“Still not used to it?” Doug asked. “Here, how about a glass of ice-cold lemonade?”
“Thanks.” Dylan took the tumbler and touched it to his forehead, “but it's not the work, it's the heat. I don't remember it ever being this hot in October,” he said, nodding toward the road. “You can see the heat hissing off the pavement.” He brought the tumbler to his lips and chugged the lemonade down. It leaked from the corners of his mouth and trickled down his neck before his handkerchief reappeared to wipe his face. “It's got to be ninety degrees out here and it feels ten degrees hotter up on that roof.”
“It probably is,” Doug said, taking the empty glass. “It’s good for business, though. I have to get that roof on before the snow flies. The weather’s always unpredictable around here.”
“They got a foot-and-a-half of snow in Colorado already.”
“Merely a dusting in Western New York,” Doug teased.
Dylan smiled and nodded, as he picked up his belt to strap it back on, and then called down from the rungs. “We should be finished in a couple of days.”
“I think you’re right.” Doug set the thermos of lemonade down and said, “Listen, I have to pick up a few more bundles of shingles. I’ll be right back. You’ll be okay on your own, won’t you?”
“I’ll be fine. Go ahead.”
“I thought so. You’re doing a great job, Dylan. I’m really proud of you.”
“Thanks,” Dylan nodded. He didn’t know if it was the heat or the words of praise, but something made him feel flushed. Doug was a great guy, and he was glad to be part of his team. Dylan rolled his T-shirt sleeves up to his shoulders, exposing the length of his arms. He surveyed the view from the top of the roof, where a flame-colored sugar maple towered over the north side of the house, but he’d already finished that side yesterday. The area he worked on today offered no shade, and the shingles that were already in place had absorbed a tremendous amount of heat. He knelt upon the black felt and beat upon the roof, shingle after shingle, as the sun beat upon his back hour after hour, and thoughts of Lorraine beat through his heart every day.
It didn't seem like a month had passed since she’d been to his house, nor three months since he began working for Doug. He didn’t know which was the greater test of endurance, the physical strain from the new job or the emotional strain from missing Lorraine.
He pulled another shingle from the pile, slid it across the roof and alternately fit it over top of the previous one. He took three nails from his pouch and held them between his lips. He seemed to be moving slower now, but he set a nail in place then whacked the nail head down with two smooth strokes. He paused for a moment to wipe the sweat that had dripped into his eyes with the hem of his T-shirt.
Lorraine's wedding was only a two weeks away. He’d kept himself busy at the church and at work to occupy his mind and time. His bills were all paid and the house in good repair. He had a freezer full of fish, and he’d been visiting the county jail once a week to share the gospel with the inmates. He understood the men’s fears and frustrations, and he knew the struggles they faced. He tried to give them hope by telling them about Christ. Hope, because he'd been in their shoes, and hope, because nothing’s impossible with God. It's that last promise that Dylan clung to so dearly. Now, instead of inhaling cigarette smoke on a regular basis, the realization of this promise was the prayer that he breathed daily.
Dylan nailed the last five shingles onto the roof then descended the ladder. Doug had left the thermos of lemonade nearby, so he poured himself another glass. When he finished his drink, he shouldered the last bundle of shingles and hauled them up the ladder. The weight of the load pressed down on him, as perspiration beaded on his forehead and trickled down his face and neck. The salty sweat stung his eyes and half-blinded him as he climbed higher. When he reached the top rung, he shifted the bundle before hoisting it onto the roof. The load dug into his muscles and cut into his neck, as it balanced partly on the roof and partly on his shoulder. He gave the load a final shove off, but it shifted sideways and slid back down in his direction. He tried to hold it up, but the whole load came back his way, tipping the ladder to one side, as the weight of the shingles came down on him. He tried to catch himself mid-air, but there was nothing to hold onto.
Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!
* * *
When Randy finished reading Dylan’s chart, he turned to Pastor Jacobson, and said, “The CAT scan indicates that even with the severity of Mr. Clark’s head trauma, there is a good possibility that he will regain consciousness soon. That is if the swelling goes down on his brain. We’ve done everything that we can for him. Now we just have to wait.”
“And pray,” the pastor offered.
Lorraine stood in the doorway with her hands clasped together, afraid to come into the room. Afraid, because she didn't know how she’d react to Dylan's condition in front of the pastor. And afraid she might break down in front of Randy, and then he'd know. He'd know how terribly sad she felt. How desperately she wanted to call Dylan's name, and shake his shoulders to wake him up, like she could if he was sleeping. She felt so bad for him all tangled in a web of tubes, all hooked to monitors with glowing numbers and monotonous clicks, so helpless, so lifeless. As she stood at the door, she bit the inside of her lip, hoping for the best, but fearing for the worst. Even though she'd worked at the hospital for quite awhile now, she couldn’t get used to this sort thing—especially when it was someone she loved. She stopped herself. No, it couldn't be love. Pity, yes. That was it. She was just feeling sorry for a man in a bad situation.
A hand gently touched her shoulder. “Lorraine? Is that you?”
“Mrs. Clark! Oh, my goodness! How are you? It's been so long!” The two women hugged.
“I'm fine, dear. How's Dylan?”
“He's still unconscious.”
“I took the first plane out of Florida when I heard the news.”
“Florida?”
“Yes, I moved to St. Augustine last winter to be near my sisters. I also prefer the warmer weather.”
Lorraine nodded. “How nice, I’m happy for you.” Then she stepped aside to let Dylan’s mother into the room.
Mrs. Clark moved to the side of the bed and held onto the rail for support. Bracing herself, she looked up and down the length of her son, as her brows knit together in an angular shape and her eyes hooded in sadness. Then softly, gently, she leaned in close and said, “Dylan,” she paused as though waiting for him to answer. “Dylan, honey. It’s me. Mom. Can you hear me, dear?”
She shifted her weight and looked down at the floor, seeming to compose herself, seeming to search for the right words that may be the last to her beloved son. Then, slowly, tenderly, she reached out and stroked the side of Dylan’s face with the back of her fingers. She choked a little then cleared her throat, and whispered, “Please don’t leave us, Dylan. We still need you here.” Mrs. Clark brushed a tear from her cheek. “I love you, Dylan. Can you hear me? Listen to me. If you can hear me, I want you to know how much I love you.” Then she pressed her fingertips to her lips, squeezed her eyes closed, and turned away from the bed.
The great love and concern that emitted from mother to son radiated so softly that Lorraine felt like an intruder in that private moment. Yet, Mrs. Clark didn’t seem to notice or care whether anyone saw or heard what naturally flowed from her heart.
So that’s where he gets it. Lorraine rubbed her forehead, as though trying to erase the memories, but they came anyway. From what she’d understood, Dylan was cut from the same cloth as his father all right, but he was also a composite of his wonderful mother. Lorraine had only seen the negative aspects that his father had passed down, the drinking, the carousing, the aimless lifestyle, yet she failed to see the courage and the unabashed display of love that he’d inherited from his mother. Lorraine wiped a finger under her eye then blotted it on a tissue inside her smock pocket.
Pastor Jacobson stood to introduce himself then offered Mrs. Clark a chair. Ran
dy finished his notations on the chart, lifted Dylan’s eyelid, flashed a light, and then wrote something down before informing Mrs. Clark of the prognosis.
A low beep sounded over the intercom and then a soft voice called: “Doctor Mitchell, room 363. Doctor Mitchell, room 363.”
Lorraine slipped around to the other side of the bed to adjust the position of the monitor. She didn’t want Randy checking her eyes before he left the room.
Pastor Jacobson and Mrs. Clark were softly talking and praying near the window. Lorraine checked the bandage on Dylan’s swollen ankle and the tubes snaking around his arm. She checked the numbers on the monitor, the temperature of the room, and anything else that she could think of to make herself look busy. She didn't want to leave Dylan’s side for fear that he would–. She stopped herself from thinking it, and covered her mouth as though the word might slip out unintentionally and make it come true.
Lorraine touched Dylan's arm then smoothed the sheets and his gown and his hair. She placed her hands near each side of his head, wanting to turn it to what she thought would be a more comfortable position, but she didn’t dare for fear of injuring him further. Her stomach curled into a tight ball as she stood looking at his pale, unresponsive body. Unable to hold back her emotions any longer, she felt her eyes filling with tears. She had to get out of the room soon before she broke down in front of the pastor and Mrs. Clark.
Lorraine held a finger up and raised her eyebrows in hopes of keeping the tears in place, and squeaked, “Excuse me. I’ll be back in a few moments.” Hurry! Hurry! Get out quickly, she thought on her way to the door. Then, “Ooh! Randy! Excuse me!” Lorraine bumped into him in the doorway.
“I forgot Dylan’s chart,” Randy said, his lips flattened to a thin line, “but I see you’re remembering enough for both of us.”
A suffocating feeling shrouded Lorraine. Her expression froze in place.
“We need to talk.” Randy said, as he wedged past her to retrieve the chart.
“You're right,” she said, almost whispering, “We need to talk.” They stepped into the hall and huddled to one side of the corridor.
“So what was that all about?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
“I’m just concerned about him, that’s all.”
“Concerned? You looked a little more than concerned, if you ask me,” Randy almost snorted. “You looked like you were ready to collapse in there. What’s going on with you two?”
“Nothing!” Lorraine bit her bottom lip as she looked up at him in silence, searching for something in his eyes. A flicker of compassion concerning Dylan, a spark of electricity between them, his need for her to be his wife. But there was nothing. No flicker for Dylan, no spark for her, no soul-deep need from him, for her to be his wife. “I’m sorry, Randy, there is something.”
Randy held her hand and pulled her further aside. “I know Dylan’s not doing well. I’m hoping, just as much as you are, that he’ll pull through this and live a happy, meaningful life. But you’re getting too emotionally involved again, just like you did with Sophia. You have to keep your distance and keep things professional, remember?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t turn my emotions on and off like you do.”
“Lorraine,” Randy bent down close to her ear, his voice grew low, yet more intense. “I need to make my rounds, so I have to make this quick. I’m willing to overlook this little indiscretion, if you’ll just get your nursing protocol under control and decide what you want to do with your life.”
“I want you to let go of my hand.” She said, pulling it away.
Randy jerked his head back as though struck with a verbal slap. He raised an eyebrow and paused before reaching for her hand again, slowly this time, apparently hoping that a gentler approach would be more persuasive. “What’s going on, Lorraine? I’m just trying to help you.”
She moved her hand from his reach. “I don’t need your help.”
A nurse walked by and Randy smiled then leaned down close to Lorraine, as though ready to whisper sweet things in her ear. “You know, there are women who would love to be in your shoes, but I chose you.”
Apparently Randy felt the jealousy card would sway her emotions. “You know, it’s funny you should mention that,” She innocently touched her finger to her chin. “I’ve had a feeling that something didn’t quite fit right and I think it’s the shoes. They’re much too tight for me. Good-bye, Randy.” Lorraine pulled the ring from her finger and pressed it into Randy’s palm.
And as she walked away, Randy called down after her, “I guess this means I should cancel the preliminaries on the lawsuit.”
As though a brick wall suddenly shot up in her path, Lorraine immediately stopped in her tracks. She snapped her head around, and said, “Lawsuit? What lawsuit?”
“The wrongful death lawsuit that I’ve deliberated on your behalf. I’ve already talked to my lawyer. Community Cab owes you a small fortune. I told you that I wanted to help you, but you didn’t believe me.”
Lorraine formed claws with both of her hands and lunged toward Randy. She was almost within scratching distance when a nurse stuck her head out of a nearby room and whisked Randy inside.
* * *
Lorraine stepped off the elevator and softly padded down the dimly lit corridor, so she wouldn’t wake the sleeping patients. Once she calmed down after her encounter with Randy, everything in her life seemed to come into focus and fall into place. It was clear to her now what she really wanted, and she was free to do something about it.
Two more doors and she’d be at his room. She pushed her sleeve above her wrist and checked her watch. Ten-fifteen. Good. No one would be visiting Dylan at this late hour. Although Mrs. Clark and Pastor Jacobson had maintained a constant vigil most of the day, one phone call to the nurse’s station told her that they had left an hour ago. She felt an odd sense of relief since she’d broken off her engagement to Randy. The inner nudging that she’d told Connie about at the café, assured her that she'd done the right thing.
Lorraine tiptoed into Dylan’s room. The moonlight spilled softly across his pillow, creating a radiant aura around his head. A translucent pouch hung off to one side, the steady tick, tick, click of the IV drip administered the only sound in the room. She crept close to Dylan and stood next to his bed for a few moments to watch him sleep.
Seeing him motionless gave her an eerie feeling, because he wasn't teasing or talking or pulling her into his arms like he’d always done in the past. He’d always been so bold and gallant in some areas, and yet so laid-back and relaxed in others, but that's what attracted her to him. Now his body was silent and she was afraid for him—and for her. “I don't want to lose you.” She finally admitted out loud for the first time. There, she said it. It was out in the open, even though no one was there to hear it.
She eased herself into the chair and watched the circular sweep of the red second hand on the wall clock. She fidgeted with her purse strap and then the thought came to her that she should pray. It seemed like a good thought. A good thing to do under the circumstances. She wondered where the idea came from. She wasn’t entirely sure, although the concept wasn’t completely foreign to her since she’d done it a few times before, yet without much conscious thought. She had memorized repetitious prayers as a young girl and said them before bed or meals on occasion, but nothing had ever come from the heart. Yet now, she somehow knew that prayer might possibly help Dylan recover.
She decided to concentrate on what she would say rather than repeat something verbatim. This evening she would speak from her heart, so she folded her hands on her lap, bowed her head and began. “Lord, it’s me, Lorraine,” she looked up at the ceiling and then back down again. “I know I haven't paid much attention to you most of my life, and I’m sorry for neglecting you,” she cleared her throat, and continued, “but will you please help Dylan? Please don’t take him yet.” She pulled a tissue from a box on the nightstand, and dabbed her eyes. “I don’t understand you like he does, but I
would like to know you better. I want to know more about the salmon story and how they are like Jesus. I want what Dylan told me about at the creek.”
And as Lorraine sat quietly in the chair, a soft wave moved through her and she felt lighter and freer, even though she'd never felt weighed down or bound before, yet now she knew the difference. She stood to sit on edge of the bed, and then gently rested her head on Dylan’s chest with her hand on his shoulder. It felt good to be near him again and to hear the steady thump of his heartbeat. She longed to curl up next to him, but she was afraid that she might hurt him or pull out tubes that were connected to him. And as she sat by his side, the strain of the day suddenly caught up to her, and she knew that she needed to sleep. So she stood and kissed her fingertips then touched them to his lips, before picking up her purse and whispering one more prayer for him, as she walked out of the room.
NINETEEN
Lorraine leaned against the kitchen counter peeling an orange, while breathing in bits of citrus mist.
“Youuuu what?!” Mr. Crawford ground the tip of his cigar into an ashtray. “You broke up with Randy for...for...for...Dylan? The wedding is only two weeks away!”
Lorraine thought her father was going to choke, the way the precursor of Dylan’s name came stuttering out. She threw the orange peelings into the wastebasket and followed her father’s ranting into the living room.
“How can you even consider going back to that bum? What in the world are you thinking? You’d better go back to the doctor, all right, to have your head examined!” Mr. Crawford screwed up his face and smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand.
“Dad! He's different now. If Dylan comes out of this, I'm going to give him a chance.” She popped an orange slice into her mouth.
The Missing Piece (Inspirational Love Story) Page 16
