Turning Thirty-Twelve (28 page)

Give me five minutes alone with a Louisville slugger and that asshole, and I’ll save you the trouble of adjudicating this case.

“Is the first one dead?” I asked.

“Perfect shot through the heart. Detective Brennan never misses. I’ve seen him at the shooting range. Bull’s-eye every damn time,” the second officer said with a note of macho pride that I really didn’t care to hear.

Patrick came running through the entrance, straining to look through the increasing throng of blue uniforms that were suddenly appearing in the waiting area. “Mom!” He jogged over to me and hugged me so tight I couldn’t draw a breath until he turned me loose again. “What happened?” he asked as he held my shoulders and stared down at me. “Nate said Mark got shot.”

I nodded, resisting the urge to throw myself back into my oldest son’s arms and wail my despair. “Come on. We’re going up to surgery.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Hell no longer frightens me.

After sitting in that waiting room, I knew exactly what Hell would be. It would be living in limbo. It would be watching the people I love feeling helpless and confused and frightened. It would be not getting a damn word about how the person you love more than life itself is doing while his chest is laid wide open on some operating table and a guy you don’t know touches your lover’s beating heart.

How much worse could Hell possibly be than this?

Kathy, Nate, and Carly had arrived not long after Patrick, and I’d set up shop in the surgery waiting room. Carly seemed to be taking it the worst. It had taken her a good, long thirty minutes to stop crying in my arms.

Now, she sat next to Patrick, who’d slung an arm around her shoulders like a good older brother. He fetched everyone drinks and snacks, and he offered Carly a shoulder to lean on all evening. Once she’d spent her fear, she’d stoically waited. She was definitely fifteen going on forty.

My breaking heart swelled with pride for both of them, and that notion comforted me like a warm hug.

Patrick would be graduating come May. He’d been looking for jobs anywhere—except Indiana. I couldn’t blame him. He would be moving on to start his own life somewhere far away. I didn’t even want to think about how sad I would be when he left.

Would I go through empty nest syndrome all over again?

At least I would still have Carly at home for a few more years. That girl had an incredible future waiting for her. She was a triple threat—smart, funny, and pretty. She was going to take the world by storm one day, and the world would never be the same.

I glanced over at Kathy and Nate who were sitting next to Carly and Patrick. They held hands and talked quietly. He kissed her forehead more times than I could count. Every time I saw the gesture, it reminded me of Mark and the way he would always calm me in the same, sweet way. I felt a wave of nausea and crippling grief for everything I could lose—for what we could
all
lose.

With a hard swallow, I pushed it aside, channeling Scarlett O’Hara.

Later. I’ll think about that later
.

The loss of their baby was something Nate and Kathy would never get over, but they’d found enough love between them to come together during this crisis. Perhaps they might have a future together after all.

That which doesn’t kill us...

As I glanced around, I realized that everything Mark and I had ever wanted was right here in this waiting room. The kids had finally become a family, pulling together when they needed each other. I only hoped we wouldn’t have to pay the ultimate price for finally achieving such lofty goals.

I met more cops than I thought a town our size could possibly employ. They’d come by to offer reassurances. Several told me they’d donated blood because they wanted to help however they could. I did little more than nod at each of them, wondering if they would see my response as rude, but not honestly caring if they did. If I said anything—if I tried to thank them—I would lose what tenuous control I had left. They seemed to understand, giving me nods, compassionate glances, and a few pats on the shoulder.

I paced circles that seemed futile and senseless, but I couldn’t make myself sit still. Each lap around the big room, I’d stop and look at the clock.

One hour.

Two hours.

Three hours.

Patrick would stop me often, asking if I wanted a drink or something to eat. I simply shook my head and waved him away, preferring to wallow in my own misery like some wounded, wild animal. He finally forced a cup of coffee and a donut that tasted like ashes on me and stood there until I finished all of it.

Images of Mark played in my brain. I saw snapshots of the best year of my life. We were ice skating on our first date. There was the first time we made love at the cabin. I remembered that look in his eyes when he told me he loved me, and how he’d proposed. Our wedding came to life again, as did the anguish when Kathy lost the baby.

How could I possibly survive a single day without him?

My chest hurt, and I wondered if this was how it felt when your heart shattered into a thousand, tiny pieces. I wanted to go to the chapel, but I was too afraid to go, sure that the doctor would come out of the operating room the moment I left. I had to settle for praying as I paced.

Dear God, I love this man. Save him. Please. I’ll start going back to mass. Honest. I’ll go every Sunday, and I’ll drag Mark with me. I’ll follow all the commandments, whether I like them or not. I’ll tithe half of my pathetic income. Please don’t let him die. Please.

“Take me instead, but save him,” I whispered to no one, hoping God would listen and take me up on my offer because I didn’t want to live if Mark died.

More pacing. More clock watching.

Four hours
.

A fifty-something man in teal scrubs—with one of those goofy caps on his head and booties over his crocs—came sauntering through the doors. “Mrs. Brennan?”

I hurried to him with questioning eyes, hands still locked in prayer, trying to search his face for the most important words I would ever hear.

“Mark’s doing fine,” he said.

I squealed and threw myself on him like he was a rock star and I was a fanatic admirer.

“Thank you,” I wailed against his shoulder as my tears flowed freely.

My chest was so tight I could barely breathe. The poor doctor probably thought I was a lunatic, but I didn’t give a shit. The man deserved a hug. I started to kiss his cheeks. He had saved my husband. He’d saved me. “Thank you. Thank you.”

He patted my back for a minute and chuckled. “Mrs. Brennan? Are you okay?”

Patrick came and pulled me away, despite the fact I wanted to cling to the surgeon like fly paper. I would have washed his car, cleaned his house, and probably borne his children if he’d just asked.

“How is he, doctor?” my oldest asked as he stood next to me, holding my hand.

“The bullet missed his heart. He’s a very lucky man. There were a lot of little bleeders we needed to tie up, and his lung needed some work. We had to repair a rib that shattered with the force of the bullet. He’ll be in intensive care for a while, but I expect Mark to make a full recovery. After he clears the recovery room, we’ll get him set up in I.C.U.”

Carly, Kathy, and Nate had all come to stand around Patrick and me as a
united front with nothing but support for Mark. We were, at last, a family.

“Can he have visitors?” Nate asked in a voice so choked with emotion that it almost made me start weeping again.

Dr. Wonderful nodded. “Very short visits. The nurses will let you know when. For tonight, I think it’s best if just his wife sees him. The rest of you can visit him tomorrow. We need to keep him quiet.”

“That leaves me out,” Patrick said. With a laugh, he held his hands up in surrender.

I could hear the relief in his voice. He really didn’t hate Mark after all. All Pat’s protests were nothing but bluster.

This was a night of pure revelation.

Patrick quit clowning and took my hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“He’ll need lots of time to recover,” the surgeon continued. “He can’t push himself too hard.”

Carly put her arm around my waist and pressed against me. “We’ll make sure he doesn’t. Won’t we, Jackie?”

“You bet we will,” I said, leaning my head against hers.

“We
all
will,” Kathy said coming to her sister’s other side.

Nate completed the family chain.

Thank you, God. I owe you. Big time.

***

Mark looked so pale, so much smaller than the towering presence I’d come to need in my life.

The nurse nodded to the chair that was on the other side of the bed, and I obediently took a seat and reached for his hand. I was sure I would never, ever let it go again. I measured time by the steady beats of his heart on the monitor, still offering prayers of thanksgiving, and constantly kissing his hand. I kept reminding myself I hadn’t lost him, but I was still having a hard time believing it.

“How long will he be out?” I asked the nurse who appeared way too young to be running around in an I.C.U.

Why did everyone look so damned young anymore?

Of course, I felt older than Methuselah at that point. Mark was due some major scolding when he was better. No one should have to go through this. How many wives and husbands of cops had stood in my shoes?

I vowed to form a support group for the spouses of the local police officers.

“He’s come around once already. He’ll be in and out until the anesthesia clears his system, but the morphine will keep him pretty groggy.” She adjusted an IV pump and turned to face me. “I just can’t say for sure.”

“Thanks, anyway.” I scooted the chair a little closer to the bed and laid my head against our joined hands. “I love you, Mark. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I do you, and I never will. You stay strong. You come back to me. I need you. Do you hear me?”

“You’re so bossy.” His weak, raspy voice was music to my ears.

Raising my head, I looked up at my husband. His face was pale. He was hooked up to God knows how many machines. He was so drugged, he couldn’t keep his eyes open.

I had never seen anything so wonderful in my whole life. “Always. Someone’s got to keep you in line, mister.”

I wasn’t sure what else to say. He’d probably already eavesdropped on the thoughts I had spoken aloud, and I figured things had been entirely too serious for far too long.

What does one say at a time like this?

“I’m mad at you, detective.”

“Mad at me?”

“You weren’t wearing your vest.” I squeezed his hand and smoothed a stray hair away from his cheek.

“Detectives don’t wear vests.”

“Detectives don’t go after armed robbers, either,” I scolded. “But I’ll lay into you for that later.”

“Oh? You’ll lay me later? I’ll need to get some rest then.” He chuckled, gave my hand a weak squeeze, and drifted back to sleep.

With that, I kissed his lips knowing—finally—that he would be all right.

***

Men make the worst patients. The entire time he was in the hospital, Mark bitched and complained. He hated the food. He hated the nurses. He wanted to go home.

The first time he’d gotten out of bed, he almost fainted. The next time, he was able to walk to the door. The next time, he made it to the nurses’ station. After that, it was my job to help him build his strength by making him walk. We walked down each long corridor and did laps around the nurses’ station as I rolled Mark’s IV stand alongside us. Unfortunately, the more strength he got, the more bitching he indulged in.

He hated the hospital gown. The television didn’t get ESPN. He was tired of seeing the same room and halls every day.

I just listened to it all and smiled. The more ornery my husband was, the more I knew he was getting back to being himself.

After a week and a half, I was able to take him home. Then I got to assume the role of recovery drill sergeant. I had to make sure he did enough without doing too much.

It wasn’t an easy job.

Mark was as weak as a newborn kitten, but as stubborn as a mule. The day he came home, he demanded a shower right after we walked in the door, saying he was tired of smelling like the hospital. I helped him take off his clothes and got him in the shower. He hadn’t even gotten all of his body wet when he needed me because he’d sapped what little strength he had. I shed my own clothes and got into the shower stall with him. I helped Mark clean up, then got out and stood there dripping wet and naked as I dried him off and got him into a clean t-shirt and boxers. He crawled into our bed and immediately fell asleep while I finally got dried and dressed.

Part of our daily ritual was to continue walking. We started by just going around the house at first. As the spring weather took a turn for the warmer, we took a few laps in the yard. Next, we walked down the block and around the neighborhood. Mark grumbled the whole way. It was too far. It wasn’t far enough. He told me I was being mean by forcing him to do all the things the surgeon instructed.

I just smiled sweetly at each thing he bitched about and gave him no quarter.  Before too long, he was pushing himself to try a little more each day.

The most frustrating thing for both of us was the lack of a love life. The surgeon hadn’t given us any specific instructions about resuming sex—other than we could make love whenever we were “ready.” I tried to be patient with my patient, but three days after Mark came home, I literally jumped him. I desperately needed a physical connection, a sign that I hadn’t lost him. We had made love fast and furious, me on top so he didn’t have to work too hard. He was so exhausted afterward, he’d slept for six hours, and I’d felt horribly selfish.

***

Walking around the block a month after his surgery, Mark moved a little slower than usual. I’d been so used to pushing him harder every day that I immediately thought he was relapsing.