When the Clouds Roll By (6 page)

Gilbert sat in the dayroom, his wheelchair angled toward the window and a blanket over his legs—or what was left of them. A trio of aging veterans had invited him to join them in a game of dominoes, but he wasn’t in the mood. His head throbbed. His left ear had started its incessant ringing again. He doubted he could focus well enough to count the pips on his tiles anyway.

He pressed his right palm into his forehead and rubbed furiously. Just one hour without pain was all he asked. Even ten minutes.
God, are You listening?

Obviously not. God had already shown exactly how much concern He had for Gilbert. Let Samuel spout his biblical propaganda, say what he wanted about the Lord’s protection. Gilbert knew otherwise. A loving God didn’t save a man’s life only to deprive him of the ability to earn an honest living, to be a good husband to the woman he loved.

He scraped his hand down his face and rested his stubbly chin in his palm. The sun had finally broken through the clouds and glinted off the roof of the New Imperial Bath House. On the pathway below he glimpsed a couple out for a walk. The man was tall, dressed in an olive-drab uniform. The woman on his arm wore a flat-brimmed hat that hid her features from Gilbert’s view, but there was something familiar about her posture, her long, purposeful stride.

Annemarie
.

Gilbert sat forward, his forearm braced hard against the arm of his wheelchair. He blinked several times in a hopeless attempt to clear his vision. But there was no mistaking it—
his
Annemarie, leaning on the arm of another man.

An explosion of rage ripped through his chest. “Who?
Who?
”

“Lieutenant Ballard?” One of those bothersome, hovering nurses came up beside him and rested a hand on the back of his chair. A round-faced redhead with a lilting Irish brogue, she didn’t look old enough to be out of grammar school. “Sir, are you in pain?”

He bit down on the spate of curses burning the back of his throat. “I’m tired. Just take me back to the ward.”

“Of course, sir.” The nurse turned his chair and rolled him toward the corridor. “You know, sir, it might lift your spirits a wee bit if only you’d allow visitors. Your mother has telephoned countless times today already, and just awhile ago I saw the lovely Miss Kendall talking to the charge nurse.”

Gilbert grabbed the right wheel and jerked the chair to a halt that spun the nurse off balance. She gave a yelp and righted herself, then planted her fists on her hips and pierced him with a chiding glare. “Lieutenant!”

The rage that had swept through him so completely now fell away like melting snow. He sagged and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. It’s just—my head—” A quavering breath edged past his lips. He felt his eyes welling up. Blast it all, had he no control over his own emotions anymore?

The nurse’s gaze softened. “Now, think nothing of it, Lieutenant. We’ll get you into bed and see what we can do to make you more comfortable.” She nudged the chair around in the direction of the ward and started on their way. “Soon as you’re settled, I’ll hunt up Chaplain Vickary for you. The man does have a way about him.”

“Yeah, get Sam. Maybe he can—”

Recognition slammed into Gilbert’s gut with the force of a kick from an army mule.

Sam.

Sam with Annemarie. Arm in arm, like they’d known each other forever.

Like lovers.

The anger simmered again, but this time Gilbert clamped a firm lid on it. Hadn’t he already vowed to give Annemarie up? Hadn’t he promised himself he’d never be a burden for her, that he’d set her free to find a man who could love her as she deserved?

But Sam, Sam.
Why did it have to be you?

7

O
f a
ll the women in the world, why did Samuel find himself falling for the one woman he could never have?

Of all the women in the world—the adoring French farm girls who’d beckoned him with flirtatious winks, the Red Cross nurses wearing compassionate smiles and crisp white uniforms, the sisters, daughters, and friends of friends who’d turned out at the docks and train stations to welcome the soldiers home . . .

Of all the women in the world, why did it have to be Annemarie?

Yesterday’s stroll along the promenade, her delicate hand nestled in the crook of his elbow, almost made him forget about the war.

Almost made him forget his promise to do all he could to make sure Gilbert didn’t give up on life or the woman he loved.

Gilbert had been in quite a state when Samuel returned to the hospital after his walk. The spunky little Irish nurse—Mary McClarney, if he remembered her name correctly—had stopped him in the corridor to express her concern.

“Something has him mighty riled up, Chaplain. It’s understandable he’s moody and depressed, but I’ve not seen him quite so angry—and over nothing he would admit to.”

Samuel thanked her and went straight in to check on Gilbert.

And five minutes later found himself summarily dismissed. If he hadn’t ducked at the crucial moment, he’d have been beaned by a flying water glass.

Maybe this morning things would be better.

Entering the ward, Samuel did a quick reconnaissance while sharing a prayer or word of peace with a few of the other patients along the way. He paused at the foot of Gilbert’s bed and cast his friend a worried frown. Gilbert lay twisted in the bedcovers, his good arm cradling the injured arm. He appeared to be asleep, a good thing considering how frequently he complained of headache-induced insomnia.

Gilbert stirred, then cracked an eyelid. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Samuel stepped around to the side of the bed. “Like I’m checking to see what you have handy to throw at me?”

“All out of ammo. The nurses have disarmed me.” Angling a glance toward his sling, Gilbert rolled his eyes at the irony of his remark. Then, using his right elbow, he pushed himself higher in the bed. “Buy you a cup of java if you’ll help me with these confounded pillows.”

Samuel made sure Gilbert had settled comfortably and then pulled over a chair. “How are you feeling? Is the headache abating at all?”

The tension lines around Gilbert’s eyes and mouth answered for him. “I can’t even bribe the nurses into slipping me some extra doses of morphine. And now they tell me I have to have more surgery.”

“Your leg?”

“The surgeon says I’ll never be able to use a prosthesis unless they fix it better.” Gilbert’s jaw hardened. He looked away. “I told him he could save himself the trouble and me the pain.”

The cold ring of hopelessness had crept into Gilbert’s tone again. Samuel braced his arms on his thighs. “You’ve got to stop talking like that, Gil. You have everything to live for—your family, Annemarie—”

Gilbert slammed his clenched fist on the mattress. “Don’t you
dare
talk to me about Annemarie. Don’t you—” His chest heaved, each breath grating like a rasp on green wood. His face blanched with the effort to control his fury.

Samuel straightened. No sense wasting the usual spiritual platitudes on Gilbert. He could do no more than let the outburst run its course. He looked past Gilbert to the next bed, where a nurse assisted a patient with exercises to restore flexibility to severely arthritic joints. Through it all, the veteran grinned and wisecracked with the nurse, though clearly the pain was excruciating.

Catching Samuel’s eye, the patient nodded toward Gilbert and quirked his mouth in silent understanding. Returning the nod, Samuel planted his hands on his knees and started to rise. “I’ll come back later, Gil, when you’re—”

“Don’t leave.” With a hiccupping moan, Gilbert brought himself under control. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what comes over me.”

Easing back onto the chair, Samuel laced his fingers together. “I wish I knew how to help, but all I can give you are my prayers and my friendship. And my friendship won’t do you much good if you keep running me off.”

“I said I’m sorry.” Gilbert slanted a glance toward the man in the next bed and chuckled softly. “You think he’d sell me a little of his optimism?”

“You’ll have to find your own, I’m afraid.”

“That’s what I figured.” Gilbert stretched a hand toward the nightstand. “In the drawer there—can you hand me the picture?”

Samuel pulled open the drawer. Lying atop a fresh pair of pajamas and Gilbert’s shaving supplies was a sepia portrait of Annemarie. The oval frame appeared to be sterling silver, etched with tiny rosebuds and a trailing vine. Its weight surprised Samuel, and he feared if he didn’t grip it firmly it would slip through his fingers.

The portrait must have been taken on a bright summer day. Annemarie sat beneath a spreading tree, a bouquet of daisies in her hand. Her soft, warm eyes seemed to smile at him, beckon him. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry.

Sensing Gilbert’s silent scrutiny, he tore his gaze away from the portrait. “This is new.” It was all he could think to say.

“My mother brought it. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

Samuel knew he wasn’t talking about his mother. “She is. Very.”

Gilbert reached for the portrait, and Samuel winced inwardly at how reluctant he was to hand it over. Resting it on his lap, Gilbert traced the outline of Annemarie’s face with the side of his thumb. “You understand why I won’t let her visit me?”

“Please, Gil, don’t give up like this.”

“I told you, I won’t be a burden to her. She deserves better.” Gilbert inhaled a breath that seemed to go on forever. He let it out just as slowly. Samuel had to strain to hear his next words. “Take her, Sam. Take her with my blessing.”

“What?” Samuel stood abruptly, certain he must not have heard correctly.

The fine lines around Gilbert’s mouth and eyes deepened, whether from pain or anger or grief, Samuel couldn’t tell. “I said she’s yours. Just be good to her.”

Samuel palmed the back of his head. His gaze darted around the ward to see if anyone had overheard this insanity. Then he grabbed the lapels of Gil’s pajamas and leaned over him until his face was inches away. “Listen to me, Gil. Annemarie loves you—
you
! You
will
fight for her. You will fight to
live
. Do you hear me?”

“
Mary McClarney! Are you eavesdropping again?”

Mary fumbled with the tray she carried, snagging a medicine vial a split-second before it careened over the edge. “I, uh—no, Mrs. Daley. I was just checking my supplies before I start rounds.”

“Then you’d best get to it. We have a ward full of patients to attend to.” Mrs. Daley’s stern glare softened slightly, and she laid a hand on Mary’s arm. “It doesn’t do you or our patients one bit of good to get emotionally attached. Do your work and keep your distance. Take it from someone who knows.” Giving her chin a firm jerk, Mrs. Daley marched off.

Aye, and no wonder the crusty old chief nurse remained a spinster. Besides, how could anyone who worked so closely with these poor servicemen
not
become emotionally attached? The stories they told—and even more to be pitied, the stories that never passed their lips! Had Mary been stationed at one of the larger hospitals like Walter Reed or Fort McHenry, she could only imagine how much worse she’d hear and see.

As it was, most of her patients were veterans suffering from rheumatism, arthritis, or other conditions unrelated to serving in the Great War. Only a few, mostly locals like the troubled Lieutenant Ballard, had been transferred to the Hot Springs hospital for treatment of their battle wounds. If Mary had been eavesdropping, it was only because she worried about the poor man.

Her greatest concern, however—in fact, the concern of everyone on staff—was the outbreak of Spanish influenza that had spread rapidly during the past few weeks. She thanked the Lord above that she hadn’t been assigned to the isolation floor. Though the doctors and nurses took every possible precaution, Mary lived in fear of catching the disease herself, and even worse, spreading it to her poor sainted mother. Already suffering from chronic bronchitis, Mum would never survive this dreaded illness.

Donning her brightest smile, she set her tray upon a bedside table. “Good afternoon, Corporal Conroy. And how are those knees of yours feeling on this wintry day?”

The whiskered soldier sat up straighter and smoothed back his sparse gray hair. “One kiss from my angel in white, and I’ll be dancing a jig down Central Avenue.”

“Kisses, I have none, at least not for the likes of flirts like you.” With a wink and a nod, Mary pushed up his pajama sleeve and swabbed his arm with alcohol, then reached for the syringe she’d filled with his medication.

Corporal Conroy winced as the needle pierced his skin. “Bet you’d have plenty of kisses for that pretty boy across the way.”

Mary followed his gaze. Of course, he would be looking right at Lieutenant Ballard. Face tingling, she busied herself with the supplies on her tray. “Now, Corporal. I treat all my patients just the same. And that
doesn’t
include kisses.”

Still, her heart beat a little faster as she crossed to the lieutenant’s bed. A handsomer soldier she’d never laid eyes upon. He had a dark, brooding look about him, a sadness in his soul that called out to some deep instinct within her. As he lay there dozing, she longed to touch the errant curl that barely hid the jagged scar above his left ear.

Enough of this nonsense, Mary McClarney
. Giving herself a mental shake, she set down her tray and reached for the lieutenant’s chart. It was time for another morphine injection, but she almost hated to rouse him when he finally seemed to be sleeping comfortably. Even so, better to stay ahead of the pain.

As she prepared the hypodermic, Lieutenant Ballard shifted. His back arched. His mouth twisted into a tortured frown. Eyes squeezed shut, he rocked his head from side to side, a mumbling stream of words pouring from his throat—something about rain and rifle fire and blood, so much blood.

He gave a hoarse cry and sat straight up. He flailed his arms as if warding off an unseen enemy.

“It’s all right, Lieutenant. The war’s over. You’re safe now.” Mary struggled to settle him before he threw himself onto the floor, only to have him turn his attack upon her. With a sharp blow to her jaw, he sent her reeling against the next bed. A thousand flickering fireflies filled her vision. Her cheek throbbed as though she’d plowed into a brick wall.

“Hey, get some help here!” someone yelled.

A flurry of bodies and voices surrounded the lieutenant. Mary tried to stand, but a wave of dizziness knocked her to her knees.

“Mary! Good heavens, child, are you all right?” Mrs. Daley crouched over her.

Mary rubbed her jaw and tried again to get her bearings. “Lieutenant Ballard—”

“The orderlies have him restrained. What happened?”

“Restrained?” Mary forced herself to stand. Leaning upon the chief nurse’s arm, she watched as two orderlies struggled to hold down the lieutenant while another nurse injected him with a hypodermic. “Saints above, don’t hurt him!”

“They’re only sedating him. He is clearly out of control.” Mrs. Daley seized the lieutenant’s chart and dashed off some notes. To the orderlies she said, “I want this man under restraint until further notice.”

Mary hovered at the lieutenant’s bedside. “He was only having a bad dream. He didn’t mean to hurt me.”

Mrs. Daley seized Mary’s wrists and forced her to turn away from the man now shivering under blankets in a drugged half-sleep, his torso, right arm, and right leg secured to the bed with strong strips of gauze. “Listen to me, young lady. You’ve no idea what a shell-shocked infantryman is capable of. You’re to stay away from Lieutenant Ballard from now on. I’m ordering him moved to another ward until he can be transferred to a hospital with psychiatric facilities.” Mrs. Daley harrumphed. “That’s where they should have sent him in the first place.”