The Rescuer (7 page)

When Stephen's dark emotions built, the best cure was work. He was remodeling this home, already having an idea of the couple who would best be the new owners.

He rebuilt the kitchen with Sandy in mind. She loved to cook.

A knock on the back door interrupted him. He took three steps back, turned the lock without looking, and went back to hauling the next piece of drywal to the table to measure out the cut for the exhaust ductwork.

"You want help?"

He pointed Jack to the counter where extra gloves lay.

Jack grabbed the drywal and held it steady as Stephen started the saw. The noise stopped any conversation. The saw-57

dust felt rough against his skin as it stuck to sweat-covered arms. Stephen shut off the saw and put it in a safety box so he didn't step on it.

"You know it's 2 a.m."

"I know."

Jack rol ed up his sleeves and settled in for a few hours of work. It wouldn't be the first time they had spent a night waiting together. "Kate can't sleep either.

She's on the way to the hospital."

Stephen hesitated. "Did she find out anything else at the scene?" He knew Kate had spent another day out there.

"She paced every inch of it with the investigating officers and came up with the same answer as before.

Besides skid marks left by the other car, which show that the other driver likely accelerated onto the bridge, there's little to work with. So far no one has reported seeing anything. There is some evidence that the very end of the bridge railing might have been clipped, suggesting the other car has some damage, but rain washed away any trace of paint scrapes. Security tapes from the two gas stations in the area have fourteen cars on that road during the twenty minutes before 11:15, just in case Meghan's watch was fast.

The cops are looking for them."

$"Someone did this and left her there."

I'1 I)

"They'l find him."

Stephen nearly drove the nail through the wal . "They better."

"What's next?"

Stephen pointed behind him. "Flooring in the living room. I decided it should al come up."

Jack folded the two lawn chairs Stephen cal ed his living room furniture and moved the two barrels he used as tables. "Meghan's a fighter, Stephen."

"I know."

The phone rang as they were losing the battle to force up a

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*J '" m

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piece of floonng that had been nailed down forty-three years ago.

Jack reached for the phone and Stephen waved him off. If this was bad news, he wouldn't ask Jack to take the cal .

Mrs. Delhart was on the phone and she was crying.

"Meghan's asking for you, Stephen."

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eghan turned her head trying to find relief from the headache, but no matter which direction she looked the darkness was the same. She reached a shaky hand up to touch her left eye and felt the brush of eyelashes to reassure herself that her eyelid was open.

It was so strange living in this world of darkness. It had no dimensions, no objects, no people.. .it was

;

just a black hole where she had to feel her way around.

She jerked to the left as a squeaky wheel on a cart moved

outside the hospital room door. She longed for earplugs. The

sounds were overwhelming. There was never any warning of ,what was coming. Jesus, it's like living in a body that is now just

;She knew it was night. Her mom had tucked her in and her

dad had kissed her good-night. She'd smiled as visiting hours ,[ended and convinced them she was tired so they wouldn't worry

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so much about her. At least the confusion of voices had ceased I'with the coming of the night shift. This room was too near the

,|nursing station. She spent her days listening to rushing feet and

1 ?'

|!;the sound of overlapping, urgent voices. Al too often someone

j|twas beside her before he spoke to warn her he was nearby. I want

my privacy back. I hate living in afishbowl She struggled to sit up under the numerous blankets.

The doctors said she would eventual y get back her ability to regulate her body temperature, but it wasn't happening yet. Her mind

ive

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was also doing its own thing with its sense of time. She was wideawake. She swung her legs to the side of the bed and reached to the left to orient herself with the furnishings.

Mom left her clothes folded in the top drawer of the dresser. Meghan dressed, wishing she knew what color the clothes were. She felt for the chair beside the window, and once she found it, tugged over the blanket from the bed for Her lap. It was such a smal room. At least she didn't have to walk in the darkness but could move from point to point by touch.

She felt around the chair looking for the television remote. She found the water pitcher, a bowl of jel y beans, a stack of get- wel cards, a folded newspaper, and two books. She turned and checked on the radiator, moving careful y so as not to knock over one of the flower vases. It smel ed like she was living in a florist shop. She found the television remote and clicked on the late night news. It wasn't too bad, listening to the commentary. She tried to pretend she was doing something else and had the news on in the background so she wouldn't just sit here thinking about how she couldn't see it.

She picked up one of the books. From the weight and the raised lettering on the cover it felt like the book on John Adams she had bought her father last month.

Tears wel ed in her eyes. Being blind was a miserable existence. She wanted to see the pages, to read for herself again. Having someone read to her was such a painful compromise.

She couldn't take her parents down with her into this sadness; it wasn't fair to them. It's so hard to be brave, Lord. I just want a doctor to work a miracle and let me see again. She slid the book back on the table. She'd find a way to read again, find a way to live her life. She had no choice.

A soft tap on the door was fol owed by the sound of it opening. The shoes sounded hard on the tile floor and that suggested it wasn't staff. She swiped at her eyes.

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"Hi, Meghan."

Stephen. She desperately wanted to tel him to go away, but instead she jerkily nodded and heard him enter the room. He came by at least twice a day. She careful y touched her face and felt the soreness across her cheek and swel ing around her jaw. Mom had told her that the bruises on her face had come in black and purple and were now fading to leave her skin with a yel ow leathery tinge. She must look horrible. She lowered her hands, took a deep breath, and smiled toward where she thought he stood.

Stephen would be her friend, be generous with his time, help her cope. She had only to ask-no, she probably didn't even have to ask. He wanted to rescue her.

She wanted so badly to lean against him, to let him take that role. But she wasn't sure he was up to it. And she couldn't put that burden on him.

He was a good man, just not someone who could lead the 1 >way on the journey she faced. Learning to walk with a cane was

the easy part; what she needed was someone who could help her accept. At best Stephen could only be temporary comfort. She was physical y blind, but Stephen was spiritual y blind. If she pitched forward and had to count on a friend to catch her, she knew her choice-it had to be Jesus.

She heard Stephen cross toward the bed and the springs give as he sat down. She tugged her sweater tighter and then lifted one hand to wipe her eyes again.

She hated it when Stephen saw ,',her tears. She purposely lightened her voice. "Just getting off kyour shift?"

$"Yes. I have something for you."

He was always bringing her something. The feel of what he placed in her hand caught her interest. It was fuzzy, smal , and the bottom was smooth and warm.

She tried to figure it out by touch and when it hummed she smiled. "A Furby thing?"

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"They cal it a muffin. Your hand warms it up and the heat causes it to hum and then vibrate."

"It's cute." She held it in her palm until the vibration started. She careful y set it on the table and it went quiet.

The silence lengthened and became awkward, but she didn't know how to fil it.

"Meghan, I'm sorry-"**

She nearly picked up the book and tossed it at him.

"Don't! Don't apologize. I'm sick of people apologizing." Even the cops said they were sorry. They couldn't find the driver who caused this. It wasn't Stephen's fault he hadn't traveled that road thirty minutes earlier. It wasn't her fault for being on that road instead of the highway-it just was. She couldn't handle another apology. She looked down after the outburst and in frustration tugged at the blanket to get it around her cold feet.

Stephen sighed. "Here." His hand slid behind her ankles and lifted her feet, the blanket pul ed under them to protect her from the cold floor. He squeezed her knee as he resumed his seat. "I was just going to say I was sorry for coming by so late. I got held up doing paperwork." She heard pil ows thump against the headboard. "There's a good TV movie on tonight if you want a reason to fal asleep against me again like a bundled- up snail."

She knew he wasn't intending to say he was sorry for that, but at least he hadn't pursued the subject. A movie would be good. As long as it was a classic she could remember most of the scenes. She didn't want to have a conversation where she had to dance around avoiding answers to how she was feeling and what the doctors said.

"If you can get around here," she shifted back in the chair and pul ed over the table, "let's play a game of checkers." He had whittled her a ful set: red ones had ndged edges, black ones smooth. The checkerboard brought up from rehab therapy had

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slim wooden ridges marking off the squares so the checkers could be touched yet not moved out of their square. She'd played endless games with her father just to pass the time.

"Sure." Stephen moved over another chair.

He caught her hand as she set out her pieces, gently turned her wrist, and lifted her hand to his nose.

"JoAnne has been by. Nice perfume."

"It's kind of soft. I liked yesterdays better. You smel a bit like soap and a lot like that cologne of Jack's."

"I grabbed a shower. I didn't figure you'd appreciate road oil and skunk."

"Real y? What happened?"

"A car wreck when the driver swerved to avoid hitting the animal. It was a big, fat, old-timer of a skunk and the car ran over it. Guys were putting Vicks under their noses and wearing face masks if they had to spend any time near the vehicle."

Meghan laughed for the first time in days. "Oh my, that must have been a sight." She settled her hand on the checkerboard, selected a piece, and made her first move. Stephen took her hand and showed her his.

A game that would have normal y taken twenty minutes to play took them an hour. She was grateful Stephen didn't interrupt her concentration. She lost, but at least she'd been able to get a few pieces crowned this time.

"You're improving."

"It's stil hard to hold more than two moves in my memory at a time." She picked up one of the pieces.

"You did a real y nice job with these. I can tel this is an eagle." She handed him her pieces.

He stacked them in the box. "Your dad said they're going to release you this weekend."

She tilted her head, wishing she knew what was behind the quiet statement. It was his work voice: calm and a bit detached.

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"They're talking about it. Dad can watch for any problems from the headaches."

"You're thinking about moving back to Silverton instead of staying in town for therapy?"

She had guessed right; he didn't like the idea. "I'l stay with my parents. Dad plans to hire someone so I won't feel like I'm imposing on them while I learn my way arourttl." Back home everything from the post office to the church was familiar to her. It was time to go home.

She needed desperately to be home.

Stephen caught her hand and squeezed it. "I'm going to miss you, Meghan."

"I'l miss you too." She blinked tears back and started as Stephen reached past her.

"Kleenex."

"I'm sorry. It doesn't take much to make me cry anymore."

"The tears are good for you." He tugged the blanket on her lap tighter. "Your hands are stil like ice."

His voice was husky behind the rough assertion and she laughed to try and lighten the mood. "Dad's been cal ing me his little iceberg." She leaned back in her chair, shredded the Kleenex, and her smile faded.

"Stephen, do me a favor. Let this go, okay? You couldn't have changed things. I'l go home, get a Seeing Eye dog, and go on with my life. I need to know you wil too. I'm going to be okay with Jesus' help."

She heard the subtle shift of his weight. Just the mention of Jesus' name made him uncomfortable.

She'd been trying for years to get him to listen to the truth; and now.. Jesus had to make this work or else her faith was misplaced. Maybe then Stephen would understand.

"I'l be fine, Meghan."

"Wil you?"

He rubbed her wrist. "Now have I ever told you a fib?"

"I didn't look pretty yesterday."

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"You did to me. Is it okay if I come to Silverton to see you occasional y?"

It real y mattered that she show him she was okay, and that was not going to be a simple step. "You can cal .

But give me some time before you come by."

"I don't mind you being blind, Meghan. Please don't push me away."

She reached over and settled her hands against his face, her thumb finding the cleft in his chin and her palms the hard bone of his jaw. Her fingers lifted as a smile played at his mouth, her touch embarrassing him. "We've been friends for a lifetime. We'l always be friends." If she let him come, she'd lean against him, fal in love, and walk herself into a broken heart. "You can come visit in a year and buy me lunch."

His hands covered hers, cal used and rough against her skin. "I'm going to hold you to that."