“Major Trapper,” the doctor said, raising his volume a notch. “If you can hear us, open your eyes.”
The Major did as commanded, and you would have thought he’d summited Everest without supplemental oxygen. The doctor was a blur in a white lab coat, his face a smudge of flesh with nostrils and eyeholes, but The Major made out his wide smile. He even chuckled. “Welcome back. Your son is here and anxious to see you.”
He stepped aside, and John moved into view. He dwarfed the doctor by half a foot. He was wearing a shearling coat that added breadth to his shoulders and blocked everything else from The Major’s field of vision.
“Hey. It’s good to see you awake. You had everybody worried sick.”
The Major didn’t so much note what John had said as the way he’d said it: like he meant it. His usual insolence was missing.
“You’ve had a rough go,” he continued, then turned his head aside to address the doctor. “Will he have any memory of it?”
“With head injuries, the patient rarely remembers the event itself. He may be able to tell you what he ate for breakfast that morning, but—”
“Oatmeal,” The Major croaked.
That was the first time he’d spoken. It surprised John and the doctor, who shuttled John aside and asked, “You ate oatmeal that morning?”
“Every morning.”
“Oh, I see,” the doctor said. “What year is it?”
He answered.
“Can you tell me your birthday?”
He mumbled the date. The doctor looked to John for verification, and when he gave a curt nod, the doctor beamed again. “Excellent.”
John asked, “How’s he doing with the chest wound?”
“No complications from the surgery. He’s breathing on his own, so we were able to take out the tube. It’s remarkable, really.”
“We’re lucky you were on call in the ER that night,” John said. “If it’d been someone without your experience and know-how, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved his life.” John extended his hand to the doctor, and they shook.
“Thank you, but I believe your dad had something to do with it. He has an indomitable life force. Good karma. A guardian angel, maybe.”
“He bleeds like everybody else,” John said in his blunt manner of speaking. “And he almost bled out.”
“All I know is, in his lifetime he’s had two close calls and survived both. He’ll be even more of a legend now than before, and it’ll start as soon as I address them downstairs.”
“Address who?”
“Media. I’ve been holding them off until I had something to report, good or bad. A hospital spokesperson alerted them that there’d been a development. They’re assembling in a conference room, waiting for me. You’re welcome to join me. In fact, it would be quite special to have you there.”
“No thanks,” John replied, seeming not to have to think twice. “It’s your show.”
The doctor returned his attention to The Major, gave him an encouraging smile, told him that he would be checking on him later, then said to John, “Take a minute or two, but don’t pressure him to answer questions. His anxiety level should be kept to a minimum.”
“Of course. Thanks again.”
The doctor went out, leaving him and his son looking at each other. The moment stretched out until it became awkward, especially for John, who slid off his coat and folded it over his arm. “We’re in the thick of an ice storm.”
The Major didn’t want to talk about the weather. “How long have I…?”
“Been here? Going on forty-eight hours. It’s been touch and go. Glenn and Linda, Hank and Emma, they’re out in the waiting room. Rushed here as soon as word got around that you’d regained consciousness.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Vaguely. Kerra…”
“Escaped the men who shot you. She fell into the creek bed and suffered some injuries. None too serious. She’s already out of the hospital. Doing okay.” The Major exhaled a long breath as he processed that.
John shifted his weight, moved his coat from one arm to the other, glanced at the row of blipping, blinking machines, and finally came back to him. “I should go and let you rest. You had a close call. Hang in there, all right?”
But even after having said that, he stayed where he was, looking down on him with his all too familiar cut-you-to-the-quick eyes and expression of consternation. His son pretended to approach each of life’s roadblocks with a blasé attitude, indifferent as to whether or not he would clear the hurdle.
His feigned apathy fooled many. But in truth, even as a boy, John never could leave something unfinished, incomplete, or unanswered. If an article got lost, he searched until he found it. He couldn’t put away a broken toy until he’d repaired it. He would stick with a puzzle until he’d solved it. He would push a boulder up a mountainside with his nose if that was the only way he could get it there.
Now, he leaned down until their faces were only inches apart and whispered, “I warned you, didn’t I? Because you didn’t listen, you almost got yourself killed, and Kerra along with you.”
He had just surfaced from a coma, and John wanted to play “I told you so”? How like him. But he had neither the stamina nor the desire to wrangle with John’s stubborn streak just now. He shut him out by closing his eyes.
“Major?” John repeated his name until he gave in and opened his eyes. John looked madder and meaner than he’d ever seen him. “Did you see the sons o’ bitches? Could you identify them?”
He mouthed, No, then held his son’s unwavering stare for several seconds until closing his eyes again, and this time resolutely kept them shut until John stalked out.
Trapper pushed the large red button on the wall, and the pneumatic double doors opened. As expected, the moment he cleared them, he was surrounded by at least two dozen people. Along with Glenn, Hank, and their wives, also there were the lady who cleaned house for The Major, and the crusty old rancher with whom he shared a property line.
The others were strangers to Trapper. He supposed several were from Hank’s congregation, and some were acquaintances of The Major’s that he’d never met. All were eager to hear the update.
“He’s awake, he’s moving on command, and he talked,” he said up front, then recapped what the doctor had said about The Major’s progress, omitting the part about good karma and guardian angels, neither of which Trapper believed in.
Following several outbursts of happy relief, a lady on the fringe of the group stated that The Major’s recovery was nothing short of a miracle, and there were murmurs of agreement. Hank’s wife, Emma, invited anyone who wished to pray to join her in the seating area. Several did. Others drifted toward the elevator bank but not before either hugging Trapper or shaking hands and asking him to pass along their regards to The Major, which he promised to do.
Soon only he, Hank, and Glenn remained huddled.
Hank eyed him with concern. “You okay? You look a little unsteady.”
“Post-traumatic relief. I’m good.”