Heart of Clay

by Shanna Hatfield

  Up and on the road earlier than usual, Callan let her thoughts wander as she drove to the hospital.

  It was a golden summer day with a deep blue sky overhead. The sun, a spectacular golden orb, painted streaks of rosy color across the horizon. The scent of ripening wheat and freshly cut hay drifted in her car window. As she pulled into the hospital parking lot, a sense of appreciation for the beautiful day waiting ahead filled her heart to overflowing.

  Quietly humming to herself, she made the familiar trek to Clay’s room. He remained in bed, resting on his side with his back to the door. Since he was usually up and eager to go for a pass around outside in the wheelchair before breakfast, she found it odd he still slept.

  After setting her purse on a small side table, she quietly approached the bed. Clay hadn’t moved or made a sound. She hoped everything was fine. Concerned, she reached a hand out and gently touched his shoulder. When he didn’t move, she gave him a gentle nudge.

  “Clay, are you okay?” she asked, trying to keep panic from settling into her chest and coloring her voice. “Clay?”

  When she nudged his shoulder again with no response, she turned to find a nurse. A hand grabbed her wrist and she let out a startled gasp. Clay rolled over with a mischievous smirk on his freshly shaven face. “Surprise!” he said, breaking into a full-dimpled grin.

  “Clay! You just scared five years off my life and after your accident, I was already down ten!” Callan held a hand to her chest and breathed hard. She felt like giving him a swat on his backside.

  Instead, she bent over and kissed his cheek. She hadn’t seen it for several weeks and enjoyed the sight of his dimples. Delighted, she inhaled the scent of his aftershave.

  “You smell good. I definitely like seeing your whole face. I really missed it, and your sweet cheeks.” She laid her hand on his right cheek, thankful that the scars on his chin and left cheek faded daily. The bruising and swelling was nearly gone.

  He started to look like her Clay again. His hair was growing back over the scar on his head and all the assorted gashes were well on the way to becoming nothing more than red lines that would fade with time. Little reminders of what he had survived.

  “Who did you convince to give you a shave?”

  Clay gave her an amused look. “It just so happens I had an appointment with the barber yesterday. Got a shave and a haircut. My buddy Jake is a well-connected kid.”

  Callan couldn’t believe it. “You mean to tell me you let Jake near your head with both a razor blade and scissors?”

  “Are you crazy? I’m not that dumb or desperate. One of his friends is studying to be a barber, so Jake brought him in. He did a pretty good job, if I say so myself.” Clay looked more like himself than Callan had seen since the day of his accident.

  “I’ll be sure to give Jake a call later and thank him for his assistance. I suppose I owe him some cookies for payment.” Callan pushed Clay’s wheelchair up next to the bed so he could get up and they could go out for their morning stroll.

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate it. If you make him some, will you bring me a few? I’m so tired of hospital food I could choke. Please, Laney, make me some cookies. Please?” Clay so sweetly, she couldn’t refuse.

  “Anything to stop your pathetic begging,” Callan laughed. “Now, let’s get you up and rolling.”

  In the past week, she’d heard, “I can do it myself” so many times, she stopped offering her assistance entirely. After relying on his arms, right leg, and core so much to compensate for his broken leg, Clay’s already well-toned muscles were at the point of becoming downright impressive. His left leg was still entrenched in a cast from hip to ankle so his current wardrobe consisted of T-shirts and gym shorts, which were easy to get on over the cast. Callan knew he was as tired of his clothing selections as he was everything else.

  As she walked along beside him, Clay pushed himself down the well-maintained path through the gardens and around the perimeter of the hospital property. He could maneuver slowly on crutches, but it was much easier on them both for him to go for longer walks in the wheelchair. Callan enjoyed their morning strolls.

  It was marvelous to be out in the fresh air, spend time with Clay, and she felt herself toning up from all the walking. She’d have to suggest they keep up a similar routine when they finally settled into a normal schedule at home. They talked about nothing important, just chatted like old friends, enjoying each other’s company. Sometimes they didn’t talk at all, lost in their own thoughts.

  However, Clay seemed to be in a talkative mood that morning and his openness pleased Callan.

  Now that he could see the evidence of progress through his therapy, his personality and attitude began to return to normal. As he rolled along, she stole a look at him and felt her breath catch and heart trip. How she loved him.

  Clay stopped and studied her, observant of the fact she appeared lost in her own little world.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” he said as she stood next to the wheelchair. He knew she was still woolgathering by the look on her face. “You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?”

  She bent down and kissed him tenderly on the lips, then laid a hand on his shoulder with a warm smile.

  Clay grinned at her. “What was that for?”

  “Because I’m hopelessly and completely in love with you.” Callan stepped ahead of him and tossed a saucy grin over her shoulder.

  Clay hurried to catch up to her. He grabbed her hand and tried to tug her onto his lap. She planted her feet and refused to be pulled down.

  “Clay, be careful,” she cautioned, taking a step back.

  “Blast it, Callan!” Irritation and disappointment filled his face as he shoved a hand into his hair in frustration. “Can’t a man hug his wife? I haven’t been able to hold you for weeks. Maybe it’s been months. Quite possibly even years.”

  Indulgently, Callan smiled at him. He hated that particular smile. It meant he was behaving like a child and she would put up with it as if he was six instead of thirty-six.

  He didn’t want to be treated like a cranky little boy. He wanted to be treated like a man.

  Her man.

  Her husband.

  Her lover.

  Clay would have to speak to David about getting his cast off and back on his feet soon.

  When he took Callan’s hand in his, she gave it a reassuring squeeze before releasing it and continuing with their walk like nothing was out of the ordinary.

  For Clay there was no ordinary anymore.