by JoAnn Durgin
He avoided meeting the eyes behind the voice that sounded too much like old Junie Prunie Pritchard, his third grade teacher who questioned him on the first day of school about his parents’ high profile divorce in front of the entire class. You’d think he might have learned a lesson in tact that day. Instead, he spent the rest of the year backpedaling, hiding behind a false pretense of Beaver Cleaver normal instead of being the only son of a former NBA champion who preferred being on the road to spending time with his offspring.
“Young man,” the grim-looking nurse said, bringing Marc back to reality. “You’re going to have to settle down and give us some information. It’s important. Start by giving me her name.”
She looked at him like he had undiagnosed ADD. Probably did. Focus. Don’t let your guard down. Stay strong. He cleared this throat. “Natalie Dianne Thompson.”
“Maiden name?”
“Combs.”
“Your name?”
“Marcus Alan Thompson.”
“Relationship to the patient?”
Marc grunted as he tried to infuse his voice with a confidence he couldn’t quite muster. “I’m her husband.” At least pride managed to find its way into his statement. He’d only been able to call himself her husband for eight short weeks. His fists clenched at his sides. He couldn’t allow his warring emotions to gain the upper hand. Although necessary, he detested all the paperwork, procedures and the questions which accomplished nothing other than to establish Natalie’s identity.
Running an anxious hand through already disheveled hair, Marc swallowed hard and fought for control of what remained of his shaky composure. In all his thirty-two years, he’d never felt this vulnerable. He wasn’t used to it, and he didn’t like it. Don’t show your fear. His mouth dry, he licked his lips and tapped his fingers in a nervous march along the top of the desk.
“That’s better, but stop the drum line.” She put a firm hand over his. “Please.” An industrial-looking bandage peeked out from beneath her right sleeve as she poised her hands on the keyboard. Some of the ladies in his agency wore them occasionally. He presumed they were a ploy to engender sympathy until his sister developed carpal tunnel and lectured him on its validity as a medical malady.
“Date and place of birth?”
Think. Same day as Kennedy’s assassination, plus twelve years, minus twelve days. “November 10, 1975. Westport, Connecticut.” Crazy number patterns worked like a charm to help him remember sports stats and scores. Most of all, it amused Natalie. She liked to try and stump him, but only managed to do it a couple of times. Another reason to love her all the more.
Time to employ self-calming relaxation techniques. Natalie hated it—called it New Age hooey—but it seemed to work for him. Closing his eyes, he deep-breathed. In and out, in and out. In his prior career, the practice soothed him in the bullpen before a big game just as it calmed him at the agency before conducting an important sales presentation. He prayed it might help him now.
The nurse cleared her throat. “I lost you again. Are you gonna help me out here or not?” Her voice registered impatience tempered with a modicum of sensitivity.
Marc’s eyes flew open. Those ridiculously red lips upturned ever-so-slightly at the corners.
“That’s better. You’re much nicer looking with those blue peepers wide open.” Her eyes traveled to his head. “That ratty blond hair of yours sure could use a comb, and don’t even get me started on the fact you’re not wearing any shoes. I realize it’s warm for an August night, but this is a public building.” Shaking her head, the woman clucked like a chicken.
Not sure whether to laugh or scowl, Marc stared. Maybe she was trying to lighten him up. “Yes, Mom. Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Leaning on the desk, he fixed her with his most intense glare, which only prompted the stream of infernal questions. If it would help Natalie, he’d recite the Gettysburg Address—standing on his head. He could probably do it, both blessed and cursed with a photographic memory. It was the vision of Natalie prone on the basement floor he couldn’t shake.
He turned his head when the nurse waved in front of his face again. You’re losing it. You need to keep it together for Natalie.
After recording more routine information, the nurse took his insurance card and ran it through a machine. “Take heart. We’re almost done.” She handed back the card. “Do you know if your wife is allergic to any drugs or medications?” Her tone was once again professional, devoid of emotion.
Marc felt like screaming. Hadn’t they wasted enough time? Shuddering, he crossed his arms across his chest and hugged himself since no one else was there to do it.
“Mr. Thompson?”
Marc shook his head. “No . . . none that I’m aware of.”
“All right.” She made another quick notation in the computer. The deep brown eyes peered at him again, and she appeared more sympathetic. “I don’t suppose you know her blood type?”
“A-positive.” He remembered from the time they gave blood together, about a year into their relationship. After nearly passing out on the gurney, it turned out to be a fantastic date when he milked it for sympathy and Natalie pampered him the rest of the evening. Even though she knew full well it was a ploy for affection, his wife was a born nurturer.
With a look of pleased surprise and a bob of her graying head, the nurse recorded the information. A couple of minutes later, she pulled herself out of the chair and tucked a clipboard beneath one arm. The heels of her rubber-soled shoes made an annoying squeak on the shiny floor as she marched out of sight.
“Wait a minute!” Marc called. “Don’t you want to hear what happened?” Not that she needed to know. Maybe he needed to talk about it. But, no. Just the facts.
The nurse pushed through the swinging double doors marked Hospital Personnel Only at the end of the hallway and disappeared from view.
“Why don’t you have a seat,” a gentle voice said.
In the middle of the spotless, antiseptic-smelling hallway, Marc turned to face a blonde nurse with a round, pleasant face. At least this one gave him a genuine smile. She looked about the same age as his mom and wore normal-colored lipstick and plain pink scrubs. But he couldn’t throw his arms around this woman, hug her tight and beg her to take away the pain in his heart. Not that he’d do it with his own mom, anyway. Sharing open emotion and affection had never been the thing to do in his family. Natalie’s family was the opposite. He’d never seen such an openly loving, accepting group of people. Parents. He’d need to make some calls, but should probably wait until he had more information about Natalie’s condition.
“I’m sure they’ll tell you what’s happening as soon as they can.” The nurse gestured toward the chairs across from several vending machines. “Go get yourself a cup of coffee and have a seat. I know it’s hard to be patient, but rest assured, they know what they’re doing in there.”
Competency wasn’t the issue, but he nonetheless mumbled his thanks and slumped into the nearest chair. He ignored the equally worried stares of the other few occupants of the waiting room. In the back of his mind, he knew they awaited news of a loved one, too, but he didn’t care. No, it was more like he couldn’t take the time to care.
Natalie. Closing his eyes, Marc thought about her dark hair cascading to her shoulders in waves, curling slightly on the ends, framing her face. Luminous, deep blue eyes that could tease and adore, but also spout fire when she was angry or fighting passionately for a worthy cause. Natalie’s smile made him taller, more important, more worthy as a man. One look could also stop him in his tracks and start his heart thundering.
An involuntary sigh escaped. Her bright smile charmed strangers, her gentle voice melted harsh words. Her caring hands could make the best blueberry cobbler in the world or corral twenty kindergarten students at a time. She managed to calm him with a simple touch on his arm, excite him with a feather-light brush of her fingertips. Although Natalie wasn’t a saint, she was by far the best woman—the best person—he’d
ever known. Other than the women in his family, no other woman ever accepted him without pretense or some hidden agenda. Then again, he never let anyone else close enough.
He had to win this one. It wasn’t a choice. Three years playing minor league baseball had instilled a win-at-all-costs attitude, a tough-minded determination. Starting his own agency in Boston hadn’t been easy, either, but he’d managed to make Thompson Sports Advertising a success in an already saturated market. But success and capability in the eyes of the world couldn’t compete with medical science. That was a whole different realm in which he had no desire to tangle.
This one was between God and Marc Thompson. He needed God on his team, but he wasn’t so sure He was. Blinking hard, he refused to succumb to the tears threatening to fall. Don’t show your weakness. If his dad taught him nothing else, he drilled it into him that men don’t cry. Ever.
“This can’t be happening!” He didn’t care he’d said the words aloud, anguished as they were and coming from a heart that hurt so much it might burst. Natalie shouldn’t be in the emergency room. He shouldn’t be wondering what was happening to her behind those closed doors. They belonged at home. Together.
Visions of the old home they’d started to renovate in their small Massachusetts town flooded his mind. It was their dream house where they planned to raise their children, plant flowers and maybe a few vegetables, host dinner parties, get a dog or two, cook holiday meals together, string Christmas lights the length of the wraparound porch and in the towering trees in the front yard . . . . Marc shook his head, closing his eyes in another vain attempt to shut out the horrible vision of Natalie lying on that cold, unyielding basement floor. Could she die? Be paralyzed? The possibilities were bleak, and he shivered, running his hands up and down his arms.
Another hospital staffer, a case worker, came and sat beside him for a few minutes, asking questions about the circumstances of Natalie’s fall. Serious but empathetic, she nodded, jotting down his responses, pausing and waiting patiently when his voice caught. It was as if someone else inhabited his body as he answered her questions. Thanking him, the woman told him the doctor would be out to see him as soon as he could.
Not knowing what else to do, Marc hung his head to pray. God brought the two of them together in the first place. Perhaps He had a reason for this accident, although he couldn’t fathom anything that could justify it. I’m not about to lose her now. It wasn’t right to demand favors from the Lord. Since becoming a Christian, he’d listened to enough Bible stories and sermons the last few years to know that much. Still, he couldn’t help his thoughts. He’d fought too hard against the odds to win her in the first place.
He snapped his head up, unable to pray. Not now. Not when he was so angry. That’s often when people need the Lord most—or so he’d heard—but he couldn’t bring himself to utter a rote prayer for healing, comfort or wisdom for the doctors treating Natalie. Like other things in his life, he’d deal with the Almighty. Later.
It’s you and me, God. You’re not taking her away from me. I’m not going to lose this battle.
Chapter 2
“Mr. Thompson?” The British accent sounded cultured, well-educated and belonged to a tall, Lincoln-esque lanky physician in the requisite white lab coat. A stethoscope hung draped around his neck, wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on his patrician nose, and he carried a patient chart. He sported a receding hairline and one of those high foreheads indicating an uncommon intelligence, an inbred seriousness. If this man was Natalie’s doctor, she should be in good hands. That knowledge was comforting—to a point. The deep frown furrowing the doctor’s brow didn’t exactly scream encouragement.
Clearing his throat, Marc rose to his feet, tugging on his trousers with anxious fingers. “Marc Thompson.”
The doctor shook his outstretched hand. “Stephen Adams. I’m the on-call neurologist consulting on your wife’s case. Mr. Thompson, your wife suffered a closed head injury. She received a hard blow to the head, but it didn’t break her skull. You were smart not to move her since the spinal cord could likely have been affected. Thankfully, she suffered no paralysis or debilitating injury, and she regained consciousness on the way to the hospital.”
Dr. Adams spoke clearly, slowly, but Marc’s addled brain struggled. “We’ve stabilized her, and for now, she’s resting comfortably. Her condition is being monitored, and I’d like your permission to do a brain scan.”
Marc tried to absorb it all. At least Natalie had awakened, but a brain scan didn’t sound good. “Why?”
“In cases like this, we need to ascertain there’s no damage to the brain, no swelling, no internal bleeding. The skull protects the brain, and even though it’s not fractured in your wife’s case, the brain can hit against the inside of the skull and be bruised as a result.” The doctor adjusted his glasses. “We’ll need to observe her carefully for a couple of days. If you’ll walk back over to the desk with me, I’ll have the nurse gather the necessary forms.”
Marc’s feet moved in slow motion, as though dead weight. At least the blonde nurse stood behind the counter instead of the forbidding, cranky one. “Is it possible Natalie will slip back into unconsciousness?”
“It’s possible, but the odds of probability are indeterminable at this point. When you’re dealing with head trauma and the intricate complexities inside the human brain, it’s . . . complicated.” Lowering his glasses, Dr. Adams met his gaze head-on. “We’ll take it one step at a time.” He handed him several papers. “Is there any chance your wife is pregnant?”
This man wasted no time getting to the heart of the matter, a quality he admired. “No.” Marc scrawled his signature on the bottom of several forms. He didn’t take the time to read them, assuming they granted his permission for any number of tests, brain scan included.
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“We’ve only been married a couple of months.”
“Then all the more reason.” At least the upper crust Brit possessed the good sense not to give him one of those knowing smiles. He’d endured enough well-meaning winks, nods, grins, jabs in the ribs and thumbs-up signs to last a lifetime courtesy of his newlywed status. It was astonishing how grown men could turn into hormonal adolescents when it came to women.
“No.” Marc didn’t know how much more emphatic he could be as he thrust the papers back into the doctor’s hands.
The epitome of calm, Dr. Adams handed them to the nurse. “All the same, I’ll need to run a pregnancy test.” His voice was firm. “Again, it’s precautionary. If your wife is pregnant, it’s in the best interest for her and the fetus. Any type of head trauma, especially in pregnancy, needs to be addressed immediately and monitored carefully.”
“All right.” The fetus. It sounded so technical, so impersonal. The thought that his bride of two months could be pregnant never entered his mind . . . until now. He didn’t want to think about it. Time to stop acting like a selfish jerk. “Of course. Do whatever you need to do. Just take care of Natalie, Dr. Adams.” His voice cracked like it hadn’t since he was a teenager in the throes of puberty. “Please.” Marc noted the expressive eyes, dark but of indistinguishable color, beneath the glasses. He looked to be around forty, possibly older. His gaze trailed to the long, thin—almost bony—fingers adorned by a simple gold wedding band.
“I’ll do my best.” The steady voice matched the compassion in those dark eyes.
Marc nodded, but couldn’t speak. All he could do was hope the kind doctor’s best was good enough. And maybe pray. Later.
~~**~~
Time seemed interminable. Every loud tick of the institutional wall clock drove him out of his mind. Marc drained a third cup of the bitter coffee from the vending machine. Pacing the floor, his eyes saw nothing, his mind numb. Crumpling the cup, he tossed it in a corner waste can from several feet away. Score. His dad would be proud. He hadn’t thought of the man in a long time. Why now? Why tonight?
“There’s only so much pacing you can do, son.
” The words came from a quiet, paper-thin voice as flimsy as the cup he’d just thrown away. Hard to tell if it was male or female. Whirling on his heel, Marc faced a white-haired, bearded man. One hand rested on a cane, his expression a study in compassion. “You must love her very much.”
His anger subsided, slowly draining. The man’s eyes didn’t waver as Marc walked with slow steps to stand in front of him. “Guess it’s pretty obvious.” Although he didn’t feel like conversation, it was something to keep his mind occupied.
“If all that pacing of yours didn’t tell me, it’d be the worried creases on your forehead, the set of your mouth, the way you can’t keep your hands still, and all that nasty coffee you’re puttin’ away.” He shook his head with an amused chuckle.
“I can’t help it.” Marc’s shoulders sagged. “I don’t know what else to do.” That statement was a rarity, but it was never more true.
“Have you tried praying about it, son?”
A frown tugged down the corners of his mouth. “I started to, but it’s not like I can expect God to perform a miracle.”
“Why not?”
Marc felt the old man’s eyes boring into his back as he paced across the room to stand in front of one of the long, vertical windows. His arms found their way across his chest. In the darkness outside, a blurry orange haze surrounded the parking lot lights. It brought to mind all the times he’d sat on an airport runway, awaiting takeoff for business trips that tapered significantly once he married Natalie. All that traveling was essential to establish his business. He’d paved the way, but now it was time to send others.
Considering the old man’s question, Marc shrugged. Turning, he walked back to where he sat. “I figure I’ve already used my supply of favors with God.” He ran a nervous hand over his brow. “I’ll tell you one thing. I’m not going to lose Natalie. If it’s a battle God wants, it’s a battle He’s going to get.”
