chapter ninety-nine

I was still standing on the front porch, staring down the street in disbelief when an ambulance and two wailing squad cars pulled up in front of the house. I led the uniformed troupe inside and pointed one emergency medical technician to the bathroom while the other attended to Jim. Cameron insisted he was fine for the moment and didn’t require immediate attention. After a sternum rub, thick legs came to and seemed none the worse for wear except for a lump on his head - the wonders of inebriation. Two policemen stuffed the now passive man into the back of a squad car and headed to the police station. Jim was placed on a stretcher and taken out to the ambulance to join Shirley. I heard the squeal of tires and the short blast of a siren as it sped off.

The two remaining officers started questioning Cameron about the incident, notepads out. I thought the hero of the day was starting to look a little grey; perhaps he wasn't quite as fine as he had insisted fifteen minutes ago. I was feeling a little woozy myself and sank into a nearby chair, one of the few that had not been tossed down the staircase by thick legs. My adrenalin level finally dipped low enough for me to acknowledge the constant throbbing in my head. I closed my eyes for a moment to brace myself against the pain and opened them to find a police officer peering down at me.

"You okay, ma'am? Are you hurt?"

“My face," I replied. "He kicked me in the face.”

“And the blood?" He indicated the red splashes of colour on my hands and shirt.

"It's not mine." Surely it was Cameron's and maybe Shirley's, but I didn't know. The events of the morning were becoming a bit of a blur at this point.

“We’re taking both of you to the hospital,” the man in uniform said as he took my elbow. The other officer guided Blair to a seat beside me in the back of the squad car and we raced downtown. It should have been an exciting moment, my first ride in a police car with the lights flashing, but the pale man clutching his bloody, towelled hand beside me was a reminder that this was not a joy ride. Real lives were at stake.

"I can't believe I lost Viola,” I sighed to the window, watching the cars part for us.

“What did you say?” Cameron turned his weary face towards me.

“Viola. She's gone. She came to the house with me and must have run outside at some point. I saw some guys throw her into a car and take off." I knew he wanted to yell at me for bringing Viola to a crime in progress, but fortunately, he had no energy for it. "I got a partial license plate. That's something, right?" I added hopefully.

He leaned his head back against the seat. “I’ll let Sanders know. I'm sure the kidnappers will be in contact with him soon enough.”

The two policemen dropped us off at the emergency room. Cameron insisted on making a phone call before he received medical attention and dutifully informed Richard Sanders about his wife's abduction. Then my favourite detective was on his way to surgery to have a knife removed from his hand. I waited for an hour before a doctor appeared to tend to me. I endured a painful straightening of my broken nose at the hands of a young resident who winced every time I let out a yelp and matched me grimace for grimace during the uncomfortable process. He fitted me with a small plastic splint which I was sure made me look like someone who had just undergone a Beverley Hills nose job. Well, one could hope that the result would be of the same calibre, couldn't they?

I inquired about Shirley and was directed to a nearby examining room where a doctor was just finishing up a fine array of stitches. Apparently, she had put up both arms to ward off her brother-in-law’s attack with a knife, and he had slashed away until Jim and Cameron intervened. The doctor told me she had lost a fair amount of blood and would be admitted for a day or two until she regained her strength.

Jim was nowhere to be found, so I retired to the waiting room to read some fascinating magazine articles while Cameron was in surgery. A few minutes after I had come to the conclusion that there was nothing worth reading in the magazine pile, I saw Lynn walk through the emergency doors. She was appalled at my face apparatus and bloody clothes, but I assured her it was nothing serious. We found a nurse, inquired about Jim, and soon a man in a white coat came to talk to us. Jim had suffered a dislocated hip and a fractured pelvis. The doctor informed us that they had put Jim under anaesthetic and popped the hip back into place. Fortunately, the pelvis was stable and would heal without surgery. Jim would have to stay off his feet for a few weeks, but all in all, the news was better than we had expected. I felt Lynn squeeze my hand as she mouthed a silent prayer of relief and gratitude. Amen, sister, amen.

Lynn invited me to accompany her to the recovery room to see Jim, but I declined. Somehow, I couldn't bear the sight of him lying unconscious on a bed, even though he would be waking up from the anaesthetic soon. I needed my first sight of the man to remind me of my strong and encouraging friend Jim, awake and coherent and full of life, not to reinforce the image of the helpless figure crumpled on his kitchen floor.

It was the middle of the afternoon, and I was beginning to feel the effects of having consumed no food up to that point. The hospital cafeteria offered little that looked appetising, but a tuna sandwich on whole wheat and a glass of apple juice fulfilled my requirements nicely: no longer sporting an empty stomach, I swallowed one of the pain pills that the empathetic resident had given me and hoped that my face would stop pounding soon.

I passed another gleeful hour in the emergency waiting room watching children cough and cry on their mothers before a nurse directed me to the surgical floor where I could sit in relative comfort and quiet. It wasn't long before the surgeon appeared and asked if I was a member of Blair's family. I identified myself as the fiancée, just to avoid an awkward situation, and hoped that God would forgive me for my little white lie. He informed me that Cameron had come through the surgery well, and though the operation had proved a bit intricate in places, everything in his hand would be fine. There was the possibility of some permanent nerve damage, but only time would tell. I shook the doctor's hand and thanked him, only then remembering to slip my left hand behind my back, hoping he hadn't noticed my naked fourth finger.

Another half hour passed before Cameron opened two heavy eyelids and saw me sitting at his bedside. A trembling, silly smile jumped onto my face at the sight, and I spontaneously bent down to kiss his cheek. He grinned weakly and croaked out a demand for some water. I giggled ridiculously at the sound of that familiar voice, and finding a cup with a straw on the side table, lifted it to his mouth. Nurses flitted in and out, checking the progress of several post-surgery patients as Cameron and I took turns staring at each other. I was revelling in the gift of life, suddenly aware of how devastated I would have been if anything had happened to him, and he was probably staring at the unsightly splint on my face. Other than assuring him that everyone else was going to be fine, no words were spoken. I found myself holding onto his right hand and never wanting to let go.

A few hours later, I wheeled Cameron and his heavily swathed left hand down to the front door of the hospital in the mandatory wheelchair. Since both our cars were still at the Whitehalls, I hailed a cab and we landed at his doorstep just after sunset. I settled him on the couch with a blanket, two pillows, and some water. Since he had not eaten much that day, I heated a can of spaghetti sauce that I found in the bedroom-sized pantry, cooked some noodles, and set the simple meal before him on the coffee table. He sat up, swallowed a few bites, picked at it a bit more, then laid down the fork and eased himself back onto the couch. I told myself it was the strain of the day and not my sad attempt at home cooking that had stolen his appetite. He soon dozed off, cradling his giant left hand in the crook of his right elbow.

I tidied up the kitchen, refilled his water glass, and placed his pain pills within easy reach. Not feeling too perky myself and the couch being already occupied, I climbed the stairs and headed for Cameron's bedroom. The bed was unmade and yesterday's clothes strewn on the floor. I was too tired to care about how intrusive I was being and crawled under the covers, being careful to remain face up. My head was beginning to ache again, and my thoughts had become a jumble of important details mixed with useless wonderings. What would happen if I sneezed during the next few days? Had someone called Roman and told him about Viola’s kidnapping? I had to make sure to avoid pepper and bright sunlight. We needed to get to her before anything bad happened.

“Remember, I must remember,” I mumbled to myself as I succumbed to the weight of sleep.