Meeting at Midnight Read Free Page B

He’d take care of things. “You’ll tell Zach…make it so he doesn’t worry.”
    â€œI will.”
    Good. That was good. The darkness beckoned, no longer threatening. “And the angel,” I murmured as I let myself go. “You’ll find her for me.”
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    Doctors and nurses are not reasonable people.
    No question about who was in charge, and it wasn’t me. Admittedly, I wasn’t in any shape to go home right away. After they’d finished poking and stitching and X-raying me, pumping me full of antibiotics and O-negative, they finally strapped me into a fancy sling and put me in a room where I could get some sleep. Then, of course, they kept waking me up.
    In spite of this, I felt a lot better by late afternoon. But no one was interested in my opinion of my condition. Mostly they seemed irritated that it wasn’t worse. At least that prissy E.R. doctor was out of the picture now.
    I’d finally remembered where I knew him from. Twenty-some years ago, Harold Meckle, M.D., had been a couple of grades behind me in school. Harry had been a certified brain back then, so he was probably a competent doctor now. But it would take a personality transplant to turn him into a competent human being.
    Harry had a real bee in his bonnet about my shoulder. At one point he’d actually wanted to do surgery in order to find out why I didn’t need surgery. He was convinced I had to have some internal injury that was bleeding like a mother to account for all the blood I’d lost.
    Fortunately, my own doctor had arrived by then. Dr. Miller didn’t see any point in cutting me open to satisfy Harry’scuriosity. Or, as he put it, he preferred a conservative approach, which meant keeping me under observation. Which meant keeping me in the hospital.
    I’m a reasonable man. I could see that they needed to hold on to me awhile. I had a concussion, among other things. That’s why they’d woken me up every blasted hour on the hour, until I finally stayed awake in self-defense.
    I knew all that. I just didn’t like it.
    Shortly before supper a skinny little blonde showed up carrying a plastic sack from a department store. Her pink sweater was big enough for two of her, hiding what I knew to be a curvy bottom. She’d cut her hair again, I noticed. For some reason she liked it short. Long or short, I enjoyed looking at her hair. It was a pale, shiny blond, like sunshine on freshly cut pine.
    Her name was Gwen. She was my son’s mother and—as of three months ago—my brother’s wife.
    â€œI’ve got a book on Samuel Adams I hope you haven’t read,” she said, bustling up to my bed, where she deposited a peck on my cheek and the sack on my bed. “Also two magazines, a crossword puzzle book and some pajamas so you don’t have to wear that hospital gown. You’re looking better, I must say, though your bruises are coming out nicely. How are you feeling?”
    â€œHungry. Where’s Duncan? With Zach?” I used my good arm to dig through the sack. The pajamas were new, of course, since I didn’t own any. I wondered how much of a fuss she’d make when I paid her back for them.
    â€œDuncan is getting something else I understand you asked for. Zach is with Mrs. Bradshaw.”
    â€œHow’s he taking all this? He’s not too upset?”
    She smiled. “We may have overdone the reassuring. He wanted to know if you’d still take him camping this weekend.”
    â€œWe” meant her and Duncan. I was getting used to that. I grimaced. “We’re likely to have had our first snow by the time all the dings in my carcass have healed enough for me to take him.”
    â€œProbably. He’ll survive waiting until next spring. Oh, I talked to Edie. She wants you to let her know if there’s anything she can do.”
    She might try leaving me alone. One date is not a lifetime commitment.