“Prognosis?”
The surgeon checked his watch. Michael had always respected James Roberts for his unparalleled skill with a scalpel. The other man’s coldness hadn’t registered before. Was this how physicians came across to most people, he wondered? Impersonal, unaffected, uncaring?
“Hard to say. Vision may return as the swelling recedes.”
“What do we do now?”
Roberts was already at the door. He hadn’t spoken once to Maggie, other than to issue short commands. “She can go. I’ve already signed the discharge papers. No heavy lifting, no bending. Have her schedule an appointment with my office for a post op in two weeks.”
Michael placed his hand on the door, preventing the other man from leaving. “That’s it?”
The other man looked slightly annoyed. “I am due in surgery in five minutes.” When Michael pinned him with an unwavering stare, the man sighed. “I wish I could be more optimistic, Michael, but you of all people know that there are no guarantees. There’s a chance, that’s all the hope I can give you. I’m sorry.”
Michael let him leave, resting his head for a moment on the door. It was not what he wanted to hear.
He turned his eyes to Maggie. She looked so fragile, so small there in that hospital bed, pale skin against the stark white coverings. She was unnaturally still, staring at the hands in her lap with unseeing eyes, broken. His chest ached.
Somehow, he would find a way to make her whole again.
“Looks like you’re good to go,” he said, forcing a cheerfulness into his voice he did not feel. “I’ll call Ian while you get dressed, have him meet us at your place.” Ian and Lexi had volunteered to take care of George while Maggie was in the hospital. Their son, Patrick, had fallen in love with the Bassett at first sight.
Maggie had yet to speak to him since waking up. She had answered some basic questions in the recovery room, enough for them to know that her speech and mental functions were intact, but had been silent since. He wished she would yell at him, scream at him, vent the frustration and anger and fear he knew she was feeling on him. He would bear it, he would take it all, gladly. But she didn’t. She remained silent, stoic, refusing to acknowledge him.
She was almost dressed when he returned, finishing the last of the buttons on her shirt. He looked around, gathering the few personal items he’d brought for her – her hairbrush, her toothbrush, the flannel shirt she wore at night, now folded neatly and placed off to the side. She’d refused to wear it, opting for the backless hospital gown instead. It hurt more than he cared to admit.
A nurse came in with a wheelchair. Michael guided Maggie into it, though she pulled away at the first possible moment. “I’ll take her from here, Sally, thanks.”
They drove to her house in silence. When they arrived, he noticed that the walks and driveway had been cleared. All the logs had been split and were stacked neatly off the porch. A roaring fire blazed in the hearth, the inside of the house was warm. The refrigerator was freshly stocked with prepared meals, enough for a week at least. Michael was so thankful for his family.
*
“Who did all this?” Maggie asked quietly, not needing her sight to know that she hadn’t had to trudge through snow, that her house was warm and filled with the scents of food. She knew it wasn’t Michael. He hadn’t left her side for the past three days.
“Lexi and Taryn did the inside stuff. My brothers took care of the outside.”
Maggie felt the walls starting to crumble. It had been much easier when she was in the hospital. That was such a cold, sterile place, filled with professional strangers. This was her home. And Michael’s family had come out and done all this.
“Please thank them for me.”
“You can thank them yourself.”
She felt his hand at her back, hating it and loving it at the same time. One part of her longed for him to hold her in his arms until she forgot everything else; to make love to her until nothing else mattered. But at the same time, another part of her wanted nothing to do with him. He had done the one thing she could not forgive: he had taken away her choice.
Decision made, she stepped away from his touch.
“Thanks for bringing me home.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’d like you to leave now.”
*
Michael’s jaw clenched. For one brief, hopeful moment, she looked as if she might have been softening toward him, but then her features hardened again and she moved away.
“I don’t think so.”