He might have a virus or meningococcal disease.
Both those I wouldn’t be able to cure.
Please, let it just be overwork and tiredness.
Those I could tend to.
Those were in my realm of acceptable concerns.
Halfway through the night, when I clambered out of bed to use the washroom, I touched him again and my heart stopped.
I couldn’t contemplate the worst.
I’d blindly believed (trusted) that what he’d told me was the truth. That this was a simple set-back and he would wake in full health tomorrow.
I needed him to rest.
To heal.
To get better.
To get well, dammit.
Not to get worse.
But he was worse.
So, so much worse.
I shook him as his eyelids fluttered.
“G, open your eyes.”
He moaned, rolling onto his side. In his sleep, he’d cradled his left hand where his index finger had swollen and turned a faint shade of red.
The splinter.
Something so simple and common.
Something he’d overcome a hundred times before.
So why isn’t he overcoming this one?
What’s going on?
My mind went into overdrive, forcing dormant cures to rise. If his finger caused his fever, that had to be isolated.
A tourniquet.
Fumbling in the dark, I rushed to Conner’s bedroom.
Tears shot to my eyes at the pristine, untouched space. No one had had the heart to remove the flax blankets or clear out the island clutter. On top of his carved belongings sat the slingshot Galloway had made him.
It tore out my heart to untie the black string from the forked weapon but I did it to save G. Clutching the fine rope, I rushed back to Galloway and slammed to my knees.
He remained fast asleep, unmoving.
I dropped the string I shook so hard, wrapping the blackness around his forearm.
How tight should I pull?
How tight could he stand it before the limb starved of blood?
Is this going to work?
Tying a hasty knot, I ran my hands up his arm, hating the tingling heat beneath my fingertips. The ever-present fear hung itself around my throat as I shook him again. I craved the beauty of electric light to douse him in brightness and confront just how sick he was.
But we didn’t have that luxury; I’d even forgotten how brilliant such a device was. All I had access to was a burning fire or the silvery moon and both were outside.
We have to go.
“G, please...help me get you up.”
He flinched with annoyance. “Woman, just let me rest.”
“No. I need to look at you.”
“You can look at me here.”
“I can’t see in the dark.”
He groaned, clearly debating whether to yell at me or obey. Luckily, the gentleman in him was still in control and he struggled upright, letting me guide him to the fire pit.
Immediately, he slipped from standing to lying, stretching out by the comforting flames. “Just let me rest a little, okay, Stel?”
He hadn’t mentioned the tourniquet. He hadn’t opened his eyes fully.
His personal awareness was nil, focusing entirely on whatever he battled.
I couldn’t calm my clanging heart, no matter how much I told myself not to be stupid. Not to picture the worst. Not to imagine every awful conclusion that I’d been terrified of for years.
Resting on my knees, I stroked his burning forehead, drinking my tears. “Okay, G. Rest. I’ll watch over you.”
And watch over him, I did.
I didn’t move.
I didn’t sleep.
I hardly ate or drank.
I ignored my children.
I shut out the world.
I prayed for a miracle.
For three excruciatingly long days.
I watched over him, just as I said I would.
I fed him.
I bathed him.
I cried for him.
I pleaded with him.
But he didn’t get better.
He got worse.
And worse.
And...
worse.
.............................
“Stelly, you can’t keep doing this. You need to rest.”
I wafted Pippa away and her intolerable begging for me to eat. My stomach had stopped growling for food, my raging thirst had given up, and my heart had broken and bled out long ago.
Even Coconut couldn’t reach me in my grief.
Galloway wasn’t getting better.
His red finger had switched to a swollen arm. The tourniquet hadn’t worked, allowing devilish scarlet tendrils to chase up his skin and paint his flesh with infection and worry. Pus seeped from his fingernail where the splinter had poisoned him and he no longer needed the fire.
He was the fire.
His temperature raged until he mumbled in tongues, garbled nonsense, saw hallucinations. He spoke to Conner some hours, to his mother in others. He conversed with the dead as if they were living...as if he’d already joined them.
I’d tried everything.
I’d steeped his hand in hot, hot water. I’d crushed and applied the leaves Pippa had found helped with inflammation. I mashed coconut flesh and fish into a paste and washed it down his throat with rainwater.
I did everything I could, used everything at my disposal to break his fever and bring him back to me.
But nothing worked.