“There’s always a chance. We can never be one-hundred percent sure. The X-ray looks good. Let’s hang on to that.” He smiled.
The music switched to “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”
“Here, have a cookie.”
He pulled a white napkin from his breast pocket and unwrapped two cookies. “I’m not sure if the cookies are supposed to take away the taste of the coffee or if the coffee is to wash down the cookies—but it was the best I could do.”
With a smile Christine accepted a cookie.
“Are you from out of town too? I understand your brother was just coming into town.”
“That’s right. But I’m . . . well . . . I’m not quite sure where I’m from right now.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“My folks are at Athabasca.”
“Your dad’s a cop, too, I understand.”
“RCMP. Yes.”
“Does he not like being called a cop?”
Christine shrugged. “I’ve never heard him say. But my mother doesn’t care for the term.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He grinned. “But you’re not living at home, I take it.”
“No. No, I’ve been working here in the city.”
“Here?” His eyebrow rose again. “So where do you work?”
Christine told him.
“And you live. . . ?”
Christine explained about coming to help Aunt Mary and staying on as a boarder.
“And if I’m not being too bold, what else do you do— besides work?”
“I . . . I help out at the Hope Canteen . . . as a volunteer.”
“I’ve heard of it. It sounds like a great ministry.”
“And I go to church.”
“I’ve never seen you at mine.” She could tell he was teasing.
“And yours is?”
“Community Fellowship.”
“No . . . no, I’ve never been there. I attend a mission on Third Street with my aunt and uncle.”
“Small?”
“It was. It isn’t small anymore. They are planning to build.”
“That’s good.”
He finished his coffee and stood. “By the way, I poked my head into your sister-in-law’s room on my way by. She’s awake now.”
Christine rose as well. “Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll go right in.”
He nodded and held the door. “You may use this room anytime,” he told her. “It’s here for the families of our patients.”
“Thank you,” she said again. Then added, “And thank you for the coffee—and cookie too. It was—”
“Don’t say delicious,” he joked.
“I was going to say ‘very thoughtful.’ I appreciated it.”
He nodded and was gone.
When Christine reached Amber’s room, she found that her father and mother had returned. “I was about to send your father out to look for you,” Elizabeth said.
“There’s a room. Right down the hall. They were bathing Henry, and Amber was sleeping, so I—”
“Good,” said Wynn. “I’m glad you got a little rest. Were you able to nap?”
Christine did not say she’d had a relaxing conversation with one of the hospital doctors. “No. I had a cup of coffee.”
Amber looked much brighter, her eyes clearer, since her rest. Christine exchanged relieved glances with her mother.
“A nurse is in with Henry now,” her father said. “They are giving him another dose of medicine. She said she will just be a minute.”
“I think your father should drive you home now,” said Elizabeth. “It’s your turn for a break.”
Christine was surprised at how tired she felt. The cup of coffee and cookie had mostly served to remind her of how hungry she was.
“I think I would like that,” she agreed.
She kissed her mother good-night and looked in on Henry one last time. The nurse was still fussing with the IV. Then Christine turned and followed her father out to the car.
“I think Danny would like you to tuck him in—if he’s not already asleep by the time you get there. He just had his pill before we left the house. I’ve no idea if it is a sedative as well as painkiller, but if it is, he’s probably sleeping by now.”
“I’ll check.”
“Don’t think about coming back tonight,” Wynn told her. “You need to get some rest.”
“You’re not planning to stay all night, are you?”
“I’m not sure I can get your mother away. Perhaps we’ll make use of that room you spoke of. Does it have a couch where she could lie down?”
“I didn’t even notice. I sat in a chair. But it was comfortable.”
They drove up in front of Jon’s. Christine reached for the car door handle. “Dad,” she said, turning back to him. “What happens if . . . if Henry doesn’t make it?”
“We’ve no reason to think he won’t make it,” he said, almost too quickly.
“But, what happens if . . . if he doesn’t get better? Can’t work anymore?” The words scarcely could make it passed the lump in her throat.
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “We’ll just have to take it as it comes.”
“He’d hate that—not being a cop.” She used the term in spite of her mother. “That’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to be.”
“I know.”
She opened the door and slid out. The evening was still warm. She turned to watch her father drive away. She had almost forgotten—tomorrow was Easter Sunday. A day of new beginnings. A day of hope—of resurrection. A day of celebration. She wondered what the day would hold for them.
It was only the flicker of an eyelid at first. They almost missed seeing it. When it didn’t occur again, they thought perhaps it had been imagined. Then a finger twitched. Once— then twice. It was another fifteen minutes before Henry’s eyes opened partially. But they closed again, and despite their urgent coaxing, they did not reopen.
Elizabeth took the limp hand in both of her own. “Son. Son, listen to me. Son, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand. Squeeze, Henry.”
Suddenly her eyes widened, staring in shock. “He did,” she gasped. “He squeezed.”
“Do it again,” suggested Wynn. Christine knew her father thought it might merely be an involuntary reaction. Wynn leaned over the hand and watched carefully as Elizabeth repeated her command.
“Squeeze my hand, Henry. Squeeze it, son,” she implored as only a mother could.
The fingers visibly tightened around Elizabeth’s. “He did. He did,” cried Christine as Wynn broke out in a broad smile.
“Ring for the nurse,” Wynn instructed her. Elizabeth was far too engaged with talking to her son.
“Henry—we’ve been so worried,” Elizabeth said. “Open your eyes, son. Talk to us. We’re here, Henry. We’re right here. Talk to us, son. Can you open your eyes?”
Henry did.
At first they looked vacant, seeming not to focus on anything in the room. In response to the call, a nurse rushed through the door, followed quickly by two doctors. But Elizabeth refused to give up her spot, even for the medical personnel.
“It’s me, Henry. Your mother. Can you speak to us?”
Henry’s head moved slightly as though to clear his vision. He still looked confused. His eyes turned toward Elizabeth. He frowned.
“It’s me, Henry,” Elizabeth said again.
“Mother. Where am I?” were his first words, sounding husky but clear—words that brought the two doctors in closer to his bed.
“Henry,” said the older one. “Henry, how do you feel?”
“What happened?” asked Henry.
“You were in a bit of an accident. Took a bump on the head.”
Henry struggled to lift his head. “Amber? Is she—?”
“She’s fine. And so is that boy of yours.”
“Danny.”
“Yes, Danny. He’s already been discharged.”
Henry settled back against his pillow and closed his eyes again. Elizabeth leaned forward anxiously, but a doctor’s gentle hand restrained her.
“He must rest,” he advised, and she relaxed.
He nodded toward the door, and the group followed him. The other doctor remained behind, checking heart rate and writing notes on his pad.
“That’s good—very good—for a start.” The doctor seemed genuinely pleased. “He recognized you and he remembered his family. That’s a positive sign.”
“Now what?” from Wynn.
“We can only wait and see. Next time he wakes up, I expect him to be much more alert. Remember, as well as the concussion, he has also been on medication to help him rest so the healing can take place. I think we can start to ease off on that now.”
“How long?”
“What I suggest is that you all go home and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll see what tomorrow holds. We want Henry to get undisturbed sleep himself tonight.”
“But what if he wakens and asks for us?” Christine could tell her mother could not imagine not being there.
“I think we’ll keep him asleep tonight.”
“We must go see Amber,” Wynn prompted. “She’ll want to know all about—”
“Yes.” Elizabeth turned to head for Amber’s room. “We have such good news to share.”
But was it actually good news? Christine wasn’t sure. There hadn’t been time to bring Amber to Henry’s hospital bed before he had slipped back into unconsciousness again. But he had, for those brief minutes, been able to remember—able to reason. Perhaps that would be enough to give Amber hope.
Christine followed her folks from the room. She thought of the morning service in the little church where they had all worshiped together before coming to the hospital. There had been earnest prayer as the congregation knelt together. “Lord, on this Easter Sunday of deliverance and restoration, we ask for another miracle from your hand,” the minister had prayed. “If it is your will, place your healing touch on Henry. Touch his body and his mind. Bring him back to his family, Lord, we pray.”
It seemed that their prayers were beginning to be answered.
“There are all sorts . . . of pieces missing.”
Henry’s progress had seemed awfully slow to Christine, but he was gradually looking and sounding more like himself. He was allowed wheelchair visits to see Amber and was now able to do most things for himself. The doctors were even speaking of discharge.
But Christine could tell he was worried.
“It takes time,” she tried to reassure him. “The doctors all say—”
“I know what the doctors say. But some of the fog should have cleared by now.”
“Much of the fog has. Think back. Even in the past few days you have improved tremendously.” She was talking to herself as much as to her brother.
He grinned wryly. “I appreciate your attempt to humor me—but I’d be careful how I use the word ‘tremendously.’ ”
“You do admit there has been improvement?”
Henry nodded.
“Well . . . to my way of thinking . . . any improvement is tremendous.”
“Okay. All right,” he said with a chuckle. Then he sobered. “But I’m ready for a lot more tremendous improvement. It’s just not happening fast enough, Chrissy.”
Her eyes dropped to her hands that held the magazine she had been perusing. “I wish I could . . . do something.”
“Hey,” he responded, reaching out to lift her chin like he had often done over the years when they were growing up and she was sulking or feeling down. “You
are
doing something.
Just being here—encouraging and cheering me on—that’s doing something. Far more than you might realize.” Before Christine could even respond, he went on, “And looking after Danny for us—that’s doing something.”
“The truth is, it’s Aunt Mary who is doing most of the looking after Danny—and loving every minute of it.”
“It makes Amber feel so much better knowing he is happy and busy—and loved.”
Christine nodded and smiled, thinking about how quickly this little boy had made his own place in their family.
“This has been really tough for Amber,” Henry noted soberly. “She feels so bad about losing the baby. I worry that she feels . . . feels almost guilty about it.”
“It certainly wasn’t her fault.”
“No . . . no, but there’s some . . . some strange . . . I don’t know. I don’t really understand it. But . . . well . . . a woman sort of sees her body as the . . . the protected dwelling of her unborn child. She . . . she nurtures and loves and helps it to grow and become . . . someone . . . a person. When something goes wrong, she feels she has somehow failed. Failed to be the protector she was meant to be. It’s hard for Amber. It’s hard for me too.
“I already loved that child,” Henry went on, gazing out the hospital room window. “I wanted him . . . or her . . . just as much as Amber did. But there’s a difference, someway. I don’t feel guilty—just angry. Angry at that driver who drank too much and dared to get behind the steering wheel. To take another life even before it had a chance to fully live. To injure and maim and cause total disruption of lives. To bring pain and concern to many more people than were in the car he hit.”
Christine could see that Henry was getting upset. She reached out a restraining hand. “Don’t think about it. Try not—”
“How can I not think about it?” Henry stared into Christine’s face. “My son is being taken care of by others in a home not his own. My wife is lying with a broken pelvis and an even more painful broken heart. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to work again, Christine. Maybe I’ll just be a . . . a useless lump for the rest of my days. I wasn’t on the job, so there won’t be compensation for my wife and family. I—”
“Henry—don’t,” she begged him, tears beginning to run down her cheeks. “Please, don’t. This . . . this doesn’t help. . . .”
He leaned back on his pillow and closed his eyes. Christine could see his jaw working and knew he was struggling with his anger. She did not speak. What could she say?
Many minutes passed in silence. Christine closed her eyes as well and leaned her head back on the tall chair. It had been a horrendous time—for all of them. Henry was right. One man’s carelessness had certainly brought pain to many people. The planned family celebration had never transpired. Her folks finally had taken the train back home, once the danger was passed. Her father was needed at his post, and Christine gathered that her mother insisted on going along simply because she could not bear to be separated from him at a time when she leaned on his strength. So now it was Christine who made the daily treks to the hospital after her day’s work was done. She had not even been to Hope Canteen since the accident. She missed it, and she thought they might be missing her.
At length she opened her eyes again, but she did not lift her head. “Last week—when we were terribly concerned that you . . . that you might not come out of your coma, I was in this little room . . . just down the hall. As I sat there, a radio in the room was playing. I don’t know the program. It was all hymns. Just one after the other, played on a piano. I was feeling . . . really down, and then I recognized the hymn being played.”