Part XXXIX

Ronan appeared to be asleep when I got back to the room, but the minute the legs of my chair scraped the floor as I drew closer to the bedside, his eyes opened half-way. “Did you find him, a chuisle?”

“Yes.”

“And he was all right?”

“Yes. He was just having a bit of quiet time in the chapel. He’ll be up to say hello in a little while. How are you feeling?”

Ronan made a face, wrinkling his nose.

“That good, huh?”

“I am still waiting for my next round of morphine. Should be coming any minute now.”

“All right, but in the meantime, would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No. Karen was in just after you left, and compelled me to eat some god-awful puréed mess she claimed was chicken soup, and a dish of jello that had to have been one of the most unnatural shades of blue I’ve ever seen. But at least it tasted good. I can’t say as much for the soup.”

“Ah, blue jello! That explains why your mouth looks funny.”

“In what way does it look funny?” he asked, tetchily.

“Your lips are a little blue. If you hadn’t mentioned the jello, I’d have thought you were cold. Bet your tongue’s blue, too.”

He stuck it out for me to see, wrinkling his nose again.

I nodded. “Yeah, Ro, it’s blue, all right.”

He retracted it and sighed. “So much for retaining a semblance of dignity.”

“Don’t be so ill-humored, Ro. I’ll check with Dr. Curran, and if he says it’s O.K., I’ll bring you some real food tomorrow.”

Ronan’s eyes sparked faintly. “And coffee?”

“Decaf. Yes. But only if Dr. Curran says it’s O.K.”

“Yes. Thank you.” He leaned back against his pillows and closed his eyes. “I hate this, a chuisle. I want to go home.”

“I know, hon. I know.” I reached for his right hand and held it. “It’s only for a few days, while you need morphine. Once you’re through with that, they’ll let you go.”

“Then I’ll stop taking it right now. I’ll tell Karen I don’t want it. Get me out of here tonight.”

“I wish I could, but you’ve still got a catheter, and drains in your arm. You can’t go anywhere like that. Take your morphine and bide your time.”

“Fuck sake,” he grumbled.

“We love you, too, Mr. O’Malley,” came Karen’s cheerful voice from the doorway. “Do you want your happy juice or not?”

“Well, what do you think?” he retorted, scowling.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, and quickly came to his side to tend to business. With both arms inaccessible, he had to take the injection in his thigh, and that really didn’t please him.

“Jaysus, woman! What the hell did you shoot me with? A harpoon?”

“My, but you’re getting back to normal quickly, aren’t you? Sweet as a dill pickle pie.”

He chuckled at that. “Come on, a cara. You know I can’t help being out of sorts. My arm hurts like hell, and I loathe being tied down to my bed like this.”

“It’s only for a few days, Mr. O’Malley. As soon as the swelling goes down enough to remove the drains, the doctor will have us take you out of that sling, and you’ll be able to get up and move around again.”

“And how soon can the catheter go?”

“Ask Dr. Curran when he comes by later. He’ll probably let us take it out tonight, but I can’t make any promises until he’s looked you over again.”

“Fair enough. What can I do to convince him it’s time?”

“Keep drinking lots of water and juice, and prove that you’re not having any trouble putting out, if you get my drift.”

“In other words, if I piss like a racehorse for the next hour, and there’s a full bag for you to take away—”

“That’s about right,” she agreed, as she turned to leave. “Good luck.”

He rolled his eyes and huffed at me. “Good luck, she says.”

“Would you rather she said, oh, well, it sucks to be you?”

“That would be a more honest response, wouldn’t it? At the moment it does indeed suck to be me.”

“You’ll feel better when the morphine kicks in.”

He grunted, then fell silent and just lay there, staring up at the ceiling. I took out my knitting again and worked at it. Before long, I sensed his eyes upon me, and when I looked up, sure enough, he was watching. Clearly, the morphine was beginning to work its magic, because his face had taken on a dreamy, far-away expression, and I could feel his tension evaporating.

“Are things a little better now, Ro?”

“Mmmmm,” he sighed, his eyelids drooping.

“Do you think you could sleep a bit?”

“Mmmmm,” he responded, “but—don’t go yet.”

“I won’t.” I put the knitting aside and went to him, and leaned down and kissed him. Surprsingly, he kissed me back, a little sloppily, but with no lack of ardor.

Morphine, I decided, must be pretty amazing stuff.

“Go raibh míle maith agat,” he murmured, as we parted.

I had never heard him say that before, and had no clue what it meant, but I filed it away for future reference. If Dr. Curran came by again before I left, maybe he could tell me, providing I didn’t butcher the pronunciation as badly as I feared I would.

I resumed my place in the bedside chair and took up my knitting again. After a few quiet minutes, I heard the sound of a man discreetly clearing his throat, and looked up to find Sean rolling towards me. His eyes were still pretty red, but otherwise he seemed back to normal. Then he spoke.

“He’s asleep again?”

His voice sounded horrible: rough, raspy, and weak.

“Sean, what’s wrong?”

He put a hand to his throat and made a face. “I strained it.”

“Well, for heaven’s sake, don’t talk!” I rummaged in my bag and came up with a notebook I always carried, in case I had to make notes about whatever project I might have in progress. There was a pen on a string attached to the spiral. “Here, if you want to say something, just write it, O.K.?”

Sean nodded, opened the book, and the pen flew across the page. Then he handed the book back to me.

His writing was an illegible scrawl.

“What?” I asked. “I’m sorry, I can’t read this.”

He made another face and rasped out, “Sorry. It says that I can’t stay. I need to go home and wrap my neck and have some hot whiskey, before I lose my voice completely. Tell Ronan I’ll try to come see him tomorrow.”

“I’ll tell him, Sean, but I’ll also tell you what he’d say if he was awake and able. Take care of yourself first. If you don’t feel well tomorrow, then stay home and rest, all right? He’ll understand.”

Sean made a gesture with one hand that seemed to mean “thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I answered, and then I remembered. “Sean, before you go—”

He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“You know Irish, don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Ronan said something to me awhile ago, but I never heard him say it before, and I’m not sure—”

Sean nodded again, widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows a bit higher.

“I’ll try to say it, but—go raibh milé—”

Sean drew his finger across his throat rapidly in a cutting motion to tell me he didn’t need to hear more, then reached for my notebook. He wrote a bit more slowly this time, and when he handed it back, I saw he had printed in block letters, and that was easy to read.

“It means, ‘a thousand thanks,’ or, more simply, ‘thank you very much.’”

“Thanks, Sean. I may have more translation questions for you over the next few days, or at least while they’ve got him on morphine. He tends to revert to Irish when he’s under the influence.”

Sean grinned and shook his head. Then he took the notebook and wrote in it again.

“That’s his native tongue, so it’s perfectly natural for him to revert to it. I’m heading out now. Tell Ronan I’ll be thinking of him, and Sarah, for today, go raibh míle maith agat. A thousand thanks. I promise you, as soon as my throat recovers, I’ll get in touch with Matt, and I’ll make sure it goes in a positive direction this time.”

“Good. I think you’ll both feel better for it. Now, what’s this gobbledy-gook you wrote down? Is that how you spell what Ronan said to me?”

Sean smiled, and his green eyes danced with laughter.

“It doesn’t look a thing like it sounds.”

Sean’s smile broadened, and he took the notebook again.

“That’s the Irish language for you. And I’m really going to say good-bye now.”

He raised his hand in farewell, then threw me a kiss.

I threw one back at him. “All right, Sean. Be careful on the way home.”

He gave one last quick nod and wheeled himself out of the room.

***

I stayed with Ronan for a few more hours, knitting peacefully, but by nine o’clock he was still asleep, and I knew I needed a good night’s rest myself, so I could be fresh for the work-day ahead. I packed up my things and put my coat on, and bent down to kiss his forehead. “Good night, Ro. Love you.”

He let out a soft, wordless sigh, but I doubted it was a response when he was so far out of it. It was just a coincidence, that he had made any sound at all in that particular moment.

I was halfway down the hall when I saw Matt Curran approaching from the opposite direction. “Sarah, wait!” he called.

So I stopped where I was and waited for him to come to me. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have met him halfway, but, exhausted as I was, I just stood there.

His limp was more pronounced than it had been earlier, and his left arm was in a harness, strapped tightly against him.

“Oh, Matt!” I exclaimed, when he had caught up to me. “You really did hurt yourself! Your shoulder isn’t broken, is it?”

“No, just dislocated, like I thought. It’s a nuisance, but it’s not serious.”

“Thank God for that, but shouldn’t you have that foot checked out, too? You’re really limping.”

“Already had it done. See?” He raised his foot to show me. He had a pair of Velcro-fastened track shoes on, instead of the clogs he’d worn earlier, and a plastic splint supported his left ankle. “It’s just a low-grade sprain, but I’m going to be on my feet a lot over the next few days, and I figured I ought to have better support than an ace bandage. I wanted to have the doc put a cast on it, so I could walk, but he said I should try this first. It doesn’t look like much, but so far it really seems to work, and I do have the option to go back for a cast if the ankle starts to bother me too much. Now, I realize you were about to leave for the night, but would you mind coming back down to Mr. O’Malley’s room with me? I need to examine him, and I could use a helping hand.”

“Of course,” I agreed, though I wondered why he wasn’t asking a nurse to help him. “I’m really sorry you hurt yourself so badly.”

“Thanks. It could have been worse, and really, like I said, it’s more of a nuisance than anything. I’ll be in the immobilizer—this thing,” he explained, pointing to the harness, “four or five weeks, and after that, a little therapeutic exercise should put me right in no time.”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, feeling at least partly responsible.

“Ah, don’t sweat it. My mistake. I’m a terrible klutz, especially if I’m not thinking clearly, which I wasn’t at the time. You’d think I’d learn, but—” He attempted a shrug, and winced. “Ooh, that was a good example of my not thinking about what I was doing,” he remarked, and reached up to press his shoulder with his good hand.

“Anything I can do?”

“Nothing, unless you can provide me with a glug of moonshine and a bullet to bite.” He stopped walking, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths. After a few moments, he said, “There, it’s a bit better now,” and opened his eyes and resumed walking, though at a slower pace.

As I walked beside him, I tried to imagine him as a priest, and couldn’t quite see it. His personality just didn’t seem to fit that role, though perhaps he had been a very different sort of man at that time in his life.

I followed him to the bedside.

Ronan was in a strange, half-waking state, moaning, his brow furrowed.

Matt handed his clipboard to me and immediately went over to Ronan, and laid a hand on his forehead. “There’s no fever,” he said. “That’s good, but—” His hand traveled over the curve of Ronan’s skull, and he looked troubled. “Mr. O’Malley, can you hear me?”

Ronan groaned in reply.

“Man, that’s some headcahe you’ve got going! Mr. O’Malley?”

“O’Farrell,” came Ronan’s slurred response, as he tossed on the pillow. “Ronan O’Farrell.”

My heart all but stopped. I knew it was a vain hope, to think that Matt Curran, as Sean Phelan’s lifelong friend and a music lover himself, would not recognize the name.

Matt turned to me. “Excuse me, Sarah, but he didn’t just say—?”

I nodded miserably, but still grasped at one last straw. “You know the name?”

“Know it?” Matt echoed. “Yeah, I know it, all right. God, the poor bastard! Morphine plays horrible tricks with a man’s mind sometimes. Here, hold his eye open for me, just like that, while I have a look with my light. Good! Now if you could lift the blanket?”

I lifted it as requested and held it up, hardly daring to believe that Matt appeared to think the drugs were making Ronan delusional. “How much longer does he have to have that catheter?” I asked, hoping I sounded calmer than I felt. “It’s driving him crazy.”

“I’m sure it is. I’ll have the nurse remove it in the morning, when he’s awake and lucid. It’s pointless to do it when he’s in this sort of state, and can’t ask for help if he needs to go.” He came up from under the blanket. “O.K., you can tuck him back in now.” He took the clipboard to the window sill and jotted down some notes, then went back to Ronan with his stethoscope at the ready. After a few moments, he returned to the clipboard and made some more notes. Then he picked it up and tucked it under his good arm and approached Ronan again. “Mr. O’Malley?”

Ronan murmured incoherently.

“You seem awfully restless, Mr. O’Malley, so—”

“O’Farrell,” Ronan said again, this time much more clearly, though it was obvious to me that he wasn’t fully conscious.

“It’s not good for you to get so agitated, Mr. O’Malley, so—”

“O’Farrell, damn it! Ronan O’Farrell!”

“I’m ordering a sedative for you,” Matt continued calmly. “You’ll feel better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep. All right, Mr. O’Farrell?”

Ronan grew calmer, and seemed to relax.

“Matt, should I stay with him?”

“No, it really isn’t necessary. He’ll be fine once he’s been sedated. But I’d like to talk with you for a bit, if you can spare the time.”

He worded it politely and professionally, and offered me an out, but his tone of voice was insistent, and let me know I really had no choice in the matter. We were going to have a conversation, and that was that.

“All right,” I agreed, hoping I didn’t sound as reluctant as I felt.

“Come with me, then,” he invited, smiling. “This won’t take but a minute.”

I followed him to the nurses’ station and waited while he gave orders for Ronan and several other patients. The nurses clucked and fussed over him, this being the first glimpse they’d had of him since his visit to the E.R., but he made light of it. “Hey, they put those ‘wet floor’ signs up for a reason, and if a man’s too lost in thought to notice them, well—” He forgot himself and shrugged again, and made a face. “I need to go rest for a bit. Beep me if you need anything, and I’ll be here in two shakes.”

He turned away and gestured to me, and I walked with him down the hallway.

“Would you like coffee or something? The cafeteria’s pretty quiet at this hour, and I think we could have some privacy there. Or we could get something to go, and hang out in one of the lounges. What’s your pleasure?”

“Wherever you’d be more comfortable, Matt. You’re the one who’s hurt.”

“All right, since you’re kind enough to give me the choice, I vote for take-out and a recliner in one of the lounges, so I can elevate my foot.”

He wouldn’t let me go down to the cafeteria by myself when I offered, so we went together and got our coffees: high-test for him, and decaf for me.

“I know the perfect place for us to hang out,” he said, once we were in the elevator. “Hardly anyone ever goes there at night, so we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely, and if I should happen to be wrong, I know another place we can go. It might not be as nice a setting, but it will be private. You have my word on that.”

I heard Ronan’s voice in my head. ‘He seems trustworthy.’

Then I flashed back to his bedside, and once again saw Matt’s hand exploring his head, thumb gently stroking the furrow between his eyebrows until it softened and melted away.

Matt Curran was not only trustworthy, but gifted, and so utterly devoted to the art of healing he knew instinctively that there was more to it than just mending Ronan’s arm.

He had earned my trust, and I had faith in him.

“Wherever you think is best, Matt,” I agreed, and followed.

***

C.P. Warner
© 29 September 2008

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