THE CAVERN OF DEEP HARMONY

PART FORTY:

Eden stayed all afternoon. Wadsworth spent the time either contentedly resting his head on Marshall's hand or lying slightly under the bed. Marshall himself dozed off and on. During one of his little naps, she went out to the nurses' station to ask a question and found the CD player
sitting on the countertop. She'd completely forgotten about it, realizing only now that she must've left it on the floor in the waiting room.

"How'd it get here?" she asked.

"One of the EMT guys," the nurse explained. "Said he found it near where you'd been sitting and recognized it as the one you had. Brought it up a while ago and left it here at the station. Said to make sure you got it."

Mike. Of course, Mike. But he hadn't brought it into the room. She sighed, picked it up and carried it to 303. Marshall was awake and talking to Wadsworth.  "Don't let me interrupt,"

she chuckled.

"Oh, it's just guy talk. You know, rifles and wrenches and beer. That sort of thing."

"Sure!" she laughed. "There are guys and then there are guys. You're more of a suede elbow patch sorta guy. So's Waddy. If he had a jacket, I'm positive it would have a suede patch on it somewhere or other."

An odd look passed briefly across his features. Miles had been a rifles and beer guy. Suede patches weren't quite the same thing. She saw it on his face, saw what he was thinking. For a man who was so self-confident and assured in just about everything, he had a real weak spot where it came to what women might think of him. She frowned. What had that damn Beatrice done to him anyway? There had to be a lot more to it than what he'd told her so far. She touched his cheek lightly.  "I happen to adore suede, especially in patches on tweed jackets."

"Do you always know the right thing to say?" he asked softly.

"No," she said, "I don't. Not by far. But what I say to you, Marshall, is what I truly feel, what I'm really thinking. I need you to know that if I say it to you, I mean it. I won't ever play games with you, won't ever say something just because it sounds right. Ok? I do love suede patches on jackets. There's such a cultured, Englishness about it that just appeals to me. A suede patch announces class and intelligence and articulateness. Oh, I suppose anybody could put one on,

of course, but generally speaking, that's the connotation that comes with suede patches. And I like that." She leaned close again, blowing in his ear. "And, besides that, my darling one, they sneak up on my literary side and really," she blew again, "turn me on."

He laughed a little and had to press his hand to his chest. "I've got a different tweed jacket with

not only suede elbow patches, but another large patch on one shoulder."

"OooOOooo...," she said, "you'd better change the subject or I'll jump your bones right where you lie!"

He laughed more, held his chest more.

"I've got the wandering CD player," she announced. "Well, scratch that. It didn't so much wander as I left the darn thing sitting on the waiting room floor. Lucky someone didn't just walk off with it. Anyway, Mike must've seen it and dropped it by the nurses' station." She found a plug for it and set it on his bedside table. "The only CD we've got here is your Tuscany one, though. I'll bring more tomorrow."

So she put it on to play and sat close to his bed, smoothing back his hair as they listened. After

a while the pure orchestral version of "Time To Say Good-bye" came on. She rested the back

of her hand against his cheek as it played. "I was so worried," she whispered. "I had such a horror of it's being time to say good-bye to you up there on that ridge. And I couldn't do that." Her breath came out in a dry, sob of an exhale. He leaned his cheek more against her fingers. "You've become so infinitely precious to me."

The music began to build and she closed her eyes, just listening. "I like this. This is beautiful, just the music. You usually hear it with a voice, like Sarah Brightman, singing the lyrics."

"Or Andrea Bocelli," he added.

"You like Bocelli?"

"A great deal. And he interests me because besides that great voice of his, he gets up on stage and sings to huge crowds he can't see."

"Was he born blind like you?"

"He had congenital glaucoma that steadily got worse, but he could see a little as a small boy. Then he had a soccer accident when he was 12 and lost what little bit of sight he had." He listened to more of the music, then added, "He sings this piece really well."

"I bet you could, too."

"Not like him," he chuckled. "And at the moment I don't think I have breath to do justice to Yankee Doodle Dandy, though I might give a try to Row, Row, Row Your Boat."  But on the second 'row' he began to cough. "So much for that," he gasped out between hacks.

She sat next to him a long while as they listened together to the whole CD, her hands stroking

his hair. It was about the extent of the physical contact she could have with him, but limited as

it was, it was also wonderful. She would never forget that sight of the little hollow under the evergreen where he had lain, but which was cold and empty by the time she got there. Yes, touching his hair was lovely compared with that.

"You know, sweetheart," she mused, "you came up to the inn hoping for a peaceful place to write and you've nearly died...twice."

"I think I'm done. At least I hope I'm done with that particular form of activity."  He sighed contentedly. "Mmmm, that feels good, the way you're touching my hair."

"I'm glad something feels good."  His bruises were beginning to change color now, the purple deepening, yellows appearing. The one she was studying made a perfect crescent around his right eye, from above his eyebrow and down around across his cheekbone. His breathing was evening out, slowing a bit, and she knew he was drifting off again. When she could tell he was asleep, she hooked Wadsworth's leash on his collar and led him to the door, intending to take him outside for a brief walk. He didn't want to leave the room. He'd found, at last, what he'd been looking for and he wanted to stay.

"Look here, Waddy," she said, crouching in front of where he'd stubbornly sat, "I understand this whole 'being with' thing, really I do, but a dog's just gotta, um, 'go' from time to time. He's asleep. He won't even know we're gone, ok. I promise I'll bring you right back."

Wadsworth stood up.

"I am so glad you speak English as well as you do," she chuckled. "It must come from living with a lit professor."

He allowed her to lead him out the door. She paused by the nurses' desk to explain what she was doing so someone could let Marshall know in case he awoke while they were still gone. "Will it be ok if Wadsworth spends the night in 303?"

"I'm afraid not," the nurse replied firmly. "No one would be there who could take him out if he needed to go. The nurses are too busy and it's not right to ask such a thing of them anyway."

"Well, I guess he'll just have to come back to the inn with me, then."

"Probably best," the nurse nodded. "We don't usually allow animals in the hospital in the first place. Besides, Dr. Sinclair doesn't really even need a guide dog at the moment, you know."

Eden sighed and continued on toward the elevator.  The head nurse on this floor didn't have

the same appreciation of the relationship between Marshall and Wadsworth that Betsy did during his initial hospital stay.

As the doors opened on the main floor, she suddenly remembered she'd need a coat. She'd had

a coat when she arrived that morning. She knew she did. Where the heck had she put it?  As

the main waiting area seemed the most likely, she wandered in that direction, finding it hanging on the rack there.

She stayed outside longer than she'd intended, letting Wadsworth sniff around at all the places that attracted his doggish interest. The brisk air felt rather good after the warm closeness of

the hospital room. When she reentered, she kept her coat on all the way to Marshall's room so she'd know where the blasted thing was the next time she'd need it. As she approached the door, a different nurse from the ones she'd seen before was just leaving.

"How's he doing?" she asked.

"Just got him all settled again," the nurse replied. "Dr. Hersholtz removed the chest tube."

Eden's face brightened. "That's a good sign then, isn't it?"

Nodding, the nurse explained that the drainage had completely stopped. So it was with a glad smile on her face that Eden opened the door. Marshall was up on his left side a bit, a series of pillows propping his back to keep him there. He seemed just slightly paler than when she'd
left him, probably due to the process of having the tube removed.

"You ok?" she asked, unclipping the leash.

Wadsworth had to do a bit more hand-licking since he'd been gone for a bit and Marshall's hand had obviously gotten filthy in the interim. 

"Tubeless," he sighed, "which is definitely an improvement."

"What did Hersholtz say?"

"He said now they'd be getting me up and out of bed before I turned into cement...or something along those lines anyway."

"Out of bed...where?"

"Just around the room at first, I think, then on expeditions down the hall."

"That's good, right?"

"Well, considering the only time I don't hurt terribly much is when I'm lying perfectly still, I'm not so sure it's a good thing."

"You don't want to become cement, now do you? I mean, just think. What could I possibly do to, um, with, a block of cement in bed?"

"You may have a point there," he half-grinned. "Motivation, that's what I need."

She leaned over him, kissing his right earlobe.  "Lots more where that came from," she chuckled. "But I ain't kissin' no statues, mister. You got that?"

"I got you, Babe," he whispered.

"Oh, don't tell me you know who Sonny and Cher are...were."

"I know lots of good stuff."  His grin widened. "Despite my suede patches."

"You never cease to amaze me, Dr. Sinclair."

"Good."

They talked for a while then a male nurse came in. "Time for you to walk, Dr. Sinclair."

"How far?"

"Let's try for the bathroom. That sound good to you?"

"It'll do."

Eden went to sit in a far corner as the nurse pulled back Marshall's covers.  "Legs over to the side and veeeery slowly we'll get you sitting up, ok?"

Marshall had his lips pressed in a tight, white line. The nurse helped him lift his torso up and Marshall just sat there on the side of the bed for a while, swaying slightly. "Not...sure...about this," he muttered.

"We'll just take it nice 'n easy," the nurse said. "And I'll be right here with you if you start to fall."

Marshall coughed a bit from the change in position, then let his body slide off the edge of the

bed so his feet, on which the nurse had quietly slid hospital slippers, were resting on the floor. "Don't you worry about the IV. It's on wheels and I've got it. You just think about putting one foot in front of the other."

Marshall rested a palm on the top of the bed. Hadn't he done just that for hour after endless hour...put one foot in front of the other?

 
The nurse stood there, waiting, because Marshall didn't move.

"The bathroom?" he urged.

Marshall sighed. "Where is it? I don't know which way to head."

"Ooo...sorry, Dr. Sinclair. I forgot for a minute. At an angle to your right. I'll move along right beside you. You just come along with me."

Marshall took one step and was unable to stifle a sharp moan. Eden turned her head for a moment, looking out the window. Watching Marshall like this was nearly unbearable.  He hobbled painfully, awkwardly the eight or so steps to the bathroom door. The nurse went
in with him and when they came out, the expended effort of being out of bed had been almost

too much for Marshall. He was quite white and his teeth were clamped down tightly on his

lower lip. Halfway back to the bed, the nurse had to put his arm around Marshall or he would
have crumpled on the spot.

"Ok, Dr. Sinclair, that's real good, real good for your first try. You'll see. You'll get stronger each time."

Marshall didn't reply. He just sank gratefully back to a seated position on the edge of the bed and let the nurse lift his legs and get him settled. As he pulled the covers back up, the nurse looked over at Eden. "Don't you go trying to help him do this on your own," he directed.

"Doc here's a big man and you're just not going to be able to catch him if he starts to fall.

You buzz the station if he needs to get up."

She nodded, rubbing at the back of her neck, realizing how tense she'd been just watching Marshall. He'd walked just fine out of the inn that last time.  All this was the result of what

those men had put him through.

The nurse left. She hadn't gotten his name. She really needed to do that. Getting up from her seat near the window, she sat close to his bed, touching his hair again since he'd said he liked that.

"Got to...rest," he murmured.

"I know, darling. You rest."  She sat there quietly, just stroking his hair, until his head tipped slightly on the pillow.  And still she stroked it.

ON TO PART 41

BACK TO LIBRISCROWE

BACK TO PART 39

BACK TO INDEX