'Yeah—well—after Natalia's suction has been working for a while—'
'Her what?'
'Got a Levin tube suctioning her until peristalsis resumes—but there's always a chance the suture line I made wasn't complete enough and I might have to open her up again—I should know in about six hours or so— gonna try and sleep.'
'I could feel for you, John—doing that—holding her life in your hands.'
'A lot of things I've been thinking about lately,' and Rourke smiled. 'I always get the impression you look to me as the problem solver—don't you?'
Embarassed slightly, Rubenstein only nodded.
'Well—if I'm so smart, how the hell come I'm in love
with my wife and I'm in love with Natalia at the same time, huh?'
Rourke said nothing else, reaching into his shirt pocket and taking one of the dark tobacco cigars and lighting it, his face more lined and tired than before.
Chapter 13
Sarah Rourke opened her eyes, her eyes, her face warm in the shafts of brilliant sunlight coming through the screened open window, the curtains blowing softly in the warm breeze. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes once, then stretching, feeling too warm in the nightgown.
'Spring,' she smiled. She had inured herself to the insanity of the seasons since the Night of The War. Today it would be spring—tomorrow it might be winter again. 'Tomorrow—' She laughed as she said the word.
She pushed down the sheet and the quilt and swung her legs over the side of the bed, standing up, barefoot, the nightgown's hem hiding her feet. She walked to the window. There was quiet—the dog not running madly with the children yet. She would shower later, she told herself.
She stepped away from the window, standing near the dresser, conscious of herself as she pulled the nightgown over her head and put it on the bed. She looked at herself—her breasts weren't exactly little anymore. Nursing two children had seen to that. But there was, as best she could tell, barely an ounce of fat on her body—the constant running, fighting—all of it since the Night of The War had seen to that.
She wondered absently—taking a bra from the dresser drawer and starting to put it on—if time in the future would be reckoned from the Night of The War—like it had been since the birth of Christ?
The irony was not lost on her.
Peace versus war.
She stepped into her panties, dismissed the idea of wearing a slip and pulled the yellow dress from the hook inside the wardrobe cabinet doors and took it from the hanger. She puHed the dress on over her head, starting to button the back of the dress mechanically, without watching, as she stared out the window.
It would be a beautiful day—perhaps so beautiful that Mary Mulliner's son would come back and bring word of contacting John—that he was well, that he was coming for her and for the children.
She began to brush her hair, her hair longer than she had kept it in years—somehow she was unwilling to cut it. She set down the brush, opened the top drawer of the dresser and began to search for a pony tail holder to keep her hair back from her face. The old blue T-shirt she had worn—it was washed, folded neatly—She looked under it. The terminally rusted . her husband had left for her, that she had carried next to her abdomen since the Night of The War.
She picked it up, her reflexes automatic now as she pushed the magazine release catch button, dropping the magazine on the bed clothes, then with her stronger right hand, the gun held in her left, drew back the Government Model's slide.
The Colt's chamber was empty. She knew it would be—but had learned never to trust to that.
She pointed the emptied gun at a safe space of exterior wall and snapped the trigger, the hammer falling with a loud 'click', an infinitesimal amount of oil felt sprayed on the web of her hand as the hammer fell.
'My God.' She simply shook her head, looking at the pistol; the sunlight and the yellow dress she wore somehow no longer the same to her.
Chapter 14
Rourke saw them—Michael and Annie. They were running—but running happily. There was a beach—they were running along it in the surf, barefooted, their pants legs rolled up but stilt hopelessly wet as the foaming water lapped against their shins, the children only half-heartedly running.
He looked at himself—the weight distribution o*f his shoulder rig felt odd to him and he lifted his shoulders under it, searching the beach—Sarah had to be there too.
He wanted to shout to Michael and Annie—but even more than holding them he wanted to watch them run—to play. Hear them laugh. Annie had grown—but somehow she hadn't changed at all. The wild-eyed little kid—
