lily knew the truth of it, she’d be as ashamed of you as you are of yourself.
He grimaced and lay back against his pillow. Just behind his eyes, a headache stirred to life. As he watched the sun slowly creep through the large windows along the southern wall, he knew what he had to do.
It was nearly seven when the VADs brought breakfast trays around. For once, Sam was relieved to find that Lily wasn’t on duty. Miss Frederick, one of the newer arrivals, delivered meals in their section of the ward instead.
Sam tested his hands, opening and closing his fists. He felt certain he was capable of handling utensils, but Miss Frederick had seen Lily feeding him and insisted on following suit. He didn’t argue, wanting very much to stay in her good graces. After he finished a final bite of toast, Sam took his chance. He only hoped she wouldn’t bother to check his chart for orders.
“Miss Curtis always hands me my mail following breakfast.” He did his best to make his voice sound authoritative. “It’s in a basket on the second shelf of my table, just there.”
She nodded, preoccupied with cleaning up his tray. “Certainly, sir.”
Miss Frederick scooped up the little basket and handed it to Sam. Such a simple gesture, really, but with potential for enormous repercussions.
She then turned to take Gordy’s tray.
“Good morning, sunshine.” Gordy beamed a grin at her.
“It’s Miss Frederick!” She tittered a nervous laugh.
With Gordy properly distracted, Sam wasted no time. He tore open the first envelope without bothering to see who it was from. He unfolded it and tried to focus on the letters. His baby headache matured and gave an adolescent kick of pain.
Dear Old Man, Baden wrote. Sam forced his attention past the steadily increasing agony gathering behind his eyes.
So you’ve decided to stop napping at last. You know that once you’re back on the farm, Father will have you waking before the roosters. If I were you I would ‘make hay while the sun is shining’ because once you’re home, hay is about all you’ll be making.
Sam focused harder as pain howled around his head. The words swam on the page, the letters growing opaque.
We’ve been seeing a great bit of action here, but I can’t tell you where I am or the censors will go…
Something large and angry gave a snap inside Sam’s head. He watched his hand begin to jerk the paper back and forth, with a surreal detachment. Then his twitching fist crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it as though it was a grenade. A sea of red filled his vision and he felt balance shift and tilt as his body fell toward the floor. He braced for impact.
It never came.
He was instantly transported out of the hospital and into all too familiar earthen walls. Even before his vision returned, the stench of mud and blood and cordite filled his nose. His throat felt as if it had filled with dirt. He gagged and opened his eyes.
Sam lay on dirty duckboard in the bottom of an abandoned trench. He’d done it. He’d triggered another seizure and damn the consequences to hell.
His headache roared with a vengeance, his constant companion in these battlefield dreams.
Sam craned his neck, looking up and down the battered trench line, but there wasn’t a man to be seen. The crumbling sandbagged walls had clearly seen a fair share of shelling. The duckboard lining the floor had been reduced to muddy splinters.
Sam gripped a badly battered ladder and dragged his body up. Whatever skirmish had happened here was long past, and he was eager to get to his work.
The sun shone clear and bright, as if it were beaming down on a summer meadow and not the lifeless miles of blasted tree stumps and muddy shell holes. He could even hear a lark singing, though he couldn’t imagine where the poor bird might perch or what reason he might have to burst into song.
When he swung his head around, he saw a familiar sight and knew where he was in an instant. A red brick basilica towered above the artillery-blasted landscape and could have been seen from ten miles distant. Like everything else along the front, the church had been shelled mercilessly. Its crowning glory had once been a golden Virgin lifting her child to the heavens. With the tower nearly demolished, she now leaned out over the square at a ninety degree angle, giving her the appearance of hurling her child to the earth. A fitting image for humanity in
wartime.
The Leaning Virgin of Albert was a famous landmark all along the English lines, and considered a kind of mascot for the Tommies. The lads said that as long as she remained, England would hold out.
She was far too distant from Sam to be of much use, however. Sam looked around for some kind of cover, but the blasted wasteland of mortar holes and rubble offered nothing.
“Please,” a voice rasped.
Sam’s headache shrieked as he spun around to see who had spoken. He only saw collapsed trenches.
“Mercy,” the voice said, just above a whisper. Tucked beside a ruined trench wall, a muddy face peered out. Sam scrambled toward the soldier, tumbling through the muck.
Sam halted before he reached the lad, as soon as he saw the extent of his injuries. The boy’s uniform was matted with blood. He’d been bayoneted—a cruel and jagged path led from his abdomen to his sternum. A mortal wound if Sam had ever seen one. Somehow, impossibly, the soldier still lived. Sam couldn’t imagine how long the lad had been like this, waiting in pain. Or how much longer the poor boy could last.
“What’s your name, lad?” Sam asked.
“Buchanan, sir.” His voice was just above a whisper.
“It’s going to be all right, Private Buchanan. I’m here to help you.” Sam knelt by his side.
The boy reached out a hand. It was so pale from blood loss that it seemed to glow.
Previously, whenever Sam had delivered his healing touch, he’d been the one to reach out. This boy, despite his weakened condition, took charge instead. He clasped Sam’s hand in an icy grip.
“Thank you,” Buchanan said on a sigh.
Bright light travelled down Sam’s arm in an explosion of heat. The light bloomed inside his mind, obliterating his headache completely.
White exploded into black.
And Sam knew no more.
“He’s not breathing,” a panicked voice shouted.
Though Sam’s world was dark, he could make out frantic female voices. A small but firm hand gripped the back of his neck, pulling him forward. He felt his jaw being tugged downwards and the steady pressure of a mouth, warm and insistent upon his own. Sam fought for breath, but when he tried to take a gulp of air, something prevented him. Someone.
She forced a whoosh of air down his throat instead. Sam coughed and sputtered.
He forced his lids open to see Lily’s green eyes staring back at him, wide and frightened.
“Sam…Captain. You’re awake?”
He tried to respond with a “yes”, but his throat was strangely constricted. The only sound that escaped was a strangled kind of groan.
“Miss Frederick, what’s his heart rate?” Lily looked across the bed where the other VAD was gripping Sam’s wrist.
The young girl’s lips thinned in concentration. “One forty now.”
Lily nodded. “Please inform Dr. Raye, would you? He may wish to change the medication dosage.” Lily glanced down at Sam, her expression so foreign that it took a moment for Sam to register that it was…anger. “And ask if I could please speak to him at his earliest convenience.”
Sam closed his eyes and let the darkness carry him away.
Chapter Twelve
When Sam woke, his headache had faded to a dull throb. He opened his eyes cautiously to find it was early evening. The lamps flickered across the yellowed walls and he heard the squeak of the meal cart as a VAD wheeled it amongst the rows.
“Had another one of your spells.” Gordy looked over at him, a rare serious expression on his face.
Not knowing quite what to say, Sam gave no reply at all.
Gordy turned and shouted across the ward. “Oi, miss? Can you send for Miss Curtis? She asked to be told when the captain woke up.” There was a pause and then, “Thank you.”
For the first time since he’d arrived at New Bedlam, Gordy didn’t attempt to engage him in conversation. He didn’t ogle the VADs or tell stories about fictional Canadian wildlife. He simply watched Sam with a disconcertingly somber expression.
When Sam heard the familiar click click of Lily’s footstep, he felt a blanket of dread settle over him. He’d only ever looked forward to seeing her before and didn’t know quite what to do with this new, unfamiliar feeling. When he heard the rustle of approaching skirts, he forced himself to look up.
Lily gazed down at him with raised eyebrows. Her arms were crossed over her chest. For such a beautiful creature, it was startling how intimidating she looked.
“How are you feeling, Captain?” Her voice was clipped.
“Headache.” He knew exactly why she was angry at him, but hadn’t the ability nor the energy to say much of anything at the moment.
“You’re aware that you had another seizure?”
“I am.”
She pulled the chair up beside the bed and settled into it, moving closer until her face was mere inches away and they could talk quietly. Her scent—of soap and lavender—filled his senses, made it difficult to concentrate. As if the headache weren’t enough.
Sam knew it was best just to cut to it. “Are you angry with me?”
“I am. Very.” Her eyes flashed, her expression fierce.
He longed to drop his gaze, but that would have been the coward’s way out. “The seizure—it wasn’t…” he began. It was foolish, but he had to try.
“You triggered that seizure. Do you deny it? You were told not to read and you went against orders.” Her anger was beginning to ebb and just beneath he saw the glimpse of another emotion. Pain. Oh, not that. He could withstand her anger, but knowing he’d wounded her was just too cruel.
“Can you meet my eyes and tell me that it was an accident, Captain?”
He could not, damn him. He could only look at her like a beached fish.
“What’s worse is I think I know why you did it.”
She couldn’t know about his trips to the trenches, about how he’d been able to heal men. She had no way of knowing this. It was impossible.
She twisted her hands together on her lap, staring down at them as if searching for the right words. “You feel hopeless,” she said at last. “I’m trying to understand. So many of the lads feel the same way. But you’ve got to hang on. Though it might seem like taking your life is the only way out, once you get back to England, you’ll find that—”
“No,” he interrupted. He held up his hand, but it shook in a way that reminded him too much of Gordy’s head wobble and he let it fall to the covers. “It’s not what you think. The very last thing I am is suicidal.”
She frowned at him. A little crease formed between her brows. He had a strong urge to soothe the line away with his thumb. He was only grateful he hadn’t been given morphine and wouldn’t horrify himself by stating that out loud. Or worse, indulging the impulse.
“Lily, I give you my word of honor that I am not trying to do myself in.”
“I don’t understand.” She shook her head. Now that her anger had boiled away all that remained was her pain and her concern for him. Her small fingers touched the back of his hand. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Sam? Do you deny that you tried to cause the seizure?”
“No, I would not lie to you.” He paused, gathering the correct words. “And yes, I meant to cause the seizure.” He owed her his honesty, or as much of it as he could afford to spend.
“Why?” Her voice cracked and the wire around his heart sliced inwards.
“It’s impossible to explain,” he said.
“Impossible?”
When he nodded, his headache tore at his mind with savage claws.
She stared down at where her hand lay on top of his. Devil take him for causing so much distress to someone who’d only tried to help. Yet he could never begin to explain why he’d been compelled to cause the seizure. Better to have her think him suicidal than completely mad.
<
br /> He forced his gaze up to her face. Tears swam in her green eyes and she looked terribly lost. “Well, if you can’t explain why, perhaps you could promise not to do it again? I’d settle for your word, if that’s all you’re willing to give.”
He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He’d been pudding-headed enough to bring up his foolish honor in the first place. He was damned if he told her the truth and damned if he didn’t.
She leaned in farther, her crisp, blue sleeve brushing against his forearm. “You can’t even do that? You can’t promise to stop doing this to yourself?”
“I…” He couldn’t finish. What could he say? I promise to lie in my bed and do nothing while I could be saving my comrades on the field? I promise to be a selfish bastard and let others die for England?
And, he had to admit, there was the possibility that he was simply going mad.
“Do you understand what happens to you during a seizure?” Lily gripped his hand tightly. “You thrash about, risking injury every single time. You deprive your body, your brain, of oxygen. You risk contracting meningitis. Your heart could stop. People die when seizing. I’ve seen it.” She ducked her head down quickly, but not before he could see an errant tear streak down her cheek. She released his hand and brushed her tear away with the back of her hand. “You could die, Sam.”
Which poison should he take? Hurt Lily or to allow his comrades to fall?
“A week then,” she said. “Can you promise not to trigger any seizures for a week?”
She looked at him, her large green eyes pleading like words never could. To her mind, it was such a small request and for his own good after all.
He was helpless to deny her.
“A week,” he capitulated.
She sighed. “And after a week, we’ll talk about it again. Perhaps by then, you’ll be able to explain yourself.”
“Fine.”
She raised her brows and gave him an expectant look. “Your word of honor?”
Sam felt miserable, a coward of a soldier, a failure of a man. He had no choice. “As an officer and a gentleman, you have my word.”