The next glass emptied in twenty minutes.
And the next in ten.
To his left, a plain-looking woman sat with a man who held his glass in the air as though about to make a toast. But instead, he slurred with a loud voice, “Beauty is in the eye of the beer-holder!” and then he gave the woman a tight side-squeeze. Next to them, a burly man with a wide grin and a wider girth ran the pool table most of the night. Dylan scissored a bill between two fingers and held it in the air. “Ten bucks.”
“You’re on,” the man said, gesturing toward the table. “You may even break.” He bowed and smiled, his toothy grin gleaming.
Dylan wobbled from the stool like a newborn goat, pulled a stick from the rack then rolled it on the table to see if it was straight. He squeaked the chalk across the tip, after missing it the first two times, and then braced his hand on the table felt to aim. With a powerful thrust, he smacked the balls and they scattered like vandals in a police raid. He tried to focus, but the balls and games all ran together. Did he have solids or stripes? And how many games had they played anyway? Three? Five? Seven?
The crowd pressed its way around the bar like a herd of cattle feeding at a trough. Three deep in spots. A few others gathered around a man in his mid-twenties. Dylan puffed a cigarette and let it dangle from his lips. He squinted through a haze of blue smoke while watching the man show off. The stranger waved a wad of bills the size of a southern biscuit and bragged about his windfall at the racetrack. The boaster punctuated his proclamation with a loud hiccup, as he jovially smacked the back of his neighbor, who was about to take a drink, and spilled a crimson stain down the front of his shirt.
The gambler moved in slow motion as he lighted the filtered end of his cigarette. It burst into a small inferno so he threw it on the floor and stomped on it three times. Mr. Racetrack was obnoxiously loud and obviously drunk, and Dylan saw a reflection of himself in the man.
Dylan suddenly felt dirty inside like he’d soiled an expensive garment that he’d been entrusted to wear to an elegant event. How could he have let this happen? How could he have slipped so soon? And how was he going to fix this mess now? Dylan glanced over at the gambler who was stuffing the wad of money into his wallet. The man slid it into his hip pocket, but missed. The wallet fell unnoticed onto the floor.
Someone’s going to kick it under the table, Dylan thought. And then he suddenly saw an opportunity to redeem himself by doing a good deed. If he acted the Good Samaritan and returned the wallet, it might clean up the mess he’d made tonight. Dylan wedged his way between two men, as the stranger leaned against the bar. Dylan bent down to retrieve the wallet, but when he stood up, someone bumped him from behind and shoved him into the gambler.
The wallet slapped to the floor.
The gambler turned and looked down at the familiar hunk of leather and then back up at Dylan. The stranger’s expression contorted in such a way that Dylan thought he’d looked into the face of Satan himself.
“A pickpocket, huh?” The man nearly snarled.
Dylan’s hands shot up in surrender. “Hey, I just meant to —”
The stranger had already bent down to pick the wallet up and probably didn’t hear a word Dylan said, because when he stood up, he hit Dylan in the stomach.
It was a fast blow. Dylan wasn’t sure what hit him at first. He thought he just had the wind knocked out of him, but when he touched his shirt it was wet. A tacky, sticky, warm wet. The knife wound seared like a red-hot poker when the man sliced in and out, and Dylan felt the blood drain from his face.
“He’s got a knife!” someone screamed, as people pointed toward the fleeing man.
Staring down in disbelief, Dylan clutched his stomach as blood soaked his shirt and trickled through his fingers. Time stood still as his legs gave way and he slowly slumped to the floor. The frantic crowd pushed and shoved their way out of the bar. Tangled legs and tripping feet battered his back and shoulders. Other’s stepped over and around him, but no one stopped to help him. And amid the horrendous chaos, Dylan had a peculiar thought: I'm not going to bleed to death. I'm going to be trampled to death. Then he faded in and out of consciousness.
Screeching sirens pierced the air and stopped outside the door. Someone picked him up and placed him on a gurney. He heard men shouting. Doing things to him. To his stomach. Hands moved quickly. They wheeled him. He looked up at the stars and the distorted faces. They jiggled in the night. Flashing red lights bounced off buildings, as spectators squirmed for a glimpse of the excitement. The side of the gurney bumped the ambulance when they put him inside. The vehicle lurched away. He was tightly strapped. He didn't move. The men swayed with the turn.
It wasn't supposed to turn out this way. The light bothered his eyes, so he closed them. Just for a moment. He was so tired.
“Step on it, Joe. We're losing him.”
They talked as though he couldn't hear, but he heard.
“Whoever this guy is, he doesn’t carry a wallet. I checked his pockets and can’t find a driver’s license.”
Dylan tried to mouth his name, but the words wouldn’t come out.
The ambulance stopped and the men ran with him. “Stabbing victim! Let’s go! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Murmuring blue coats rushed to his side and sped him into a brightly-lit room. Dylan closed his eyes again. He wanted to sleep for a long, long time.
ELEVEN
“Doctor and Mrs. Randall Allan Mitchell.” Connie rolled the names off her tongue with great exaggeration. “You’ve caught the grand prize of Mercy General Hospital,” she said, pretending to bow at Lorraine.
“Very funny, Connie. Look, I’ll catch up to you later. I’ve got to make my rounds.” Lorraine stopped by the nurse’s station to pick up her supply caddy and then made her way down the corridor. She was glad that things had calmed down since the announcement of her engagement, though Connie still loved to tease.
The past few days had been crazy. Nurses grabbing her hand to gush over her good fortune, and to admire at her ring. Women that she didn’t even know, stopping to swoon or say they wished that they were in her shoes, while commenting on the size of her diamond. She smiled and extended her hand out in front of her to admire the ring again. It did look beautiful below her recently manicured nails. She had to show Sophia.
Lorraine could see the elderly woman sitting up in bed. Pink plastic curlers sprouted from all sides of Sophia’s head, as she wound the last roller up then snapped it in place.
“Good morning, Sophia. Did you sleep well last night?”
“How can a person get any sleep in this place with all the racket going on around here?” Sophia set her comb down. “Beepers beeping down the hall, sirens blaring outside my window, and people coughing germs out all over the place. Did you wash your hands?”
Lorraine set her caddy down. “Yes, Sophia, I did.”
“And those nurses coming in before breakfast, sticking needles in my arms. What do they think I am? A pincushion?”
When Sophia finally came up for air, she flipped open a box from the side of her bed. “Chocolate?”
“No thanks. It's a little too early for me.” Sophia apparently recovered from her frightening near-death-experience. Lorraine remembered a psychology course that she took in college that said people often push horrific experiences into the recesses of their minds as a protective mechanism. And, since Sophia made no mention of the incident, she assumed that’s what happened. Lorraine decided not to mention it either.
“I have something to show you." Lorraine said, as she held her left hand out and fluttered her fingers.
“Oooh, my, my, my!” Sophia clapped her hands like a child promised a pony ride. “Is it from that handsome Doctor Mitchell?”
“Yes, it is,” Lorraine said with a smile.
“Oh, he's so nice. He saved my life you know.” Sophia flapped her hand.
“Yes, Sophia. I know.”
“So when’s the big day?” Sophia touched the side of her face and shook her h
ead as though the announcement was more than she could fathom.
“We haven't set the exact date yet, but probably sometime in October.” Lorraine slid a blood pressure cuff under Sophia’s arm then secured the Velcro in place. After Lorraine finished the reading, she released the valve, unwound the cuff then looped the stethoscope around her neck.
“Everything looks good, Sophia. I’ll be back in to check on you later.”
Lorraine passed the nurse’s station and stopped Helen before she left to make her rounds. “Helen, would you mind switching patients with me today? I think Mr. Smithe in 305 has a double dose of testosterone. I can't take his pawing anymore.”
“No problem. I’ll just tell him how adept I am with a scalpel and forceps.” Helen laughed at the implication then traded charts with Lorraine. “I was just going to check on the John Doe that came in last night. He’s still sleeping, so he shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Thanks, Helen. I owe you.”
Lorraine took the chart and reviewed the information: Male. Caucasian. Multiple contusions. Vitals within normal limits. No redness around the wound. Abdominal suture line clean. Lorraine was still reading the chart when she walked into the room. Once inside, she pulled the curtain closed and set her supply caddy down and then arranged the implements for cleansing the wound. Gauze, antiseptic, bandages, everything sterile, everything neatly in place.
Lorraine turned around and reached up to pull the sheet down, but clamped her mouth instead to keep the shriek in that almost slipped out. The room suddenly tilted like a clipper ship caught in a tsunami, and when black appeared in her peripheral vision, she bent down low to keep from fainting. She stayed in the squatting position, bowing her head while panting the Lamaze method—or should she do deep breaths like exercise class? Why couldn’t she remember what to do? And although she couldn’t aptly recall any particular methods, she just told herself to breathe any old way to get oxygen to her brain!
When she felt composed enough to stand, she did so slowly while peeking over the side of the bed to see if Dylan’s eyes were still closed.
They were.
Lorraine’s own bulging eyeballs peered over the mattress like a swimming crocodile checking out its prey. No mistake about it. It was Dylan all right!
As Lorraine stood completely up, she gripped the side-rail with such force that the bones nearly poked through the flesh of her hands. Standing beside the bed, barely able to breathe, she whispered the name that had so often caught in her throat. “Dylan.”
Lorraine took a hesitant step away from the bed and touched a hand to her throat as though the mere mention of his name made her choke. Suddenly caught in a time warp, she was back in Dylan’s arms on a snowy night in January, but she immediately shook the memory from her mind and returned to the present day, confused. Where was she? What was she doing, and why was she here? And why was he here?! For a moment, she was unsure of everything that surrounded her, everything that once made sense to her. She had been numb for so long when it came to Dylan, and now a mass of tangled threads wrapped around her head and clung to her like a gauzy web.
The man in the next bed called, “Nurse, can I have something for my pain.” The voice across the room startled her and it brought her back to reality. She drew a long breath and put on a happy face then pushed aside the curtain before tip-toeing over to his bed. Lorraine raised a finger and whispered, “Let me see when you had your last pill. I'll be right back.”
She toddled to the nurse's station where Helen and Dorothy stood with their heads together discussing a patient. Lorraine leaned against the wraparound counter and took a deep breath then smoothed down the front of her smock.
“You look like you've seen a ghost,” Dorothy said, as she rushed to Lorraine’s side and caught her under the elbow. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.” Lorraine said while trying to sound as normal as possible. “Um, Mr. Gilbert in 309 needs something for his pain.” Lorraine's heart was still pounding, so she took a deep breath in an attempt to regain her composure. She walked around the counter to check Mr. Gilbert’s medication sheet, then faced the wall so the women wouldn’t see her hands shake when she noted the chart. Then, when she picked up the pill cup and walked away, she called from over her shoulder, “Oh, by the way, the John Doe in 309...is my husband.”
Lorraine didn't wait to see their faces. She knew that they'd be popping eyeballs and dropping jaws and asking a thousand questions that she couldn't answer right now, because she didn’t know the answers herself. Until then, she was determined to keep a positive appearance, so she strolled down the hall humming merrily along as though it were just another day on the third floor of Mercy General Hospital. She walked into the room and handed Mr. Gilbert the pill cup then poured him a glass of water. “Here you are, Mr. Gilbert.” She waited for him to swallow the pill and then set the glass back on his tray.
Lorraine quietly walked back to Dylan's bed where her mood became solemn again. He was still asleep when she pulled the sheet down with poised fingertips and thumbs. Even slower movements lifted his gown as though she sought some hidden miracle beneath the iodine stained garment. Then, with the utmost care, she removed the bandage from his abdomen in such a way that it appeared that if she moved too fast, something would explode. Starting and stopping and starting again until the adhesive pulled free from his skin. Lorraine gently cleansed the area around the sutures, while checking for infection.
Looking down at his soft brown hair against the crisp white sheets, she studied his face, that familiar face, where in another place and time she had unabashedly caressed and kissed and pressed her own cheek to his. And she whispered in a voice so low that only she could hear. “Oh, Dylan, what have you done?”
Dylan stirred.
Lorraine took a sudden step back, hoping he would stay asleep. She didn’t want to hear his voice, didn’t want to see his eyes. No thank you, not at all, she surmised while stiffening her spine. She never wanted to see those piercing green globes again.
Lorraine carefully pressed the fresh bandage onto his skin and taped it in place. Then, for someone who wanted no part of Dylan’s features or form, Lorraine lingered for a moment to watch him sleep. Aside from his swollen eye that looked like an overripe plum, he was as handsome as ever. The chiseled outline of his jaw showed through, even though he needed a shave. His mouth was just the right size for his face, neither too wide, nor too narrow. She noticed a tiny scar above his lip and scowled, wondering how it got there. And as she studied his mouth, memories surfaced that made her knees feel weak.
She needed air, but she stayed by his side, studying him, observing him from all angles as though she’d never seen him before. She thought he looked more muscular now then when they were together, and wondered if he'd been lifting weights. He was nicely tanned too.
Watching him, she had the definite advantage. Maybe it wasn’t fair, but so what? It wasn’t her fault that he was asleep—or stabbed. Then she suddenly caught herself. What was she doing thinking such things? How could she be daydreaming about Dylan and arguing with herself at such a time like this? Here the man is lying in bed wounded, and she is marrying Randy in a few months.
He’ll mend, she surmised. Then, leaning over, she absently combed a strand of his hair back with her fingers. And as she towered above his head, a teardrop fell onto his pillow. Suddenly annoyed with the traitorous tear, she flicked another from her cheek and gathered her things before lifting her chin and walking out of the room.
TWELVE
Randy guided Lorraine to the front of the Opera House auditorium. Once they were seated, the overhead lights dimmed and the stage lights beamed on the red velvet curtains. The production began, the whispering ceased, and Randy took Lorraine’s hand then patted it as though to say, “Now be a good girl,” like he does to his Doberman Francis.
He smelled expensive.
Dylan never wore cologne, but she loved how he smelled. He had a distinctive scent that wa
s all his own. She remembered how she would crawl back into bed after he’d left for work and then wrap herself in the sheets—and smell. The aroma of musk or whatever that manly scent was that he emitted lingered long after he'd gone, and she liked it. It made her feel feminine and delicate and protected.
During those first few months, she'd lie in bed every morning and run her hands over her protruding stomach and imagine how big the baby was growing. She’d wait for fluttering movements while thinking of names starting with the letter A until she worked through the alphabet to Z. Of course, each selection was tested with their last name. Abigail Clark, Amy Clark, April Clark for a girl. Adam Clark, Allan Clark, Alex Clark for a boy. She'd get to the M's and quit for the morning then promise herself that she'd continue again the next day. She smiled when she remembered how after contemplating all the way to Zelda and Zachary, the baby was named Amanda.
When she finally decided that it was time to tidy up, she'd throw off the sheets and spring out of bed then dance through the house like a fairy, waving her magic cloth to make dust disappear. Yes, indeed, she could do commercials for Pledge.
She'd wash dishes and pick Queen Anne's lace and white daisies for the vase on the table. She liked having her home at the end of the dirt road where the summer sun warmed her windowsill, and black-eyed-Susans grew in profusion along the split-rail fence in the yard. She thought it her cottage in the woods with its cobblestone path that led to the door and its apples in the orchard to put in a bowl and set on the counter for color.
And it was home.
The first time the baby moved she was sitting on Dylan’s lap. The event startled her so that she screamed and leaped, and he thought that he had hurt her. Dylan chased her around with his hands outstretched to catch her if she fell, all the while asking, “What's the matter? What's the matter?”
The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story) Page 9