Defiant Heart (27 page)

Jon nodded. He took the envelope he’d removed and slid it back into the stack. Then he put the bundle into his knapsack.

There was a rumbling noise, then the sound of gears being downshifted. A block away, a bus turned the corner and headed for the depot. A backlit sign on a panel above the windshield read “Indianapolis.”

“Now,” his grandmother said, “the rest of your clothes and things will be waiting for you when you get back. So will I.”

Jon had no idea what to say. There was a slight squeal of protest from the brakes as the bus pulled up to the curb behind him. With a metallic creak, the passenger door opened.

Without warning, his grandmother stepped forward and put her arms around Jon, pulling him to her. He dropped his knapsack and folded his own arms around her. It suddenly struck Jon just how small and frail she was. His grandmother had always seemed so fierce and indestructible to him. She squeezed him tightly, and he reciprocated.

One of the men cleared his throat, and Jon stepped back. His grandmother raised her chin and, in a clear voice, she said, “You return safely. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. Then he picked up his knapsack, turned, and got on the bus.

12

As she had done every weekday morning for the past three months, Penelope Radkovich paused in front of the door to room 207 and said a quick prayer before stepping in. As usual, she called upon Saint Camillus of Lellis and St. Jude Thaddeus. However, because it was a Monday, and, in particular, the Monday after a long Fourth of July weekend, she also made an appeal to the Blessed Virgin Mary, who was the namesake of the poor girl in room 207. She then made the sign of the cross and stepped over the threshold.

As had been the case every day for the last three months, the pretty girl lay motionless in the bed, attached by a series of tubes and wires to the various plastic bags and monitoring devices arranged around her. Unfortunately, no change for the better. Fortunately, none for the worse.

Penelope, known as Penny to her friends, first opened the curtains to let in the bright morning sun. Even though the nurses said it made no difference to comatose patients, Penny considered it important that there be sunlight during the day. Perhaps, she thought, somewhere in the deep place the girl’s mind had gone it would have some salutary benefit.

On the chart attached to the foot of the bed, Penny wrote down the levels of liquid in the bags that provided nourishment to the girl and collected her waste. Lifting the light blanket, she massaged the girl’s right leg, starting with the ankle and working up to the thigh. She did the same with the left leg. Then she put her hands under the girl’s arms and lifted. Penny had grown up on a farm doing chores that would have fallen to the boys had her parents had any. With the strength she had developed on the farm, and with an experience borne from doing this work over the past five years, Penny easily turned the girl’s body on its side, and she massaged her back and buttocks, checking as she did so for signs of bedsores.

When she was finished, Penny returned the girl to her original position. She delicately pushed back a lock of blond hair that had strayed across the girl’s forehead. For good measure, she said another quiet prayer. Then she arranged the blanket, turned and walked to the door.

“May I have some water?”

Penny froze, unsure whether she had really heard or just imagined the sound. It had come from behind her. Barely audible, it couldn’t even be said to have qualified as a whisper so much as an exhalation of breath that carried with it a hint of phonetics. Penny turned slowly. The girl still lay in the same position, motionless, nothing to indicate any change in condition. However, as Penny took a step toward the bed, she realized that, through barely opened slits, a pair of extraordinarily blue eyes were looking back at her.

#

“When will she be able to go home?” Jim Dahlgren asked.

He was sitting in the office of the chief resident of neurology at the Terre Haute Regional Medical Center. The man’s tag read “Dr. Hudson.” Over the past several months, Dahlgren had encountered many of the doctors at the hospital. This one was new to him.

The doctor shook his head. “Difficult to say. Recovery from a coma is usually a gradual process, and it can be complicated by physical or psychological problems. I can tell you that, at this point, Mary is making good progress. Each day, she’s awake a little bit longer. She’s still very confused, however. It’s going to be interesting to see how she reacts when she sees you.”

Dahlgren was surprised. “Why is that?”

“Often with patients awakening from a comatose state, there’s some memory loss.”

“You mean she might not remember me?”

The doctor tilted his head and made a gesture with one hand as if to say, Perhaps.

Dahlgren processed the information. It had been a shock when he’d received the call earlier in the week letting him know that Mary had awoken, if only for a few minutes. He’d been prepared to make the trip down from Jackson right away, but the doctor had suggested he wait a few days to see how Mary responded to treatment. It had worked well with his schedule. He was in heavy campaign mode.

Dahlgren had prevailed in the Republican primary election a month earlier, defeating his two opponents handily. For the past several weeks, he had been criss-crossing the congressional district, giving stump speeches, attending fund-raisers and meeting with prominent supporters. His poll numbers were surging. Though he still trailed the Democratic incumbent, it was a workable margin, and he had all the momentum.

“When can I see her?” Dahlgren asked.

The doctor put two hands on his desk, preparing to stand. “How about now?”

They took the stairs to the second floor, and the doctor led Dahlgren down the hall to a door marked “207.” He rapped perfunctorily on the open door and stepped in. Dahlgren followed.

It was a small room, brightly illuminated by sunlight pouring in from the window. The space was dominated by a bed, the head of which was set against the wall to the left. On the far side of the bed, a woman whom Dahlgren judged to be in her mid- to late-twenties sat in a chair. She was not wearing a nurse’s cap or uniform. Instead, she was dressed in a plain, white smock. She had a name tag that Dahlgren couldn’t read, and a tiny gold crucifix hung from her neck.

In her left hand, the woman held a small cup with a straw. The other hand was supporting the head of the patient who occupied the bed. It took Dahlgren a moment to process the fact that the tiny figure in the bed was his daughter.

Mary’s face was pale, almost the color of the white sheet on which she lay. It appeared thin and drawn. Her eyes, however, were still the same stunning blue, and when they saw him, they opened wide.

She pushed the straw from her lips with her tongue and said, “Dad.”

She said it so softly, he could barely hear it. He stepped over to the side of the bed, and Mary followed him with her eyes. She did not otherwise move. Dahlgren looked back, uncertainly, at the doctor.

“Why don’t you take her hand,” the doctor said.

Mary’s right hand rested on the top of the blanket. Dahlgren reached for it and put it between his. It felt limp at first. But then he detected just the slightest stirring. Mary’s eyes crinkled slightly, and the corners of her mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles.

“Good to see you, Dad,” she whispered.

He increased the pressure slightly on her hand, and she seemed to respond with a movement of her own.

“Penny,” the doctor said, “will you give us a moment?”

The woman nodded. She gently lowered Mary’s head to the pillow, touched Mary briefly on the shoulder and rose. Mary’s eyes followed her. She gave Mary a smile, turned and walked out of the room.

The doctor stepped around to the other side of the bed, took Mary’s left hand in one of his and said, “Mary, try to squeeze my hand.”

He paused a moment. Then he said, “Good.” He looked at Dahlgren. “She’s getting stronger.”

The doctor turned his attention to Mary. “Mary,” he said, “do you know where you are?”

After a moment, she gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

“Where?”

“The hospital,” she said, faintly.

“Do you know what happened to you?”

There was a long pause. Mary’s eyes seemed to cloud. Finally, she moved her head slightly to the side and back.

The doctor patted her hand. “That’s ok,” he said. He looked at Dahlgren. “That’s very common.”

#

Mary reached a hand out slowly, put a finger on one of the white checkers and slid the piece diagonally.

She was sitting up in bed. Late afternoon sunshine glowed in the window and cast what looked like a halo around the hair on Penny’s head. Mary chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Penny asked, without taking her eyes off the board. “You think you got me now, huh?”

Mary shook her head. “No. I was looking at the light shining through your hair.”

Penny looked up and unconsciously patted her own head. “What? Does it look bad?”

“No,” Mary said, and she laughed. “It looks beautiful.”

Penny’s cheeks reddened. “Oh, yeah. Gorgeous.”

Penny, Mary knew, had some self-esteem issues. She was not, Mary had to admit, a classically beautiful woman. Her face was a little long, and her features were somewhat plain. The side of one of her eyes drooped slightly, the result, Penny had explained, of a kick she’d received from a horse as a little girl.

To Mary, however, Penny was beautiful.

The young woman had been an almost constant companion from the time Mary had awakened to find herself in the hospital. In the several weeks they’d spent together, Mary had grown extremely fond of her. Penny had one of the purest hearts Mary had ever known. She was very devout, and had at one time considered becoming a nun. However, as much as Penny loved God, she also loved her husband Andy. The two had been married at a young age, and, though they’d been unable to conceive the child they both so much wanted, they were happy together.

Andy had worked as an attendant in the mental health ward of the hospital until he’d been drafted into the army a couple of months earlier. Penny had found her calling serving as a nurse’s assistant and caring for bedridden patients like Mary. It was something she’d been doing for several years now, and, for Penny, it represented a reasonable substitute for the service to God she had passed up.

Whatever the reasons that had brought Penny to her, Mary thanked God that He had seen fit to let it happen.

Penny had taken to spending time with Mary after her shift ended in the afternoon. She’d also begun coming in on the weekends. Though delighted to have her companionship, Mary had expressed concerns about monopolizing Penny’s time. Penny had dismissed them outright. “Don’t even start with me about that,” she had said. “I can’t stand sitting alone in that apartment. All I’ll do is think about Andy, and then all I’ll do is worry.”

Penny used one of her pieces to jump over two of Mary’s, and she removed the eliminated pieces from the board.

Mary concentrated on bringing her arm over and taking hold of the piece she wanted to move. Mentally, she felt strong. For a few weeks after waking up, she had been confused and easily tired. Thankfully, that feeling had passed. She still, however, struggled with physical movements, needing to think about what she was doing.

She gripped the piece she wanted, slowly raised it and moved it over the first of the three checkers she intended to jump. As she set it down on the first square, Penny slapped herself on the forehead and said, “I do not believe I did that.”

Mary slowly completed the triple. She sat back and said, with a grin, “Crown me.”

Penny chuckled and added the additional piece to the one Mary had just played. “When you move slowly like that, it fools me. It’s easy to forget that your mind is sharp as a tack.”

Mary laughed. “I’m doing it intentionally, you know.”

Penny, who was hunched over the board, said, “I can believe that.”

“Have you heard from Andy?”

Penny looked up and nodded. “I got a letter today. He’s done with basic training. He sounded happy about that. He’s not sure where he goes next.” Her brow furrowed. “Or, at least, he’s not telling me.”

“Oh, Penny, I know. Let’s just hope we stay out of the war.”

Penny gave Mary an odd look.

“What?” Mary said, after a moment.

Penny continued staring at Mary. After a moment, Mary started to become concerned. She opened her mouth to speak, but Penny said, “Mary, do you remember Pearl Harbor?”

Mary thought for a moment. “I’ve heard of it. It’s in Hawaii, right?”

“That’s it?”

Mary smiled. “I’ve never been there, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Penny looked down for a moment, then back up. “Do you know what month this is?”

“Sure. It’s August.” Penny had just celebrated a birthday the week before. August 18. It stuck in Mary’s mind because it had been just one day removed from the day that had been her mother’s birthday, August 19.

Penny nodded her head. “And do you know what year it is?”

The question surprised Mary. And, for some reason, it made her feel uneasy. Slowly, she said, “I think I do.”

Penny arched her eyebrows.

“Isn’t it,” Mary said, suddenly uncertain, “1941?”

Penny blinked her eyes a couple of times. Finally, she reached out a hand and took one of Mary’s. “Mary,” she said, “it’s 1942.”

#

“There’s really nothing Mary can’t do at this point,” the doctor explained to Jim Dahlgren. They were sitting in the hospital cafeteria. It was the same doctor Dahlgren had met when he had visited Mary in early July.

Mary was finally ready to be discharged. She’d been deemed fit to travel and capable of functioning on her own. Dahlgren had made the drive to Terre Haute that morning, and the doctor had suggested they spend some time talking before he picked her up.

“She still has a little motor impairment,” the doctor continued. “Some physical activities continue to require concentration. But that’ll get better, especially once she’s home and in a familiar environment.”