In the Time of Kings (8 page)

“Don’t worry, don’t worry. I’ll look in on her before I head out to pick up me mum.” He unties his apron and tucks it under his arm, then points down the street. “Take the main road that way. When you come to the edge of town, you’ll see a petrol station. Go left. There’s a stone bridge about three kilometers from that. After you cross the bridge you’ll take the second right. Just past the fourth house, turn left, go up the hill and —”

“Wait.” I interrupt him before he can confuse me any further. “You lost me at the petrol station. We went by the kirk yesterday on our way here. I’m sure it wasn’t that complicated.”

He rubs at his nose. “Just trying to keep you out of traffic. If you want, you can take the main road most of the way, but mind the automobiles. They don’t pay any heed to the speed limit. When you see the sign for Paxton, follow that. You should see the kirk just over the hill there. Careful of the lorries, though. They’re even worse. Think they own the bloody motorways.”

I pat my pockets to make sure I have my phone and speed away — speed being a relative term, in this case.

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S
ince most people are already at work, the roads are fairly clear of traffic and I zoom into the parking lot less than ten minutes later. The kirk looks as though it has seen better days. Ragged patches of gray stone show through where its limewashed walls are chipped. The slate roof is in better condition, although the north side is half covered in algae from the frequent rains and the sprawling shade of the giant yew tree that prevents the sun from ever drying it out. Weathered headstones, mottled with lichens, are scattered over the lawn to the west of the building, the names they bear long since faded into oblivion. My guess is that more people are laid in the ground outside the old church than now make use of its interior, a theory confirmed when I realize that the gravel car park is overgrown with weeds that are now kept in check by frequent mowings.

There is no evidence of Reverend Murray, no car, not even a bicycle. Maybe he walked here? I rest the bike against the stone wall that encloses the cemetery and walk toward the side door. As I approach the bright red door, I notice a yellow square of paper tacked to it, its edges fluttering in the breeze. The words are blurry, but the reverend’s writing is neat enough that I manage to piece the message together.

What kind of emergency could a retired pastor possibly have? Damn it. Tomorrow won’t exactly be convenient, since we have to take off for Edinburgh, but by then we’ll have a working car. At the bottom of the note, he has scrawled his office phone number. I stuff it in my front pocket and jog back to my nineteenth century wheels.

A low rumble rolls across the land. In the west, heavy clouds are gathering — and they’re moving quickly my way. I swing a leg over and imagine myself on the last stage of the Tour de France, the finish line in sight.

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I
’ve just reached the edge of Aberbeg when my phone rings. Raindrops the size of marbles pelt me.

Barely avoiding an accident with a sign post, I veer off into a narrow alley and pull out my cell. “Claire?”

“No, Dermot here.” His voice is muffled by the pounding of rain. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. ... Ross, but I think you need to come back. I checked in on your wife for you, and ... she looks
quite
ill.”

Guilt shoots through me. I should have ignored her insistence that I go anyway. Claire was never one to want to be fussed over. “Is she still throwing up? Does she have a fever?”

“No, but the pain’s worse, she said.” Over his words, I hear a long moan.

“Was that her?”

“Aye.”

“Call an ambulance, Dermot. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I snap the phone shut and pedal as fast as I can.

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B
y the time I skid to a halt in Dermot’s side driveway, chased there by the wail of a siren, my clothes are drenched. A burst of flashing red lights reflects against the windows as the ambulance turns the last corner. I plunge inside the house, then race up the steps three at a time.

Claire lays curled up on her side in the middle of the floor, her fists balled to either side of her head and her jaw clenched in agonizing pain.

Just inside the door is Dermot, wringing his apron in his hands. “I’m sorry. I tried to help her, but she wouldn’t let me. When she said she felt like her head had exploded, I called you.”

Dermot continues to apologize, but I stop listening. Something is terribly wrong with Claire. She’d suffered from the occasional migraine before, but that usually only resulted in her closing the bedroom curtains, popping a few pills and burrowing beneath the covers to sleep it off. The way she has her head clamped between both hands and is wailing, you’d think someone has driven an ice pick into her skull.

Footsteps pound in the stairway. Before I can even go to her side, the EMTs have pushed past me and are taking her vital signs.

“Hello, miss,” one of the EMTs says calmly, as he pulls up one of her eyelids and shines a penlight in them to check her pupil dilation. “My name is Thomas. That’s Andrew and Harry with the stretcher. We’re here to take care of you. Can you tell me where it hurts?”

Water is collecting in a puddle beneath me. I shiver from the dampness seeping into my bones. Even though I’m aware how cold and wet I am, I’m transfixed, wanting to help, yet not wanting to get in the way.

As Thomas takes Claire’s jaw in his hand and positions her head to check her other eye, she whips her face sideways and lets out a scream. She gulps in air, sputters. “My head, my head, my —”

She cries out again, the pitch rising until it comes out as a screech.

Thomas tosses a commanding glance at his coworkers. Seconds later, they’re carefully hoisting her onto the stretcher. I snatch my glasses off the table and follow them.

At some point, one of them asks who’s with her and I mumble, “I am.”

Beyond that, I don’t remember any details about the ambulance ride to the hospital, the questions they ask me or even how long it takes to get there. I can only think of Claire, and how scared I am.

This is our honeymoon. Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. This is the beginning of our forever.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Balfour, Indiana — 1999

“T
wenty-five hundred dollars?” Dad smacks the piece of paper against his palm, then tosses it onto the writing desk next to the rotary phone. “And our insurance doesn’t cover one cent, Goddamnit! They said it was an experimental procedure. Tell me where we’re supposed to get the money from, Rachel. Where, huh?”

Mom looks down at her lap, twisting a tissue between her hands. Mascara is smudged beneath her eyes. A white streak runs down her cheek where a tear has washed away her foundation. She keeps her voice low, her tone apologetic. “I don’t know, Jack. But what was I supposed to do?”

She looks so ... I don’t know. Forlorn, maybe? Yes, that’s the word. Like she’s lost her last friend. Like she’s all alone, without hope or comfort. I want so badly to run to her, wrap my arms around her and tell her it’s going to be okay, just like she’d done for me so many times. But I’m scared. Scared to know what they’re talking about. And scared of my dad. He’s never raised a hand against either of us, although I often wished he had. Then I could go to the police and have him thrown in jail. What he does every day is worse than beating us. He doesn’t leave bruises or broken bones, things other people can see. Proof. Just scars on our hearts.

Mom glances my way. Her lips curve into a tepid smile, but her chin quivers. “Ross, I didn’t see you there. Go on in your room and I’ll be there in a minute to help you with your homework.”

“I don’t have any homework.” I grip the doorjamb, more to stop myself from going into the dining room and giving my dad a good shove than to keep myself upright. “It’s Saturday.”

“Of course it is.” She fakes a laugh. “How silly of me. Can’t even remember what day it is. Working those extra hours at the store sure has me mixed up. Well then, go ride your bike. A growing boy like you needs his exercise.”

The firm set of her jaw tells me to stay out of it, she’ll handle things. I glare at my dad, but his back is turned to me, like he’s purposefully ignoring me. Shoving my hands in my back pockets, I leave the room. I don’t bother to tell her there are six inches of snow on the ground and the road is a river of slush dirtied by car exhaust.

She doesn’t notice much these days. It’s like she’s not completely with us. Like she’d rather be somewhere else. Like she’s already gone.

HERE & NOW

Berwick, Scotland — 2013

I
wait for the second hand of the clock on the wall opposite me to sweep around past the ‘12’ one more time before I separate myself from the furniture and stomp to the desk.

“Have they figured out what’s wrong with my wife?”

The station nurse lays her pen down and pushes aside the paperwork she’s been examining. The cap on her head sits askew, her sweater is rumpled and the bags under her eyes tell me she’s probably nearing the end of a twelve-hour shift. She gives me a patronizing smile. I clench my fists at my sides. This may be the tenth time I’ve bugged her since they sat me down on that green vinyl couch three hours ago, but somebody needs to fill me in.

With my hair plastered to my head and my clothes still not dried out, I probably look like a deranged wreck, but I don’t care. Too many scenarios are crowding my head. If this woman puts me off one more time with some trite response, I’m going to reach over the desk and choke her until someone gives me the answers I need.

“As far as I know, sir, they’re still running tests. I’m sure as soon as they have anything to tell you, they’ll be right out.”

“Is she okay?”

“Again, as soon as they —”

“Can I see her? Where is she? I think it would help if she had someone with her, don’t you? I mean, she’s probably pretty scared right now and I just want to tell her it’s going to be okay, you know?”

At that point, I’m begging. Patience and politeness haven’t gotten me anywhere so far. This is my wife they’re keeping from me, damn it, and I deserve to know what’s going on.

“Let me see what I can do.” She lifts a hand toward the waiting area. “Meanwhile, please, have a seat.”

There’s more command than request in her voice. I comply, but not without a glare of insistence.

She taps at the keys on the phone, talks to someone for a minute, then clicks it back into its cradle. When she scoots her chair back and rises, I stand, sure she has news for me, but she calls another patient to the desk. A young woman goes forward, a crying infant clutched to her chest. Another nurse escorts them to an examination room. Instead of sitting back down, I pace back and forth past the automatic glass doors, making an arc in front of them after they whoosh open the first time.

Nine more minutes slog by. Outside, rain falls in marching walls of gray, slapping against the sidewalk and then bouncing up knee-high before coming back down again. Righteous anger fades to concern. I feel sick to my stomach with worry. I haven’t called Claire’s parents or her brother yet. What would I tell them? Why cause concern if she’s okay, if it’s just some random migraine that will pass?

But if that’s all it is, why haven’t they let me stay with her? Why keep me here, fretting like a sailor’s wife?

Somehow I find myself swallowed up by the vinyl couch again. There are other patients and their families waiting here. I’m aware of them, I hear them talking, some crying, but very little registers in my brain. Claire is all that matters. I can’t think of anything else.

I dig my hands through my hair. My forehead sinks to my knees.

“Mr. Sinclair?”

I lift my head just enough to see a pair of sensible white shoes in front of me.

“Are you Mr. Sinclair?” A woman wearing blue scrubs extends her hand. Several pens are jammed into the hip pockets of her lab coat, looking like they might all spill onto the floor at any moment. Her rich brown skin and ebony eyes indicate she’s of Indian descent. She can’t be much older than me. A surgical mask hangs loosely from around her neck.

My grip is feeble as I stand, place my hand in hers and shake it. “How’s my wife?”

Her smile is sympathetic. “I’m Dr. Nehru. Will you come with me, Mr. Sinclair? I think it would be better if we discussed her condition alone.”

Oh God. Why not just tell me?

My knees almost give out on me. In a daze, I follow her, a white-coated figure gliding through corridors of pale green, while machines beep from open doorways.

Suddenly, I’m not sure I want to know just how bad off she is. Still, there’s a little twitch of hope deep inside my gut that won’t let me believe she’s going to be anything but okay. I have to hang on to that.

NOT SO LONG AGO

Balfour, Indiana — 2000

H
er skin is a translucent gray, thin as wet paper. I’m almost afraid to touch her, scared I might tear her open and all the life will pour right out of her. Her hair has thinned noticeably, little patches missing where clumps have fallen out from the ravages of the cancer. In a few short months, my mom has aged decades, not just in appearance, but in the way she moves and speaks. Gone are the smiles she saved for me alone, the praise she poured out over my grade card when my father has left the room, the easy conversations about everyday things. She barely eats, has quit her job, talks only when she has to, has even stopped arguing with Dad. I know she’s given up and is just waiting for the end. More than anything, it kills me that even I’m not reason enough for her to fight this terrible disease.

Her cancer has metastasized to multiple organs. There is no hope. That bleakness pervades my life. Fills every breath.

She opens her palm for me to hold her hand. I curl my fingers inside hers: warmth against the coldness. Her thin bluish lips tilt upward as she tries to smile, but the tubes coming out of her nose surrounded by white tape make it impossible and her mouth slips back downward.