Cutler - Midnight Whipsers Part 45

"Yes sir."

"Well then, it does look like he has contracted teta.n.u.s. He should have had a shot immediately after that wound on his leg," he said with a note of chastis.e.m.e.nt in his voice. I tried to swallow, but couldn't. "Didn't your parents know about his injury?"

I shook my head.

"Her parents are both dead," Gavin said. "They were killed in a fire."

The doctor stared at him a moment, his eyes narrow. Then he turned to me.

"First we'll talk about your brother," he said.

"He's in a coma, something which usually follows convulsions caused by teta.n.u.s."

"Will he be all right?" I asked quickly. I couldn't hold back.

The doctor looked at Luther and then at me again.

"The mortality rate with teta.n.u.s is influenced by the patient's age and the length of the incubation period. It's more serious for young children and especially for those not treated soon after the bacteria has been introduced to the body," he said with a cold air. "Don't you have a guardian?"

"Yes sir," I said looking down. "My uncle."

"Well he has to be informed immediately.

There are important forms that have to be signed. I'm going ahead with emergency treatment, but I need to speak to your guardian right away," he said. "You people come from . . ." He looked at the chart.

"Cutler's Cove, Virginia?"

"Yes sir."

"Are you visiting relatives?"

"Yes sir, my aunt."

"Oh, well can I speak with her?"

"We ain't got a phone at the house," Luther offered.

"Pardon?'

"This is . . . my uncle," I said.

"Your guardian? He's been sitting here all this time?" the doctor asked, his eyes incredulous. "No sir.

That's a different uncle."

"Look, Miss Longchamp," he said, settling back, "this is a grave situation. I want your guardian's name and telephone number immediately." He thrust the paper at me and took the pen out of his top pocket.

"Yes sir," I said and wrote Uncle Philip's name and telephone number.

"Fine," the doctor said, taking it back. He started to turn away.

"What about my brother?" I asked.

"He's being moved to the intensive care unit.

We're hooking him up to an I.V. filled with an ant.i.toxin. He's a very, very sick little boy," he said.

He looked at Luther as if he instinctively knew Luther was familiar with the seriousness of the illness.

"Can I see him?" I asked.

"Only for a moment," the doctor said. "There's a waiting room up at ICU and a very restrictive period for visitations."

"Thank you," I said and got up. Gavin held my hand as we walked down the corridor to the examination room. When we looked in, we saw a nurse had just completed hooking up the I.V. Jefferson was already in a hospital gown, too.

"Your brother's things," she said, handing me the nightshirt and the blanket.

"Thank you." Gavin and I walked up to the gurney and looked down at Jefferson. I saw his eyeball twitch under the lid, and then his lips tremble and stop.

"Jefferson," I said. My throat ached so from my keeping myself from breaking out into hysterical tears, and my chest felt as if someone weighing three hundred pounds was standing on it. I took Jefferson's little hand into mine and held it for a few moments.

"Will he be all right?" Gavin asked the nurse.

"We'll have to wait and see," she said. "He's in good hands here," she added and offered us the first smile of hope. Gavin nodded.

"He's a strong little boy," he said, mostly for my benefit.

I leaned over and kissed Jefferson's cheek. Then I brought my lips to his ear.

"I'm sorry, Jefferson," I whispered. "I'm sorry I brought you along. Get better, please. Please, please,"

I chanted, the tears streaming down my cheeks.

"Christie. Come on. They're here to take him upstairs," he said.

He embraced me and we stood back and watched the orderly and the nurse begin to wheel Jefferson out of the room and down the corridor. We followed behind the gurney until they came to the elevator.

"Come up in about an hour or so," the nurse told us just as the doors were closing. We both stood there staring at the closed elevator. Luther came up behind us.

"It's gonna be a while," he said, "fore we really know somethin' substantial."

"I'm not leaving," I said. He nodded. Then he reached into his pants pocket and produced some money.

"Take this," he said, offering it to Gavin.

"You'll want something to eat or drink. I'm going back to see about Charlotte. I'll tell that sister of yours the way things is here," he told Gavin. Gavin nodded.

"Maybe she'll have the decency to come this way and look after you."

"Thank you, Luther."

He fixed his eyes on me and I saw the tears locked within.

"I'll be prayin' for him," he said. "He's a fine little boy, one I wished I had myself."

Gavin and I watched him walk toward the exit.

After he was gone, we turned and went to keep vigil outside the doors of the intensive care unit.

I fell asleep on and off with my head resting against Gavin's shoulder. We sat on a small imitation leather sofa in the intensive care waiting room. Across from us an elderly woman sat staring out the window.

Occasionally, she dabbed her eyes with her lace handkerchief. When she looked at us, she smiled.

"My husband's had surgery," she offered. "He's stable, but with a man his age . . ." Her voice trailed off and she turned to the window again. Outside, the gray skies had begun to lighten here and there and the rain had stopped.

"Has it been an hour yet, Gavin?" I asked.

"A little more than an hour," he said. We got up and went to the ICU door. I took a deep breath and then we entered. The nurse at the desk in the center of the room looked up immediately. We saw patients hooked up to oxygen, one with his legs and arms in casts.

"We're here to see Jefferson Longchamp,"

Gavin said.

"You can stay only five minutes," she replied curtly.

"How is he?" I asked quickly.

"No change," she said. "He's down at the end on the right." We walked through the intensive care unit. I tried not to look at the other patients, all very seriously ill; but the sound of the heart monitors, the subdued murmur of the nurses' voices, the occasional moan and groan, the sight of b.l.o.o.d.y bandages and the row of semi-conscious and unconscious people was overwhelming. It made my heart heavy and every breath an effort. I couldn't help feeling we were treading on the boundary line between the land of the living and the land of the dead. My little brother was tottering.

Jefferson was in a separate room in an oxygen tent. The light was off so that the room was darkened.

He looked the same, only they had him hooked up to a heart monitor as well as the I.V. now. The wound in his leg had been cleaned and bandaged. Gavin held me close as we both looked at him.

"I never dreamed he was this sick," Gavin said.

"We should have done something last night."

"It's my fault; I completely forgot about him cutting himself on that nail."

"Don't you go blaming yourself," Gavin ordered perceptively.

We turned as a nurse entered to check Jefferson's I.V. and take his pulse.

"How is he?" Gavin asked quickly.

"It's a good sign that he hasn't had any more convulsions," she replied.

We remained until the nurse advised us to leave and then we went out and downstairs to the hospital cafeteria. I wasn't very hungry, but Gavin thought we should put something into our stomachs or we would just get weak and sick ourselves. I had some hot oatmeal and ate about half of it with a cup of tea.

Afterward, we returned to the intensive care waiting room where we spent most of the day, going into the ICU whenever we could.

Other patients' relatives came and went. Some were talkative, most were not. Gavin and I slept on and off, thumbed through some magazines and simply stared out the window at the ever-clearing sky. The sight of blue patches and more foamy, cotton-like clouds warmed my heart. The next time we went into the intensive care unit, the head nurse told us that with every pa.s.sing hour, he was improving.

"He's not out of the woods yet by far," she said, "but his condition hasn't worsened."

Cheered by her words, we returned to the hospital cafeteria. With improved appet.i.tes, we both ate a good deal more.

"I half-expected Fern might show," Gavin said.

"I thought even she isn't that low."

"I hope they're not tormenting Aunt Charlotte and Luther," I said.

"I think Luther's about ready to heave them out," Gavin replied.

When we returned to the intensive care waiting room, we found Luther had returned and he had brought Flomer along with him. Homer was dressed in a clean pair of slacks, a white shirt and tie. He had his hair brushed down as neatly as he could. He looked frightened and sad, but his eyes widened with pleasure when he saw us come in.

"Homer drove me near crazy to bring him here," Luther explained.

"That's very nice of you, Luther. Thank you for coming, Homer."

"How's he doin'?" Homer asked.

"He's better, but still very sick."

Homer nodded.

"I brought him something to play with," he said. "For when he gets better," he added and showed us one of those toys that fit in the palm of your hand.

It was a little game where you had to jiggle the tiny silver b.a.l.l.s and get them all into the holes.

"That thing's so old, it's an antique," Luther said and winked. He leaned forward to whisper. "I gave it to him when he was barely older than Jefferson."

"Thank you, Homer," I said. "I'll see that he gets it."

"What about my sister?" Gavin asked.

"Oh," Luther said. "Once she heard about Jefferson, she and that beanpole she's with high-tailed it."

"You mean they left?" Gavin asked, astounded.

"Just left without finding out how Jefferson is?"

"They couldn't have run out of the house faster if it was on fire," Luther said. "I guess we won't miss 'em none," he added.

"I can't believe it," Gavin muttered.

We made our next visit in the intensive care unit. This time the nurses let us stay nearly twenty minutes and they permitted Homer to join us. He stood next to us, his hands crossed at his waist and never took his eyes off Jefferson's face.