Part XIX

Ronan stayed in the hospital for two weeks, regaining his strength bit by bit. He was quite subdued at first, but by the end of the first week, he was closer to being back to his old self, personality-wise, at least. I visited every day after work, and brought good food to re-awaken his appetite, and we ate together, though he hated having me feed him.

“This is awful,” he complained. “It’s bad enough to be laid up like this; must I be helpless, too?”

That was just one more of the rhetorical questions he tended to pose, and I never bothered to attempt an answer. He knew what the answer would be, anyway, just as well as I did. Until he had the use of at least one arm back, he would indeed be helpless, and forced to submit to being cared for by others.

So, with no other choice, he submitted, though only to me and his nurses, and not always with good grace.

Initially, weak as he was, he protested ferociously the first time I tried to brush his hair. “Leave me be, damn it!” he snapped. “The nurse already did that this morning.”

“Your hair’s too thick and wavy to be done just once a day. You’ll end up with dredlocks if you don’t let me—”

“Damn it, I said leave me be!”

“Fine,” I replied calmly. I took the brush and curled the fingers of his right hand around the grip. “You do it, then.”

Though that hand was not injured, the arm fracture had temporarily left him with no control over it. The brush was too heavy for him to hold, and slipped from his grasp almost immediately. Even if he had been able to hold it, he could not have accomplished the task with his elbow immobilized.

“All right,” he said quietly. “You’ve proved your point. Go ahead and brush, if you feel you must, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“Couldn’t you learn to?” I asked, working the brush through slowly. “I know I always liked it when you did mine for me at night.”

“I always liked doing it for you, too, but that’s different. You had a choice in the matter. I don’t, and that rather spoils it for me. Ow! Go easy, will you?”

“Sorry.” I loosened the snarl with my fingers and continued to brush. We were quiet as I worked, until finally I put the brush down. “Ro, this could be a really pleasant part of your day if you thought about it a little differently.”

“I suppose it could be. God knows there isn’t much to look forward to as it is.” He leaned against me with a sigh.

I put my hands to his head and massaged gently, taking care to avoid the healing gash and the shaved area surrounding it. “Let me know if I do anything that hurts you.”

“I will, but at the moment what you’re doing feels awfully good. I’ve rather a bad headache. The warmth from your hands eases it a bit.”

“You’ve been having a lot of headaches, haven’t you?”

“Mmm. They tell me it’s part and parcel of having a concussion.”

“Well, I guess that stands to reason.” I moved to sit behind him and leaned back against his pillows, and pulled him close so his head lay against my breast. Then I placed my hands on his forehead and let them rest there for a bit.

“Och, the heat really does help. Thank you, a chuisle. Seems I’ve been looking forward to that all day.”

“Don’t they give you anything for your headaches?”

“They do give me pills every few hours, but nothing seems to touch it. I suppose even heat doesn’t really help. It’s just a little thing that feels good when everything else feels bad.”

“You’re hurting that much?”

“Yeah. They stopped the morphine today.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah. ’Twas a mutual decision. Even if it did make me feel better, I’m frightened of morphine for rather obvious reasons.”

“Because it’s addictive?”

“Yeah, and I don’t need that sort of struggle in my life on top of everything else.”

“But your arms must feel horrible!”

“They do. Every inch of me feels horrible, but it’ll pass in time. I only need the patience to live through it.”

I bent down and kissed the top of his head. “I wish there was something I could do.”

“You’re doing it just by being here. Knowing you care that much does lift my spirits a bit.”

“How could I not be here? Ronan, I love you. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go through this alone.”

“I know, and I love you, too, but it seems I’ve been nothing but trouble since we met, first with my eyes, and then my wrist, and now this—”

“Hush. Don’t even think like that. We’ll get through this one day at a time, just as we did before.”

“I think you don’t quite know what you’re in for, Sarah. Eight weeks of me not being able to do anything for myself is going to wear on you.”

“What’s the alternative, then? You can’t travel like this, and even if you could, how would you manage at home?”

He shifted his arms slightly. “I guess I couldn’t. I might be able to if the casts only went up to my elbows, but—” He sighed. “As it is, it’s impossible. Sarah?”

“What, love?”

“Would you mind getting up and turning the lights off? It’s too bright in here. My eyes hurt.”

I maneuvered myself out from behind him and settled him back on his pillows, then went to the wall switch. The best I could do was dim the lights. There was no way to turn them off completely. “Why do your eyes hurt? The iritis isn’t cropping up again, is it?”

“No. Light sensitivity has always been a problem for me, and the concussion exacerbates it. Between that and the headache, my stomach’s doing somersaults.”

“You’re not about to be sick, are you?”

“No,” he answered faintly.

I got back on the bed and snuggled as close to his side as I could. I slid one arm under his shoulders and with the other, lightly stroked the fingers of his right hand. “This is such a hell of a thing for you to go through. I wish I could’ve prevented it happening.”

“I appreciate the thought, a ghrá.” His eyes closed.

“I should let you sleep.”

“Why? I’m not really tired, just want to give my eyes a rest.”

“Would you like me to bring you a sleep mask when I come to see you tomorrow?”

“That would help, yes. Something to block the light would be good. For now, though, could you go soak a flannel with hot water and lay it on my forehead?”

“Of course.” I went into the little bathroom and found a washcloth, and soaked it as he’d asked, wringing out the excess water and folding it so it would retain some of the heat. Ronan sighed with relief when I draped it over his forehead.

“Better?”

“A bit. Thank you.”

“Ro, do the nurses have a microwave?”

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“I have a thing Emily gave me once. It’s a cloth bag filled with something that holds heat, and it has a nice scent—lavender, I think—and all you do is throw it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. It’s big enough to go most of the way around your head. I used it a lot when I was having trouble with tension headaches a few years ago. If the nurses have a way to zap it for you, I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

“That sounds lovely. I hope they do have a way to heat it.”

“I’ll ask before I go.” I stretched out beside him again, and put my arms around him. “Do you want the television?”

“You’re joking, right?”

“No.”

“Sarah, you know I hate television. Even if I did like it, the light would bother my eyes, and the way the images jump and flash would do my stomach in for sure. No. It’s better just like this, with you holding me.”

That was no difficult task. I rested my head against his shoulder and continued to hold him, and though he had denied being tired, it wasn’t long before he was sleeping peacefully.

***

Technically, visiting hours were supposed to end around eight o’clock, but Ronan’s nurses didn’t adhere to that schedule too strictly. They all told me he was much easier to deal with when I was present, and assured me they would never be in a hurry to see me leave at night. I was thankful for their flexibility, because Ronan always wanted me to stay later than that. On any given evening, I might leave him as early as nine o’clock, or as late as eleven.

Our routine was the same every day: supper together, then a hair-brushing and head massage session, and then we would lie together and talk until one or both of us fell asleep.

The few days I had taken off from work had been a great help. I had caught up on all the sleep I lost to worry, and begun the search for a caretaker. Possible candidates for the job called me, and I took notes, and started deciding who I would call back for a face-to-face interview.

By week’s end, eight people had replied, and when I called each of them back to set up an interview time and location, only six were still interested in the job. Out of those six, when I finally met them in person, only one impressed me as truly caring and sympathetic, and as she happened to be the last person on my list, I engaged her on the spot. We exchanged information, and I explained that I could not give her an exact start date.

“I was told that Mr. O’Malley would be in the hospital for two weeks, but that was only an estimate. He might stay longer, or they might send him home sooner. I’ll try to give you as much advance notice as I can.”

She thanked me, and we shook hands.

Once she had left, I went up to the counter and asked Michael for a bowl of soup. The lunch rush hadn’t hit Mary’s Place yet, and I wanted to eat quickly and leave before it did. I had taken out my wallet, but Michael shook his head. “Put that away, Sarah. Uncle Sean would brain me if I charged you, given all that’s been going on with you and Liam this week.”

“That’s very kind, but I don’t feel right about it.”

“No, really. Both he and Auntie Mary told me to just give you whatever you needed, until Liam’s home again and life’s gotten more or less back to normal. I also have strict orders today, to make sure you leave here with something Liam might enjoy, so just name it, and I’ll make up a package.”

“Michael, you’re a sweetheart, you know it?”

He blushed and ducked his head. “Well, I’ve been told that a few times over the years, but—”

“Whoever told you is right. Would Sean or Mary brain you if I forced one hell of a tip on you?”

“No, but only if you made it look like I had no choice about taking your money. Maybe you could duct-tape me into a corner and stuff the money in my shirt.”

I laughed. “Michael, I think you’ve inherited your uncle’s bizarre sense of humor.”

He shrugged and made a cute face. “How could I avoid it? I’ve been around him almost constantly in the last few years, working here, and before that he lived with my family over in Somerville. I was a rather impressionable young man when he came to stay with us.”

“As if you’re sooooo oooold now,” I drawled.

He grinned as he sliced some bread and added a piece to the plate on my tray. “Uncle Sean was right about you,” he mused.

“How so?”

“Well, I never believed him before when he said you were an outrageous flirt, but—”

“And you believe that, coming from a man who charms the paint from the walls and convinces the peeled-off strips to dance?”

His smile broadened. “You’ve not got such a bad sense of humor yourself, Sarah.” He tucked a big cookie into a wax paper bag and laid it beside my plate. “Tell me, though: how’s Liam doing?”

“Well enough that they still say he’ll be able to go home in a week or so. I’ve just hired a caretaker for him, so he won’t be alone while I’m at work.”

“A caretaker? Jeeze! Does he really need one?”

“Yeah. Didn’t Sean tell you he broke both arms?”

“No. He just said Liam had been mugged, and was hurt badly enough to be in the hospital.”

“That much is true, but kind of an oversimplification.”

“I guess so! Shit. Both arms?”

“Yeah. That’s why he needs a caretaker. He won’t be able to do a thing for himself until he gets at least one of the casts off.”

“How long is it likely to be before that happens?”

“Eight weeks, barring complications.”

“I’ll pray for him,” Michael said earnestly, as he pushed my tray towards me. “There, I haven’t forgotten anything, have I?”

“No, it all looks wonderful. Thank you.”

“Right. You go and eat, and I’ll put up a package for Liam. Anything in particular you think he’d like?”

I looked at the food on my tray. “Well, what I’ve got here looks fine. What’s the soup, though? I never even thought to ask.”

“It’s Irish stew, not soup, and the meat is mostly beef, with a little lamb added for flavor.”

“Oh, he’ll love that! The bread would be good, too, and two cookies, and if you wouldn’t mind fixing a decaf cappuccino the way he likes it—”

“No problem. Go eat, and I’ll pack it up for you.”

***

C.P. Warner
© 1 Spetember 2007

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