“It wouldn't be like my wife to get involved with another man,” Gordon said somewhat fiercely, more in defense of his pride than her reputation, and Cynthia sensed that. “And I don't think she was involved with him. I'm sure there's some very sensible, innocent explanation.”
“I hope so,” she said quietly, and then looked Gordon in the eye. She wanted him to know where she stood on the situation. “I think you should know that I don't intend to ask.”
“I do however intend to ask my wife if she comes out of the coma. I think they owe us that much.”
“Why? What difference would it make?” she asked, much to her daughters' amazement. “What would it change? And if they die, we don't need to know that.”
“I do. If she was dishonest with me in some way, I think I deserve to know that, and so do you. If not, it would be nice to absolve them.”
“Absolving my husband is none of my business. He's a grown man. I wouldn't like it if he was involved with your wife, but there are some things in life one is better off not knowing about.”
“I don't share your point of view, Mrs. Robinson,” he said tersely, and he couldn't help wondering what kind of marriage they had. In fact, hardly different than his own, but he would never have admitted to anyone that his marriage to Isabelle was a sham, and had been for years. In fact, it wouldn't have been so remarkable if Isabelle was having an affair, she was young and loving and human. Gordon knew better than anyone how very lonely she was, thanks to him. Which was why he wanted to know what she'd been up to, if she had betrayed him, or was simply very foolish and had had dinner with a strange man. But it was late to be out under any circumstances. He couldn't even begin to imagine where they'd been at that hour, or what they'd been doing. At any other hour of the day, he'd have been willing to believe they were at an art show, but not at two o'clock in the morning.
Cynthia went back in to see Bill then, and the girls stared at Gordon in silence after she left. And after a few minutes he went back to the desk to tell them he was going back to Claridge's, and they could call him there if there was any change. He had had enough of the hospital waiting room, and he didn't like Cynthia Robinson, or her liberal attitude about her husband. He probably cheated on her regularly, and she seemed perfectly willing to accept it. And he had no doubt that she cheated on him too. But in fact, as Cynthia stood at Bill's bedside, watching him, knowing what she did now from Gordon Forrester, she felt her heart sink as she looked at Bill. Maybe Gordon could tell himself that they had been together at that hour in all innocence, but with her entire heart and soul, Cynthia didn't believe it. And as she stood looking at Bill with tears running slowly down her face, she wondered if she had finally lost him after all these years. She had been so indifferent to him for so long, and so unkind at times, she knew how cold and distant she had been, how critical of the life he led. She hadn't wanted to be part of his life in years, and now that she had possibly lost him forever, all she wanted was to tell him that she still loved him. She didn't know if she'd ever get the chance again, but all she wanted was to tell him one last time how much she loved him. She hadn't even known that she still did until the night before, but she knew it now, and she wanted Bill to know it too. She couldn't help wondering what Isabelle Forrester meant to him, or if he was in love with her.
And Cynthia knew that if she had lost him finally, because of her own stupidity, she deserved it. She had no doubt about that. She realized suddenly, in the face of losing him, how foolish she had been for so many years.
Chapter 5
Gordon spent Friday night at Claridge's reading a book he had bought on the way back from the hospital. He had nothing else to do. He could have called friends in London, but he wasn't ready to tell people what had happened. He wanted to see what happened to Isabelle first. And he was distracted as he read the book. He called the hospital late in the evening, before he went to bed, but there was no change. It had been forty-eight hours since the accident, and she was hanging on, but that was about it. There had been no improvement yet, she just wasn't any worse. It occurred to him that he could have gone back to the hospital, but he couldn't bear the thought of seeing her in that condition again. He wouldn't have admitted it to anyone, but the sight of her frightened him. He detested hospitals, the patients, the doctors, the nurses, the sounds, and the smells.
When Gordon called, Cynthia was still sitting with Bill. The girls had gone back to Claridge's at dinnertime, but Cynthia had decided to stay. She went to the nurses' station to help herself to a cup of tea from time to time, and they were pleasant to her. But Cynthia had a lot to think about, and she was happy keeping to herself. She was wondering, as she watched her husband fight for his survival, if she would ever get the chance now to tell him the things she wanted to say. She had a lot of explanations and apologies to make for a lot of years. She knew that, although he had never said as much to her, he was probably well aware of all her affairs. Some of them had been fairly obvious, although others had been more discreet.
After a while, once she gave up on their marriage, she just didn't care. And she wasn't even sure now why she had turned away from him with such determination. Jealousy maybe, she thought, for the interesting life he led, and the people he met. She had never liked being dependent on him, and she wondered now if she had wanted to prove to him that she didn't need him. It had always annoyed her that, as a wife on the political scene, she had to behave like an appendage to him, and emotionally at least, she had walked away from him. And he had been so busy and traveled so much, she felt rejected at times. She hated the image of being a suburban mother with two kids, she wanted to be more glamorous and exciting than that. She realized now that she had tried to put excitement in her life in the wrong ways. She knew that now, but her greatest fear was that she had figured it all out too late.
She was still thinking about it at midnight, as she sat in a chair, in the corner of Bill's room, and for just a fraction of an instant, she thought she heard him stir.
“Bill?” She got up and looked at him more closely, the nurses had just left the room to get a fresh IV for him, and she thought she could see his eyelids move as though he were having a dream. She was standing next to him when they returned. They glanced instantly at the monitors, but all was well.
“Is everything all right, Mrs. Robinson?” one of the nurses asked as she switched IV bags, and smoothed the covers over his legs.
“I think so… I'm not sure… for a minute, I thought… it sounds ridiculous … but I thought something moved.” The nurses looked at him more closely, but there was no sign of life, and they took his vital signs again. He had stabilized somewhat that day. It had been almost exactly forty-eight hours since the accident, and Cynthia had been there for twenty-four. It felt like an eternity to her.
The nurse in charge was adjusting his heart monitor, and this time she felt a faint movement in one of his hands, she watched him carefully, and then checked his eyes. She shone a thin beam of light into them, as Cindy watched, and this time there was no mistaking it, he made a small muffled sound, like a soft groan of pain. It was the first sound he had made, and Cynthia's eyes filled with tears as she looked at him.
“Oh my God,” she whispered as he made the same noise again. It was almost an animal sound, and his eyelids trembled as she touched his fingers. The nurse pushed a buzzer that would summon the doctor on duty in charge of the case. A light went on at the desk, and within seconds the attending doctor was there.
“What's up?” he asked the nurse as he strode into the room. He had been on duty for hours, and he looked as tired as Cynthia felt. “Any change?”
“He groaned twice,” the nurse said.
“And I think I saw him move his hand a minute ago,” Cynthia added as he shone the beam of light into Bill's eyes again. And this time Bill made the sound in response to the light. Cynthia was sure of it, and the doctor glanced up at the nurse. There was a question in his eyes, and she nodded at him. They didn't want to say it pr
ematurely to his wife, but he was coming around. It was a major sign, and the first encouragement they'd had in two days.
“Bill, can you hear me? It's me, I'm here…. I love you, sweetheart. Can you open your eyes? I want to talk to you. I've been waiting for you to wake up.” He tried to shift his shoulders then, and this time he groaned louder, presumably in pain.
“Mr. Robinson, I'm going to touch your hand. If you can hear me, I want you to squeeze my finger as hard as you can.” The doctor spoke directly into his ear, leaning close to his face, and then he put a finger into Bill's hand, and waited to see if there was any response. There wasn't at first, and then slowly, ever so slowly, Bill's fingers curled around the finger the doctor had pressed against his palm. There was no other visible sign of recognition from him, but he had clearly heard the doctor's voice and understood his words.
“Oh my God, he heard,” Cynthia said, with tears pouring down her face. “Can you hear me, sweetheart? I'm here … open your eyes, please….” But nothing moved on his face, and then ever so slowly, with his eyes closed, he frowned, and his lips parted, as he ran his tongue around his parched lips. It was like watching a miracle occur as he started to come around.
“That's very good, Mr. Robinson,” the doctor said close to Bill's face. “I want you to squeeze my finger again.” Bill groaned in protest this time, as though they were annoying him, but he did it again, this time with the other hand. Both nurses and the doctor looked at each other victoriously. He was coming back. It was impossible to determine how much he could hear or understand, but he was definitely responding to them. Cynthia felt as though she were going to jump out of her own skin, and she wanted to shove them aside and throw her arms around his neck. But she didn't move from where she stood. She wouldn't have dared risk hurting him.
“Do you think you could open your eyes, if you try very hard, Mr. Robinson? I would like it very much if you could.” The doctor urged him on, and there was no sign from Bill for a long time, and Cynthia was afraid he had slipped into the coma again. He looked like he was asleep. The doctor touched both of Bill's eyelids then, as though to remind him of the command, and his brain of where his eyelids were. Bill let out a small sigh, and then without a sound, he opened both eyes and looked at him.
“Well, hello,” the young doctor said with a smile. “That was jolly good. It's nice to see you, sir.”
Bill let out a small “Hmmm …” and then closed his eyes again, but he had looked right at the doctor for a second or two. It was the best he could do for now. And Bill drifted slowly back into the place where he had been. He had been dreaming of Isabelle.
“Would you like to try that again?” This time there was a sharp groan that clearly meant “no,” but after another minute, he did it anyway. “We've been very anxious to see you,” the doctor said with a smile, and as he said it, Bill's eyes seemed to sweep the room, and he saw Cynthia standing at the foot of his bed, and he looked confused.
“Hi, baby, I'm here. I love you. Everything's going to be okay.” And with that, his eyes closed again, as though it was all too much for him, and he didn't want to see any of them. And a moment later, he went back to sleep. But it had been a major event, and all of them were beaming as Cynthia followed the doctor out of the room.
“Oh my God, what does that mean?” she asked, trembling from head to foot. She had never been as shaken by anything in her life, and the doctor was happy for her.
“It means he's out of the coma, although not entirely out of the woods. But I think it's an enormously hopeful sign.”
“Can he talk?”
“He will eventually, I'm sure. His head injury wasn't such that his speech should be affected. He's just been very badly traumatized.” Bill's neck and spine were his worst injuries, although even the minor concussion he had sustained had kept him in a coma for two days. “His brain needs to adjust to what happened to him. I'm sure he'll speak when he wakes up again. His body has experienced a tremendous shock. It's like getting the wind knocked out of you, multiplied by ten thousand possibly. I'm not worried about his speech.” He was worried about everything else. The real problem in the long run was going to be his spine and the use of his legs. But the fact that he could use his hands was a good sign. He was obviously very weak, but it meant that he would be able to move his hands and arms, particularly once his neck had healed. “I think we can assume he's going to sleep for several hours, and tomorrow we should see some forward movement again. You might want to go back to the hotel and get some sleep, Mrs. Robinson. Tomorrow will be another long day.” But she was so excited, she hated to leave.
“You don't think he'll wake up again? If he does, I want to be here.”
“I think it's far more likely that he's exhausted from the effort he just made. It must have been like climbing Everest for him. He just made the first base camp, and he's got a lot more climbing to do in the next few weeks.” And possibly the next few years, but he didn't want to say that to her. This was just the beginning, and they had a long way to go, but the entire medical team was enormously encouraged by what they'd just seen.
“All right,” Cynthia agreed. “Maybe I'll go back to the hotel.” She hadn't seen her daughters in hours. They had been planning to order room service and watch TV until she got home. She had promised to call them as soon as she got back to her room. And she could hardly wait to tell them what had just happened. When she did, when she got back to Claridge's, Olivia let out a scream of joy, and Jane did a little dance.
“God, Mom, that's so great! Did he say anything?”
“No, he just opened his eyes a couple of times, and moaned. He squeezed the doctor's finger twice, and he saw me standing there. But then he went back to sleep. The doctor thinks he might talk tomorrow. And the nurse said that once he's regained consciousness, he should be alert pretty quickly after that.” Cynthia was hoping he would talk to her the next day.
The next morning, when she got back to the hospital, he was lying in bed with his eyes open and looking around the room, as though he still wasn't sure where he was. He seemed half asleep, as though he'd just woken up, which he had.
“Hi, sleepyhead,” Cynthia said gently as she approached his bed. “We've been waiting forever for you to wake up.” He blinked his eyes at her as though to say “yes,” but he looked sad, almost as though he were disappointed to see her, and had expected to see someone else. She had the feeling that he would have nodded at her, if he could, but he couldn't move his head in the brace around his neck. “Do you feel better today?” He blinked again. And then she ever so gently touched his face. “I love you, Bill. I'm so sorry this happened. But you're going to be okay.” He didn't take his eyes from hers, and then she saw him wet his lips as he had the night before, and close his eyes again. She wanted to offer him something to drink, but she didn't dare. The nurses had left him alone with her for a few minutes. The monitors would warn them if anything went awry. “Can I get you anything you need?” she whispered as he opened his eyes and looked at her face. He looked as though he was worried about something, and she stood next to him so she could hear him if he had anything to say to her. His mouth opened then, but no sound came out. “What do you want, sweetheart? Can you say the words?” She spoke to him as she would have to a child. And he looked frustrated at the difficulty he was having at making himself understood. He lay there in silence for a long time, and then tried again, as though he had been gathering strength while Cynthia talked. “The girls are here,” Cynthia chatted on. “They came to London with me.” He blinked as though to acknowledge her, and then frowned again, as he fought to unlock his jaw. She wondered if the brace on his neck was hurting him. It didn't look comfortable, but he didn't seem to be in any particularly acute pain.
“Where…” he finally whispered at her, as she strained to hear and waited patiently. But he seemed to take forever with the next word.“… is Izzz… ahh … bell?” It had been a huge effort for him, as he stared at his wife. She wasn't even sure Bill
recognized her. His entire focus seemed to be on the woman who'd been in the car with him. She also suspected he wanted to know if Isabelle was alive. And his words, so agonizingly formed, and at such effort and cost to him, struck Cynthia like a blow. Asking for Isabelle had been his first words to his wife, and told her all she needed to know.
“She's alive,” she said quietly. “I'll ask the nurse how she is.” He blinked twice then, as though to say thank-you to her, and then he closed his eyes. A moment later, Cynthia walked outside, and her daughters pounced on her as soon as she did. She didn't tell them what he had just said.
“How is he, Mom? Did he say anything?”
“I think he's better. He's trying to talk a little bit. And I told him you were both here.” Cindy was shocked by what he had said to her. His first words had been for Isabelle, and she couldn't help wondering how much Isabelle meant to him. It was surely more than just chivalry that had caused him to ask for Isabelle the moment he woke up.
“What did he say?” They were thrilled. They were ecstatic that their father had survived.
“He blinked twice,” she said, with a smile, covering her own pain.
“Can he talk?” Jane asked, looking like her mother's mirror image. It was Olivia who was the portrait of Bill. They were both like two clones of Bill and herself.
“He said a couple of words, but it's still hard work for him. I think he's resting now.” She sounded strangely subdued as she promised the girls she'd be back in a minute, and then walked to the desk and spoke to the nurse. “How is Mrs. Forrester?” she asked quietly. If nothing else, she could tell Bill what he wanted to know. He had a right to that, if he cared about her, and even if they were just friends. They had been to hell and back together. The least she could do for him was give him news of Isabelle, since he had struggled so hard to ask about her.
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