A Christmas Peril (The Teacup Novellas - Book Five) (8 page)

He
tried valiantly to distract me, filling our time with visits to the
Field
Museum
of Natural History and the Adler Planetarium. But even fossil relics and
celestial stargazing could not still the dread and angst I felt deep inside
with each passing moment.

We
spent the rest of the evening here at home where Mother and Father graciously
gave us time alone in the parlor. I could never adequately put on paper all the
things we talked about
‌—‌
or
the many kisses we shared in those final hours together. As my tears began to
fall, he busily wiped them away, cradling my face in his hands.

And what
he said next quite literally took my breath away
‍—

“Marry
me, Lucille,” he whispered. “Promise you’ll wait for me and meet me at the
altar as soon as I come back.”

It
made no sense. We’d known each other less than a week! How can you really
know
a person in a matter of mere days? Such a big decision shouldn’t be made on a
whim, should it?

But of
course I said YES!!!

We
laughed and cried and talked for another hour. It was almost one in the morning
by then. Gary had to report for duty at 8:00 this morning, so we finally said
goodnight after a thousand more kisses.

He
plans to pick me up at
6:30
after saying goodbye to his folks at
home. He assured me they would understand that he wanted those final moments
alone with me to see him off at the station. I’ve felt badly that he’s spent
most of his leave with me, and worried that they might resent me for it. But at
this point, all I can think of is having to let my lieutenant go.

Chapter
8

As I turned the next page,
Dr. Bradley entered the room after a quick knock on the door. I set the diary
aside and stood to greet him.

“Good afternoon, Lucy,” he
said, shaking my hand. “How’s our patient doing today?”

“The same. Same as yesterday.
Same as the day before. The same, the same, the same.”

He peered over his glasses at
me with an understanding smile. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

I didn’t like the sound of
that, but sat back down while he pulled the other chair over and took a seat
facing me.

“Wait
‌—‌should I call Mark’s
sister? His parents are coming in today, but‍—‍”

“No, I’ll be glad to talk to
his family later. For now, I want to assure you we’re doing everything we can
for Mark until he wakes up.”

“But that’s just it. What if
he
doesn’t
wake up?”

“Then we’ll cross that bridge
when we come to it. Traumatic brain injuries are extremely complicated, which,
of course, makes it difficult to predict the short-term and long-term effects,
or even how long a patient might stay comatose. Mark’s TBI is severe based on
the nature of his injury. You’ve watched me check for his response to light
stimuli, waving my flashlight in front of his eyes, and testing voice and
motion stimuli. So far we’ve had no response. But as I’ve said all along,
that’s not always a bad thing. Mark’s body is trying to heal the injury. Think
of it as shutting down all the extraneous activity in order to use every ounce
of energy it can to help heal the trauma to his brain.”

“I need you to be honest with
me, Dr. Bradley,” I whispered. I still wasn’t sure about the whole concept of
coma patients hearing what goes on around them, but I wasn’t going to risk it.
“Will Mark be the same if
‌—‌
when
he wakes up? Or will he be . . .” I couldn’t say it. The words just
sat there, stuck in my throat. “Will he be‍—‍”

“Vegetative?” he whispered,
pinning me with eyes that understood.

I was thankful he said what I
couldn’t. “Yes.”

He sat back in his chair and
folded his arms across his chest. “You asked me to be honest. So yes, Lucy.
It’s a possibility. But
only
a possibility. And considering we’re just a
week in, I’d say it’s a remote possibility at best. We’ll continue to monitor
Mark, run some additional tests later this week.

“But for now let’s focus on
the bigger picture, the healing that’s going on. The body is an amazing thing. As
doctors we like to think we’re pretty smart and know every intricacy of the
human body. But the fact of the matter is, God designed these earth suits with
incredible resiliency, with capabilities we still don’t fully understand. Meaning,
we’ll do the best we can on our end, and trust God with the rest. Does that
work for you?”

I took a deep breath and
slowly blew it out. “Yes. I keep trying to remind myself about God’s part in
all this. And I truly believe He can heal Mark. I do. But
sometimes . . .”

“Sometimes it’s tough to keep
holding on, isn’t it?” he said, standing. He patted me on my shoulder. “Keep
the faith, Lucy. Let the staff know when Mark’s folks arrive. If I can, I’ll
stop by and update them.”

By now he’d made his way to
the door. “You get some rest, okay? Doctor’s orders.”

“I’ll try.”

With a wink, he slipped out
the door.

I was so tired, so weary of
all this. I stood up and stretched this way then that, arching my clasped hands
way over my head. I rolled my neck, hearing it snap, crackle and pop. Then I blew
out a long cleansing breath and stood beside Mark’s bed. I stared at him for a
few minutes, then took his lifeless hand in mine and sat on the edge of his
bed.

“Y’know, I think Dr. Bradley’s
a good guy, and I don’t doubt for a minute that he and the staff here are
providing the best possible care for you, Mark. But the thing is
‌—‌they don’t know you the
way I do. They don’t know how you always go the extra mile for others. They
don’t know how you always find the good in people‌—‌even the
crankiest, nastiest people on the planet. They don’t know how your lopsided smile
lights up a room. How it still makes me melt like butter.”

I leaned closer toward him,
holding his palm against my cheek. “And they don’t know how much you mean to
me. How you’ve changed my life, Mark.” I closed my eyes, willing his to open.

They didn’t, of course.

I felt my cell phone vibrate
in my pocket. I kissed Mark’s hand then carefully placed it back on the bed. I
dug out my phone and saw my editor’s number on the screen. I couldn’t dodge her
again, so I took the call as I headed back toward my recliner.

“Hello, Samantha.”

“Lucy? Is that you, Lucy?”

“Yes, Sam, it’s me.”

“I’m so used to talking to
your voicemail, I guess it caught me off guard to hear your actual voice. How
are you, Lucy? How’s your UPS guy?” Samantha was never good with names, but I
didn’t hold it against her.

“I’m okay. Mark? Not so
much.”

“Wow. That’s gotta be tough.
What’s it been now? A couple of weeks?”

“No, just a week. Listen, I’m
sorry I haven’t returned your calls, Sam. I’ve just been
‍—‍”

“No need to apologize. You’ve
got your hands full. And I wouldn’t be calling again, but I’ve got to make a
decision about your next novella. We’re already under the wire to get it out well
in advance of the holidays next year, so I think we might need to put it on the
back burner
‌—‌until
this thing with Mark blows over.”

I stared out the window,
wondering exactly what she was envisioning as “this thing with Mark” blowing
over. I dropped my head back and tried to let that go for the moment. I’ve
always been baffled by the publishing process. How it takes a year or more to
get a book in print. Sam’s explained it to me, but with the whole
print-on-demand technology today I still don’t get it. But none of that
mattered to me right now. And I wasn’t particularly interested in fretting
about contrived deadlines a year down the road. Not now.

I could hear Sam’s long, loud
exhale and imagined the cloud of smoke encircling her head as she continued.
“It’s just that I don’t see how you could possibly get this one written in
time. You know, under the circumstances.”

Now it was my turn to exhale.
“I’ve never missed a deadline, Sam, and I won’t start now.”

“Sure, sure. I know. But I’m
getting pressure from upstairs wanting some conceptual ideas for the cover, a
blurb for advertising
‌—‌the
usual. I don’t want to harass you with all that while you’re‌—‌y’know,
keeping vigil and all. So I was just thinking we could move it back a few
months. Pull it out of the queue and shoot for a later release.”

“No. I’m
not
okay with
that. Besides, I’m working through my aunt’s diary. It’s a gold mine of
information, giving me so much to work with. All kinds of possibilities.”

“Really?”

“Remember how I’ve always
told you what a great story teller she was? Well, her diary reads like a
storybook. It won’t take that much to tweak it here and there. And it’s such a
heartwarming love story. You’ll love it. I promise.”

“I’m sure I will. But the
question remains. Can you focus enough to have it ready in time?”

I shrugged. “Piece of cake.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive. I’ll get an
outline to you by the end of the week.” I heard the words come out of my mouth,
not quite sure where they came from. Maybe it was my subconscious mind begging
for something
‌—‌anything‌—‌to
grasp onto. I had no control over Mark’s situation, but writing a novella? That
I could do.

We said our goodbyes, then I wandered
down the hall to get a cup of coffee. The staff were all busy which suited me
fine. I didn’t have time for the usual chit chat. I needed to make some serious
headway in Aunt Lucille’s diary.

“Where were we, Mark?” I
asked once I was back in the room. I took a sip of coffee and reached for the
diary. “
Gary
proposed to Lucille. Right?” I peeked
over at him, choosing to imagine him wracking his brain to recall. “It was their
last night together before he headed back overseas.”

I opened the diary and noted
the date on the next entry
‌—‌a
full week later. I flipped back a few pages, thinking I’d missed something.
“That’s odd. No way Lucille would see
Gary
off at the station then not write about
it in her diary. Strange, huh? Well, I guess we’ll just pick up where we left
off.”

Dear Diary,

I
simply haven’t had the heart to write. One moment, my life was full of promise
and romance and dreams about our future together. Then the next thing I
know, time stood still, and I feel as if I haven’t breathed in all the days
that have passed.

The
morning
Gary
was to leave, he picked me up at
6:30
. He planned for me to drive his father’s car back to their
home after his train departed. It was freezing cold when we arrived at the
station, so we quickly parked the car, intending to spend what time we had left
together inside the terminal where it was warm.
Gary
had just heaved his large duffel bag
over his shoulder when we heard someone scream. We looked across the parking
lot and saw someone accosting a woman. Suddenly,
Gary
dropped his bag and cap, told me to stay
there by the car, and off he went, racing toward them and shouting at the guy.
“Let her go!”

My
heart was pounding as I watched
Gary
scuffling with the man. “
GARY
!” I yelled. But no sooner had his name
left my lips than I watched as the man slammed the butt of a pistol against
Gary
’s head. He dropped to the ground, but I
couldn’t see where he landed
‌—‌
a
parked car obscured my view. “
GARY
!” I screamed again, this time running
toward them as fast as I could.

The
man turned to look my way, the woman’s purse clutched to his chest, then he
bolted around a corner and out of sight. The woman’s hysterical cries filled me
with dread as I rounded the back end of the car. There on the ground,
Gary
was sprawled in an unnatural position,
his head bleeding profusely. I dropped to my knees and held his face in my hands,
saying his name over and over. His eyes found me for a split-second then rolled
back in his head.

I was
so sick with fear, I couldn’t even think what to do. My mind flashed images of
a funeral . . . a spray of white roses on a flag-draped coffin.
Then the woman’s garbled cries snapped me into action. I grabbed the wool scarf
from around my neck and stuffed it gently under
Gary
’s head.

“GO
FOR HELP! Find a policeman
‌—‌
anyone!
Please! GO!”

She
stood there trembling, tears running down her wrinkled face as she blubbered
something that made no sense, and it was only then that I realized she spoke
another language. Italian? Polish?

I
tried to remember the words. “Polizia? Policja?”

Her hysteria
increased as more of the foreign words flooded from her mouth.

I went
positively blank, unable to think what to say, and I could feel the panic
rising in me.

Then
suddenly others were there to help
‌—‌
a
group of travelers coming from the station who must have seen or heard us. They
called for help and in a few moments the wail of an ambulance siren filled the
air.

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
‍—

I slammed the diary shut and sat
up as an icy chill sent long shivering fingers down my back. How was this
possible? I’m sitting in a hospital beside my Mark who’s been in a coma for a
week now . . . and I’m reading words written by my aunt as
she
sat in a hospital keeping vigil beside Uncle Gary.

“Whoa.” I let the diary drop
to my lap, my mind spinning. I rubbed my eyes. “This can’t be right. I never
heard about this before. Why didn’t Aunt Lucille ever tell me? Why didn’t Dad
‍—‍”

I scrambled to dig my cell
phone out of my pocket and called home.

“Lucy!” my dad answered. “We
were hoping to hear from you. How’s
‍—‍”

“How come you never told me
about Uncle Gary being in a coma?”