Reflections of Yesterday (17 page)

“I’d like you to take your father directly to the hospital.”

Angie scooted to the edge of the woven beige cushion. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t alarm yourself. There are a few tests I’d like to run. Unfortunately, he seems averse to the idea.”

“My … my mother died in a hospital.” Angie knew how inane that sounded, but it was the only thing she could think to say. “Don’t worry, Doctor, I’ll get him there.”

Saying she’d deliver Clay to Charleston General and doing so proved to be a formidable task.

“I’m not going to any hospital,” Clay announced stubbornly.

“Dad.”

“I mean it.”

“Okay, Dad.”

Angie started the engine of the car and eased into the evening traffic.

“This isn’t the way to my house.”

“I know.”

“You’re taking me to that hospital, aren’t you?”

“Yup. You can shout, scream, and do anything else you want, but you’re going to that hospital.”

“Angie, don’t. I’m begging you, girl. You take me there and I won’t ever walk out. Mark my words. If I’m going to die, I want to be in my own bed with my own things around me.”

“You’re not going to die, you understand,” she cried, pressing back the growing fear. “I won’t let you. Now quit your arguing.”

“You’re killing me as surely as if you’d stuck a knife in my heart. You’re sentencing me to death.”

“Stop it right now, Clay Robinson. The doctor said that he was only sending you there for a few tests. You’ll be there a couple of hours. Then I’ll take you home.”

“You promise me?”

The doctor had mentioned the possibility of admitting Clay, depending on the test results. “I promise that you’re going for tests.”

“But you won’t let them keep me, will you?”

“We’ll see.”

“Angie.” Clay doubled over in the front seat, gripping his stomach. “Oh God, the pain. I
can’t take it.”

Angie’s hand tightened around the steering wheel. “I’m hurrying, Dad. We’ll be there in a minute.” Pressing on her horn, Angie wove in and out of traffic, driving at breakneck speed. She pulled up to the emergency entrance and rushed inside for help. Two men with a stretcher raced to her car and jerked open the passenger door. By the time they arrived, Clay was writhing with agony. He tossed his head to and fro and flung his arms out like a madman.

“Angie,” he cried pitifully. “Don’t let them take me.”

“Daddy.” She gripped his hand. “You’re sick; they only want to help you.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. “They’re taking me to my death.”

The two attendants stopped her from going inside the emergency room cubicle. Angie came to a halt outside the room and leaned against the wall, needing its support to remain upright. Clay was right. He was going to die and there wasn’t anything she could do about it. She wiped the tears from her face and smiled gratefully to the nurse who led her to a seat in the waiting room. What seemed like hours later, but could have been only a few minutes, a doctor approached her.

“I’m afraid your father will require emergency surgery.”

“Why?”

“He has diverticulitis.”

The word meant nothing to Angie. “Will he be all right?”

The doctor hesitated. “We’ll let you know as soon as we do. If you’d like, you can see him for a few minutes before we take him upstairs.”

“Yes, please.” Angie followed the doctor into the cubicle. Clay lay with his eyes closed on the stretcher bed, his face as ashen as the sheets and marked with intense pain.

“Oh Dad,” she whispered, reaching for his hand and kissing his fingers.

He rolled his head to the side and tried to smile. “I want you to remember that I always loved you, Angelcake. You were the light of your mother’s and my world.”

“Daddy, don’t talk like this.”

“Shhh … a man knows when he’s going to die.” He was so calm, so sure. “I’m ready to meet my Maker …” His voice faded. “Lots of regrets … loved you.”

As the hours passed, Angie grew as certain as Clay that this day would be his last. And with the certainty came the realization that there was nothing she could do. She prayed, pleaded,
bargained with God to spare her father. Forcing happy thoughts into her troubled mind, she recalled the times as a little girl that he’d sung her to sleep and made up jingles just for her. He’d tugged her pigtails and called her his Angelcake. She remembered how desolate Clay became after her mother’s death and knew she would feel the same without this roguish old man to love. He was a rascal, a scoundrel, a joy, and a love, all in one. Life wouldn’t be the same without him. He was her link to the past and her guide to the future. And he was dying.

Sweat outlined the greenish-blue surgical gown the doctor wore when he approached Angie several hours later. She could see from the disturbed frown that marred his face that his news wasn’t good.

Linking her hands together, Angie slowly rose to her feet, bracing herself for the worst.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “We don’t expect him to last the night.”

Angie’s head jerked back as if the man had physically struck her. “Can I see him?”

“In a few minutes.”

“Is there someone you’d like to call?” he asked her gently.

Blankly Angie stared at the exhausted man. Clay hadn’t been to church in years. There was no one in all the world she wanted now, save one.

“Yes, please,” she murmured, her voice barely audible. The card he’d given her was in her purse. The phone number was inked across the printed surface of the business card. For several exaggerated seconds she stared at the telephone dial, knowing what it would mean if she called.

He answered on the sixth ring. “Yes?”

“Simon,” she whispered, trying to gain control of her voice. “Clay is dying. I need you.”

The early light of dawn had washed away the dark, lonely night. Angie sat beside her father’s hospital bed, pressing her forehead against the cold metal railing, fighting off the enfolding edges of exhaustion. Clay remained unmoving, his head lolled to one side as he battled for each breath. Nurses moved in and out of the room with silent steps as they checked Clay’s vital signs and marked their findings on the metal clipboards they carried.

Sunlight crept through the slits in the blinds, and the nurse quietly turned them completely closed. Angie yearned to tell her that she wanted Clay to die with the sun in his eyes. But it took more energy than she could muster just to speak. Instead she waited until the woman had left the room, and then she stood, intent on opening the blinds and flooding the room with glorious light.

“Angie.” Simon’s husky voice stopped her.

An overpowering surge of relief washed over her as she turned to him. They met halfway into the private room, reaching out to each other like lost souls released from a hellish trap. Simon’s arms surrounded her, and he lifted her feet from the floor as he buried his face in her hair.

“Thank you,” she whispered chokingly, over and over. Her body shook violently as she clung to him with the desperation of a drowning woman.

“Angie,” he answered. “Tell me what happened.” Simon’s gaze drifted to the face of the man on the bed. For all his differences with Clay Robinson over the years, Simon felt a stirring sense of loss. Angie and her father had always been close, and her grief affected him now more than he would have believed. Her softly murmured phrases were unintelligible and he could do little more than smooth the hair from her brow and hold her close to his warmth.

The doctor arrived, and Angie and Simon stepped outside the room while the middle-aged man with the serious, dark eyes examined Clay.

Angie’s hand held Simon’s in a tight grip as if she were afraid that he would leave her. If it were up to Simon they would spend the rest of their lives together, starting at this moment.

“Dad had diverticulitis.”

Simon blinked and repeated the words. “What does it mean?”

“I’m not sure I know exactly, but from what the doctor explained, the intestines have tiny sacs along the outside edges. When the diet doesn’t include enough roughage, these sacs can fill and become infected. That’s what happened to Clay. His infection was so advanced that the sacs were filled and ready to burst. If they had, he’d be dead now. As it is … his chances aren’t good.” She paused and ran her fingertips along the hard, sculptured line of his jaw. “How did you get here?”

“Drove.” He hadn’t stayed under the speed limit the entire way. The desperation in Angie’s voice had affected him like nothing he had ever known. Angie had always been the strong one in any crisis. People leaned on her. From the time they were in their teens, Simon had marveled at the way others sought her out with their problems. Now in her own grief, Angie had turned to him. Simon’s heart pounded with the comfort he found in that. She hadn’t called on Glenn, who was so close and who would have been so willing. She had reached out to him.

“Oh Simon, I’m so sorry to put you through this.”

“Don’t be.” He took her in his arms again, unable to keep from holding her. “I tried to book a charter but couldn’t last-minute like this, so I drove.” He didn’t mention the fruitless time spent trying to locate a private plane and pilot. “I’m here now and I’m staying. That’s all that matters.”

“The doctor didn’t think Clay would last the night, but he has. That’s a good sign, don’t you think?”

She was pleading with him like a small child, as if it were in his power to change the course of fate. Gently he kissed her temple. “Yes, I think it must be.” The sight of the old man shook Simon. The Clay Robinson on the bed was barely recognizable as the man Simon had known. Clay had aged drastically in the past twelve years. His hair was completely gray now, and the widow’s peak was more pronounced. His skin color was beyond pale, the grayish hue of a man just on the other side of death. Simon ached with compassion for Angie; his heart surged with the need to protect her from this.

When the doctor reappeared, Simon slipped his arm around her shoulders and held her protectively to his side.

“He made it through the night,” Angie said eagerly, the grip on her emotions fragile.

The doctor’s returning smile was tight. “Yes, he’s surprised us all.”

“How much longer will it be before we know?”

“It could be days. I suggest you two go home and get some rest. The hospital will contact you if there’s any change in your father’s condition.”

Angie turned stricken eyes to Simon, communicating her need to remain at Clay’s bedside. “Would it be all right if we stayed awhile longer?” Simon asked.

“If you wish. Only I don’t think it’s necessary to continue a twenty-four-hour vigil. Mr. Robinson is resting comfortably now. I doubt that his condition will change over the next several hours. At this point I’d say we are optimistically hopeful for his recovery.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Angie whispered fervently, her trusting, dark eyes filling with tears of gratitude.

“No need to thank me. I can do only so much; the rest remains with God and your father.”

Together the couple returned to Clay’s room. With Simon on the other side of the bed, Angie sat across from him, her hand gripping the railing as if needing to hold on to something tangible in a sea of uncertainty.

Simon coaxed her once to get something to eat, but she refused with a hard shake of her head. Her hand clasped Clay’s and she whispered soothingly, as if her words would give him comfort. Gradually her head began to droop, and eventually she propped it up against the back of her hand as it gripped the metal barrier.

“Come on, Angie.” Simon spoke softly, taking her by the shoulders. “Let me drive you home. You need your rest. We’ll come back later.”

Rubbing the sleep from her face, Angie yawned and slowly shook her head. She’d been awake for more than thirty-six hours and was so rummy that she would have agreed to anything. Simon was here. She trusted him. Simon would take care of everything.

He helped her stand, and she leaned her cheek against his chest as he looped an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the parking lot and into the bright light of day.

The sun was shining and reflected off the hood of his sports car as Simon drove down the busy Charleston streets. Most of the traffic was heading for the downtown area, and since they were traveling in the opposite direction, toward Angie’s apartment, they weren’t hampered by rush hour.

Once inside the apartment, Angie flipped the switch to the air conditioner. Immediately a shaft of cooling air weaved its way through the apartment.

“You go ahead and get ready for bed; I’ve a few phone calls to make,” Simon said softly. He wanted to contact the flower shop so they wouldn’t worry about Angie not showing up and to call his bank.

His words barely registered as Angie moved into her bedroom and began stripping off her blouse and slacks. She glanced longingly into the bathroom and decided to shower.

Simon heard the running water and paused to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. While waiting for Angie he discovered that the hall cupboard held an extra set of bedding. He’d get whatever sleep he could on the sofa when the opportunity presented itself.

Spreading the sheets for his makeshift bed, Simon felt a great weight ease from his heart. These past days without Angie had driven him to the brink of insanity. The agony of walking away from her with nothing more than a few parting words had filled him with regrets. His mind had ached like a throbbing bruise that didn’t lessen with time, taunting him. Like Lambert, Simon had gambled. Clay’s illness had hastened Angie’s ultimate decision, but Simon had realized the minute he picked up the phone and heard her voice that she would never leave him again. She was his and would always be his.

The sound of running water stopped and Angie reappeared, standing just inside the living room. Her thin satin gown was lilac-colored. Simon’s breath stopped short. She was so exquisitely beautiful that he slowly straightened, unable to tear his gaze from her. Her loveliness reminded Simon of the way she’d come to him in the clearing in the woods. The neckline of the gown formed a deep V to reveal the valley between her breasts, and she stood there waiting for him, as innocent as spring.