What Mattered Most (9 page)

But Lanie didn’t wake up. For two days, John haunted the hospital, dividing his time between the sterile waiting area outside the surgical ICU and the cheerful yellow walls of the nursery. With each moment, his apprehension and guilt grew. Not being able to see her only made the waiting worse.

The only consolation in his day was his son. In the waiting area, he listened with Caitlin to doctors explain about states of consciousness and arousal and talk about coma scales. In the nursery, he held and fed his son, learned to bathe him, watched him sleep. And through it all, he prayed as he’d never prayed before and wondered if God really listened to the prayers of someone like him.

The fear didn’t go away. Coiled in his chest, it reared a hideous head with every medical conversation. It haunted his dreams when he managed to doze off in one of the uncomfortable waiting area chairs.

Embroiled in another nightmare that was all too real, he gasped awake to find Sheila shaking his knee with a gentle hand. He straightened, his ribs catching with the abrupt motion. “Is she awake?”

Sheila smiled, a genuine expression completely unlike the cold, feral things Caitlin always sent in his direction. “No, but she’s off the ventilator. We moved her down the hall to a private room.”

Hope stirred and for a swift moment blotted out the fear. “Does that mean I can see her?”

Her smile widened. “It does, but visits are time-limited. No more than ten minutes. And I want you to be prepared. Even with the ventilator gone, you’ll see lots of tubing and monitors. Her face is bruised, and the incision area on her head has been shaved.”

He didn’t care. All he wanted was to see her, touch her, tell her about their son.

“Dr. Ridley is looking for you.” At the mention of his son’s pediatrician, the fear quirked awake. “He wants to talk to you about discharging the baby.”

“Discharging him? I thought… I assumed he wouldn’t go home until Lanie did.”

Sheila covered his bruised hand with hers. “John, we don’t know when that will be. Everything depends on when she comes out of the coma. The baby is gaining weight, he’s not experiencing any pulmonary difficulties, and there’s no reason why you can’t take him home.”

Other than the fact that he just wasn’t ready. Feeding and bathing and changing diapers with a watchful nurse nearby was one thing. Being totally alone with him was another. “I haven’t even been home yet. How can I take him home and still be here—”

“That’s another thing. You need some rest and some real food. Trust me, one of us is here all the time. I had to throw Cait out this morning and make her go get some rest. Vince, Cait’s brother, was here this morning. I’m here. If anything changes—anything—we’ll call you.”

John dragged a hand over his face. “I just… I don’t want to leave her. And I’m not sure I’m ready to take care of him full time. Isn’t there another option?”

Sheila lifted an eyebrow at him. “A couple. One is foster care until Lanie’s better.”

John shuddered. “Like hell. What’s the other?”

“You take him home and hire a part-time nurse. Your insurance plan is more likely to agree to that than more days in the hospital. I can recommend some, but your best bet is Tristan Ransome. She does a lot of private care so she can pay off her student loans more quickly.”

John nodded. Tristan was the tall, blonde nurse who had introduced him to his son. He liked her no-nonsense manner; he could handle leaving the baby with her. “I’ll talk to Dr. Ridley later. Right now, I’d really like to see Lanie.”

She rose. “Come on.”

The room was dim, the sole illumination from the fluorescent light over the bed. The bluish glow cast shadows on Lanie’s bruised face. His throat tight, John approached the bed. Her dark hair, swept to one side, highlighted the pale scalp and bandage where her head had been shaved. Tubing snaked under her gown; an IV was taped to her left hand. Monitors beeped in time with her heart and breathing. Without the swell of pregnancy, her body looked small and frail in the bed.

He pulled the chair up to the bed and tucked her right hand carefully in both of his. “Lanie?”

His whisper echoed in the quiet room. Could she hear and understand, or was she too far away? The sensation was much like talking to his son. He cleared his throat, his thumb brushing over her limp hand. “Honey, I hope you can hear me. We have a son, baby. He’s real, and he’s incredible. He’s a little small, but he’s a fighter, like you. You’ve got to fight. He needs you.”

She lay, still as an open grave, and his throat tightened. “You hear me, Lanie? You’ve got to keep fighting, baby, because he’s not the only one who needs you. I want our life back. Do you hear me, Lanie?
I
need you.”

John arrived home to find an unmarked Haven County patrol car parked in the drive. He moved up the front steps as quickly as his aching ribs would allow. The heavy aroma of bleach permeated the air and burned his nostrils when he stepped into the foyer. The bathroom door stood partway open, and he pushed it inward to find Burnett scrubbing at the white tile.

With a grin, Burnett rocked back on his heels and wrung out a sponge into a nearby bucket. “Hey. I hear they moved Lanie out of ICU.”

“Yeah.” The pink-tinged water in the bucket turned John’s stomach. “What are you doing?”

Burnett shrugged. “Cait didn’t want you to have to clean this up, and the one crime scene clean-up company in the area is booked for weeks. I sure as hell didn’t want her to do it, either. I, uh, already cleaned up the kitchen floor.”

Burying the images Burnett’s words invoked, John tugged a hand through his hair. “Thanks.” He plucked at the front of the sweatshirt he wore. “I’m going to change then I’ll toss this in the washer for you.”

“No problem.” Burnett swept the sponge over the tile again, eradicating the last traces of the blood trail. Another grin quirked at his mouth. “Sheila said something about you bringing the baby home, too. You ready for that?”

An answering grin, an unfamiliar sensation these days, pulled at his own mouth. “Hell, no, but I didn’t have much of a choice. I’ve still got to put that damned crib together.”

Laughing, Burnett dropped the sponge in the bucket. “Have you ever put one together before?”

“No.” John frowned at the knowing glint in Burnett’s dark gaze. “Why?”

“Because it’s definitely a two-man job.” Burnett rose and stripped off the yellow latex gloves he wore. “Want some help?”

Forty-five minutes later, John tossed the screwdriver on the floor and glared at the white-washed pine crib, listing to one side. “I refuse to be defeated by a bad set of directions.”

Burnett, sitting against the wall with his hands dangling between his knees, laughed. “You’d think it would get easier with experience. Kids, too.”

Retrieving the screwdriver, John glanced at him. “What? That it gets easier with experience?”

“That it
doesn’t
get easier with experience. My youngest son was a terror, and all the stuff that worked with my oldest just didn’t with him.”

“You have no idea how much better that makes me feel.” John unscrewed the last plate they’d put on and shifted its position, bringing the crib into alignment.

“Let me tell you, a kid changes everything. Your career, your life, the way you think.”

“Yeah.” John stared at the caster in his hand and ran his fingers over the smooth surface. One more thing he hadn’t considered—how their son would affect Lanie’s career. And his. He knew all about killer hours—twenty hour days, calls in the middle of the night. From the beginning, he’d thrived on the uncertainty, the wildness of law enforcement. Somehow he doubted he’d feel the same now, knowing that if he got himself killed, his son would grow up without a father, the way he had. He couldn’t do that to the boy.

Burnett gathered the other casters, and they turned the crib on its side to screw on the wheels. Once they were done, Burnett rose and shoved the packing material into the empty box. “Well, I’m out of here. I’ll drop this in the trash can out front.”

“Thanks.”

After Burnett left, John spent a few moments putting the bedding and bumper pad on the crib. Bright-colored fish swam across the blue sheets, matching the ones that dangled from the mobile Lanie had purchased. After attaching it to the crib rail, John touched a silver and blue fish with one finger, setting the fish and starfish to dancing. He glanced around the room, at the way Lanie had stamped her love of the ocean here. More than love for the ocean—love for her baby as well.

He walked out of the room and down the hall with heavy steps. Their bedroom door stood open, and John paused in the doorway. Vanilla and cinnamon lingered in the room, the rumpled sheets mocking him. Their tennis rackets leaned against the wall in one corner. The novel Lanie was reading lay face down on her bedside table. He had the eerie sensation she was just downstairs and would walk up behind him any second now, wrap her arms around his waist and press her cheek to his back.

He ached for her presence in a way he had never ached for Beth’s. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the infinity pendant and chain. He turned it in his hand, watching the afternoon light play over the stylized swirl. She’d been so pleased with the gift Christmas morning—she’d dashed away tears from her shining eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him hard on the mouth.

The memory burned him with shame. She’d loved him, and he’d been too blind to see it. He crossed to her side of the bed and sat, letting his hand drift over the indentation in her pillow. Vanilla and cinnamon enveloped him. He closed burning eyes and swore, the harsh words of self-recrimination hanging in the air with the scent that was so uniquely Lanie’s.

How had he not seen it? How could he not have realized that she loved him?

You were too busy thinking with your crotch, too busy feeling sorry for yourself because Beth didn’t want you anymore. So busy that you didn’t see what was right in front of you all along.

With the slow movements of an old man, he placed the pendant on the bedside table, the chain a silver pool. When she came home, it would be here, waiting for her.

And so would he.

Shampoo dripped into John’s eyes, and he brushed the wet hair back from his forehead. “Sonny, come on. Give your old man five minutes to finish showering.”

As he expected, Sonny didn’t seem inclined to agree. The howl intensified. How much would it hurt to let him cry a few minutes? John stuck his head under the spray, the sound of rushing water not drowning out Sonny’s cries. Then again, maybe being left to cry made him feel abandoned. Neglected. A shiver traveled the length of John’s spine. Not his son. With a sigh, he shut off the water and reached for a towel. While drying off, he studied his enraged son. “You know, kid, just because you don’t like a bath doesn’t mean other people don’t.”

With the towel wrapped around his waist, he leaned down and lifted Sonny from the carrier. The baby tucked against his uninjured shoulder, he lifted the carrier and took it through with him to the bedroom. Sonny screeched, his entire body scrunched up. Like always, the level of need in that cry unnerved him. How could he ever be what Sonny needed? He’d let Lanie down. What would keep him from failing his son?

After depositing the carrier on the bed, John headed for the kitchen, talking to the baby all the way down the stairs. He brushed his mouth against the wispy hair on the tiny head. Warmth flooded his chest. He wouldn’t fail with Sonny. He’d make sure of it. No matter what else happened, this kid would always have a dad who cared about him, who put him first.

“All right, what’s the matter? Hungry?” The heartbroken wails subsided a little. John didn’t glance at the unpainted drywall patch in the hallway. He’d had someone in yesterday, filling in the hole left by Lanie’s shot that didn’t find its target. The memories the patch aroused turned his stomach—he didn’t need to see it to be reminded how close Lanie and Sonny had come to dying or how close to death Lanie remained.

The rich aroma of fresh-brewed coffee permeated the kitchen, and as he pulled one of Sonny’s bottles from the fridge, he sent a yearning look at the coffee maker. He couldn’t bring himself to risk trying to juggle a mug of hot coffee, the baby and a bottle. Coffee would have to wait since Sonny had no intention of doing so.

“Just a second.” He dropped the bottle in the warmer and rubbed Sonny’s back in light circles. He disentangled the baby’s clutching fingers from his chest hair. “Guess what we’re doing today? We’re going to see your mom. She’s not awake yet, but I’ll bet she’ll know you’re there, Sonny Buck.”

The nickname sent a grin quirking at his mouth, as it always did. Out of desperation, he’d started calling the baby Sonny, as in
my son
, not wanting to officially name him until Lanie awakened. Somehow, Buck had ended up attached to the Sonny and seemed a natural addition.

The act of getting out of the house took much longer than John was used to. No more tossing on jeans and a sweater and heading for the car. He was still trying to master the art of dressing his son—just keeping socks on his tiny feet was a major feat. He lived in fear of snapping a fragile arm or leg while easing it into a garment. Once he had Sonny dressed, the formula bottles, diaper bag and car seat remained to be tackled.

The absolute worst was driving with the baby in the back seat. John found himself driving ten miles per hour slower than he ever had before, watching each intersection for crazed, drunken drivers.

When he finally reached the hospital parking lot, he released a relieved sigh. The exhalation resulted in a wave of pain across his still-healing ribs. Waiting for the soreness to recede, he watched his fingers tremble on the steering wheel, a trembling that had nothing to do with physical pain and everything with fear.

He remembered this helpless apprehension from childhood, born from long hours of gauging his stepfather’s moods and later from those two short days spent praying with the fervency of a child that his mother would live. Only waiting for Lanie to wake up clenched his gut with two warring fears—panic that she wouldn’t, dread that everything was over when she did.

When he stepped out of the car, a cold, salty breeze tickled his ears and nose. He lifted Sonny’s car seat from the back and made sure the blanket protected him from the wind. With his collar flipped up against the chill, he jogged across the parking lot as fast as his ribs would allow.

At the front desk, John picked up a visitor’s pass, glad he’d cleared this visit with Sheila. Early in the morning, few people walked the halls, and the waiting room area on Lanie’s wing was empty. Eerie silence hung in the disinfectant-laden air.

John pushed Lanie’s door open and stepped into her room, greeted by the steady pulse of her heart monitor. The puffiness under her eyes had receded, the bruising fading from red to purple with tinges of yellow at the edges. He eased Sonny’s carrier to the floor and sank into the chair by the bed. “Lanie? It’s me.”

As always, he waited for a response that didn’t come. He touched her hand, a careful caress designed to avoid the IV tube. He glanced up at the bag of fluids and antibiotics. “Honey? I brought Sonny with me. I thought if he was close…maybe it would help. You’ve got to wake up, Lanie. He needs a name, and I…I don’t deserve to be the one to name him. Sheila helped me get around that for now, but he can’t be Baby Boy Falconetti forever, hon. We’re getting on okay, I think. I haven’t dropped him yet, but he needs his mom. He needs you.”

With cautious movements, he leaned over and lifted Sonny from the car seat. The baby made a hiccuping sound in his sleep, and John smiled, turning his head to look at Lanie’s still form. “He doesn’t like to be picked up when he’s asleep.”

He settled the baby in the curve of Lanie’s right arm, away from the IV tubing and monitor cords. His hand cupping his son’s head, he stroked Lanie’s face with his other. Guilt raked at him. It shouldn’t be this way. She should be awake, enjoying the first days of her son’s life, falling in love with him the way John had.

He didn’t deserve to be falling in love with Sonny. He deserved to be the one lying in that bed, adrift. Eyes clenched shut, he leaned close. His lips feathered across her cheek, the skin warm under his mouth. His nose brushed her temple. The sharp, stinging aroma of Betadine had replaced the sweet scents of vanilla and cinnamon. “I’m sorry, Lanie. For everything. I know I keep saying that, but I am. More than you’ll ever know.”

Before when he’d been this close to her, the sexual need had always blindsided him. Now, he still yearned, but the wanting was different. He wanted her awake, with him. He wanted her to look at him the way she had before, with love in her eyes. Again, he cursed himself for being too blind to see what had been right in front of him all along. What he felt for Beth—that hadn’t been love.

The attraction, the overwhelming need he felt for Lanie—they had nothing to do with sexual fulfillment. He hadn’t been able to get enough of her because she’d filled the holes in his soul that being with Beth never had. Clinging to his hopeless infatuation for Beth had been a futile effort at self-protection, keeping him from seeing how empty his life would be without Lanie.

Now he couldn’t miss it. He lived it, every second. The house echoed with her absence. At night, he woke and reached for her, his hand closing on vacant air. The heaviest emptiness lay in his heart.

Sonny stirred, his tiny face scrunched in a grimace of displeasure. John lifted him before the cry started. With his son cradled against his shoulder, he took the chair by the bed again, the warm weight of Sonny’s small body his only real comfort.