Breakdown (40 page)

He stood in the dark, his stomach a tight knot, his mouth dry, his fists clenched. He didn’t want to answer her.

“The truth, Michael,” she said softly. “From what you’ve seen, what are his chances?”

“Not good. I’m sorry, but...not good at all.”

She sniffed again, rubbed at her eyes. “Thank you for being honest.” She turned and went back to her room. Michael stood, watched her doorway, listened to Chris’s labored breathing.

He hadn’t really thought of Chris as a friend when he’d picked him up in Hurleigh. He had done it for Pauline. If there was anything he wanted, it was for Pauline to be happy. He had never been able to make her happy, not for long; he knew that. Even so, it had startled him when he’d arrived in Breton in July and Chris was still there. It had hurt when Pauline had been so short with him. He would have denied being jealous, but looking back, he knew he had been, and his interference had caused Chris to leave. Taking Pauline to Hurleigh for a visit had been his way of making it up to the two of them, without having to say “sorry.”

The trip from Hurleigh—the ambush, the way Chris had taken control and done what needed to be done—had shocked Michael at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that Chris was a man who knew his way around this changed world, a man who had finally realized where he wanted to be, and with whom he wanted to be. Seeing Chris once they’d got to the house, taking care of Pauline and Wes, so gentle and soft-spoken, erased any lingering doubts Michael might have had. He had felt a sense of relief knowing Chris was going to be here, in this family, taking care of them. Pauline wouldn’t be alone anymore.

Now Michael stood in the dark hallway and clenched his fists, shaking with anger and helplessness. Why did Chris have to be the one person to get the fatal strain?
It should have been me. No one would miss me.

He turned to go downstairs and saw Wes huddled on the bottom step. He went down, stopped two steps above the boy, sat down.

“Pauline was crying,” Wes said.

“Yes.”

“Chris is worse.”

“Yes, I’m afraid he is.”

“Is he going to die?”

Michael rubbed at his face, took a deep breath. He put out a hand toward Wes’s shoulder, but the boy flinched before he even touched him and moved away a bit, toward the wall. “Aw, Wes,” Michael said.

“Is he?”

“I think he might. I don’t know for sure, but he’s awfully ill.”

“When?”

“I don’t know. Maybe tonight.”

Wes sat silently, arms crossed on his knees, shaking.

“Do you want to go up and see him?”

“No!”

“Are you sure?”

Wes jumped up and ran into the kitchen. Michael followed and got there as the back door slammed closed.

“Where’s he going?” Marie said.

“I’ll go after him,” Michael said. “I have to go out to the rig for something anyway.”

“How’s Chris?” she asked.

Michael turned to her and George, seated at the table. “He’s not good,” he said and found he couldn’t go on. He shook his head. Neither of them spoke.

Michael got his torch from the shelf, and his and Wes’s jackets from their hooks, and stepped out into the cold night. He went across the dark yard to the barn. The door stood open a crack, and he squeezed through. He heard Wes crying. He aimed his light into the corner, saw him curled up in a hay pile, on top of a blanket.

“Go away!” Wes wailed.

Michael went over to him. “I brought your jacket. It’s cold out here.” He draped it over Wes and stepped back. “I’m sorry, Wes. I know it hurts.”

“Go away!”

“It’s too cold for you to stay out here. If I leave you alone for a little while, will you come back inside? It’s nearly supper. Don’t you want supper?”

Wes sniffed hard. “Okay.”

“Good. Okay, then. I’ll see you inside in a little while.”

“Leave me alone.”

Michael left him in the hay, slipped back out the door, and went around the house to where he’d pulled the lorry into the driveway. He rummaged behind the seats with the torch until he found the camp stove and a can of fuel for it. He locked up the rig and went back inside.

“Did you find Wes?” George asked. He was alone in the kitchen.

“He’s in the barn. He said he’d come inside soon. Maybe you could go get him if he doesn’t, eh?” Michael opened the cabinets until he found a small pot to boil water in.

“Of course. Do you want some supper?”

“I’ll be back down. I’m going to get some water going up there, for moisture. It might help him, some.” He held up the stove, and George nodded.

“Marie’s gone up with food for Pauline.”

“Good. She needs to eat.”

“Michael, are you all right?” George asked.

Michael turned. “I don’t think he’ll make it through the night. I hope I’m wrong. But I’ve seen this before. Too many times...” He shook his head and went upstairs.

CHAPTER 34

T
he wind picked up after midnight. It whistled in the eaves, flung itself like a wild thing against the windows, nosed along the doorframes, looking for the smallest cracks. Michael flinched at the worst of the gusts, imagining something more than just the wind, something dark and hungry, seeking an entry. He glanced over at George in the easy chair on the other side of Pauline’s room, his arms crossed, his face fixed. If he heard the wind, he didn’t show it.

Marie leaned forward in her chair on the far side of the bed, checking the little camp cooker with the pot of water perched on it. Grace sat on the opposite side, in another chair, close to the edge of the bed. Michael had taken a place in the corner by the closet, near to Grace, in an old Windsor chair from her bedroom. They had gathered by unspoken agreement, after Wes had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs, to keep vigil through the night, pooling their strength, facing whatever might happen together.

Pauline was in the bed, propped up with pillows. She held Chris in her lap, wiped his face and neck with a flannel, talked softly to him. His breathing had continued to worsen by the hour, each breath becoming a horrible, rasping fight for life. Except for the labored rise and fall of his chest, he lay limp and unmoving. Pauline would talk to him, kiss his forehead, stroke his chest. She seemed calm and resolved and did not shed a tear.

Michael sat in the corner and watched her, ached for her. He had been at numerous deathbeds, but they had always been mere acquaintances or strangers at the hospital. This was far worse. He had never cared so much about the person dying, or the person being left behind. He kept his arms crossed tightly on his chest, his jaw clenched. Eventually he had to get up, move around.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmured and left the room. He used the loo, splashed water on his face. He didn’t want to go back in, but he knew he had to. He tiptoed downstairs to check on Wes. Michael envied him, envied his sleep, but didn’t look forward to waking him in the morning. He went back up to Pauline’s room and leaned against the wall outside her door for a moment, in the same place he had found Chris a few days before, when he had told him to keep it together.

“Keep it together, Cooper,” he whispered, and forced himself into the bedroom. He took his seat again.

Grace looked over at him, her face full of concern and sorrow. He couldn’t meet her eye. He felt like he was sinking down into a black pit, slipping further with every easy breath, while Chris fought for every one of his. Michael began breathing in time with Chris, as if he could help him if they breathed together. It wasn’t enough air, he wanted more air, but he kept the cadence in desperate futility, focused solely on Chris’s hollow face. Vague forms all around him reeled and canted, faded into nothing, emerged again. He lost his connection to the chair, to the room. His arms and legs became leaden things that pulled him down and kept him from floating up into the dark mist that gathered below the ceiling. Time slowed to a crawl.

And then he wasn’t breathing at all. Silence loomed, closed in on him, suffocated him.

“Chris,” Pauline said, “don’t give up. Breathe for me.”

Chris drew a harsh breath. Michael gulped air to clear his head, clenched his fists to try to stop the shaking.

“Again,” Pauline said. “Again, darling.”

It went on like that, Pauline coaxing, or demanding, and Chris struggling to breathe each time. Another hour dragged by.

Michael reached his breaking point. His frayed nerves propelled him to his feet.

“Paulie,” he said, his own voice rasping, “maybe it’s time to let him go.”

She looked up at him, her eyes fierce. “No.”

“He can’t go on.”

“He can. He will.” She dropped her face close to Chris’s and whispered something into his ear.

Grace got up from her chair to take Michael’s hand in both of hers. “It’s all right, Michael. It’s up to Chris now.”

He nodded at her and fell back into his seat. He clutched his head with his hands. He sensed Grace standing next to him, and she rested a hand on his shoulder. Pauline talked to Chris. The water bubbled in the little pot.

Michael wanted to flee, to gather his things, get in the lorry and drive away fast, but this was the one thing in his life he couldn’t run away from. He’d run away after his family died. He’d run away after Pauline’s father died. He’d run away every time something got too hard. If he left now, none of them would ever forgive him, Pauline especially, and he would never forgive himself. Pauline was going to need him, need all of them. He took a deep breath and sat up in the chair.

Marie was leaning over, fiddling with the camp stove. “We need more water.”

“I’ll get it,” Michael said, pushing himself up, glad of something he could do. He stepped over to take the empty pitcher from her and noticed that the lamp on the table near her was low on oil.

“Thank you,” Marie said, and he nodded back at her.

Michael went down to the kitchen. He stoked the stove, filled the pitcher, and went into the sitting room. Wes stirred on the couch. Michael stood still until he was sure Wes was still asleep, then got the lamp from the table. He carried it and the water back upstairs, gave the pitcher to Marie, and switched the new lamp for the nearly empty one. He got a match from the bureau to light it.

When he took his seat again in the chair by the closet, he finally let himself look at Pauline and Chris in the bed. Nothing had changed, but at least Chris didn’t seem any worse. He still struggled for every breath. Pauline still whispered to him, caressed him lovingly. Michael steeled himself and the minutes ticked by slowly. Gradually, after another long hour, Michael began to think that Chris might actually be breathing easier. He leaned forward in the chair slightly, stared at Chris, silently willing him to breathe, breathe, breathe...Against his better judgment, he began to feel a flicker of hope.

After a time, Grace turned in her chair to look at him, questioning him, and he nodded slightly. She put her hands together in her lap, bent her head in prayer. On the other side of the bed, Marie did the same. Michael almost did, but it had been a long time since he had felt the least bit religious, and he didn’t think that God would be listening to him after all this time. Sometimes he felt like he believed more in karma, and Chris certainly had good karma. It was not something Michael himself could claim.

By the time the window began to lighten, Michael was letting himself believe that this was not a deathwatch after all. Chris’s breathing, while not yet easy, was no longer the desperate struggle it had been most of the night. Michael leaned his head back, closed his eyes, totally drained. And this time he did say a little prayer, over and over.

He heard a sniff and looked over at Pauline. She had her cheek against Chris’s head, stroked his hair, and cried silently, the tears leaking out of her eyes. Michael got up and went over to her. She looked up at him.

“You did it, Paulie,” he whispered, and smiled at her.

Michael went out into the hall. He found support against the wall. Grace followed him.

“Michael. Is he out of danger?”

“I think so, yes. I can’t be sure, of course, but I think so.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed, and put her hand to her face. “Oh, I have grown so fond of him.”

Michael put his arms around her and held her. “I know, Mum, we all have.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Me? What about you? You’ve been up just as long, and I wasn’t ill a few days ago. You need to sleep.”

“Pauline still needs me.”

George came out of the bedroom. “He’s turned the corner, has he?”

“Yes, I think so,” Michael repeated.

“Well, that is a relief. Not a night I’d care to repeat.”

“No,” Michael agreed.

“I suppose I should do the chores. I’ll get Wes to help me. He’s had a good night’s sleep, even if the rest of us haven’t. He’ll be glad to hear about Chris. Mum, you should get some sleep.”

“We all need to sleep,” Michael said.

“Breakfast first. I know if I’m hungry, the rest of you are,” Grace said.

“All right, then we’re all going to bed,” Michael said sternly.

Grace went into the bathroom; George went downstairs. Michael went back into Pauline’s bedroom.

Marie was helping Pauline out of the bed, moving Chris gently out of her lap. Michael took Pauline’s arm to steady her as she stood. She seemed almost in a daze. He helped her to the bathroom.

Grace, just coming out, took Pauline’s face in her hands and kissed her cheek. “I’m going to make us something to eat.” She went downstairs.

“He’s going to be all right, now, isn’t he?” Pauline asked Michael.

“I think so,” he said. He squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

She nodded, went into the loo, and shut the door.

He went back to the bedroom. Marie adjusted the pillows and covers, making sure Chris was as comfortable as she could make him.

“He’s still not breathing well,” she said.

“I think it’ll get better now. We should try to get a little water in him and keep the pot boiling.” A wave of exhaustion washed over him. “Mum is making breakfast.”

“You look so tired, Michael.”