The Lewis Legacy Series Box Set: 4-in-1 Special Edition Page 38

  “About six weeks.” Dr. Adams patted Marc’s shoulder and left his hand there.

  It was a gesture reminiscent of the white-haired, elderly man. Marc shook his head, dazed. “Forgive me. I think I’m still in shock with all that’s happened tonight. This news will take getting used to.” His head slumped, his shoulders dropped. Six weeks . . . right after their return from the honeymoon. He couldn’t wrap his thoughts around Natalie’s condition, much less think of a child. It was too incomprehensible. He looked back up at Dr. Adams. “Is everything . . . okay?”

  “For now, everything appears to be normal. However, if your wife . . .”

  “My wife has a name,” Marc interrupted, his temper rising, his voice curt. “Please call her Natalie.”

  “Natalie,” Dr. Adams said, removing his hand. “I’ll continue to monitor her condition. If we need to order further tests, we’ll use as many precautions as we can.” He stood to leave. “I’ll go check on her now. As soon as a bed is readied, we’ll be moving her to the fourth floor. In the interim, we’ll let you know if there’s any change or if any further decisions need to be made.”

  Marc nodded, hating the thought of any further decisions. It sounded ominous. “Like I said before, just take care of Natalie.” Rising beside the doctor, he shook his hand. “Can I see her now? If she’s awake, she’ll want me with her.” No, it’s more the other way around.

  “I don’t see why not. I’m sure you’d like privacy. Give me twenty minutes, then feel free to come in.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Adams.” He was rewarded by a weary nod and a wave.

  Marc dropped back down in the chair. Staring through glazed eyes at the vending machines, he pondered another cup of the strong coffee. He felt like something stronger, but alcohol wouldn’t solve anything. He needed all his faculties about him. Bursting through the double doors and hauling Natalie out of the hospital bed and spiriting her home sounded good.

  Hanging his head again, helplessness invaded his entire being. Natalie was exactly where she needed to be, and these people were trying to help her. It was a test of his limited patience, but he needed to stay calm, as hard as it was. This wasn’t a business decision, wasn’t something he could control or remedy. It was also enough to make him wish Mr. Davis still sat beside him. He might just derive a bit of comfort from that old man.

  ~~**~~

  “Mr. Thompson?” It was yet another nurse who’d come on duty with the latest shift change. Time was such a funny thing in a hospital waiting room. He felt like he’d been awaiting word about Natalie for three weeks instead of only a few hours. It had been the longest night of his life, but only ten minutes since Dr. Adams departed to check on Natalie.

  When the nurse beckoned, Marc swallowed and replaced the cap on his water bottle, tightening it as he rushed to the counter in seconds, eager for encouraging news. “Please tell me something positive about Natalie.”

  The nurse’s smile was more ingratiating than he liked. “They’ve moved your wife upstairs to Room 412, and Dr. Adams is with her. I’ll show you the way.” Following like a puppy nipping at the woman’s heels, Marc’s heart pounded as she ushered him into the elevator. On the fourth floor a couple of minutes later, he walked beside her, silent, as she led the way behind closed double doors and down yet another endless hallway.

  “I have Mrs. Thompson’s husband here.” Walking into a room with another unoccupied bed, she pushed aside the dividing curtain. Dr. Adams stood on the far side of the bed, one hand resting on the steel rail.

  Thanking the nurse and stepping to the other side of the bed, Marc’s gaze fell on Natalie—his heart—swallowed by the bed. Everything surrounding her was white, emphasizing the paleness of her face, the deep circles under her closed eyes. He’d hardly ever seen her ill, much less so wan and immobile. She’d hate how her hair was mussed.

  Leaning close, Marc smoothed a loose strand of hair away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. The diamond earrings he’d given her for their one-month anniversary winked at him. His hand lingered on her cheek, marveling at its smooth softness, like one of his grandmother’s porcelain dolls, but without that pretty bloom of pink in her cheeks. He glanced at Dr. Adams. “She’s just sleeping, right?”

  “Yes, she’s resting.” The slightest upturn of his lips completely transformed the physician’s long, thin face. “But, as I mentioned before, we need to monitor her cognitive function.”

  Marc liked this man and understood medicine was usually more serious than not. He looked drained, haggard. Not much better than Natalie. I haven’t been the only one going through this all night. Compassion flooded Marc’s strained sensibilities, wondering how members of the medical profession dealt with pain and death as a constant. How did they keep their emotions in check and not be drawn into the lives of their patients? Did their hearts become jaded once they’d seen patients come and go, or did they continue to rejoice in the small victories, grieve over the agonizing losses? He watched in silence as Dr. Adams completed a few more routine tests. Replacing the stethoscope around his neck, he wrote something on the clipboard hanging on the end of the bed.

  “Do you think Natalie will wake up soon?” Marc asked.

  “She may, or she might drift in and out.” Dr. Adams checked a printout from the monitor next to the bed. “We’re pleased in that everything we’ve found is encouraging. You’re welcome to wait here for Natalie to wake up, if you’d like.” He indicated a chair in the corner.

  “So, she’s out of danger?” He needed to know there’d be no more unexpected hurdles. The roller coaster of the last few hours was enough to make anyone dizzy and disoriented.

  As the doctor patted him again and headed for the door, Marc called to him. “Dr. Adams?” He needed some kind of definitive answer. A pat on the shoulder wasn’t good enough.

  “Yes, Mr. Thompson?”

  “Can I breathe now?” He silently entreated the doctor for something to hang onto to maintain his sanity.

  He was rewarded with a nod and another hint of a smile. “Yes, you may breathe. I can assure you, Natalie’s life isn’t in danger, Mr. Thompson.” I’m off my shift now, but I’ll check on Natalie later this afternoon.”

  “Dr. Adams?” As he turned back from the doorway, the good doctor possessed the grace not to show annoyance if he considered his persistent questions bothersome. “When can I take her home?”

  “Let’s see how much progress she makes in the next few hours. We’ll talk later.” He sounded even more tired than he looked.

  Marc leaned on the steel rails, caressing Natalie’s cheek again with a trembling hand. Bowing his head, he finally allowed the tears to fall. If only God could turn back time. If anyone had to be hurt, it should have been him, not his precious wife. He hadn’t shed many tears in his life. Never felt like he could cry. But his tears now were cleansing, and that could only be a good thing. His emotions spent, he closed his eyes and contemplated crawling into the bed with Natalie, curling himself around her, sheltering and holding her forever.

  “Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet, raising his head to the ceiling.

  Favors or no favors, thank you, God.

  Chapter 4

  Marc awoke with a start. Again. His lids were heavy with sleep. Glancing at his Rolex, he was surprised it was shortly before noon. Food smells invaded his nostrils. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn’t think about that now. Struggling to sit up straighter, he grimaced at the tightness in his muscles and clamped a hand on the back of his neck, massaging it. Three white-coated doctors, one of them Dr. Adams, gathered near the doorway, deep in quiet discussion.

  Stretching his arms above his head, he looked over at Natalie as he yawned. She stirred, eyes still closed. To his knowledge, she hadn’t awakened while he’d been sitting by her bedside. Surely one of the machines hooked up to her would alert them if her condition changed. He hated that he’d fallen asleep, but couldn’t help it. The exhaustion had been too overwhelming.

  The
doctors broke apart from their huddle. As Marc pulled himself out of the chair, Dr. Adams nodded at the others. Must be some kind of silent doctor speak. “Let’s go out in the hall to talk, Mr. Thompson.” He inclined his head toward the hallway.

  “No, thanks. I’m not leaving this room. If you have something to tell me, do it here. Who are your friends?” He was too tired and frustrated to care that he sounded brusque. At least he’d been assured Natalie was out-of-the-woods. It was clear these doctors wouldn’t be in Natalie’s room unless something was happening. A consultation couldn’t mean anything good.

  “Dr. Perrini is the head of our Neurology Department.” Dr. Adams motioned with one hand. “Dr. Hardison is Chief of Staff.” Both men, gray-haired and somber, gave perfunctory nods.

  “What’s the topic of discussion, gentlemen?” Marc snapped, then caught himself. “Look, I’m sorry to be short-tempered, but I’d like to know if Natalie’s okay so I can take her home soon.”

  Dr. Adams walked closer. “That’s what we’re discussing, Mr. Thompson.”

  “Call me Marc.”

  “Marc, let me explain.”

  “Please do.” Marc’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. From the corner of his eye, he saw the other two doctors exit the room. He remembered Dr. Adams telling him he was off his shift, but it appeared he’d never left. While gratifying, he prayed it didn’t mean something bad in terms of Natalie’s condition.

  “Even though we’re encouraged by the results of our preliminary tests, we’re a bit concerned. It’s not necessarily reason to be alarmed.” He held up a hand to stem Marc’s simmering protest. “When Natalie fell down the steps, her head did not make full contact with the cement floor. Her fall was softened by something else. Often the hands or arms will cushion a fall, absorbing the point of impact. It’s an instinctive reaction. She fell at least ten to twelve feet, a fair distance. Chances are, she rolled on the stairs—either head over heels or on her side—and her head probably struck the stairs several times before hitting the floor.”

  He paused as Marc cringed. “From what you told us, the stairs are made from wood, and that’s a good thing. Her brain has suffered some kind of trauma, that much we know. She’s suffering a severe concussion, but at this point, there’s no way to fully ascertain the extent of the head trauma except to say it was not blunt force. That in itself is encouraging.” Dr. Adams lowered his voice. “It could have been much worse, the outcome much more detrimental for Natalie.”

  Whenever he’d heard the words blunt force before, it was usually in terms of a fatality. “Are you discussing the possibility that she might be . . .” Marc gulped, and fought rising nausea. Something twisted inside his gut and threatened to steal his breath. He could barely get out the words. “Might be brain damaged?” The mere suggestion horrified him, chilled him to his core. His eyes welled with immediate tears, but somehow he managed to keep them in check. If his intelligent wife had suffered brain damage . . . it was too much to comprehend. He’d rather die.

  “It’s possible, yes, but I suspect we might be dealing with something else. She’s sleeping, not unconscious, and she awoke on the ride to the hospital—all positive signs. The nurses have periodically asked Natalie questions, but they haven’t received much response. Our course of action now is to try and understand what’s happening inside her brain.”

  “They came in the room . . . while I was sleeping? Did Natalie know I was here?” Marc’s voice rose. Wouldn’t she ask for me? He hated to think she was awake and he wasn’t even told. It was unconscionable.

  “We need your help, Marc.” The doctor’s words brought him back to reality.

  “Of course.” He swallowed his anger. “Anything you need.”

  “Try and engage her in conversation. Observe how she responds, if her speech slurs at all. Notice if she seems disoriented, irritable, clumsy or uncoordinated, complains of headaches, loss of hearing or blurred vision. Anything out of the ordinary. Then, if you feel she’s ready, ask her a few easy questions. If she can answer those, move on to more challenging questions.”

  “What kinds of questions?”

  “Start with asking her if she knows her name, address, that sort of thing. Then ask something that can only be answered by the two of you.”

  “And the point of that would be . . . ?”

  The doctor’s stoic expression relaxed enough to allow a glimpse of his humanity. “We need to determine if her brain was bruised.”

  Marc frowned. “You keep talking about bruising. What exactly happens when the brain is bruised?” He was tired of all the medical mumbo jumbo and wished the white coats would leave them alone. Unless they could answer his questions with any degree of certainty, what was the point?

  Walking across the room, he leaned back against the bedrail, crossing his arms, like he was some kind of bodyguard, protecting Natalie from anyone trying to prod or pry.

  “There could be any number of things, but we’ll reserve judgment until after you’ve first had a chance to speak with your wife,” Dr. Adams said. “I’ll check in with you in a couple of hours.”

  “Okay. I guess we wait.” Pulling a chair over to her bedside, Marc parked himself in it. He’d wait however long it took. Retrieving his phone from his pocket—a state-of-the-art cell phone Natalie teased was his favorite new toy—Marc made a few calls, speaking in low tones. He called his creative director, Trevor, and his assistant, Christy, leaving the message he was taking a few days off. That was such a rarity, it would cause a stir come Monday morning. He didn’t elaborate on the reason. They’d speculate, but he wasn’t up to any explanations.

  Although he hated doing it, he dialed Natalie’s parents’ number, and spoke with her mother, grateful it wasn’t her father. It was one of the hardest calls he’d ever made, and he assured Claudia Combs he’d call again as soon as he had more information. Of course, she wanted to drop everything and come immediately, but agreed to wait until Marc received more direction from the doctor.

  “We’ll be praying, Marc. Please keep us posted and call if you need anything, if there’s anything we can do for either of you. We’ll come as soon as you say the word.” The greatest thing about his in-laws was he could count on them. They wouldn’t badger him with questions, wanting to know how this could have happened, wanting to pin the blame on someone or something. They accepted, and got on with life. Not like the person he needed to call next. He steeled himself, dialing his mother’s private line, relieved when her answering machine relayed she was on African safari for a few weeks. Good for her, but also good for him. It was better not to deal with her hysterics. With a resigned sigh, he called his sister, only to discover she was apparently keeping his mom company. Maybe this was another case of God stepping in and taking care of things. Funny, it was the same concept old Mr. Davis propounded.

  An hour later, Marc was rewarded by Natalie stirring, mumbling under her breath and turning her head. What a beautiful sight. At the first sign of movement, he sat up straighter. “I’m here, Natalie.” Taking her hand, he pressed her fingers, being careful to keep his touch gentle. Her eyelids fluttered and she groaned, bringing one hand to her forehead. When she focused on him, he wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or relieved. Something wasn’t right. He sensed it as soon as those gorgeous blue eyes met his.

  “Natalie?” He tried to keep the rising trepidation out of his voice, but wasn’t altogether successful. “Speak to me. Say something. Anything, sweetheart.”

  “I’m . . . thirsty,” she finally said, her voice barely more than a raspy whisper.

  Releasing another pent-up sigh, Marc smiled. It felt good, the first genuine smile he’d mustered since this whole trauma began. “That I can handle. Here,” he said, pouring a cup of ice water from the pitcher on the bedside table. Placing one supportive hand behind her head, he held the cup to her parched lips. At least his hand didn’t shake from all the caffeine flowing through his veins. Perhaps it was diffused by all the water he’d ingested to flu
sh it out of his system.

  It scared him to see her like this. But she was alive and talking, and now she was drinking. Taking several slow sips, Natalie licked her lips and laid her head back down on the pillow, her eyes opening and closing several times, blinking hard. As she looked up at him through vacant eyes, Marc’s heart thudded in his chest.

  “Can I get you anything else?” He smoothed her brow. “I realize I look pretty ragged, but I couldn’t leave you. You gave me the scare of my life, you know.”

  Natalie tilted her head and eyed him with a curious expression. “I’m in a hospital, which must mean you’re a nurse?”

  Marc laughed. His wife hadn’t suffered any damage to her brain if she was aware enough to tease. She sure sounded the same even if the lack of spark in her eyes frightened him. “Well, I’m your nurse. Listen, I called your parents and I’m keeping them informed of your progress.” He stroked his fingertips along her forearm, something that usually made her smile. Her eyes opened more fully and she withdrew from his touch.

  She was probably still disoriented and needed time to readjust. Don’t worry about it. But something inside triggered another warning bell. The woman had undergone a severe head trauma. It would take time.

  “I hardly think that’s appropriate, even if you’re my nurse. My head hurts and I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Is there something you can give me?” Natalie shifted against the pillows with a deep frown and released a light groan. She looked more alert, and she was speaking coherently, but the continuing lack of recognition scared him.

  Dropping his hand from her arm, Marc turned his head. He hadn’t been this scared when he was six and his beloved dog, Shep, was struck by a car and died in the street. He’d cried over that lame old dog for days. Or when he’d been drafted to Pawtucket straight out of Yale and thought he’d blown it all in his first couple of games, afraid they’d discover him to be the fraud he was—a minor league athlete trying to measure up to the legend of his champion father. Or the time he found his mother slumped over the kitchen table, her tears soaking the morning paper with the photo of . . . . Marc raked his hand through his hair. It wasn’t the time for a trip down memory lane. He focused on Natalie. Her eyes were closed, but he could tell she wasn’t asleep.