Bonds of Earth (8 page)

When he arrives in England, he can barely even stand to touch himself, let alone anyone else. His last potential fuck before the war ends sucks him for what seems like hours, and if he shuts his eyes he can forget that anyone is touching him, because he feels nothing, nothing, nothing.

Michael woke from the flood of reminiscences gasping and sweating, his throat tight and his fists clenched in the sheets. The first fingers of dawn light were beginning to slide in the open window. Below him, he could hear the faint murmur of voices. As he lay collecting his scattered thoughts, the voices rose, resolving themselves briefly into sharp, barbed words before fading away to nothing. A few moments later, he heard the sounds of movement, the squeak of bedsprings and creak of floorboards.

Abbott and his wife were arguing again, as they had been doing nearly every day since the dowager Anderson’s visit. Michael had always thought marriage to be a prison—he’d never known a couple that had been truly happy—but at least until now the Abbotts had seemed such, despite the husband’s less than winning personality. Obviously Mary saw something worthwhile in him, for she was doing her damnedest to keep the old coot from killing himself with overwork; too bad Abbott wasn’t listening to any of her advice. Either he was one of those idiot servants who believed in duty above all else, or Seward had some mystical hold on him that Michael didn’t understand. Whatever the case, he was a fool to be ruining his health for someone who didn’t appreciate his efforts.

Clearly it would fall to Michael to try to come up with some scheme to get Seward back on his feet, but even after reviewing the information about his case, he didn’t have the faintest idea of how to broach the subject with his prospective patient. He closed his eyes, Elizabeth’s well-formed, precise script dancing behind his eyelids, efficiently summarizing a horror so vast it was a miracle that Seward was still breathing.

Multiple fractures to all limbs; r. floating rib 12 shattered and removed; collarbone cracked on r side; diaphragm punctured; no major organ damage

Remained unconscious for 8 d. after transfer to base hospital; believed possible brain damage for a time

Traction 12 wks. All bones healed; r. femur fracture bolted, retained some weakness for 8 mos.

Paralysis to lower limbs for 2 mos. after traction removed; may have been hysterical

Physical therapy attempted; atrophy of limbs advanced, patient nonresponsive, progress slow

Patient can walk with assistance of cane for short distances; no endurance

Last visit to doctor Dec 1918; prognosis for full recovery poor

None of this was a great surprise to Michael; it did confirm that most of his initial impressions had been correct. However, the extent of Seward’s injuries was far beyond what he’d been expecting. The rest of the report contained the doctor’s suggestions for physical therapy, which he could easily see lacked any ambition. At most, they would keep Seward’s body from deteriorating further, but they certainly would not improve his physical condition. Evidently even his high-priced doctors had given up on him, or they lacked an understanding of the latest techniques and exercises, or both. Whatever the reason, the hard truth was that the report left him no further ahead. He could hardly stroll down to Seward’s library one day and suggest a regimen of massage and exercise. If the recommendations of experts fell on deaf ears, the suggestions of a gardener would seem ludicrous.

Sighing, he pushed himself out of bed, unwilling to face another day of Sarah’s quiet reproach but not seeing any other option.

T
HE
late spring day soon blazed with a heat to rival midsummer, and Michael spent the entire day in the garden, the sun baking his skin as he worked. By the time it was over, he was exhausted but satisfied with his efforts in a way he hadn’t been in nearly a month. The grounds were finally starting to look the way he’d imagined, several of the early perennials in full bloom and a dozen varieties of herb and vegetable sprouting merrily in Mary’s kitchen garden. From this perspective, the freshly painted house seemed peaceful and serene, a pale jewel in a living, breathing setting.

Eventually he returned to the house, having told Mary early on that he would satisfy himself with leftovers when he came in. Eating at the dinner table with the Abbotts was becoming intolerable to him, especially now that his frustration with the situation was reaching a head. It was all he could do to keep from ripping the tray from Abbott’s hands every night, and he did not wish to be tempted today after the best day he’d had in weeks.

When he entered the kitchen just after sunset, he found Sarah and Mary at work at the kitchen table. Sarah was finishing a math lesson in her schoolbook, and both their heads were bent together as Mary murmured soft words of encouragement to her granddaughter.

As he shut the door, Mary looked up and smiled at him. “You look like a cooked lobster,” she said, not unkindly. Sarah’s gaze rose to his, then fell back to her book. “Supper’s in that infernal contraption,” she said, pointing to the refrigerator.

“Has he been gone long?” he asked. This was usually the time when Abbott returned from helping Seward prepare for bed.

Mary cast a glance at the door leading to the house, her expression grim. “Long enough,” she said. “He should be back any minute.”

Michael nodded, then retrieved and set out his own supper. He’d long since broken Mary of the habit of catering to him. She prepared his meals and washed his clothes, he’d told her; when her day was done, she didn’t need to drop whatever she was doing to serve him.

Debating with himself for a few seconds, he sat beside Sarah, easing into the chair as smoothly as possible considering all of his joints were creaking like rusty hinges. As he ate his cold pork and potatoes, he watched her write her numbers slowly and carefully, with the painstaking precision of a child.

“Careful there,” he warned when she made a small error in her multiplication. Her pencil stopped, hovered over the numbers for a moment; then she reached for the eraser and corrected herself.

“Thank you,” she said without looking up from the paper.

“Not at all,” Michael said, heart hammering against his ribs. Those were the first words she’d spoken to him in what felt like ages, and he was astonished that it meant so much to him.

Then she peeked up at him shyly, and he realized it wasn’t so astonishing. Against his will, the little thing was burrowing into his shriveled heart; he was defenseless against her.

“I burn like that, too,” she confided.

“Good thing you weren’t out today, then, or your grandmother would have two lobsters for the pot.”

This prompted a tiny smile from her, and he felt warmth diffuse through his limbs. The three of them sat companionably for a few minutes, the only sound the soft hum of the refrigerator’s compressor and the
scritch-scritch
of Sarah’s lead against the paper.

And then a muffled shout pierced the room, bringing Michael to his feet just ahead of Sarah and Mary. They raced for the hall door, Michael reaching it first and yanking it open.

Seward was hobbling toward them at a quicker pace than Michael had ever seen him manage, his expression stricken.

“It’s Thomas,” he said. “He’s collapsed. I couldn’t help him.”

Behind Michael, Mary gave a soft cry. “Where?” Michael demanded.

“In the library.”

Michael picked up his pace, running past Seward. “Is the nearest hospital in Hudson?”

“Yes,” Seward shouted back as Michael reached the door.

He found the old man lying slumped in the wing chair near the fire. Kneeling before him, Michael felt for a pulse in the wrist. It was thready and fast, but it was still there.

Behind him, he heard footsteps. Not bothering to look around, he said, “He’s alive.” Mary whispered a brief prayer of thanks, and Michael loosened Abbott’s shirt and removed his tie before lifting his slight body into his arms.

“I’m coming with you,” Mary said, and Michael nodded.

“So am I.” Michael turned to see Seward propped up against the door frame, chest heaving. Michael’s jaw clenched as the rage at Seward’s selfishness rose over his head, threatening to drown him. With a great effort of will, he resisted the urge to lash out at him. It would serve nothing, and only waste time Abbott might not have.

“If you aren’t there by the time I have the car started, we’re leaving without you,” Michael said shortly, striding off down the hall with his charge without waiting for a reply.

5

I
T
WAS
only a handful of miles to Hudson, but it took Michael twenty minutes over rutted dirt roads to reach the hospital. The car was a huge, ungainly beast, and it skidded several times as he took a particularly sharp turn.

Sarah sat with him in the front seat, grim-faced and silent, while Mary and Seward sat in the back with Abbott laid out between them. Michael had considered giving one of them instruction in how to check his pulse, then decided against it. His vital signs were weak enough that they wouldn’t be detectible over the vibration of the car’s engine, and if his heart stopped on the way, Michael doubted he’d be able to revive him. Their only hope was to reach the hospital in time.

Michael skidded to a stop outside the front doors of the main building, then bundled Abbott out of the car and up the front steps as quickly as he could, Mary and Sarah trailing behind him.

“I need help!” he shouted as he entered. Instead of bringing the hospital staff running, he managed only to startle the steel-haired woman behind the huge oak admitting desk. Her eyes widened, then rapidly narrowed in disapproval.

“Young man, please lower your voice,” she said primly, rising to her feet.

“Where’s your duty doctor?” he demanded. Shifting Abbott’s weight in his arms, he rested the old man’s head against his shoulder so that he could detect his breathing. The puff of air against Michael’s neck was faint but steady.

“Making rounds on the second floor,” she answered. “But wait! You must—”

“Sarah,” he called behind him as he started up the wide staircase, “please tell the woman your grandfather’s name and address.”

The doctor came running at Michael’s shout, boot heels clicking on the linoleum. He looked hardly older than Michael himself, blond hair neatly razored over his ears. “Yes? How can I help you?” he asked.

“Show me to an examining room,” Michael snapped.

The doctor’s deep blue gaze took a swift inventory of Michael’s work shirt and dusty trousers. “Now wait a—”

“When you actually get down to work,” Michael interrupted smoothly, “you’ll find his pulse elevated and thready, breathing weak. It’s possibly an embolism, but a mild myocardial infarction is more likely. That is,” he added as the doctor’s eyes widened, “if he’s still breathing by the time you get off your high horse.”

The young man’s mouth worked for a moment, and then he nodded. “Follow me,” he said, turning on his heel.

A
FTER
two hours that seemed interminable, Michael rose to go looking for the doctor when the doctor came to them, opening the door to the small waiting room and peering in. Mary looked up first, her face revealing nothing, only the tension in her knotted hands giving her away. When the young man did not speak right away, she put a protective arm around Sarah’s shoulders, then met his gaze.

“We’ve done all we can,” the doctor said. “He’s, ah, resting comfortably, and it—it does appear he may have suffered a myocardial infarction. When he’s strong enough, we’ll have to perform tests on him to determine the extent of the—ah, damage….”

Michael’s jaw twitched convulsively. Obviously, they weren’t teaching tact at Columbia medical school this year.

“… and we do intend to monitor his progress throughout the night. Ah, I must also ask, forgive me, but how will you be paying for his care?”

Michael stood. “I’ll be the one in his room monitoring his progress,” he said. “As for payment, you need to talk to Mister Seward, who came with us.”

The young man blinked. “John Seward? Doctor Seward’s son?”

“That’s right,” Mary answered.

“Oh, well,” the doctor said, brightening, “that settles things easily. Doctor Seward was Chief Surgeon here for twenty years. None of his relatives will ever pay for services at this hospital.”

Michael watched as Mary opened her mouth, then shut it again. “Thank you,” she said finally. “When may I see my husband?”

“I don’t imagine he’ll be awake until the morning. There’s no point in your staying, really—”

“We’ll stay,” Mary said, and there was that same steel in her tone that Michael had come to respect.

“Ah, uh, well, of course, that’s your choice,” the doctor stammered, backing toward the door. “I’ll be going off shift at 6 a.m. I’ll introduce you to Doctor Peavey before I leave.” And with a final nod, he removed himself from the room.

Mary snorted after the door closed behind him. “He has some growing to do yet.” She squeezed Sarah’s shoulders and kissed the top of her head. “How are you, my sweetling? Tired yet?” Sarah shook her head. “Well, when you get tired, lay yourself out on the chesterfield over there.”