Under the Cypress Moon (68 page)

Shylah was happy, and that was all that mattered.  Everything else was secondary.  Mark knew that he would keep going back to the E.R. to have his stomach tended to again and again if it meant keeping Shylah happy.  Her happiness was all that he wanted, all that he could want.  He would gladly die to keep that look of astonished joy on Shylah's face.  All of the pain, the agony, the worry, the threats to his health, none of it mattered at that moment.  He would devote every second of his life and endure countless atrocities and hindrances if they, in one way or another, allowed Shylah to remain in such a euphoric state.

Chapter 30

Mark's happiness soon faded into oblivion.  More and more, he began to experience mind-numbing, unbearable, utterly excruciating headaches.   Some of them felt as if he were being pounded in the head with John Henry's mighty sledge while others felt as though lightning were shooting through his skull from both ends, meeting somewhere in the middle of his brain.  Some took nearly all of Mark's sight from him.  Mark lie in bed for days on end, hardly moving from it for anything.  Shylah was beside herself with worry over the ordeal, and it was only at rare moments that Mark felt well enough to get up and rejoin society.  The majority of his time was spent in complete silence, with shades drawn tightly closed, no light on anywhere in the bedroom, and no sound allowed in or out of it.  Mark had no intentions of shutting Shylah out or treating her with anything that might be termed cruelty or neglect.  She was welcome graciously each and every time that she slipped into bed, at least, while Mark was awake. 

Mark slept so much over the ensuing several days that when he finally got up for the first substantial amount of time, on Monday morning, it felt as though he had slept for centuries.  He almost expected the world to be entirely different and represent nothing that he had known beforehand. 
It was once again time to go to the plant and check on things, but Mark hardly felt able or willing to do so.  This was the day that some, actually all, of the current foremen were to be there, ready to train their new co-leaders.   The only absentee from the list of new trainees, Mark knew, would be Cyrus Donovan.  Mark intended that a place would be found or made for Cyrus when he was able to come back, no matter what that might entail.

Shylah, instead of her brother, drove Mark to the plant and even joined him for his meeting.  Mark quickly made it known that no further meetings would be held, as none seemed necessary anymore, that his health didn't allow for it yet, and that as long as Don got everything done that he needed to and as long as all training was conducted, all would be quite well.  As Mark and Shylah left, to head to the first of Mark's two doctor's appointments that day, T.L., Darius, and a few other soon-to-be foremen began their training in the operational procedures of the foreman, a completely new and exhilarating, yet quite worrisome undertaking for them.  Training would be conducted, twice per week, for at least several hours at a time, until the plant was ready to open its doors once again.

Everyone that was receiving training, T.L. and his father, especially, knew all of the machines in the plant very well and would have no difficulties at all in supervising their workers on how to run those machines or how to maintain them adequately.  It was the paperwork, meeting, and direct necessity of dealing with employee complains and concerns that bothered them, not to mention the potential of having to deal harshly, at times, with their men and women. 

Don informed Mark, before he left, that the new elevator would be installed in two days' time, the same day that new machinery was to be installed in the new edition of the plant.  The construction crew had worked so long and so hard already and had nearly completed the entirety of their work.  There was even a chance that they would be done much earlier than had been anticipated.  Materials had been ordered and were already beginning to arrive.  Ads for employment had been placed in newspapers and on the plant's website.  Phone calls, e-mails, and applications came pouring in.  There were so many that Sam Turner and Kayla Jones had great difficulty in dealing with all of them and wondered if they might be able to hire a third HR person.
  All in all, it seemed that the revamping of the plant was coming along better than could have been hoped for and that everything would be operational very soon.

Before Mark knew it, he was at the first of his appointments and had his stitches, once and for all, removed from the back of his head.  They had been embedded into Mark's skin so long that he nearly forgot that they were there.  It had been close to two months since the fight at the Muddy Water and Mark's subsequent receipt of glass shards in his skull.  With the new injuries that Mark sustained, the appointment to check his old ones got pushed back more and more.

The next appointment, however, would not be such an easy one, Mark knew.  The appointment was with his neurologist, Dr. Maynard.  Mark did not like the man much and did not like having to go.  He already believed that the doctor would not be understanding of his headaches and dizziness and would likely tell him that they would pass with time.  He would shove a prescription at Mark and tell him that there was nothing more that he could do, save run occasional and costly tests.  Mark had no doubts at all that this would be so.

Much to Mark's lack of surprise, the appointment went almost exactly as he had foreseen.  Dr. Maynard, at first, told Mark that the cyst on his brain was now nearly the size of a quarter, yet he added that it was not growing.  Obviously, the man had no ability to tell the difference in sizes.  Mark thought that he should go back to school and learn basic measurements, maybe relearn basic math altogether.  "How is it not growing if it was the size of a dime before, and now it's the size of a quarter," Mark vehemently protested, doing all that he could to fight the urge to punch the doctor.

"Well, technically," the doctor paused for what seemed an eternal rest, "technically, it is, but it's not a threat.  It hasn't ruptured.  Unless you start having major signs of vision loss and hearing loss, there's nothing to be done.  We can keep checking to make sure that the cyst doesn't rupture, but frankly, I've seen a million of these cases and never once had to remove one.  You should be fine.  It won't hurt anything.  The surgery is expensive and risky.  I wouldn't recommend it.  So, how are those pills working out for you?"

"You mean the pills that cost almost thirty bucks apiece, only come six to a prescription, and only faze the pain half of the time? Great!"

"Half the time, huh?  I've never had anyone complain about them before.  How often do you take them?"

"Not that often.  I save 'em.  Just cuz I have money doesn't mean I wanna spend thirty bucks for one pill that I'd take all the time.  Sometimes, over the counter migraine pills work just as good or better, and they're as much for a whole bottle as those others are for one pill!  So, if the pills aren't gonna help me with the headaches or the dizzy spells, and you can't do anything else, why am I even here?"

"You don't have to be if you don't wanna be.  We can run an EEG on you, if you want.  I don't think it'll turn up anything, but that's all I know to do, short of surgery.  You wanna try that?"  The doctor seemed perplexed, not knowing what to do for Mark, not showing signs that he really cared but showing signs that he was uncomfortable in dealing with Mark's accusations and attitude. 

"What's an EEG," Mark asked, curious enough to want to know but already sensing that he would not want to try it.

"An electro-encephalograph.  It checks for scar tissue on the brain.  If there is any scar tissue, it'd possibly explain what's wrong, but I haven't seen any signs of scar tissue on your MRIs.  If there is scar tissue, we may be able to operate and remove it, but it's pretty rare for someone to have any.  I'd honestly say you don't need it.  There's really nothing more that we can do.  I can write you prescriptions, but that's it.  What do you want to do, Mark?"  Mark could tell that Dr. Maynard was only humoring him and wanted him out of his office immediately.

"You know what.  The pills you prescribed don't do a damn thing.  They are not worth thirty dollars apiece!  If that's all you can do, there's no need for anything.  C'mon, Hon.  Let's go."

Mark knew, before leaving the office, that he would never have anything else to say to Dr. Maynard and that he would never be back, no matter how much Shylah might protest.  "Doctors," Mark thought as he left, "serve a purpose sometimes, some of 'em.  Most ain't worth shit."

Shylah could see the anger displayed on Mark's face and how distraught he felt.  The doctor could and would do nothing for Mark.  He wouldn't even try.  Frustrated and angry enough to want to go back into the office and knock Dr. Maynard to the floor, Mark simply clenched his fists and let Shylah roll him to the car.  With a footstool put in front of him and his wheelchair soon lifted inside by Shylah, Mark climbed into the front passenger's seat and waited to be taken home.

Nothing seemed to make much sense anymore to Mark.  For all of his immense financial and romantic blessings, there was something required in exchange, something always detrimental to his physical and mental health.  He concealed himself, for days on end, in the bedroom, much as he had over the previous weekend.  Occasionally , he had entire days when his headaches were minimal, but more often than not, they were consuming, fiery, like the all-encompassing flames of Hell itself. 

Shylah, in order to get her mind off of all of the worry about Mark, and to guarantee that enough got done in time for the wedding, busied herself with any and every task that she could think of, meeting with Selma Simmons day after day.  With Selma's help, and that of a travel agent, it was less than two weeks before the honeymoon was booked and nearly everything else was lined up, only a few things left to do that would require either waiting or Mark's help. 
Shylah was quite pleased with herself for all of her many accomplishments, but she fretted endlessly about Mark's health.

All that was left, by October twenty-fourth, to do for the wedding, was for Shylah to try on her custom-made dress when it arrived and make sure that it fit well, get dresses for her bridesmaids, get tuxedos for Mark, T.L. (the best man), and the groomsmen, and to buy wedding rings.  The last part, Shylah would not do without Mark there with her.  She tried, again and again, to get him to go with her, but his headaches had scarcely subsided in all that time.  Invitations had been mailed, food ordered, decorations purchased, and just about every other thing that a bride contemplates and fears not having to her satisfaction.  It all came together so quickly that it boggled Shylah's mind. 

In the midst of all of this, Shylah even managed to plan and pay for a large Crady Steelworks Employee Cookout, to be held at Mark's house.  A nearby barbecue restaurant was hired to cater the event.  A stage was ordered.  Two bands, both specializing in southern rock and country, were enlisted.  It seemed far easier to throw together that party, with so little time left, than it had been to plan the wedding with several months to do so. 

On November first, there were sure to be countless numbers of employees swarming the house and yard, anxious to celebrate to upcoming reopening of the plant.  There would be so many new faces, Shylah was sure, as dozens had been hired to fill gaps and to start the weekend shift that had not run in so many years.  Quite a few of the employees willingly made the switch from their normal weekday schedule to that of the weekend, leaving many empty spots.  Now, T.L. was to be a week
end supervisor while his father supervised during the other shift, the first time in all of T.L.'s years at the plant that he and his father would not work together.  To add to the dismay, T.L. knew that he would not get to attend church again, not on Sunday, at least.  He could make it to Wednesday night services, but it would never be the same as before.  It all seemed strange to so many, but they knew that they could handle the adjustments.  Everyone was far too excited about the prospect of having full-time work once again that they cared so little about the details of it.

On the Monday before the party, October twenty-seventh, Mark finally got his stomach staples removed.  The wound had healed nicely, leaving no exposed flesh or bleeding.  A new MRI showed that Mark's intestines had also healed, dissolving the soluble sutures holding them together.  Mark could now freely walk again and not worry about opening up the wound.  He was well on the road to recovery; however, he would have to walk very slowly and painfully for a while, with the assistance of a cane, at times. 
Despite his still prevalent headaches, Mark was too happy about being free of the wheelchair and of the worry that the pains in his head and his body were hardly thoughts at all.

Mark felt so much better, with so much less worry, that he spent much of the remainder of the week helping Shylah get things ready for the wedding and for the employee barbecue.  They soon had their rings ordered, as well as Mark's and T.L.'s tuxedos.  They even managed to arrange for Dan Brady and Lou Sanders to get their tuxes ordered after normal hours, after Lou had finished work and Dan was near to start his shift for the police department.  Everything seemed to be coming completely into place, lining up so well that all involved were filled with nervous and joyous excitement.

Shylah picked, of course, her cousin Kayla as her maid of honor, but she had yet to pick out her two bridesmaids.  She had so neglected her friends in recent months that she wondered if any of them would even dare to say yes if asked.  By Thursday, she got the consent of the two friends that she could reach and had a dress fitting scheduled for them for Friday afternoon.  The last of the puzzle pieces were being put into place finally, with a month and a half to spare, which would allow the happy couple to take care of any straggling issues that might arise before that time.