SULLIVAN'S MIRACLE

by Lindsey Longford

  Time accelerated, slowed and stretched in front of her, distorting voices, images, memories. Fumbling at her waistband, Maggie freed her Smith and Wesson.

  It was like watching the video tape of the Quik-Deli shooting. But in the video, her fingers hadn’t been trembling, and the gun hadn’t slipped in her hand.

  She gripped the gun hard with both hands and raised it.

  “Freeze! Police!” she shouted.

  At her words, Jackson turned, step one, turned, step two. His gun swung back and forth between her and Sullivan, who was racing for the river. The chief shouted, his words muted by the thunder of her heart.

  Sullivan pivoted toward her, his mouth opening soundlessly, saying something she couldn’t hear in her desperate rush to reach him. The dull crump of fireworks in back of her reverberated through her, fading in the distance until she was surrounded by silence as she raced over an endless expanse of earth, Sullivan’s harsh face filling her vision.

  In that space where time elongated and distorted, she heard the roar of the gulf through her open window, the quiet ticking of her bedroom clock, and as the veil lifted, fluttered for those moments in time, she remembered, at last, everything.

  She needed to tell Sullivan he was right, and she’d been wrong, so wrong.

  As she moved toward him, joy flooded her. Somehow, she’d been given a chance to make everything right, to tell him how much she had loved him all along but had never said so, afraid to take that risk. She should have believed his love for her would survive in spite of her illness. She should have had the courage to believe in him, in herself, in the deepest instincts of her heart.

  Jackson was swinging his gun at her, at Sullivan. From an incalculable distance, shouts floated to her. Her boss pointed his gun one last time, raising it toward Sullivan.

  Danger. She’d known that, had known she’d left something else unsaid. The gun was rising so slowly she counted infinite heartbeats as Jackson leveled the gun at Sullivan.

  Racing, racing, she reached out for him, reached and understood at last why she’d been given a second chance, as the veil between worlds parted for an instant.

  Like a blinding white light, bliss suffused her as she stretched her hand out to him, her fingers closing around his as she stepped in front of the small cylinder moving toward him, her fingers gripping his as she smiled into his bright blue eyes, taking the bullet meant for him.

  “Oh, Sullivan,” she whispered as darkness rushed in on her, “I love you. And I never told you, but I’ve loved you for so long, forever.”

  Her words echoing meaninglessly in his ears, Sullivan lifted Maggie, trying to put his body between her and Jackson, knowing he was too late.

  She jerked in his arms as the bullet slammed into her back and she sighed, her breath warm against him. Her smile lit her face with radiance as her eyes closed, her blood spilling into his hands.

  Stooping over Maggie as she slid to the ground, Sullivan ripped at the bottom of his T-shirt with such fury that the fabric split like oil separating from water. He lifted her gently, pressing the cotton against the wound in a vain attempt to staunch the dark blood pumping from her. Working feverishly over her, he refused to think about anything.

  She would not die. He wouldn’t let her.

  He tightened the fabric, binding it to her with another strip he tore free. Squatting next to her, he checked the pad he’d made. It wouldn’t last long. Blood was seeping at its edges. He pressed harder. He would keep her alive. She wasn’t going to die. Couldn’t.

  Not possible.

  In a flash of dying fireworks, he saw Jackson lying wounded. With his gun drawn, Royal stood over the chief and pulled out a walkie-talkie. Callahan and the mayor were cuffed back-to-back around a piling, ankle deep in muddy river water.

  Royal? Later. He would think about Royal later.

  “Oh, God, Maggie,” he muttered as he changed the pad for a fresh one and watched it, too, grow dark with her blood.

  In the background, tires whining as it rounded the curve and came down to the river, an ambulance squealed to a halt, its flashing red lights piercing him with an overwhelming sense of loss.

  All around him rain was falling, falling into his eyes. Huddled over Maggie, he covered her from the cold rain drowning him.

  A stretcher slid into view and two paramedics lifted Maggie out of his arms. He helped them carry her to the white vehicle, steadying the stretcher as they ran over the slick mud. He never let go of her cold fingers, which were gripping his.

  Strength there in those small fingers. His Maggie had strength. Feel how tightly she held him. She wouldn’t die. All that sass and spunk couldn’t end like this.

  Willing her to fight, he tightened his grip.

  “Sorry, man, but you can’t—” A black-haired paramedic shook his head as Sullivan climbed into the ambulance with Maggie. The paramedic grabbed his arm.

  With one hand Sullivan pinched his neck. “Don’t. Don’t try to stop me.” He pinched harder and the paramedic’s face went white.

  The second paramedic rushed up. “We got a problem here?” He looked at Sullivan, who stared at him, something in his face silencing both men.

  The attendant shrugged. “Whatever, man. No skin off my nose. But don’t sue the county if we crash.”

  Meaningless, the words Sullivan heard as he held Maggie’s hand during the endless ride to the hospital.

  “We got a code—”

  A static-filled message returned over the radio. Sullivan braced himself against the side of the ambulance as it rounded a corner, siren wailing as it raced through red lights blurred by rain.

  Maggie’s face seemed to blur before him. Sullivan brushed her hair off her forehead.

  The black-haired paramedic worked on her, hooking her up to the emergency equipment and trying to stabilize her irregular pulse.

  Sullivan heard his murmured aside to the other attendant, “We’re going to lose her. I can’t—”

  “No.” Sullivan interrupted them, his voice flat and dangerous. “She is not dying. She is going to live.” He grabbed the man’s wrist. “And you’re going to do whatever you have to to keep her alive, do you understand?”

  His face filled with pity, the man nodded. “Sure. She’ll make it.” He glanced at the other paramedic and caught his eye. “Tell Terry to go turbo.” The paramedic patted Sullivan on the shoulder. “She’ll make it,” he said and went back to work, his hands moving quickly.

  Lights, malls, cars flashed by.

  “Come on, sweetheart. Hang on. A little longer. Yeah, hang on.” Over and over he spoke to her, his voice monotonous in the quiet ambulance, the voices of the attendants a low undertone in the background. “You’re alive, sweetheart. I’m with you. Don’t give up. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”

  And Maggie opened her eyes.

  Their bottomless brown depths misted over, and, for an instant, luminously clear gray eyes stared back at him. “Hello to you, too, Sullivan,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around his. “What took you so long? I thought you’d never come home.” She smiled, sweetness curving her pale lips.

  “Lizzie?” Sullivan muttered, his whole world suddenly incomprehensible. “Maggie?” he said, stunned and disbelieving as the clear gray eyes yielded to warm brown before sinking into unconsciousness.

  “Maggie?” Reeling, Sullivan clenched her hand. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”

  “Back off, man, she’s gotta have oxygen,” a paramedic said as Sullivan leaned forward, staring at the pale woman belted into the ambulance stretcher.

  “What?” He stared at the man speaking gibberish.

  “I told you, man, oxygen.” The paramedic brushed him back.

  “Lizzie?” Sullivan murmured as he watched Maggie’s unconscious face disappear under the oxygen mask.

  *

  Chapter 13

  « ^ »

  Sullivan never let her go.

  Would never let her go again.

  Through th
e swinging doors of the emergency entrance, running beside her as hospital personnel surrounded her, he held on to her. He fought them all the way, not letting them separate him from her as they prepared her for surgery.

  He knew he was crazy now. Accepted it. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was the woman being rushed down the hospital corridors and up the elevator to the operating theater. If she lived, craziness was immeasurably better than the cruel sanity he’d known. Crazy, he didn’t care that nothing made sense, that he’d thought Lizzie had spoken to him.

  Much, much better to stay crazy and remember those whispered words of love, that sense that she was here with him, her spirit, which had never lingered in the beach cottage, here now beside him again, filling the emptiness and making him whole.

  He loved being crazy, desired it now with a passion.

  So much simpler, life, when he was crazy. He didn’t have to struggle to understand what had happened. He could have Lizzie, Maggie, the other half of himself back again.

  Why had he struggled so long, trying to find reason and meaning?

  The small woman under white sheets and blankets, her mass of hair capped in surgical green, was the meaning in his life. His everything. Heaven.

  He would not let her die.

  Over and over he chanted the words, clinging to her hand like a lifeline.

  “Hey, we need a next-of-kin signature over here. You her husband?” The white-capped woman trotting beside him held out her clipboard.

  Of course he was her husband. Should always have been.

  “Name?” When he didn’t reply, she tapped his arm. “Yours, sir.”

  “Barnett, Sullivan.”

  “Good. You’re doing fine. This’ll take only one more second.” She jotted down information. “Her name? The paramedics said ‘Maggie.’ That right?”

  He nodded. Her name wasn’t important. She mattered.

  Sullivan signed the form and the nurse veered off to the right.

  The elevator buttons lit up at each floor, chiming as the metal cubicle rose steadily upward. Its doors swooshed open, and she was rolled down another corridor, the operating-room doors now straight ahead under the red neon No Admittance sign at the end of the hall.

  The nurses and attendants who had taken over from the paramedic peeled away, two remaining, others hurrying to replace them. The white-suited male nurse turned to him, sympathy coating his words. “I gotta stop you here, Mr. Barnett. This is as far as I can let you go.” Conrad Tinker was the name on his badge.

  Shaking his head, Sullivan gripped the metal side of the gurney with his free hand. “I go where she goes.”

  He would tear them apart if they tried to take her away from him.

  Tinker loped over to the nurses’ station and picked up a phone, speaking quickly into it before returning to Sullivan.

  “Mr. Barnett. You can’t go through those doors. That’s the bottom line. We don’t have time to argue. If you want her to live, she goes in. You stay here.”

  Two uniformed security men jogged toward Sullivan.

  In a remote part of his brain, he heard Tinker’s order and it filtered through to him. “What?” He shook his head. “What?”

  “We’re out of time, Mr. Barnett. Let her go.” Tinker’s face was pained. “She’s dying. Let her go now or she has no chance. None. Zip. Got it?”

  Blinking at Tinker and gulping air, Sullivan unwound his fingers from Maggie’s. “She’s not dying,” he said again, his arms hanging by his side as they sped her through the doors and out of his sight.

  He stood in the hall looking after her, hearing her voice in his head, seeing her eyes turn gray and back to brown. He was gasping; there was no air in the overheated corridor as he leaned against the wall, his head still turned to his last sight of her.

  If she didn’t come back to him and he’d left her alone again, brick by brick, pipe by pipe he would dismantle this damned place until not a stone was left standing.

  On his haunches, he watched the surgery doors, standing every time they swung wide and sinking back as they closed again.

  She had stepped in front of him. On purpose, determination shining through her. She’d known what she was doing when she ran between him and Jackson.

  Gulping for air, Sullivan felt his head swim. She’d saved him, and he’d never wanted anything in his entire life except for her to live. He inhaled again, his chest heaving. Hospitals were stuffy, airless places where the sounds and smells were all the same.

  God, he couldn’t breathe.

  The doors thunked open. Tinker was walking back to him.

  Sullivan snapped to attention.

  “It’s going to be a while, Mr. Barnett,” Tinker said. “Take it easy.” He stood in front of Sullivan, making sure not to block his view of the doors.

  “How long?” The words were grating and harsh, as if he’d lost the power of speech.

  Tinker shook his head. “No idea. The surgeon will come out and talk with you when they’ve finished. I’m a gofer. You know, I gofer the gurneys, the pans.” He grinned. “The security guards.”

  Indifferent to anything except information about Maggie, Sullivan looked at him, waiting stolidly.

  Reaching into his pocket, Tinker pulled out a plastic bag. “Here are her things. She didn’t have much with her. No purse. The cops took her gun with them. Evidence, I guess. Her badge is in here. Earrings.” The gold balls were bumps under the plastic as he handed the bag to Sullivan.

  She’d worn these at Seth’s Landing. The smooth gold seemed to hum against his finger as he touched one earring.

  “Mr. Barnett, I came back because I felt like a dog making you leave her. I want to apologize. I know how it is to lose someone you love, and you have to deal with impersonal hospitals.”

  “What?” Sullivan looked up from the earrings. He’d swear they were warm from her skin. Couldn’t be, of course, but when you were crazy, details like that didn’t matter.

  Tinker shrugged. “I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I hope she makes it.”

  “She will.” Sullivan slid down the wall to his haunches again.

  “Why don’t you go to the family waiting room? You’ll be more comfortable. Like I said, it’s going to be a long night. The chaplain can stop in.” He raised his eyebrows in a question.

  “I’m staying here.” Sullivan cupped the plastic bag in his hands.

  “Fine. I’ll pass the word to look for you here. I’m going for a smoke. Want me to bring you coffee?”

  “No. Thanks.” He opened the plastic bag and stroked one earring. “Thanks.”

  “Any time.” The soles of his shoes squeaked against the tile floor as he ambled down the corridor, pausing at the nurses’ station and motioning toward Sullivan.

  Night into morning into night. Time losing all meaning under the fluorescent lights of the hospital corridor.

  Sweetheart, he called. I’m waiting. I won’t leave you. I promise. I’ll be here.

  Hours, days, seconds. All the same except for the waiting, the rumble of carts, the chime of the elevator doors interminably opening and closing. Sullivan dropped his head to his knees at some point, then jerked awake to watch white scuffed shoes in front of him, passing back and forth in constant motion.

  He never looked at his watch.

  Not once.

  A slow wheeling of pictures in his mind. Lizzie, her fair hair streaming behind her. Maggie, laughing and sassing him, her thick brown curls fighting her every attempt at control. Lizzie, loving him. Maggie. Their faces overlapping, blending, in kaleidoscopic pinks and greens. Under the smells of the hospital was a faint flowery fragrance, teasing him.

  And the constriction in his chest, growing tighter and tighter.

  One pair of white shoes stopped. And stayed. Sullivan struggled to his feet, his knees snapping and popping.

  White shoes. Green surgical scrubs. Surgical mask dangling under a tired face with kind eyes. Deep pouches under those eyes, dark and permanent. C
lipboard in his hand. “Mr. Barnett?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Some good news and some not so good.” The surgeon leaned against the wall beside Sullivan. “I’m Connor Chapman. Let’s go get a cup of coffee and I’ll tell you what I know. I’m not sure about you, but I’m running flat out on empty. Come on.” Not waiting for an answer, he took off down the hall.

  On automatic, Sullivan followed. Good news. Maggie was alive. He would see her again. He wouldn’t have to tear this nice man’s hospital apart. Good news. His eyes weren’t focusing clearly as he walked down the hall. Blurs passed in front of him, to his side as they went into a private sitting area. The surgeon motioned to an upholstered chair. “Have a seat. I’ll be a minute.” He shut the door behind him as he left.

  Nice man. Nice pictures. Pastels. Very restful. Sullivan waited. Another eternity before the surgeon returned with steaming cups of coffee.

  “I bypassed—”

  Blinking stupidly, Sullivan said, “She needed a bypass?” This was the bad news?

  “God, no. I meant the coffee.”

  Sullivan looked at the coffee and back to the surgeon.

  “I bypassed the cafeteria. The coffee there isn’t good for your health. I got this from my office. Freshly ground Columbian. Smell.” He held out a cup.

  Sullivan sniffed. And tasted. “Good.”

  “Life has its rewards. Coffee’s one of them.” The surgeon propped his feet on the sofa and leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee. “I didn’t think she’d make it through the surgery. She did. That’s the good news. Bad news. Lot of blood loss. Internal trauma and bleeding. Couldn’t save her spleen.” He drank down the rest of the coffee in one long swallow.

  Following his lead like an automaton, Sullivan took a deep gulp.

  “It was one of those damned bullets that rattles around inside on impact. They mess up the internal organs really swell. She’s a mess inside with edema and bruising.” Chapman sighed heavily and let his feet drop to the blue-carpeted floor. “I’ll be honest. I hate like the very devil to say this, but I’m not optimistic. It doesn’t look good for her.”

  Coffee splattered onto Sullivan’s knee. He rubbed the stain. She’d survived the surgery. He couldn’t follow the rest of what Chapman was saying. Chapman was wrong. Lizzie was going to make it. He shook his head. Maggie. Coffee slopped onto his knee again. His hand was shaking. He put the cup on a side table and sat on his hands. “She’s going to get well,” he said, pinning Chapman with his gaze. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”