When Hearts Collide

chapter 4

That went well. Now what?

Molly flipped through the address book again. There were a lot of names, but nothing identifying whom they belonged to. Which one should she call? She could close her eyes and pick one at random. Surely Mrs. Nesbitt would call right back. She was in shock. She would think for a few minutes, then call back, wondering what had happened to her granddaughter. She would ask if the little girl had been involved in the accident, and then she would make all the necessary arrangements for Pearce and Gracie.

But the phone didn’t ring. And the doorbell didn’t ring. The house was silent, save for the chatter of a small child. A child who right now was calling her name.

Molly Mommy, I need you.”

Molly’s return phone call to the grandmother would have to wait.

In the kitchen, Gracie was pulling open cupboards. Molly saw the child’s plate, where only crumbs of toast remained. “Are you still hungry?”

I want cereal.”

Well, that’s easy enough. Pulling two bowls off the shelf, Molly poured out cereal and sat down at the kitchen table with the child.

Breakfast was over. Now what? The phone had not rung, and Molly’s return call had been met with a crisp female voice message. Had the grandmother raced to the hospital to be with her son-in-law?

Molly looked at her temporary charge. Peanut butter coated several of her fingers and circled her mouth. Obviously, the first job was to clean up the child, get her dressed, and be ready for her grandmother’s arrival.

Did Pearce Taylor have a housekeeper? From the look of his organized, but functional, desk, he didn’t appear to be a neat freak. Gracie had said her mother was ‘gone,’ so who kept this place so clean? Whoever it was, Molly prayed they’d show up soon and rescue her. She tidied up the remains of their breakfast and wondered how to entertain Gracie until help arrived.

And where was the grandmother? Molly looked at the clock. She and Gracie had dawdled over breakfast and the cleanup. Almost an hour had passed, yet the phone still had not rung. How far away did the woman live? Had she fainted in shock and been unable to call back, or had she rushed to the hospital?

Molly needed information. She needed answers. All she had got out of Pearce last night was that he didn’t have a wife and Gracie didn’t have a mother. But was he divorced, a widower? It was plain and simple biology, the child had to have had a mother at some point. But what had happened to her? The last thing Molly wanted was to get in the middle of a bitter custody dispute.

The man had suffered a head injury. He might have amnesia or delusions. She had no idea if anything he told her the previous night was based on reality–except for Gracie. He had known her name, and his concern for her was appropriate. She was obviously his daughter, that much seemed to be true, but other than that, she knew nothing about him or his situation. All Gracie said was her mother was gone. Gone could mean anything to the child–gone away for a job, gone on vacation, separated from her father. Maybe the child’s mother had died.

Can we crayon, Molly Mommy?”

She should put a stop to it, but Molly couldn’t help smiling at the child’s name for her. And despite the enticing picture of Pierce and Gracie being her family, that was a flight of fancy, and she didn’t have the excuse of having a head injury to create that particular delusion.

How was Pearce doing? Should she call the hospital and inquire? They should give her his status. They thought she was his wife. Was he conscious? How lucid would he be? Would he remember anything about the accident? Would he remember begging her to pretend to be his wife, or would he deny even knowing her?

Darkness surrounded him. It came in varying shades–pitch black to cumulous clouds of silver. Through the luminous silver, he sometimes saw a halo of light, a glimpse of scarlet, dots of blue, fading to charcoal again. Then he would sink back into the darkness, and a feeling of numbness would weigh on him. Gradually, the periods of gray came more often, lasted longer, beating out the black, as if a war were being waged.

He floated in the waves of dense clouds. At times, he rose almost to consciousness, but never quite attained it before plunging into darker depths, where no sensation penetrated. He tried to swim to the surface, but the current overpowered him. The weight of the water engulfed him. He treaded furiously, but was swept into the depths again.

Sensations of pain came and went in varying degrees. He would rise to the surface where the light was, but there the pain was too intense. He tried to reach out, but it hurt too much. He let himself drift below the surface again, deeper and deeper, the pain becoming less and less.

He heard muffled sounds, sounds and voices that seemed somehow familiar. He fought to make sense of them, but they sounded like a foreign language spoken through layers of cotton batting. He struggled to open his eyes, struggled to keep them open, struggled to not succumb to the forces keeping him prisoner.

There was one vision that continued to hover over him–a vision of a red-haired angel. Sometimes the angel held him, her soft fingers caressing his face. Other times, she cradled Gracie. He reached out, but his body refused to obey his commands.

Then she was there again. Who was she? Did he know her? He should have remembered that face with its halo of red curls. She reminded him of Rachel. But he didn’t want to think about her. He wanted to think about the angel.

He concentrated on the red-haired vision. It was better than the recurring nightmare—the one where a flash of brown darted across the road, the car swerved out of control, the tree came at him. His heart quickened as he remembered a loud crash, sand and gravel exploding around him, pain, and then everything went black.

Briefly, the blackness had cleared, and he’d seen the pale face, a halo of red curls, felt the brush of warm breath on his ear before he’d plunged into darkness again.

The dream kept recurring. The same dream, the same crash, the same angel. But he didn’t believe in angels. He tried to open his eyes and move his head, but the pain returned like a torrential wave.

He fought to escape the pain. He heard a low moan, then realized it was coming from deep in his throat. He felt the softness of a hand on his arm, a soothing voice, the faint smell of alcohol. Then he was sinking under the layers of fog as the piercing wave receded. By the time the nurse put the syringe in the sharp’s container, Pearce was dreaming again of the red-haired angel.

When he was finally able to focus again, Pearce saw walls, some pale green, some glass, and he saw pale striped curtains, but mostly, he saw the white-tiled ceiling above him. And he heard sounds, beeps and wheezes and clicks and drips. He saw wires leading from his chest to a monitor, felt tubes stuck in his arm, his mouth, his nose.

He tried to move, but the pain was too much. He closed his eyes, but voices disturbed him. They were close. One was deep; the other was softer, higher pitched. The female voice spoke his name. Pearce forced his eyes to open. His vision was blurry and sleep coated his lids. He blinked several times before the faces came into focus.

Mr. Taylor,” the male voice said, “I’m Doctor Summerville. You were in a car accident last night. Do you remember?”

Pearce felt himself nodding, but the tube in his throat made it difficult. The tube was attached to double, semi-transparent hoses connected to a machine by his bed. Was he so badly injured he needed a ventilator to help him breathe? Above his head, he heard the bleep of his heart on a monitor. If he cranked his head, he could see the wavy line that raced across the oscilloscope. He felt the soft, reassuring touch of the nurse’s hand on his arm.

The male voice continued. “You’re doing fine. You have a broken leg. We put some pins in it, and it’s in a cast. We had to stop some abdominal bleeding, but you’re fine now. Do you understand?”

What about Gracie?

We’re going to take the tube out of your throat. It was helping you breathe, but you don’t need it now.”

He felt the nurse’s hand leave his arm and saw her disconnect the transparent tubing from the ventilator.

Mr. Taylor, are you ready?” Doctor Summerville asked.

He must have nodded.

When I tell you, take a deep breath, and then cough.” The doctor grasped the tube protruding from Pearce’s throat while the nurse eased the brown tape away from his mouth. “Now.”

Pearce took his breath, coughed, and the doctor pulled. Pearce coughed again, and the nuisance was out. His throat felt raw, but so much better without the constricting tube. He uttered one raspy word, “Gracie?”

The nurse gave a bright smile and squeezed his arm. “Mr. Taylor, Gracie is fine. She’s with your wife.”

My wife?”

She’s fine, too. I’m sure she’ll be in soon to see you.”

Pearce racked his brain trying to remember. Did he have a wife? He thought of Rachel. She was gone. He didn’t think he’d remarried. How hard had he hit his head?

You had a head injury,” Doctor Summerville said. “A concussion. You should be fine in a few days.” He chuckled. “You’re a lucky man that your wife is a nurse and did some quick first-aid.”

There it was again, his wife. It hurt to think. He went back to the nightmare—the deer, the tree, the crash. Then there she was, the red-haired angel.

Mr. Taylor,” the nurse said, “I’m going to put an oxygen mask on your face, then we want you to rest. I’m giving you something for pain.”

She placed a transparent green mask over his face. It was tight and uncomfortable, but a grateful alternative to the tube that had obstructed his throat. He caught the faint scent of alcohol and he was drifting again.

Somewhere in a semi-dream state, he remembered the angel, remembered her helping him, remembered begging her to take care of Gracie. His eyelids were so heavy, his body was floating, but as he sank deeper into sleep, he remembered her promise to pretend to be his wife.

Pearce woke to a commotion in the room. Besides the blip of the heart monitor, he heard footsteps, and then voices.

He’s sleeping. I’m sure if you speak to him he’ll wake up.”

One voice he knew, his nurse, the other was female, familiar. The memories it brought were unpleasant. He forced his eyes open. She was there beside the bed. She was talking, saying Gracie’s name. No. He couldn’t let her take his child. He struggled to get up.

Pain shot through his body. His left leg felt like an uprooted stump, and when he tried to move it, pain shot from his ankle to his hip. He saw her retreat from the room. “Gracie. Gracie.” He had to get up. He had to find Gracie before she took her.

Mr. Taylor,” the nurse said. “You can’t get out of bed. You need to stay where you are.”

Gracie.”

Gracie is fine.”

I need to see her.”

He shook his head, then twisted his body. The pain became intense. He smelled the faint scent of alcohol. Then he was drifting again. The pain eased, and he stopped fighting.