Light-headed, John stepped back.
“We’ll take care of it, sir.”
It was Jeremiah.
John nodded and handed the shovel over.
He walked away, heading towards the park. Jennifer and her sister were in the playground, Jennifer sitting on a swing, her big sister sitting on the ground by her side.
Jennifer looked up at his approach. Elizabeth stood up, tears streaming down her face, and came up to his side. Is it over?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I should stay with her, Dad.”
“You did the right thing.”
“You’ve got to talk with her,” and Elizabeth’s voice broke. “She’s thinking about…” Her voice trailed off. “Go take care of your grandmother.”
“Sure, Dad.”
He went up to the swing and looked down at Jennifer. “You ok, sweetie?”
She didn’t speak, head lowered. She had brought Rabs along and was clutching him tight.
John fumbled, fighting the fever, not sure what to say, afraid of what might be said.
“Remember when I used to push you on this swing?” he said, filled now with nostalgia for that time when Mary was still alive and they’d bring the girls down here to play, to feed the ducks, and, while Mary still had the strength, to walk around the lake.
He got behind Jennifer, reached down with one hand to pull the swing back.
“How about we do it again? I’ll push to get you started.” And with that she was off the swing, crushing herself against his side, sobbing.
“Daddy, when will I be buried here?” He knelt down and she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Daddy, don’t bury me here. I’d be afraid during the night. I always want to stay close to you. Please don’t bury me here.” He dissolved into tears, hugging her tight.
“I promise, sweetheart. You have years and years ahead. Daddy will always protect you.”
She drew back slightly and looked at him with solemn eyes, eyes filled with the wisdom of a child. “I don’t think so, Daddy.” That was all she said.
Later he would remember that they remained like that for what seemed an eternity and then gentle hands separated them, Jen’s hands. And strong hands. Ben, John’s two students, helped him back to the car and then the fever drowned out all else.
CHAPTER SEVEN
He awoke feeling so weak he could barely lift his head. “So the good professor is back from the dead.” He turned his head, focused; it was Makala.
She put the back of her hand to his forehead, a finger to his throat, and held it there for several seconds.
“Fever’s broke. Figured that during the night. Good pulse, too.” She smiled. “Well, John Matherson, I think you’re going to pull through just fine now.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, you had it bad, real bad. Doc Kellor was right, staph infection. I thought there was a chance that was your problem but hoped it was something simpler and the Cipro would knock it out.
“Thought we’d lose you there for a couple of days. Or at the very least your hand.”
Panicked, he looked down. His hand was still there. Shriveled, sore, but still there.
“Twice its normal size three days back. Started to look like septicemia and gangrene. But we kept hand and soul attached. Charlie Fuller approved some rather rare antibiotics for you, just a few doses left now in our reserves, and Doc Fuller was up here pumping them into you.”
“All that from a cut.”
“I told you to wash it out thoroughly and keep it bandaged,” she said chastisingly. “I regret now not coming up here that first night and doing it personally, but you might of seen that as too forward of me.”
“Wish you had, forward or not.”
She smiled and with a damp cloth wiped his brow.
“I’m hungry.”
“I’ll get you some soup.”
“Bathroom?”
“I’ll get a bedpan.”
“Like hell,” he whispered.
“Don’t be embarrassed, for God’s sake. I’ve been your nurse for the last week.”
“Help me up.”
“OK then, but if you feel light-headed, get back down.”
She helped him to his feet. He did feel light-headed but said nothing; in fact, he felt like shit, mouth pasty, an atrocious taste. He brushed his good hand against his face, rough stubble actually turning into a beard, and just had a general feeling of being gritty and disgusting.
He pushed her aside at the bathroom door and went in. Used the toilet—fortunately someone had filled up the tank—and looked longingly at the bathtub. He so wanted a bath, to wash off.
Later, we’ll have to boil up some water, I’ll be damned if I take a cold bath. He brushed his teeth. The tube of toothpaste was nearly empty and beside it was a glass filled with ground-up wood charcoal. He used the toothpaste anyhow—that alone made a world of difference—and came back out.
There was a smell, food, and he felt ravenous and slowly walked back into the living room. Makala was out on the porch stirring a pot. The old grill was pushed to one side; it must have finally run out of propane. Someone, most likely Ben or a couple of John’s students, had rigged up something of an outdoor stove out of an old woodstove, its legs jacked up with cinder blocks underneath so the cook didn’t have to bend over.
Makala looked at him and smiled.
“Hot dog soup with some potatoes mixed in. I’d suggest a merlot, but the wine steward has the day off.”
John smiled and sat down at the patio table. “Where are the girls?”
“Jen took them out for a walk with the dogs.”
Makala set the bowl down. Sure enough, it was hot dogs, cut up into bite-size pieces, mixed in with potatoes. He dug in, the first few spoonfuls scalding hot.
“Take it slow.” She laughed, sitting down across from him, pushing the meat around with her spoon before taking a taste. She grimaced slightly. “I’m definitely not a cook.”
“It’s great.”
“It’s just because you’re hungry. What I wouldn’t give for shrimp, chilled jumbo shrimp, a salad, a nice glass of chardonnay.” He looked up at her.
“If you hadn’t saved my life, I think I’d tell you to shut up,” he said with a bit of a grin.
She smiled back and he could not help but notice how her T-shirt, sweat soaked, clung to her body. His gaze lingered on her for several seconds until she made eye contact with him again.
“My, you are getting healthy again,” she said softly, still smiling, and he lowered his eyes.
The potatoes were good, though still a bit undercooked. He scraped down to the bottom of the bowl, picked it up to sip the last of the greasy fluid, and set it back down.
“More?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Just take it slow. You had a rough siege of it there. Staph infections like that, well, you are one tough guy to be up on your feet.” She stood and refilled his bowl. “The girls, how are they?”
