Authors: Donna Richards
“What did the doctor say?” he asked as soon as he reached Stephen and his mother. Stephen gathered his mother into a hug. Over her head, he glared at Hank. “The bullet passed through, but the blood loss is serious. They say the next twenty-four hours are crucial.”
Hank’s knees began to buckle, and he slumped against the wall.
Cradling his head in his hands, he squeezed his eyes shut to quell the burning. Angie, his angel, could be dying just a few feet away.
“Can I see her?”
“No.” Stephen replied sharply. “You’re not family. You’re not even wanted here. Haven’t you done enough damage?”
“I need to see her.”
“Well, she doesn’t need you.”
The truth of Stephen’s words struck him in the gut. What did she need him for? He had taken her zest for life, taken her innocence, and given her nothing in return, all for some sham engagement. He pressed his hands tighter against his face, blotting the tears that gathered in the corners of his eyes. Stephen was right, who needed a loser like him?
Firm, gentle hands stroked his forearms. He looked over his fingertips. Compassionate blue eyes gazed up at him.
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“She’s unconscious now.” Angie’s mother patted his arm. “No one can see her. I know you want to help, but there’s really nothing you can do here. There’s nothing any of us can do, except pray. Angela has to fight this battle on her own.” She took his hands in hers.
“I need to tell her…”
“Later, when she’s stronger.” She squeezed his hands. He took solace in that small embrace. “It will be a long wait before we know anything.
Perhaps you’d like to freshen up?”
He glanced down at his flour-encrusted hands. He probably left a smeary mess on his face as well. “Yes, I’d like to do that…and maybe stop at the cafeteria. Can I bring you anything?”
She shook her head. Stephen didn’t even acknowledge the offer.
Hank walked back towards the elevators, searching for a restroom along the way.
* * *
You’d think a hospital cafeteria would offer something larger than
standard Styrofoam cups of coffee.
He took a swallow and grimaced.
What they lacked in volume, they made up for in strength.
“Mr. Renard?”
Hank turned to see a petite brown-haired woman clenching and unclenching her hands.
“I thought that was you. I’m Anita Burroughs, Pete’s wife.” She extended a shaky hand. “We met at your welcoming banquet.
Remember?”
“Oh yes,” he said, although he didn’t remember her at all. All of his memories centered on a feisty, elfin chauffeur that caused him to be late for the reception. He shook her hand.
“I’m so sorry about what happened,” she said. “Do you know how the girl is?”
“We’re still waiting to hear. Her condition is not good.”
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“I’m sorry to hear that. The doctor said she saved Pete’s life, in a way.
If that bullet hadn’t passed through her first, it could have killed my Pete.”
Hank looked a little closer at the woman. “Do you have any idea what happened in that warehouse, Mrs. Burroughs?”
“You can call me Anita.” She poured herself a cup of the hospital-strength coffee and doctored it with sugar and cream. “According to Pete, he was carrying that poor young woman when Tom Wilson threatened to shoot him. He turned and a gun fired. That’s all he said.”
“Why was he carrying Angela?” Memories of the times he had held Angela in his arms rushed forefront to his mind but he fought them back. He needed to listen without distraction.
“Angela, that’s her name? I think he said she was sick, and he was taking her to the hospital.”
“But why was he at that warehouse? Why was Angela? Did he say?”
“I only spoke with him for a few minutes before they took him for surgery.” Her red-rimmed eyes squinted up at him. “Didn’t you send him there?”
He shook his head.
“Then Pete will have to tell you that himself. I just don’t understand.”
She frowned. “I thought Tom Wilson and he were friends. Why would he shoot Pete? Just because he wanted to take that girl to the hospital…”
She shook her head. “Sometimes you just don’t know people.”
“Did Pete say who shot Tom Wilson?”
Her eyes widened. “Someone shot Tom? Pete didn’t say anything about that. He said he was lucky to have pushed the nine-one-one button on his cell phone before he passed out.”
“Mr. Renard.” Detective Fisher approached the coffee machine. “I was told I might find a Mrs. Burroughs here. I wonder if you could direct me to—”
“This is Mrs. Burroughs.” Hank made the introductions.
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“Then, I wonder if Mrs. Burroughs and I might have a few words in private.”
Hank excused himself and left.
He wasn’t anxious to join Stephen in the ICU waiting room, but he couldn’t very well leave the hospital. If there was a chance he could see Angela again, give her some of his strength, let her know he was waiting, then he had to stay. And if that meant putting up with false accusations, so be it. He left the cafeteria and walked the long hallway that led to a bank of elevators. On the way he passed a door with a wooden sign to the right. The chapel. A voice whispered in his head.
All we can do now is
pray.
On impulse, he opened the door and stepped into the nearly deserted room. One woman knelt in the first wooden pew facing a stained-glass depiction of a wizened man surrounded by angels.
My mother put me in
the protection of the angels.
He slipped into the last pew and sat.
Flickering candles issued inviting warmth to the room, so different from the antiseptic atmosphere of the rest of the hospital. Imitating the woman in front of him, he slipped to his knees and bowed his head.
I
don’t know how to do this.
The woman in the front pew turned quickly to look back at him. Had he spoken out loud? Her face softened.
She stood and left the pew. As she passed him, she reached down and patted his shoulder. “Listen to your heart,” she said, then continued on her way.
The chapel door closed with a soft click. He glanced up at the stained glass portrait.
“God, I’m probably doing this all wrong. I don’t even know if you can hear me. I haven’t been in a church since I was a boy. I’m probably not allowed to ask for anything.” He clenched his hands tighter. “Let Angie live. Don’t let her die.”
You always want what you can’t have.
Angela’s words pushed their way into his mind. He quickly amended his prayer.
“I’m not asking for me. Lots of people…even animals…love her, not just me.”
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You can’t lie to God. He knows everything
.
“Then He knows I love her.” His own words surprised him. Words he had never admitted, but in his heart, knew were true. A clarity and strength filled him. Angela had to recover. She had to.
“Make her strong, God. Give her back to us. Give her back to me.”
His knuckles whitened. There had to be something more he could do.
Something more he could offer. “If you let her live,” he whispered. “I promise to believe.”
It crossed his mind that he must believe already. Otherwise why was he here? Why did a tightness pull at his chest, and his heartbeat pound in his throat?
Someone else was in the chapel, an awareness pricked at the nape of his neck. He looked behind him and to the side but no one was there. He was alone.
He left the chapel and walked back to Intensive Care. Angela’s mother sat alone in the waiting room, absently turning pages in a well-thumbed magazine.
“Where’s Stephen?” he asked.
“I sent him home to pick up a few things. We’re liable to be here awhile.”
“Has there been any—”
“No. No change.” She waved him off, “but that’s a good sign. Every moment a doctor doesn’t give us bad news is a good sign.” Stress and strain ringed her eyes, but never touched her voice.
“I can see where Angela gets her optimism.”
“I’ve been through this before.” She sighed, then smiled. “I thought you went home for some rest.”
“I got some coffee, then I visited the chapel.”
She patted his leg. “Thank you.”
They sat in silence a few more moments. Mrs. Blake studied him.
“Would you like to see her?”
“Yes, of course, but how?”
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He followed her through the door to the nurse’s station. While she talked to the nurses, Hank looked beyond to a fragile figure on a nearby bed. Angela, pale, without her usual vibrancy, lay still among the beeping monitors and pumping machines. She needed him. She would never admit it, but she needed him.
“Sir, you can’t go over there.”
“Excuse me?” He stopped and looked back. He hadn’t been aware of leaving the nurse’s station.
“Your sister is very vulnerable to infection right now. You shouldn’t go any closer.”
“Vulnerable.” He repeated in a daze. Of course she’s vulnerable. She’d always been vulnerable.
“Hank, we should go.” A hand tugged at his arm. “She needs to do this on her own.”
The last time she did something on her own, it landed her in the ICU.
He clenched his fists. “Not this time.”
He allowed Angie’s mother to lead him from the ward. But once outside in the hallway, he walked into the waiting room and settled into a sagging chair.
“Really, Hank, you might as well go home. There’s nothing you can do.”
“I can wait,” he said, settling in. “I can be here for her. It may not sound like much. But it’s everything to me.”
She was weightless, yet anchored without restraint. A paradox, she noted briefly, one of many. Her senses were heightened in that she could see, but the parameters that normally restrict form kept shifting. Colors and patterns faded in and out. Muted sounds dimmed further and further. Memories of scents intrigued and confused. What kind of a world was this?
Was she standing? She couldn’t feel the solid support of two legs beneath her, nor was she supported beneath her back. She thought 282
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about turning her head and the patterns shifted, even though she hadn’t moved.
“Is that me?” The thought, not the words, resonated in her brain.
Below, a tan blanket covered a pale, child-like body. The bed sheets had more vibrancy then the girl’s skin; her lips tinged faintly blue as if frozen.
Yet she wasn’t, Angela realized. She was neither hot nor cold, nor was she in any pain. She just was, and it was wonderful.
Angela.
Did someone call? Her mind stretched to the melody of her name. An all-pervading calmness welcomed her. She had no questions, because she already had all the answers.
Are you ready to come home?
She knew home was not the tiny house on Plum Street. Nor was it Hank’s house where she had experienced so many wonderful emotions.
Are you finished?
Contentment colored her thoughts. Indeed, all emotions were colors, this one a buttery rich yellow-peach. And freedom. Freedom from pills and constant vigilance. Freedom from struggle and chest squeezing pain.
Freedom from words and weighty concerns. Her thoughts were suddenly streaked with the lavender of a dawning morning.
Commotion beneath her chased away the colors. A man inched toward the bed. Hank… Her vision was much sharper than it had ever been before. Even from her hovering spot near the ceiling she could see every grief-drawn line in his face.
The colors faded to a smoky gray. His dark, sunken eyes had lost the vitality she remembered, replaced with a sorrow that caused an almost physical pain. Stubble, several days old, covered his jaw, a fine contrast to the ashen skin beneath. She longed to cup his cheek and soothe his worries. He needed comfort that only she could give.
His hand reached out and clasped that of the body on the bed. Rich vibrant warmth embraced her in streaks of velvet red and a deep fluid violet, the colors of love. She longed to entwine her fingers with his, give back some of the comfort he gave.
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“Don’t leave me, Angie. We haven’t finished yet. I haven’t told you…”
Angela, have you finished here?
She knew that he loved her. Her senses, so acute, told her so. She glanced at the still, pale figure on the bed. Life hurt in that world, not like her current concern-free state. The grief and pain on Hank’s face dimmed the colors. If only she could tell him she loved him. If only –-
Before Angela could finish the thought, she slipped back into the physical confines of her body. She couldn’t lift her eyelids, couldn’t even squeeze Hank’s hand.
“Sir, I’ve told you before. You have to leave. You’re not helping her,” A woman’s voice scolded.
Against the dry, scratchiness in her throat, Angie forced a whisper. It took every ounce of energy she possessed. “Won’t leave.”
An incredible fatigue racked her body, pulling her into a dreamless sleep.
“Did you hear? Did you hear what she said?” Hank massaged his thumb over her tear-dampened hand and hastily wiped his eyes.
“Sir, you’re going to have to leave. Don’t make me call security.”
He kissed Angie’s limp, lifeless hand. “You’re going to pull through this and I’ll be waiting. Thank you, God.”
“Sir!” The nurse pulled urgently on his arm. “She needs her rest.”
“Yes,” He stood, feeling stronger. “Let her rest.”
He left the ward and almost danced back to the waiting room where both Mrs. Blake and Stephen slept. He didn’t want to wake them, but the energy pulsating through him made quiet waiting impossible. Instead, he visited the chapel. He wasn’t sure what had pulled him to Angie’s side at that precise moment. The urgency to see her, hold her hand, make sure she was all right had rousted him from a restless sleep. He fell to his knees. “Thank you, God. Thank you.”