how many fingers I’m holding up?”
A blurry male face, atop a white medical coat, appeared high to the left, a stethoscope draped around his neck. “Where ... where am I?” Searching, groggy-minded words dropped off cracked lips into the room’s shade-filtered sunlight. A large, black-screened, unblinking monitor hovered above the man’s shoulder. Aching lungs that wouldn’t breathe normally scared her.
“How many fingers? ... Please?” His high-pitched voice echoed sweetness.
“Two, I think.” Questions flourished and bloomed. Had she been assaulted? Would blinking eyes ever stop hurting? A parched, inflamed throat ached. More important, what happened to the people she loved. “Where’s my father? Have you heard about friends ... Sarah, Alice? Sister ... Carol?”
The boyish-looking man scribbled onto a clipboard before he tilted his chin upward. “Miss Malone, I don’t know. If your pain becomes unbearable, press the nurse call button. Your doctor entered a computer order for codeine.” He hooked the clipboard over the metal bed end.
Melissa prided herself on being a resilient person. She’d ferret out answers. Working a lifetime to assist others eliminate cancer fears meant she could help herself. “Where am I?”
“Boulder Isle Hospital.” He slid his hand along the bed rail coming into clearer focus. Metal stethoscope ear tubes clinked against its polished bell.
“My father … my friends, they okay?” Her throat ached with each word.
“Again, I don’t know. I’ve only been on duty an hour, since seven. Now rest, don’t speak. I’ve O.K.’d a soft breakfast. Eat all you can. Don’t be surprised if you can’t. Do your best.”
“The Abbey. What happened?”
“Not good. Now rest. Expect your family doctor before ten a.m. Suspect he’ll allow limited visits this afternoon. You’ll be outa here before you know it.”
“What day is this?” Eyes squinted. Straining, she couldn’t read the embroidered or stenciled name on his coat. The try set off sharp migraine pain.
“Saturday. You spent last night in emergency.” The intern departed.
* * *
Melissa, half asleep, startled by a bed rail rattle, squinted bleary eyes to adjust to the switched on room light. She blinked twice. Focused, retina images separated circular sequenced red and white carnations and yellow daisies less then three feet from the tip of her nose. The bouquet's fragrances undetected, overpowered by the room’s stronger aromatic flowers. A dimpled chin appeared to rest, centered, atop the blooms and petals.
“I’m sorry. Elbow bumped the bed.” Mark Brooks’s voice sounded flat and unemotional, sunken eyes set in a rectangular, sharp-featured face.
“You shouldn’t be here.” She’d buried their broken dating relationship deep within her. Slow-rising disillusionment simmered past the action stage weeks ago, a do-not-enter yellow sign superglued on her heart.
Mark’s florid features stiffened. Green paper crinkled as he extended the flowers. When she made neither movement nor offered words of acceptance, he in silence laid the bouquet next to the portable nightstand water pitcher. “Wished to see if you were okay. That’s all, nothing more. I’ve always felt inferior to you, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
“The flowers … they’re beautiful. Thank you.” Trained to dissuade eyes from seeking out treatment-induced baldness and immobilized extremity deformity, this ability unused for Mark had none. She’d been a witness to his ups and downs, mostly the latter, and wasn’t ready to restart their journey and desired to short-circuit, not endure, another of his self-critical monologues.
A scrubs-clad nurse strode into the room. She carried a pitcher of water; ice cubes heard sloshing against the glass sides. Melissa watched the nurse lift the flowers to her nose, inhale, and take them with. Mark stepped back and slid a foot toward the door. He halted when in a louder, but hoarse voice, Melissa said, “She’ll be back. Going for a vase.”
“Oh,” Mark replied. “Thought maybe you were allergic.”
Melissa shook head no. “That’s chocolate.” The uttered sarcastic tone hung in the air, most evident on the word’s middle syllable.
“Yeah.” He scanned the room where flowers and plants overwhelmed every inch of available windowsill or other horizontal space.
At least she had to be polite. “Why the suit? Someone said it’s Saturday.”
“Had a late afternoon client meeting. Everyone expects an attorney should be dressed up.” Mark unbuttoned his jacket. The blue-green, rep tie hung flat against a white shirt Melissa knew covered well-toned abs on a six-foot frame. No bulge as seen outside The Abbey.
“As you see, I’ve enjoyed better days.” She tried to force a smile. “A card would’ve sufficed.” With both hands, Melissa stretched the crisp starched white bed sheet and cotton blanket to her throat.
Mark compressed lips tight as the nurse placed a vase with his flowers on the nightstand. When the nurse glanced her way, Melissa nodded. “Sir, only another minute or two,” the nurse said. “Doctor ordered Ms. Malone to rest.”
“I’ll be but a minute.” The nurse left. Mark returned his gaze to Melissa. “I’ve got my own aches and pains and couldn’t stand you abandoning me.”
“I don’t wish to reconsider.” In the last month, she’d begun to analyze a romantic fulfillment hunger hundreds of times. Melissa wouldn’t launch her heart into Mark’s love boat. Better he floated away. The fire interrupted both the desire to test the waters with Rob Campbell and ignited desperation to learn the identity of the mystery man who’d either assaulted or rescued her, or perhaps both. Melissa gazed at Mark. “We’ve got to move on.”
“I’m lonely without you. Wanted you to know that.” He brushed stray hair strands from forehead to crown before they sprung forward again.
“Please...” Her voice faltered. She gazed upward, silent, and then at Mark. The nurse entered to tug at Mark’s elbow. He shrugged and departed.
Melissa, despite great wishes, couldn’t force herself to be angry with Mark. During the six months they dated, she’d learned how very self-critical he could be. There’d been fine dining and exciting expensive outings. She closed eyelids convinced his companionship lacked long-term potential.
* * *
“Melissa.”
Was the voice real or a Celtic fairy spirit?
“Melissa, can you hear me?” Rolled onto her side, Melissa’s right eyelids parted into a squint to see older sister Carol. “How you doing?” Carol’s hands rested on the raised rail.
“Oh, I’ve been better.” Snarky. Should apologize. “Sorry, Sis. It’s been a downer of a day,” she whispered. Carol leaned over the rail to pull a top sheet across Melissa’s shoulder with a chin tuck. Melissa flopped on her back and with her free hand folded the sheet to its former position uncovering her throat. She gazed at her sister circle the bed. Melissa’s lower back ached; a sharp pain cramped the right calf. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What day is it? I can’t remember.”
