She approached the bed slowly, then pulled a chair up beside it. She was so focused on adjusting to the sight of this immobilized man and reconciling it with the always-on-the-go man her father had once been that she was barely aware of the nurse leaving her alone in the room.
“Daddy,” she whispered, reaching out to touch his hand, which was lying on top of the sheet. It seemed like the only part of him not attached to some sort of wire or tube. It was warm and callused, the way she remembered. His forearm and hand were tan from working outside, but there was a band of white skin where his wedding band had been. The absence of that ring made him seem even more vulnerable. She linked her fingers with his.
“Oh, Daddy, what have you gone and done?” she asked, tears gathering in her eyes.
To her shock, he stirred slightly, almost as if he’d heard her.
“Don’t move,” she told him. “Just rest and get your strength back. I’m going to stay right here until you’re on the mend.”
Maybe it was only the respirator doing its job, but a sigh seemed to shudder through him at her words. She wanted to believe that he knew she was here, that he was glad she was here, but that was probably nothing more than wishful thinking.
It didn’t matter, though, because she had no intention of leaving until he was out of danger and could tell her himself to leave, if that was what he wanted. Maybe, though, maybe for once, he would ask her to stay.
* * *
When he came back from the cafeteria with three cups of coffee, Tom spotted Jeanette’s mother in the waiting room. There was no mistaking her. She had the same dark eyes, though hers were sunken and filled with worry. Her face had the same gamine shape, though on her it appeared gaunt. Her flowered cotton dress was faded from too many washings, but it had been neatly pressed and she still had the lithe figure of her daughter. She was working a rosary through her fingers, her lips moving silently.
Tom approached, but didn’t interrupt her. He took a seat nearby and waited until she looked up.
“Mrs. Brioche?”
Confusion filled her eyes, then alarm. “Is it Michael? Is he okay? Has something happened?”
“Everything’s okay, as far as I know. I’m sorry if I scared you. I’m not a doctor. I’m a friend of Jeanette’s. I drove her to the hospital.”
She glanced around the waiting room. “She’s here?”
“She’s in with your husband now. I went to get coffee. Would you like some?” He offered her a take-out cup. She accepted it, but didn’t drink. Instead, she held the cup in both hands, as if absorbing the warmth.
“I’m Tom McDonald, by the way,” he told her. “I’m the town manager in Serenity.”
“I see,” she said distractedly, then stood up. “I should probably get Jeanette. They don’t want us staying in there too long.”
“I’m sure she’ll be out soon,” he said. “Why don’t you take a break while you can. Would you like something to eat? I can go down to the cafeteria again and bring back some soup or a sandwich.”
She shook her head. “You’re very kind, but no. I’m not hungry.” She glanced toward the intensive care unit. “Since Jeanette is in with her father, I believe I’ll go to the chapel. I didn’t want to be that far away when no one else was here, you know, in case something happened.”
“Then go now,” Tom encouraged. “I’ll tell Jeanette where to find you.”
“You won’t be leaving as soon as she’s visited with her father?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, then.”
Tom watched her go, then took a sip of his own coffee. It was bitter, but hot. He thought about the encounter with Mrs. Brioche, but couldn’t quite decide what to make of it. Obviously she was worried about her husband, but she’d hardly spared a thought for Jeanette and what she might be feeling. He was beginning to grasp what Jeanette had meant about her family being disconnected. By comparison, his own family was a role model. For all of the ridiculous emphasis on social stature, the frequent and volatile disagreements over the choices their son and daughters were making, and the unwelcome intrusiveness, he’d never once doubted that he and his sisters were loved. If anything, they were loved too much. When he’d had that injury playing college baseball, the entire family had gathered at the hospital within hours, driving the doctors and nurses crazy with their questions. His father had wanted to fly in specialists. His mother, predictably, had wanted to bringing in a caterer to be sure he was well-fed. Like so many Southern women of her generation, she equated food with both hospitality and crises.
He looked up and saw Jeanette walking slowly toward him, her cheeks damp with tears. He was on his feet in an instant. “You okay?”
She nodded, her eyes dull. “He’s not even breathing on his own,” she said, her voice choked. “They have him on a respirator and both legs are in casts. It’s awful.” She glanced around the waiting room. “I thought my mother would be in here.”
“She was. I spoke to her for a few minutes. She went to the chapel. She should be back shortly or you can go there if you’d like to, maybe say a prayer for your father.”
“Let me guess. She was working her rosary beads.”
“She was.”
Jeanette sighed. “Before Ben died, we hardly ever went to church except on holidays like Christmas and Easter. It wasn’t that we weren’t religious, I don’t think. It was just that most of the year, my dad worked seven days a week trying to keep the farm afloat. My mother worked the fields with him, and when we were old enough, so did
