Under the Cypress Moon (10 page)

Reynolds firmly stated that he would stay at the scene, and Brady could spend his time trying to track down "that worthless drunk." 
Brady peeled away, angry at Reynolds, angry that his friend was lying helpless on the ground, confirmed now in his views that "all of those college punks" were nothing but trash who took advantage of small town hospitality. 

Speeding down the road toward Stirgis' house, Brady called in an A.P.B., just in case Stirgis could not be located.  There was a good chance that he had either gone to another bar or was somewhere else, out and about, in his truck, but the likelihood of his having gone home was small. 
Surely enough, unsurprising to Officer Brady, there were no lights on in Stirgis' house, and there was no truck parked out front. 

"Where the hell can that damned drunk be," Brady muttered to himself, knowing that the answer to his question was incalculable. 

Officer Brady checked the three other bars in town, and of course, no one at any of them had seen Stirgis.  The man had seemingly vanished into thin air at the one moment that he had a real purpose.  While all of this was going on, the paramedics had arrived at the Muddy Water and had already loaded Mark into the ambulance.  It did not take much to secure Mark's limbs, though he had to be placed on his stomach, in fear that the glass fragments would only embed more into his skull otherwise.  Shylah asked to be allowed to ride along in the ambulance but, her not being Mark's wife or relative quickly put an end to the request.

Shylah and T.L. ran as fast as they could to T.L.'s truck and sped off behind the ambulance, following closely the entire way to the hospital, a ride of ten minutes, even with the hefty speed allowed.  The whole time, Shylah shook, mumbled, and stared off into the distance, completely inconsolable and unreachable.  T.L. tried again and again to comfort his little sister, to remind her that she shouldn't be so hard on herself and that Mark would be fine, that Mark was a fighter, far too tough to be taken down by "some stupid college kid."  T.L. told himself the same things over and over and wanted desperately to believe them, but he knew in his heart that the worst could very well happen. 

Shylah and T.L. watched in horror as Mark was moved from the ambulance to the hospital with a sheet over his head.  What if it meant that Mark had died along the way, both thought at the same moment.  They did not know that it was standard procedure to cover patients as much as possible to protect them from weather, bacteria, and other elements.

Shylah, especially, was completely wrought with fear.  T.L. escorted her inside and carefully seated her in the waiting room while he announced to the E.R. receptionist that he and his sister were there for Marcus James Crady. 

Shylah, beside herself, wondered how it had all come to this, how she had allowed this to happen.  She felt as though she had caused every bit of this and felt it only right that Mark never forgive her, never speak to her again, never want anything at all to do with her.  What she feared most, however, aside from what might physically happen to Mark, was that if Mark survived the night, he may write T.L. off along with the rest of the King family.  It might ruin more than twenty years of friendship between Mark and T.L.  It might ruin any chances that Shylah ever had at making amends for so many mistakes.

"Hey," said T.L., placing his hand on his sister's chin and lifting it high.  "Don't worry.  He's gonna be ok.  Trust me."

"You don't know that," shouted Shylah, loudly enough that the other people in the waiting room took immediate notice.

"I do know," replied T.L., shaken but not exhibiting his worries to his sister.  He was always the strong one, the leader, the one that Shylah admired, looked up to, even idolized.  He hoped that if he didn't let his fears show, maybe Shylah's would dissipate. 

The two siblings sat in utter silence after that, both worried but T.L. still hiding his true feelings.  Shylah remained in a trancelike state.  She could barely move.  She could not speak a word, unless addressed. 

The night wore on, second after agonizing second, minute after minute, until several hours had passed by without a single word from a doctor or even a nurse.  Every time someone popped into the waiting room through the doors in the back, Shylah's and T.L.'s blood pressure spiked rapidly.  They could feel their pulses race.  The anticipation was killing the both of them.

Finally, at nearly four in the morning, a doctor came in with dried blood besmearing his smock.  Clearly, he had been working on someone gravely injured.  Shylah and T.L. felt a sense of premonition, a perilous preemptive order of chaos about the room.  Surely, this was Mark's doctor.  Surely, there would be bad news.  Every step that the doctor took seemed to last for eternity.  It was as if everything really did happen in slow motion. 

"Mark Crady.  Is there anyone here for Mark Crady," the doctor shouted above the oddly loud
TV. and the clamor of visitors.

T.L. and Shylah jumped from their seats and rushed to the doctor.  "Us," stammered T.L.  "We're with Mark Crady.  How is he?"

"You friend suffered a pretty good blow to the head," began the doctor.  "He has numerous lacerations about the skull.  Some of the fragments of glass imbedded through the skin and even fractured a couple of small places of his skull.  I think he'll be alright, but he's going to have to stay here for a few days for observation, and he's going to need surgery.  We managed to remove all of the glass and treat the wounds, but I'm afraid that that is all we can do for him for now.  We'll know more tomorrow when Dr. Armintraska repairs the fractures in your friend's skull.  It will require piecing the skull fragments back into place with some small metal plating.  I'm Dr. Samuels, by the way.  If you have any more questions, feel free to ask for me."

"Actually," retorted T.L., now relieved yet still very concerned.  "And he'll have the plates in his head the rest of his life?  Any chance they'll come out?"

"No," replied the doctor.  "Unfortunately, the skull is a very sensitive and dangerous part of the body to sustain an injury.  The skull, though it will heal some, will never be back like it was.  I know from personal experience.  I have a lot more in my skull than your friend will have in his.  What kills one person easily only leaves an injury like this for some others.  Be thankful that your friend has a hard head.  I'm not saying that facetiously.  He has a very thick skull, and that may be the only thing that saved his life.  A great number of others with the same injury have died from it."

As the doctor walked away, T.L. raised his eyes upward and said a quick, silent prayer of thanks.  Shylah, on the other hand, did not know what to think.  She was very thankful that Mark would be alright but still too shaken to calm down and too worried about what the future would bring. 

"Well, Sis," T.L. started, looking deeply into his sister's eyes, eyes that seemed almost catatonic, "There's nothin' else we can do.  Let's go home and get some sleep.  We'll come back first thing in the mornin'.  Shylah?  Shylah?  Shylah!"

With this, Shylah finally snapped out of her daze.  "What?"

"I said let's go home.  We could both use some sleep.  We'll back in the morning."

"No!"

"Shylah, come on."

"No!  I'm not leaving!"

"What in the hell you think you're gonna do here?  You can't sleep in the waiting room, and it won't do you no good anyway.  Now, come on!"  T.L. grabbed Shylah by her right arm, pulling her, almost dragging her along, but she planted her feet firmly, still refusing to listen or cooperate.

Many thoughts raced through T.L.'s mind.  He wondered if he should just leave Shylah alone and let her do whatever it was that she wanted.  He thought that, however, would be a horrible choice.  He thought that maybe he should call his father and have him talk some sense into the obstinate girl, but that, too, would be a bad choice.  He knew that he had the strength to pick his sister up and carry her away or to even drag her like a small child, but he didn't want the bad attention or the possible intervention of others.

"Shylah," T.L. said, his eyes bleary from lack of sleep, his countenance hanging, forlorn, frightened, yet firm in his convictions.  "Look.  We've been here for several hours.  It's really late.  I'm tired as hell.  You're tired.  You know you are.  Now, if you make me call Daddy and wake him up just to get you to listen, you don't even wanna imagine what that's gonna bring.  I'm  your older brother.  I know you're grown and all, but if you don't listen to me... hell, I don't even know, but this is gettin' old.  You got one minute to start walkin' out that door with me.  If not, I'm leavin' your ass here!"  Though T.L. was quite mad and not wanting to deal with his sister's difficulties, he tried desperately to not make a scene, no matter how much anger his voice displayed, attempting to keep even the most adamant pleas to a whisper.

"Good," Shylah shouted.  "That's what I want!"

Shaking his head, sighing in disgust, T.L. walked away.  He knew that nothing short of physical force would persuade his sister.  Leaving Shylah behind was something T.L. would never do under normal circumstances.  Of course, it had never happened before like this, but T.L. was exhausted, stricken with worry and grief, agitated to no end, and far too unwilling to continue arguing.  He made his way to his truck and quickly drove away toward home.  Shylah was left to her own foolish errand.  She would spend the remainder of the night dozing and worrying in a waiting room chair.

When the sun began to peak its head through the sliver of glass not barricaded by concrete, it shone directly into Shylah's eyes, waking her instantly.  She had slept, on and off, for maybe two hours.  She desperately craved more sleep, but worrying about Mark was her instant concern.  She immediately wondered, once more, how she had let all of this happen, why she had done what she did to him, why she ignored the feelings that were so obviously there, all because her father did not agree with the circumstances of it all. 

It had only been a few hours since Shylah heard Dr. Samuels' words.  They still rang clearly in her mind... "surgery... metal plating... others have died from it."  Shylah had no idea when Mark would go into surgery and doubted that anyone knew of her presence.  Mark had likely been told nothing.  For all that Shylah knew, Mark was already in surgery.  Shylah immediately marched to the desk and asked to know all of the information that there was on Marcus Crady.  The woman at the desk, however, had no information to give and said politely that she would do all that she could.  Unfortunately, that would take a considerable length of time. 

Shylah waited, dreaded, feared, contemplated, felt an undying anxiety that nothing could quench.  She had left her purse in T.L.'s truck and had no money with her, no phone, nothing.  She felt her stomach grumble with its demand for food, but unless begging were an option, there would be none.  In no time, Shylah had read every magazine available and watched what seemed like an endless supply of mind-numbing
TV.    There was nothing at all left for her to do but worry, not that she hadn't been doing that already.

Shylah pondered the idea of throwing herself at Mark's mercy the first chance that she got and begging for his forgiveness and even for him to give her another chance, to put behind them what she had done, all of it.  Though time had been drearily moving along, it was nearing nine o'clock.  Shylah had been at the hospital for eight hours with no food, spending five of those hours with no company but her own troubled mind. 

Finally, at almost ten, T.L. strolled in, along with Mr. and Mrs. King.  It was a much welcomed surprise for Shylah.  Now, at least, she would have some company.  Whether or not that would ease her worries, she did not know, but it would definitely make time go by more quickly.

Mrs. King threw her arms around her daughter before Shylah could even rise from her seat, embracing so tightly that Shylah felt suffocated.  "Mama, you gotta let go of me some.  You're... you're choking me."

"Sorry, Honey," laughed Mrs. King, releasing her hold completely.  "What were you thinkin', stayin' here all night, not comin' home with your brother?"

"I was worried, Mama."

"I know.  I'm worried, too, and believe it or not, so is your daddy.  You know how we feel about Mark."  Shylah knew that her mother loved Mark dearly, but she was pretty sure that her father's recent efforts to keep Mark and Shylah apart meant that he didn't quite feel the same way.

"Yeah.  I know YOU do, Mama," Shylah said with a voice so tremulous that it said just as much as did the words.  As she said this, Shylah gave her father a look of deep-seated disgust, very unusual until the recent events.

"Now, come on, child.  Your father cares about Mark.  He's like a son to us and always has been."

"I don't think so, Mama.  Daddy had to try to keep me away from Mark, and look what happened.  Mark wouldn't be in the hospital right now and have to have a bunch of metal in his head for the rest of his life if it wasn't for all of Daddy's nonsense."

"Honey," Mrs. King began, placing her hand on her daughter's wrist.  "You know I don't care who you love, as long as he's a good man and a God-fearing man.  You and Mark have known each other longer than I care to recall.  I know Mark is a good man, and there probably ain't nobody in this world that could love you better than he could.  I've talked to your father about this until I'm blue.  You don't pay attention to what he says on the matter, and if he gives you one bit of trouble over it ever again, you tell him he can come speak to me about it.  Ok?"