Authors: Patti Berg
Mike sat next to Crosby’s bed listening
to the hum of life-support equipment, staring at the flecks of black in the linoleum until they began to swim together in one big mess.
His own life was a blur right now, too. A confusion of heartache, anguish, stupidity. He shouldn’t have walked out on Charity, not when she seemed to need him as desperately as he needed her. He should have hung up on Duane; should have told him to go to hell. Instead he’d handed Charity the phone and walked away because he couldn’t bear to hear their discussion.
He wouldn’t blame her if she took the job in Vegas. It was the job of a lifetime, what she’d spent her life working for. If she took it, how could he blame her when he’d literally pushed her away again and again?
He sighed deeply. Maybe he should go after her. Maybe he should go home and tell her again that he loved her, but how could he make her believe him? She had no faith in him now. She thought he was still in love with Jessie.
Again he stared at the heart monitor, at the breathing apparatus, at the tubes and needles that had bruised and discolored Crosby’s paper-thin skin.
“I don’t want to go on if I can’t do it on my own.” Crosby’s words echoed through Mike’s mind and heart, but Mike knew that his friend had been in pain, that he hadn’t known what he was saying. Living, even like this, was better than dying. Crosby might not believe it, but Mike knew it for a fact.
He’d been faced with death before, and he hadn’t wanted to go through it ever again. How many times could he be tested? Tortured? He couldn’t let his friend die, not the way he’d let Jessie die.
He couldn’t pull the plug—not again.
Behind him he heard the door open and knew it was one of the doctors, some man who had no emotional ties to Crosby, some man in white who’d again suggest that they take Crosby off of the machines. But he couldn’t.
A hand slipped over his shoulder. A warm one, and then he felt a soft cheek press against his, felt gentle lips on a face that had gone unshaven for too many days.
“Mind if I stay?” Charity asked. “Mind if I hold your hand and help you through this?”
He placed his hand over hers and squeezed. He tried to fight back the tears, tears that hadn’t come six years ago, tears that he swore he’d never cry, but they came easily and he didn’t try to force them back.
“What about Vegas?” he asked, tilting his head up to look at his wife.
“Everything I want is here with you.”
She picked up the Bible from his lap and set it on Crosby’s bedside, then curled up in his lap, her hands around his neck. “I’m sorry about Satan, sorry about Crosby, sorry I’ve doubted your love.”
Tucking her head into the crook of his neck, he pressed a kiss against her silky hair, holding her close, soaking in the comfort that having her near gave him. For over a week he’d let Crosby be his life, a man who lay still, lifeless in a hospital bed; and for six years he’d let the memory of his wife’s death almost ruin his life.
As hard as it was to tell Charity the truth, he knew she was the only one he could confide in.
“The doctors want me to take Crosby off of life-support,” he said.
Charity’s fingers tensed at the back of his neck. “And what do you want to do?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I went through almost the same thing with Jessie. The doctors had stabilized her heart, but there was so little brain activity that they weren’t sure if she’d be able to breathe on her own. And they doubted that she’d live if we took her off support. If she did, if she came out of her coma, it was doubtful that she’d ever paint again. She might never talk or walk. If she was lucky, she’d be in a wheelchair.”
He dragged in a deep breath and held Charity tightly. “The doctors told me the most realistic prognosis was that she’d spend the rest of her life in a bed, needing full-time care. Someone to feed her, to work her muscles so she wouldn’t just curl up.”
Mike wiped tears from his eyes. “I didn’t want that for her. God, I didn’t want that for me, either. She wasn’t suffering while she was hooked up to life-support, and I could have kept her hooked up forever, could have waited to see if she’d come out of her coma, waited to see if the brain scans had been wrong, but I didn’t wait. I told the doctors to pull the plugs.”
Charity squeezed his hand, giving him the comfort he needed. She didn’t condemn. She just loved him.
He put his hands on her face. “I’ve never told anyone about that night. I wanted to tell you, but I couldn’t. That’s what keeps me awake, Charity. That’s what I dream about when I do go to sleep. It’s not that I’m still in love with Jessie, although God knows I’ll always remember her. It isn’t grief that keeps me awake, it’s guilt. She could have lived for years on life-support, but I made the decision to let her die. It was like putting a gun to her head.”
“Don’t say that, Mike. It’s not true.”
“But I thought some miracle would happen. I thought the doctors would shut down the equipment and her eyes would open, and she’d go on breathing. I knew it would take time for her to regain her strength, to be herself again, but I figured she’d pull through. She didn’t, Charity. She didn’t. It wasn’t more than five minutes after they shut everything down that she stopped breathing, and I’ve lived those five minutes over and over again nearly every day for six years.”
“You can’t hold yourself responsible, Mike. You’re not God.”
“But I played God that night.”
“No, you didn’t. You took Jessie off life-support, because that’s what the doctors recommended. And you let
God
make the decision whether she should breath or not. She didn’t. You had no control over that.”
He shook his head. “I never once asked God for help when Jessie was in the hospital. I cursed him. I turned my back on him for letting her have a heart attack, for letting me be so far away when it happened that I couldn’t help her. God was nowhere around when I made the decision to let her die.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know what I believe anymore. You can preach about faith and putting things in God’s hands, you can counsel people about death, but it’s not that easy to swallow when you’re faced with it yourself. I tell myself there’s a reason for all of this, but then I look at Crosby and think it’s not fair. I wonder why the hell he’s in a coma, why he might die.”
“Because I let Satan go. Because I didn’t think the horse should be cooped up. Because I didn’t think you loved me.
Those
are the reasons why Crosby’s here.”
“I told you before that it’s not your fault. You let Satan go because I penned him in. Because I couldn’t tell you or anyone else about Jessie’s death—and I pushed you away when you asked. That makes me just as responsible.” He cupped his hands over her cheeks. “I’ve never stopped loving you, Charity. Never, even when you pushed me away, even when I was angry.”
Charity laughed softly. “Funny thing about love, isn’t it.”
“What do you mean?”
“The ones who love us the most never abandon us. It may seem like it at times, but real love’s a pretty hard thing to get rid of.” She kissed him softly, breathing life back into him. “I’ll never leave you, Mike. No matter what. And whatever you decide to do about Crosby, I’ll be here to help you through it.”
They sat at Crosby’s bedside for two more days, and then as a family, they made their decision.
Charity slipped her hand through Mike’s when the doctor came into the room. It was quiet. Too quiet, in spite of the life-support equipment that breathed for Crosby.
Mike squeezed her hand and she could see the tightness in his jaw, the fear and sadness tearing him up inside. His Bible rested beneath Crosby’s hand, and Mike pressed his own over his friend’s frail fingers.
Jack stood on the other side of the bed holding Sam tightly, as he watched Crosby, watched Mike, waiting for his friend to turn to the doctor.
Mike’s eyes were tilted downward in prayer, and Charity felt his fingers trembling. She heard him sigh, then open his eyes and turn toward the doctor. “We’re ready.”
Charity squeezed her husband’s hand. Silence filled the room when the equipment shut down, and Crosby lay still, almost lifeless.
Mike’s hand slipped around Charity’s waist, and even though she wanted to bury her face in her husband’s chest and weep, she watched the heart monitor, watched the slow, irregular rhythm of the jagged lines on the screen, then the long, straight line.
A lonely tear fell down her face.
“Oh, God.” Charity looked up to see the anguish on Jack’s face, the tears in his eyes, and the way Sam took him in her arms.
Mike prayed again. She wanted desperately to take him into her arms, to hold him close and tell him everything was all right, but she merely stood by him, adding her own prayer.
And then she heard
blip... blip... blip
as the heart monitor kicked into gear and the level line turned jagged again.
She held her breath watching, hoping it wouldn’t flat-line again. One minute. Two. Three.
Mike reached out and touched Crosby’s grizzled cheeks and his heartbeat grew stronger.
Charity’s gaze flew toward the doctor. “Is he going to be okay?”
“All we can do is wait. He’s old and this last bout of pneumonia wasn’t good, but he’s a fighter.” He smiled slightly then put his stethoscope to Crosby’s chest.
“I’ve got to get out of here for a few minutes,” Jack said, and Charity couldn’t miss the catch in his throat as he pulled Sam toward the door. “We’ll bring some coffee back after awhile.”
Mike and Charity stepped back, trying to stay out of the way while the doctor examined Crosby.
“Are you all right?” she asked, weaving her arms around Mike’s neck.
He took a deep breath and smiled. “God, I don’t want to go through this again.”
“If you have to do it again, you will. But I’ll be beside you, okay?”
He gathered her against him and kissed her softly. “I’m going to hold you to that.”
Charity pushed him toward a chair in the corner of the room. He’d gone too long without sleep, too long worrying. He looked exhausted. Soon she’d take him home, take him to bed, and hold him in her arms.
He gripped her fingers as the doctor stood over Cros, and when Mike’s Bible slipped from under his old friend’s hand and toppled to the floor, Charity scooted in quickly to pick it up. She reached for the Polaroid, that had slipped from between the pages, Mike’s reminder of Jessie. It would be one of the few images he’d keep, now that he’d asked his parishioners to come to the house and take their pick of her paintings—all but the one of Satan.
Charity flipped the snapshot over and started to slide it back into Mike’s Bible. But it wasn’t Jessie’s photo she retrieved from the floor, it was a wedding picture of her and Mike, one snapped when they’d kissed after becoming man and wife.
Suddenly something wild and wonderful tugged at her heart. She shot a quick glance at her husband, but his mind, his concentration was focused completely on the heart monitor, on his friend. Charity tucked the picture back into Mike’s Bible, then crossed the room and wove her fingers back into the hand of the man she loved.
When the room cleared and the doctor was gone, Mike pulled Charity into his arms. “Thank you,” he whispered against her hair.
“For what?”
“For being here with me. For loving me.”
She looked up at him and smiled. “I’ve spent most of my life chasing a dream. I had no idea that real life, with all its ups and downs, could be so much better than a dream—until you.”
He kissed her softly, warmly, and she knew in her heart that the only light she’d ever want to be lit by would be the light in Mike’s eyes when he smiled down on her.
Charity stirred beneath the thick
covering of quilts, yawning as she rolled over to snuggle against her husband’s warmth. Stretching her hand toward him, she felt only a cold emptiness in the space beside her, a place that hadn’t been empty in nearly a year.
She bolted upright, dread rippling through her when she thought that his nightmare might have returned, that Mike might be wandering the house again looking for something, anything to take his mind from his worries.
And then she saw her beloved husband by the window, his magnificent body silhouetted against the pink that streaked the early morning sky. A smile touched her face as she slipped from under the blankets and walked toward him. She pressed soft kisses against his back, the warm skin of his neck, the hollow below his ear. “Everything all right?”
“More than all right.” He drew her naked body in front of his naked body and tucked her tightly in his embrace so she, too, could look out across the land she’d come to love almost as much as she loved her husband. Then, as Mike did so often in the wee hours of morning, his callused thumbs made slow, lazy circles over her taut and easily excited nipples.
She curled her hands over his arms and rested against him, enjoying his touch, the mere fact that they were together. “You didn’t have a nightmare, did you?”
She felt him shaking his head. “I heard something outside. Crosby told me he thought he’d seen Satan this morning, and I was hoping the stallion might have decided to pay us a visit.”
“It’s been a good six months since we’ve seen him. Do you really think he’s still around?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes I want to go out and look for him, but you were right a long time ago. He needs to be free.”
“Guess you can’t tame every wild thing that crosses your path.”
“If you think I’ve tamed you”—he chuckled— “you’re wrong. I like you wild.” His fingers inched over her belly to the insides of her thighs. “I like you hot, and soft, and—”
“Look,” Charity interrupted, in spite of the delightful throbbing going on deep down inside of her. “By the barn.”
Mike groaned. “Why don’t I look later?”
“Later’s no good. You’ve got to look now.”
Mike tugged her hips hard against him, then leaned forward. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“By the barn. It’s Satan.”
Just as Satan had done the first time Charity had seen him, the stallion peeked his head around the barn, wary of his surroundings, yet curious, prideful, and taunting. As if he knew Mike and Charity were watching him, the mustang pranced to the center of the yard, tilted his head, and stared toward the window.
“Go after him,” Charity urged, when she felt Mike’s fingers tighten against the insides of her thighs.
“He’d be long gone by the time I got dressed and got downstairs. Besides, I promised you I’d leave him alone.”
“But—”
Charity’s words were stilled not only by Mike’s breathtaking exploration of her inner thighs, but by the other horse she saw peeking around the corner of the barn.
Mike’s fingers stalled. “Do you see it?”
“It’s a colt.”
“A yearling maybe.” Mike laughed as the fearless young horse followed Satan’s lead, strutting to the center of the yard and looking toward the window with defiance in his eyes.
The colt was the spitting image of Satan—with the same dappled gray coat, the same thick, shining black mane and tail that whipped in the cool night breeze.
Charity tilted her head to see the glimmer of a smile on Mike’s face, then looked back toward the horses. Satan reared, his powerful forelegs battling the air around him. Charity could almost feel the floor shake beneath her feet when the splendid beast’s hooves pounded down on the ground and pawed the earth a few times, as if he were issuing a new challenge to Mike, not so much to come after him, but to come after his son.
“Go after him,” Charity said, turning in Mike’s arms.
“Later. He’s going to be around for a good long time, and you and I can go after him together. Right now, I’ve got far more interesting pursuits on my mind.”
He swept Charity into his arms and carried her back to bed. But he didn’t lay her down, didn’t climb onto the soft mattress with her. Instead he left her standing in the very center, and his green eyes blazed with unconcealed desire.
“Dance for me.”
Charity swirled her hips and did a naughty little bump and grind. Then she smiled at her husband. “I’ve got a much better idea.” She beckoned him toward her with the seductive come-hither wiggle of her little finger, and in less than a heartbeat he pressed her into the tangle of quilts.
“Is this what you had in mind?” he asked, as their bodies melded together and became one.
“Mmmm, that’s exactly what I had in mind— you and me dancing together. Always.”
Excerpt from
Rita Will: Memoir of a Literary Rabble-Rouser
by Rita Mae Brown appears courtesy of Random House Publishers, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
AVON BOOKS
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Copyright © 2002 by Patti Berg
ISBN: 0-380-81683-0
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