“Casey, listen to me, please. We have to get a doctor for you. I know how you feel, but this time . . . this isn’t going to go away with aspirins and Vicks salve. You need antibiotics. You’re a nurse, I’m a nurse, and we both know this is foolhardy. Please, Casey, let me call a doctor.”
“Tomorrow if I’m not better. I do feel a little better now that I’m warm,” Casey lied. “Not on Christmas, Lily. I’ve had colds like this before,” she lied again.
“Luke Farrell is in town,” Lily said quietly. “I saw him the day before yesterday. I can try and track him down. You’d let him look at you, wouldn’t you?”
“Luke’s here?”
“Yes, and he asked about you. He’s on his last week of R and R. He extended. This is the fourth time. He’s either at this hotel or the Ambassador. I’ll see if I can find him after Mac gets back. A shot, some antibiotics, and by tomorrow you’ll be feeling better. Please, Casey, don’t be stubborn. Don’t put Mac through this. I’ve never seen a man so upset.”
“All right,” Casey whispered. “What’s my temperature, Lily?”
“One hundred and four.”
“I’ve spoiled everything. Who’s taking care of your baby?”
“He’s well taken care of. I can stay as long as you need me. As soon as Mac gets back, I’ll see if I can find Luke. Try to sleep.”
When Mac returned, Lily helped him with the alcohol rubs and the chest plaster. Casey was so exhausted, she fell instantly asleep the moment they wrapped her back in the towels. “I’m going to see if I can find Luke. It might take me a while, so don’t worry if I’m not back right away. Just keep swabbing her forehead with the alcohol. If she wakes up, give her more aspirin. When you run out of things to do, decorate your Christmas tree.”
“Is she going to get better, Lily?” Mac asked worriedly.
“Of course. Luke will know what to do, and if anyone can talk sense into her, it’s Luke.”
Mac frowned.
“Don’t worry about Luke, it’s you she loves.”
“Am I that transparent?”
“Only to me. I’ll see you in a little while.”
How vulnerable Casey looked, how sweet and lovely. And so very tired and weary. How could he fault her for not wanting to go to a hospital? People died in hospitals. She’d probably seen more death in these twenty-two months than a team of doctors back in the States would see in a lifetime. They’d written about it in their letters. In one she’d sworn that even if she were on her death bed, she would fight against going to a hospital. It wasn’t that she was afraid of medical treatment. It was simply defined in her mind as death versus life. There was no gray area, no middle ground. She’d even poked fun at herself. He’d chuckled over the whole thing, thinking they were both young and had fifty years or so before either one of them would have to think about going into a hospital. He wasn’t chuckling now. He was worried sick.
Mac lost track of time as he changed the alcohol cloths on Casey’s forehead. Once he took her temperature. One hundred four point five degrees. He’d started to decorate the skimpy pine after that, but he kept one eye on the restless woman on the bed. When he saw the string of colored lights come alive, he tried to make himself believe that nothing would happen to Casey because it was the Christmas season. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.
He needed a drink. He called down to the bar and ordered a double scotch and soda. When it arrived, he gulped it down and ordered another. He added two fat, colorful buddhas to the tree and a colorful pin cushion that looked like a Christmas ball. He added a tacky paper fan with a plastic handle he had to bend around a spindly branch. Last to go on the tree were two strings of beads, one crystal and one a god-awful purple. He stood back to view his handiwork. It was awful, but beautiful. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.
He sat down and guzzled his second drink. He thought about Alice and the kind of tree she would have the servants decorate. It would be glittery as hell, and artificial. One year she’d had a white plastic tree decorated with blue lights and blue balls. It was the most ghastly thing he’d ever seen. Another year she’d decorated the same white tree with pink Victorian bows and tiny little crinkly pieces of paper shaped to look like fans. Last year he’d gone out two days before Christmas with Benny and they’d cut down two monstrously large spruce trees. He’d lugged one home and set it up in the living room. He’d wanted to decorate it right then, but Alice said no, it was still dripping wet. When he got home the next day, the tree was outside by the garage and the white one up and decorated with red balls and red lights. It had taken him exactly seventy-three seconds to pick it up and hurl it across the room. Alice had let it stay that way until his father stopped by early on Christmas Eve. All he’d done was raise his eyebrows and say, “Another tantrum, Mac?” That year he’d spent the rest of Christmas Eve with Benny, and Christmas Day with Sadie.
His tree, here, was looking better and better. In fact he thought it the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen.
He ordered another drink and some food, his eyes glued to the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world.
LILY SLOSHED THROUGH the teeming rain, her clothing soaked, her hair plastered to her head, her slippers a soggy mess. She was walking because she’d been too embarrassed to ask Mac for cab money.
She’d left messages everywhere for Luke Farrell. She’d been to Army Headquarters, to the USO on Nguyen Hue, and to every bar along the way. She’d been up and down Tu Do Street three times. She finally found him in a Basque restaurant on Nguyen Hue having a midnight supper. He was also drunk.
“Sweet Lily, is that you?” Luke asked, stuffing his face with yellow eggs smeared with ketchup and honey. “What brings you out at this time of night?” he asked, his eyes full of concern. “It’s not safe. Is the baby sick?”
“No, it’s Casey, Luke. She came down from Pleiku today, and she’s very, very sick. She has a hundred and four fever. It’s probably higher now. She refuses to go to a hospital. I’ve been looking for you for hours.”
Luke pushed his plate away. “You left her alone? Didn’t you at least get her a mama-san to watch over her?”
“In this weather? I was lucky I found one to watch Eric. Her . . . lover is with her. Will you come?”
“I’m drunk, Lily,” he said morosely. “You want me to treat Casey while I’m in this condition?”
“Drunk, sober, it makes no difference. I’ve seen you cut a man open and put his insides back together when you were just as drunk. Please, you must come, Luke.”
“Of course I’ll come,” he muttered. “Coffee! American!” He fumbled under the table for his thong sandals.
“Where’s your medical bag?” Lily asked anxiously.
“At the counter. Is it still raining?”
“Yes. Luke, if you want to take a cab, you’ll have to pay.”
Luke was suddenly so sober, his eyes so intent, Lily backed up a step.
“Are you telling me you don’t have any money? I asked you the other day if you needed anything and you said no. That was a lie, obviously. You’ve been trundling around in the rain all night looking for me. You’re a kind person, Lily Gia. We’d make a good team. Almost as good as Casey and me. Her lover, huh? Is he a stand-up guy, Lily?”
“Yes, Luke, he is,” Lily said quietly.
“I’D BET MY medical diploma this is viral pneumonia,” Luke snapped. “Lily, call a cab. Major, I’ll be the bad guy here. I’ll carry her down. She belongs in the hospital. I don’t give a shit what she says. You don’t ever mess around with viral pneumonia, not over here anyway. We need to run tests.”
“Okay, Doctor,” Mac said, relieved the decision to hospitalize Casey was out of his hands.
Mac thought his heart would break when he heard Casey whimper and say, “Oh, Mac, it’s the most beautiful Christmas tree I ever saw.” His eyes were moist when he followed the gangly doctor down the hall to the elevator. She would get well. She had to.
Hours later Luke returned to the hotel
, his feet dragging. Lily was right: Mac Carlin was a nice guy and he loved Casey. Any fool could see that. Carlin probably loved Casey as much as he did. Casey loved Carlin too. Jesus, he was always the last one out of the gate. He pitched his medical bag against the wall. Long fingers wiped at his eyes. Raindrops? Tears? Both, he thought glumly.
Casey was lost to him, but then he’d known that for months. Seeing Mac Carlin in the flesh and talking to him convinced him that the torch he carried for his nurse needed extinguishing. God, it hurt.
Luke propped the pillows behind his head and then cradled it in his laced fingers. He stared at the ceiling, which was so blindingly white it made his eyes water.
An instant later he was on his feet. There was no way in hell he could stay here. He walked for hours in the rain, without knowing or caring where he was. He ended up back at the hospital, and had no idea how. Instinct, he guessed. “I look,” he muttered to no one in particular, “like something the cat dragged in and then took back out.”
Luke spent five minutes observing Mac Carlin sleeping propped up on a leather couch. He wished he didn’t like the guy. His shoulders slumped lower.
Satisfied that Casey was resting and in good hands, Luke left the hospital a second time.
It was full light when he threw himself on the hotel bed. He had a pounding headache and he knew he was strung tighter than he’d ever been in his life. The urge to smash something was so strong he pounded his clenched fists into the pillows. A look of stunned surprise crossed his face when feathers mushroomed around the bed.
The scorching anger building in him.was directed at himself. “You’re stupid, Farrell, a dumb hick from Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania. Fucking stupid!” he seethed. Luke’s clenched fists whacked the pillows again. More feathers took flight. His diagnosis of Casey, rendered at five A.M., was viral pneumonia. It would take at least another day before the diagnosis was confirmed, but he knew, and there was nothing he could do. Not one damn thing. He was certain Casey was in good hands. This wasn’t his turf, he had no say. The doctors had been more than kind when they listened to him. Professional courtesy. Casey had Lily and Mac. She didn’t need him. She didn’t want him.
Jesus Christ, why had he thought . . . He’d hoped. And he’d prayed. Spending all those shifts with another person, be it eighteen hours or six, taking meals, writing letters, spending all their free time together . . . He’d foolishly thought he had a chance with Casey. They’d shared their hopes, their fears, their dreams, with one another. They’d held hands. He’d even told her about Jimmy Oliver. Not once had she mentioned Mac Carlin’s name aloud. He knew about Carlin, everyone did. He told himself over and over that if Casey didn’t make Carlin come alive, say his name, share the contents of his letters, then he wasn’t really in the running. He was so goddamn stupid it was sickening. Fool! His fists whacked the pillows once more, and then the wicker headboard.
He loved her. Stone-cold sober, he’d told her so. He hadn’t made a joke of it either. She’d hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, squeezed his hand, and smiled. There were tears in her eyes when she left to go back to her quarters, leaving him alone with tears in his eyes. He should have known then, and stopped dreaming about something that could never be.
Luke was on his feet, shaking the feathers off his damp clothing. He threw his clothes into his duffel any old way and called down to the desk for his bill. He was going back to do what he did best.
Ten minutes later he paid his bill. He asked for an envelope and stuffed all his money into it, licked the flap, then pounded it shut so the glue would adhere. He scrawled Lily Gia’s name and address across the front. “Have someone hand deliver this,” he said to the desk clerk.
On the short ride to the airport, Luke muttered to himself, to the driver’s amusement, “You better take care of her, Carlin, or I’m gonna be your worst nightmare come to life.”
I SHOULD LEAVE, Mac thought wearily. Instead he lit a cigarette he didn’t want or need. The coffee cup at his elbow had been with him for over a day now, filled, rinsed out, and filled again. At one point he’d counted his refills, but gave up when he reached thirty-six.
Christmas Day. Silent night, holy night . . . She could die, they said. Luke said she wouldn’t. “Trust me, Major, Casey is not going to die. I won’t kid you, she’s on the edge, but she isn’t going to die.” Mac had winced. If pressed, he couldn’t say who looked the sickest, Casey or Luke.
“I probably look worse than both of them,” Mac muttered to an old mama-san hobbling about the waiting room. Luke loved Casey, but Mac wasn’t jealous. How could anyone not love Casey? He knew in his gut that if he called the hotel and asked for Luke, the desk clerk would tell him the doctor had checked out.
Christ, he was tired. He stubbed out his cigarette, stretched out his legs, and leaned his head back against the couch. He wanted to think about the Fourth of July picnic. Instead he thought about Alice and his father—an unholy combination if ever there was one—and Luke Farrell.
The judge was probably in New York City visiting friends. Christmas Day was over. It was December twenty-sixth back in the States. Was it a white Christmas back home? The judge always gave expensive bottles of wine and outrageously expensive cigars to his friends, whether or not they drank or smoked. He also sent out Christmas cards made from hard, shiny paper layered in foil with his name embossed inside the card and on the envelope. He had never, as far as Mac knew, added a single message inside a card. Several days ago Mac had received his. It was blue and white with the word PEACE on the front. Inside, it read, Justice Marcus Carlin. Mac remembered crunching it into a ball.
The card from Alice had eight tiny reindeer on the front. She’d written a note that said, “Merry Christmas, Mac. Your present is under the tree.” The third card made him clench his teeth. There was a fat Santa on the front. Inside was a sticky handprint; so sticky, he’d had to rip the card to open it. It was from Alice’s daughter, Jenny. The card smelled like strawberry jelly. He’d crunched those two cards into balls too. “Merry Christmas,” he said bitterly.
“It may not be merry, Mac, but it is Christmas. Casey’s alive.”
Mac’s eyes snapped open. Lily was standing to one side.
“And Luke is gone,” she said.
“Gone?” Mac demanded.
“He sent this,” Lily said, withdrawing a fat envelope from her purse.
“What is it?”
“Money,” Lily said, an embarrassed look on her face. “Luke knew I would never take it, so he sent it by messenger after he was gone. That’s the way Luke is.”
Mac’s eyes sparked. He should have seen Lily’s need and done what Luke did, but he had been so wrapped up in his own misery he’d had no time for anyone else. “You really do like him, don’t you?”
“Of course. Luke . . . all the doctors are wonderful, but Luke is special. Did Casey ever tell you he writes to the parents of the boys he couldn’t save?” Mac nodded. “He doesn’t have to do that. Casey helped him. We all did. Luke got the other doctors to do it too—write the letters, I mean. Sometimes he has to make up little stories—lies, if you will. He’s got this . . . this book. He writes down all the names. I’ve seen him cry in anguish over those letters, and yet he won’t stop writing them.”
Mac felt his throat tighten. “He sounds like a hell of a guy. I liked him, and I know Casey adores him.”
“Like a brother,” Lily said softly. “Casey loves you, Mac.” She squeezed both his hands reassuringly.
“Sit down, Lily, there’s something I have to . . . talk about. I need to talk about it.”
He talked at length of Alice and Jenny. He needed to confess his lie to lighten his guilt. He wasn’t half the man Luke Farrell was, he thought miserably.
Mac pulled his hands free of Lily’s grasp. He walked to the window and jammed them deep into his pockets. He didn’t want to see Lily’s face. He whirled about a moment later when Lily whispered hoarsely, “I know.”
“You know! What d
o you mean you know?” Mac demanded.
“Luke told me.”
“Jesus,” was all Mac could say.
“One of your fellow officers said something about . . . your wife’s whining. It was at the Fourth of July picnic. He was telling someone how you came down hard on him in the beginning. You were such a hero that day, everyone was talking about you and this officer wanted to . . . he didn’t know about Casey. Of course neither Luke or myself said anything to Casey. Luke . . . Luke told me to keep my mouth shut. Those were his exact words. I would never have said a word,” Lily said miserably.
“I was going to tell her. I’ve been in touch with my attorney back in the States. I told him to start divorce proceedings. I need you to believe me, Lily. When I came over here, my marriage was over. Even if I had never met Casey, I would still be getting a divorce when I leave here.”
“I’m not making a judgment, Mac. Casey . . . I don’t know how Casey will . . . take the child . . .” She let her words hang in the quiet hospital waiting room.
“The child isn’t mine. I’m sterile, Lily, I’m sure of it. That’s something else I never told Casey.”
“When she’s well, you can tell her,” Lily said quietly. “I must leave now, Mac. You should leave too. There’s nothing you can do here. You need a shower, shave, and clean clothes.”
“I will, later though,” Mac said gruffly.
Lily approached him, stood on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll stop by in the morning before I go to work to check on Casey. Merry Christmas, Mac.”
“I don’t have a Christmas present for you, Lily. Casey and I were going to shop together. I’m sorry. I wanted something for Eric . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s not important. Don’t give it another thought. Next year, though, I want two presents.” A moment later she was gone.
He was alone again. He groped for a cigarette, changing his mind when the Zippo lighter refused to spark.
For All Their Lives Page 24
