Margaret found a small patch of intact skin on Daniel’s forehead and stroked it with the backs of her fingers. He felt warm. “So why isn’t he awake?”
“Actually, he is awakening. He opens his eyes and attempts to speak.” She tapped the small pump hanging from the railing. A fine tube coming from it ran under the sleeve of his gown to his upper arm. “His progress is veiled by the morphine he is receiving—it has a sedative effect. Also, he is feverish. He is fighting a lung infection, pneumonitis, which we are treating with antibiotics. His body is spending great energy on repairing itself. He is profoundly exhausted. Any of these factors alone would affect his alertness.”
“Pneumonitis?” Alden said. “Did you get a chest X-Ray?”
Dr. Alberti smiled. “Yes, after I listened to his lungs with a stethoscope and found diminished breath sounds in the bases, I ordered one. The X-ray shows some bilateral consolidation in the lower lobes. His respiration rate is also somewhat rapid, and shallow.
“This is consistent with my impression that, in fact, your son did not experience one traumatic injury, but two—the first occurring about three or four days ago.”
“That would have been just after he arrived,” Margaret said. “What do you think happened?”
“He survived an explosion. The little scabs on his face are from burning debris. He has contusions on the shoulders, hips, knees, and elbows. He was thrown with some force, and tumbled. A lot of blast victims get hurled through the air until they strike something, or are impaled.”
“Christ,” Alden said.
“The pneumonitis comes from inhaling the fumes, and smoke, and dust. Normally, I would expect to see advanced pneumonia, four days out, but I think someone was looking out for your son. We found a small container of both antibiotics and pain killers in Daniel’s jacket pocket, so he must have been taken to the Canadians. A good choice, as the Kavsak hospital doesn’t have enough medication to provide an ambulatory patient with pain killers. And what little antibiotics they have, they save for the unfortunates who step on land mines. Filthy wounds, guaranteed to become infected. A visit to the Canadians would also explain the stitches in his eyebrow. We did not make this repair.”
Margaret settled a long gaze on Daniel. “You said he was attempting to speak. Is he saying anything intelligible?”
“One word, over and over.”
Alden frowned. “Perseveration?”
“Perhaps,” Dr. Alberti said. “Or, maybe he is trying to communicate.”
“What’s the word?” Margaret asked.
Dr. Alberti pulled out a small notepad and flipped through the pages until she found a circled word. “Brenda?”
“Brenna,” Margaret said. “He was traveling with a woman named Brenna Rease. Daniel is a TV producer. She’s a photographer. They were shooting a documentary together.”
“Was this Brenna Rease brought in, too?” Alden asked.
Dr. Alberti shook her head. “The UNPROFOR airlift has been shut down. Daniel was on the last flight out. The shelling has intensified so much that it is too dangerous to land the aircraft. Kavsak has been split in two by Nationalist forces. The city is falling.”
After Dr. Alberti left, Margaret pulled a chair to the side of Daniel’s bed. Alden took a chair at the foot.
She stroked Daniel’s forearm, heart sore that he was injured, scared that he wouldn’t fully recover. Her dear son, traveling halfway around the world because he wanted to set things right for Aya. He was still furious with Aya’s old boss, Hugh Driscoll. He wanted to prove that even though Driscoll had diminished Aya, her work would still be done. Even if half the team was gone, he’d play for two.
It broke her heart.
After Aya’s death, when Sam Chisolm had sent Daniel home to Portland, she’d helped him get on his feet, but she hadn’t found a way to help him fly again. The devotion and faithfulness that had marked his relationship with Aya when she was alive had kept him stuck, mired in the past, unable to find his own path, separate from hers.
It had been so long since she and Alden had heard his easy laughter, or seen his goofy, charming side. She missed Daniel’s playfulness. Missed the way he’d turn up a good song on the radio and dance barefoot in the kitchen in his pajama bottoms. She remembered him on the floor with Jimmy Chandler’s twins, pretending he was Aladdin and the throw rug was a magic carpet swooping over Agrabah. The kids laughed so infectiously, the adults had gotten caught up, too.
When he had called to tell her he was going to Kavsak, she’d wanted to reach through the phone line and shake him. “Why in heaven’s name would you put your life at risk for that?” she’d wanted to shout. “Aya’s dead. Driscoll isn’t going to be changed. It isn’t as if this is a burning issue for you.”
She’d had two miscarriages before she got Daniel to term, then lost a another baby afterward. She’d sacrificed enough children to the Fates.
But in the end, despite her objections, she heard in his voice that his mind was made up, that he was determined to go. He saw it as something he was doing for Aya, and he would not be dissuaded. He was a grown man. He had to make his own choices, even if she thought they were mistakes.
She rested her temple in her hand. Some days she couldn’t stand being a mother.
Daylight gradually brightened the room. A cafeteria worker, dispensing food trays from a steel cart, came in with a covered tray, looked at Daniel, then at Margaret and Alden. A young, skinny fellow with closely-cropped dark hair and expressive brown eyes, he set the tray on the bedside table near Margaret and said something in rapid Italian.
“Sorry,” she replied. “No parlo italiano.”
The youth took the fork off the tray and wrapped her fingers around it. “Mangi pure.”
He went out to the hallway and reappeared a moment later with a second coffee. He took it to Alden, who was rubbing his face sleepily.
“Bene,” he said, wiping his hands together. “Due caffè. Uno per il signore e uno per la signora.”
“Grazie,” Alden said.
“Thank you,” Margaret said. “Grazie.” She turned to Daniel and gave his hand a little squeeze. “Daniel, dear. It’s morning. A nice young man just brought your father and me some coffees. They smell divine. What do you think? Can you wake up for a little bit and keep us company?”
She’d talked to him, on and off all night, patted his shoulder when he coughed, and yes, unnecessarily fixed his covers when he rolled onto his side.
Alden set his coffee aside, stood up, and stretched. Looking down on Daniel, he froze. “He’s on his side,” he said. “Did someone turn him? A nurse? An aide?”
“No. He just rolled over about an hour ago.”
“Ah-hah!” he exclaimed. His face alight, he bounded to Daniel’s bedside and gave his shoulder a gentle shake. “Hey, slacker. Time to get up.”
Alden had used those words at five every school morning when he got Daniel up for swim practice.
Daniel groaned.
“Ah-hah, again!” Alden said, joy in his voice. “Margaret—unconscious people don’t roll over by themselves. Dr. Alberti was right. Our boy’s just asleep, now.”
“Oh, Alden!” She set her coffee down and leaned over Daniel. “Honey, it’s Mom and Dad. We’re here. Open your eyes and say hi.”
His eyelids flickered.
“That’s good.”
His swollen eyelids opened a sliver. His face contorted, and he shut them again with a grunt.
“Close the window shades, please, Alden. I think the room’s too bright for him.”
Alden turned the blinds until the sunlight only entered the room in thin stripes.
“Okay,” he said. “No bright light. Try again.”
Daniel winced. His eyelids fluttered, then stayed open. The whites of his eyes were blood-red. His gaze shifted slowly from her to his Dad. “Hey.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. She clutched his hand, unable to speak.
“It was about time,” Alden said, his voice b
reaking.
“Hey,” Daniel repeated, and his eyes slid shut.
The afternoon sun turned the peach-colored walls golden. Alden sat next to Daniel’s bed while Margaret splashed water on her face and changed her blouse in the little bathroom. With the help of a hospital aide, they had booked a room in a nearby pensione. Alden had tried to convince her to get a few hours’ sleep, but she had refused. Not until he’s better. It had been her way when Daniel was a boy, too. If her son was sick, she was at his side. It didn’t matter that he was forty-two.
Daniel lifted his hand to his face, trailing the IV line across the bedcovers. “Ow,” he said, half-speaking, half-groaning.
Alden watched him. He wanted to perform a mini neurological exam—ask his son a few questions that would help him assess alertness and orientation.
Daniel opened an eye, squinting until he became accustomed to the light.
“Hey, son.” Alden leaned forward. “How’re you feeling?”
Daniel considered the question. “Wretched.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
“Daniel Ellsworth.”
“Do you know where you are?”
He scanned the room. “Hospital?”
“Hospital where?”
Daniel lingered over the question. “Dunno,” he shrugged.
“Ancona,” Alden said. “Ancona, Italy.”
Behind Alden, Margaret emerged from the bathroom, drying her hands on a small white hand towel.
“What’s today’s date?”
Daniel concentrated, but came up blank.
“Well, how about time of year? Do you know what season this is?”
“Summer. I feel hot.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Alden noticed Margaret’s fingers digging into the little towel. It was springtime.
“Do you know why you’re in the hospital?”
“My face hurts.”
“What happened to your face? How did you get hurt?”
Daniel looked as disoriented as if he’d been set down on an unfamiliar planet. Which in a way, he had been.
“Can you tell us where you grew up? What city and state?”
“Portland, Maine.”
“Do you know who I am?”
“Dad.”
“And this beautiful woman standing next to me?”
Daniel lifted his eyes and focused slowly. “Mom.” His attempted smile turned into a wince.
Margaret stepped forward, forcing a smile through her tears. “Hello, dear,” she said, taking his hand.
“Hey, Ma,” he said, giving her hand a light squeeze. He closed his eyes again.
“He’s oriented to self, but not to place or time,” Alden whispered. “And he can recall the distant past. He’s too lethargic to do the rest of the tests. They’ll have to wait ‘til later. As for his inability to recall the injury to his face, that doesn’t surprise me. It’s common for people with a head injury not to be able to remember what happened, or even the period immediately preceding the injury. The brain simply doesn’t get the chance to store the information. That piece may never come back.”
“But the rest of his recent memory—?”
“Usually resolves itself spontaneously. He probably just needs more time.”
Daniel woke bathed in sweat. He was hungry, dreaming about food. He opened his eyes and saw green and blue numbers, yellow wavy lines above him in the darkness. He squinted. Those were his vital signs, on a monitor.
His face felt taut, his nose as if it had been stuffed with a bolster cushion.
He shifted in his bed, and felt the tug of the cardiac leads under his thin cotton gown. The head of the bed was elevated and he had slid uncomfortably down the mattress. He braced his hands beneath himself and pushed upward. A wave of dizziness swept over him. “Ahh.”
He heard a shuffle of clothing, and his mom appeared beside him.
She leaned over him. Warm and capable, survivor of her own griefs, she met life with courage, intelligence, and grace—qualities that the years had etched on her face. She was a compassionate woman, but no push-over, and she possessed a singular ability to make people instantly trust her, which served her well in her profession.
“You all right, dear?” She smiled, her blue eyes clouded with concern for him. Her usually-neat French twist was wisping out of her hairpins. Her blouse and skirt were wrinkled. She looked done in.
He inched up the bed while she held the tubes and kept them from getting tangled in the bedclothes. “I’m hungry,” he said, when he finally got comfortable again.
“Well, the prodigal son.” His dad approached the bed from the opposite side. A tall and handsome complement to his mother, his dad radiated competence and dependability. He didn’t look any better-rested.
Daniel smiled, happy to see him. “Where am I?”
“The hospital—“ his dad began.
“—in Ancona. Italy,” his mom finished.
“Ancona,” Daniel mused. “We flew to Kavsak from here, from the UNPROFOR base.”
His mom beamed. “That’s right.”
Daniel looked around the room, peering into the shadows. “Is Brenna here?”
His parents exchanged a glance.
“No, dear. She’s not.”
Oh.
“We haven’t seen her at all, son. She didn’t come in with you.”
He closed his eyes and leaned back, feeling like the earth had suddenly disappeared beneath him.
“Is something wrong?”
He sifted through a tangle of disturbing memories. All he could summon was a sense of turbulent darkness that portended destruction. “I just—I thought she was coming with me.”
Later, a nurse brought him some hot chicken broth, a handful of crackers, and chinotto—ginger ale. He ate, and dozed off. But this time, he did not dream of food. He dreamt of Kavsak—of automatic gun fire, of bodies crumpling, of rape, of dying children. He dreamt he was suffocating in thick smoke, that he was running through trenches, gripping Brenna’s hand, scared to death of letting go of her. He dreamt that she was weeping. Disconsolate. Distraught. That she needed him and he was at the bottom of a dark, deep shaft, and couldn’t reach her.
He jerked violently and sat bolt upright with a gasp, his heart thumping, breathing so hard he felt that his lungs were about to explode. He was dripping with sweat. His hands were shaking. It was broad daylight, and he felt terrified.
His mom rubbed his shoulder, her expression one of deep concern. “It’s okay,” she said, trying to soothe him. “It was a nightmare. You’re safe now. You’re out of Kavsak.”
“Ma—I can’t remember the plan.”
“What plan, dear?”
“Where Brenna and I were going to meet. I don’t know where she is, or if I’m supposed to be somewhere.” She was going to meet him, right? Kavsak hadn’t just been some intense interlude they’d had together and now she was going her own way, was it? He shook his head, trying to clear his brain. He remembered his own feelings, but wasn’t sure about hers.
His mom turned her chair so it faced him and settled back. “Tell me about Kavsak,” she said. “Start at the beginning. Maybe we can sort it out.”
“The doctor is in,” he chuckled. Mom, the clinical psychologist, was in her mode. She was going to debrief him.
“Yup,” she said.
He knew how it worked, he’d heard her talk shop often enough. She’d start with the facts, work her way to the emotion. He hesitated. He didn’t want to relive any of it.
“Your dad went to the pensione. He’s going to sleep a while.”
Which was code for: We won’t be interrupted. She wouldn’t scrape his emotions raw and leave him exposed. He tipped his head, studying her. His heart filled with shame. She was nearly seventy years old, exhausted, frantic with worry, and nevertheless steadfastly at his bedside, offering to fix him up yet again.
He touched his fingertips to his swollen eyelids. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
“What for?�
�
“For bringing all this on you and Dad. You’re just a little old lady and you had to fly half-way around the world to sit up all night because of me.”
“I’m too tall to be a little old lady.”
“You were right, you know. I went to Kavsak for the wrong reason. You tried to tell me, but I wouldn’t listen.”
“You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make him blow his nose.”
“Oww!” Daniel held his face. “You’re making me laugh.”
She put her hands together and raised them to her chin, her listening mode. “From the beginning,” she said. “Or I’ll tell you all my best jokes.”
At dusk, Margaret stepped outside the Ancona Hospital for the first time in two days. She inhaled deeply, catching the scent of the Adriatic Sea in the breeze. She turned in the direction of the pensione and started walking. She was exhausted but the exercise would help her clear her spirit.
Daniel’s story had been horrific. He was deeply troubled. He’d shifted worlds. Everything he thought he knew about himself had been turned inside out—his sense of himself as an honorable man, his sense that he could protect a loved one, his sense of being empowered, his sense that he’d abused his strength when he’d held patients down in surgery. He’d witnessed atrocity and been unable to intercede, and now he was struggling to find a way to live with it.
And throughout the story, the one thread.
Brenna.
Pulling him out of trouble, keeping him alive, despite her own fragility.
Just from the way he spoke her name, Margaret knew he’d fallen in love with her. He’d been circumspect, stopping his story abruptly when he was relating the way she’d come to him in the stairwell after the operating room, then picking it up at a later point in time. But Margaret wasn’t sought out as a keynote speaker for the American Clinical Psychology Association for nothing. Daniel had had sex with Brenna, taken their relationship to a deeper level. From something he revealed later, she figured there’d been a wobble in that first encounter, but they had sorted it out.
Day Three Page 30
