Re-Pair
by Mary Ellen Snodgrass
Along Possum Valley, a mid-winter sunbeam glanced off the transit while Sully set the scope toward a granite ridge. Only an hour after noon, the day promised light breezes and bright weather for the rest of his survey of alternate routes for the railroad. He plucked a notebook and pencil stub out of his pocket and jotted the coordinates indicated on the metal semicircle. Stooping alongside Wolf, he unfurled a hand-drawn map and pinpointed his findings.
Wolf flicked his ears upright and sniffed at the crisp air. His throat rumbled with testy growls.
"What is it, Wolf? Somebody comin?" Sully scanned the horizon for wild game or human hunters.
Hoofbeats thumped the frozen turf as a rider approached from the rear. Sully looked over his shoulder at the outline of Matthew, his grown son, on Scout. Waving his hat, Matthew yelled words that scattered to the wind. He came on at a furious pace, sending panicky quivers down Sully's spine.
Something was wrong.
"It's Dr. Mike. She's been shot." Gesturing toward town, Matthew continued, "She's at Andrew's office. Hurry," he urged. Reining in, he plunked his hat in place, turned Scout, and thundered off the way he came.
In a fluid surge, Sully leaped on Demon, leaving the transit on its tripod and the map by the campfire. Afraid he might be too late, he lashed left and right with his empty glove while passing Matthew at a gallop. Wolf leveled out behind, keeping pace at a steady lope. Through the brown-sedged meadow, Sully veered right to a shortcut past a grove of ancient evergreens and sped toward the Spring Chateau over a half mile ahead of Matthew's labored gelding.
As the green and white hotel rose into view, Sully slid off Demon and rushed up the nearest ramp to the medical office of Dr. Andrew Cook. Without knocking, the terrified husband pushed into the examining room. On first glance at the empty table, he flinched at Michaela's office pinafore heaped on the floor alongside bloody scalpel, forceps, sheets, and sponges, the leftovers of emergency surgery.
Sully's one-word yell—"Michaela!"—brought Andrew's rapid footsteps to the far door. Without words, the younger man motioned Sully up a servant's stairway to a carpeted hall and the door to Michaela's room.
Oblivious to fringe and frou-frou, Sully strode to the bedside, taking in a whiff of ether and his wife's pallor and unresponsive face. He pulled himself away from her weakened state to stare questions at Andrew.
The answers were precise, clinical: "Dr. Mike sustained a .44 bullet wound from a six-shooter at close range to her left shoulder. The slug entered at a five-degree angle just under the collarbone. It missed her heart, lungs, and major vessels."
Andrew tried not to summon false hope. "She was lucky." He looked down and twisted his hands around his belt buckle as though justifying the diagnosis to a superior. "She was quite lucky."
Sully paused at the description. The gentle blue eyes steeled to flint. The shooting was a near-assassination of a blameless person. His mind lashed out at a mad stalker on a vengeful mission. It was a fate that no one deserved, least of all Michaela.
Sully's face gave no clue to his thoughts. In his usual direct, controlled manner, he began, "Will she live?"
Andrew was ready with answers: "So far, her pulse has remained steady, but blood loss was extensive from a nicked vessel. After I extracted the bullet, I had to tie off arterial bleeding." As an afterthought, he commented, "I was grateful for the help of Cloud Dancing. He's a competent medical man. It was fortunate he was in town at the time of the . . . incident."
Andrew saw the terror in Sully's eyes. As a comfort, the physician noted hopeful elements: "She's strong. The bullet came out clean. She has every chance of surviving and recovering the use of her shoulder and arm if there's no infection, no paralysis." He smiled a professional reassurance and patted Sully's sleeve. "I'm confident she will live."
Simultaneously shaken and grateful, Sully seized Andrew's hand. "Thanks for savin her. I owe you."
Turning to his wife, he crouched on both knees by the bed and touched lightly along her left hand, cheek, and forehead. The left shoulder and arm, bandaged in even white strips, oozed blood from post-surgical seepage. Her breaths came shallow, but steady.
Andrew stepped into the hallway and closed the door part way, leaving Sully some privacy with the patient.
"I'm here," he whispered in her right ear, brushing sweaty brown tresses from her cheek. "I'm not leavin."
He stroked her hands and neck, checking her body temperature, skin moisture, and muscle tone with the pads of his fingers. For an active woman, she seemed limp, vulnerable. Her skin was cool and damp. The bluish eyelids concerned him. More disturbing were occasional throaty groans as she shifted even slightly on the pillow. Her right hand plucked at the quilted spread.
The afternoon sun gave way to evening before Michaela stirred into semi-consciousness. She flicked her lashes briefly, then explored the immobilized joint with her right hand.
"Sully," she moaned. "Sully, the children. . . ."
"Rest easy," he murmured. "We're all here. We're safe." He pressed her tousled hair out of the way and brushed the tremulous lips with his own. "We've got to get you well." Briefly, he wished he could share his robust health with her, just as he once gave blood to Cloud Dancing.
The couple's voices brought Andrew from the hall with a stethoscope already at his ears. "How're you doing?," he asked in a sunny tone. He placed the bell at her sternum and edged left bit by bit toward the damaged tissues. Guiding Michaela to her right side, he leaned over the wound to listen at her back for uneven heart sounds or for lungs struggling with congestion. "No fever. Clean lungs," he noted. "Steady heartbeat."
His hand felt for a pulse at wrist and carotid arteries. "Circulation's improved." A quick glimpse of palms and fingernails assured him that blood flowed steadily to her arms and hands. Although Andrew made no hasty judgment, his relaxed face revealed to Sully that Michaela's vital signs were positive.
For the first time, Sully slid a chair to the bedside. He allowed his body to relax, but not his eyes. He crooned quietly, "I love you, Michaela." He stroked her cheek and inhaled her familiar fragrance. "You're gonna be all right. I promise."
Michaela responded to outer stimulus by flicking her tongue over dry lips and casting an unfocused gaze toward the ceiling. "A drink?" Sully eased a glass to her mouth, supported her head, and allowed small sips of water. His bedside nursing skills came from an expert, his wife.
"Umm," she sighed, stretching cramped muscles. "I was so thirsty." In confusion after surgery and lengthy unconsciousness, she asked, "What time is it?"
Sully almost laughed at an irrelevant question he couldn't begin to answer. His wife's punctuality always amazed him. With some calculation, he replied, "Prob'ly after 6:00 in the evenin." He dotted small kisses on her palm and wrist, "Go back to sleep."
To his joy, Michaela focused her eyes on him and smiled a weak hello. "I'm glad you're here." She reached unsteadily toward his hand.
In an instant, terror seized her features as the events of the past noon hit home. The flinch was brutal. She winced at the first pangs and squeezed streams of tears from reddened eyes. "What happened? Where did he go?" Her gaze went wide, "Why . . . why . . . ?" Her right hand thrust outward as though warding off danger.
"Take it easy. You're safe now." He tightened his arm around her shoulders and stilled her tremors. "We'll get the answers," Sully insisted. "A stranger shot you. Hank brought you here. He's helpin the sheriff identify the shooter."
The level tone relieved her body of fight-or-flight mode. Gradually, her neck and shoulders relaxed, her breathing steadied.
Michaela managed to lift Sully's hand to her cheek, then lapsed in mid-caress as post-trauma fatigue wafted her away. He kept watch on every move, every facial ripple. As the room cooled, he tucked the covers around her. Into the night, he sat by the light of a single candle and watched the shadows drift over her face and hair toward the distant wall.
Andrew came and went. "Better," he muttered to himself. "Michaela should soon regain full consciousness."
Before midnight, the patient stirred a bit and rolled onto her right side unaided. A tug on the left shoulder jolted her torso. "Oh, Sully," she exhaled jerkily, "I hurt." She reached for him. More aware of the bedside vigil, she was grateful to have him near.
"Do you want anythin? Pain medicine?" he suggested. He rubbed lightly across her back and hips and helped her find a more comfortable position.
"Some tea?" she asked. "Just a little."
He cleared with Andrew the request for tea and slipped down to the kitchen for a tray with two cups. At the bedside table, Sully stirred heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her drink. "Careful," he admonished. "Sip easy. I don't want you throwin up."
The sweet liquid boosted her energy and spirits, at the same time ramping up awareness of stiff joints and tight stitches under the clavicle. "It throbs," she moaned. "Even when I move my fingers." Every twinge reminded her that a bullet had pierced her chest and that forceps had wrenched the metal slug from her flesh.
At Sully's request, Andrew returned for a midnight examination. "I'm glad to see you awake," he began. He furled the fingers of her left hand. "Can you articulate the wrist and elbow?" He observed her reflexes, and watched her expression for indications of nerve damage.
"Grip my hand," he prompted, gauging the efficiency of her shoulder joint following so invasive a trauma to the upper trunk. "Not bad."
"I'm so stiff and sore," she admitted.
"This will hurt a bit," Andrew apologized as he peeled back a sodden gauze pad. "Lean forward."
Michaela winced from the smarting wound as he examined the seepage for discoloration. The suturing held firm; reddened tissue was binding. "Good," he grunted. "I think you're on the mend." He lifted a small dose of laudanum to her lips, which she drank without question. "That should help you rest."
Although he had seen his share of gunshot wounds, Sully glanced away from the raw, ragged hole stitched up with black thread on her flawless shoulder.
"Help me slip a clean bandage into place," Andrew asked, extending one end of a length of cloth to Sully. To protect Michaela from a sudden lurch to the side, the two men immobilized the arm with a three-corner sling.
She paled at the maneuver and let go a sigh of relief when Sully plumped a fresh pillow for her to rest on. Another sip of hot tea brought a touch of pink to her cheeks. "That helps," she sighed.
While the patient rested from exertion, Andrew pulled Sully into the hall for a conference. "She's doing better than I expected. If she gets through tomorrow without fever or swelling, I think she can go home Wednesday morning."
"I'm not goin nowhere," Sully stated, looking down at his boots. "I couldn't sleep knowin she might need me." He bore the troubled face of a man devoted to his wife.
"Why don't you rest beside her for the night?" Andrew suggested with his trademark boyish enthusiasm. "She will take comfort knowing you're near."
For the remaining dark hours, Sully stretched alongside Michaela on top of the covers. "I'm right here if you need me."
Michaela murmured "Love you" and sank into troubled sleep, her head nestled against his arm.
He remained alert to every hard-drawn breath, every twitch or whimper. His snatches of rest preceded a deep doze in the early morning. After sunup, he jerked awake. She slept on while he felt her forehead. Cool and dry, thank God. No fever.
A muffled rap drew him to the door, where Brian and Colleen awaited, "How's Ma?" Brian began.
"Can we see her?" Colleen implored. "We've been so worried."
"Come in. She's gettin stronger," Sully smiled, as though glad to say hopeful words out loud. "Where's Katie?"
"Miss Dorothy's feedin her oatmeal," Brian replied. "She's callin for Mama." His eyes widened at seeing his unflappable mother so immobile on her pillow.
Colleen slid past and checked Michaela's pulse, eyes, and respiration. "My able nurse," Michaela murmured with a stir toward sitting up. "I'm so glad you're all here." Her voice sounded distant and labored. She thought better of pulling herself upright. "I don't think I can manage a hug." She nestled back into a sleeping position, but kept her gaze on Colleen.
"Oh, Ma, you look . . . you look . . . ," Colleen searched for a way to word her relief. "You were so limp yesterday. So pasty white. I didn't know what to think." She noticed the contrast between her own healthy hands and her mother's ashen face and neck.
"That was from shock and blood loss," Michaela explained as though resuming her daughter's medical instruction. "Sully has been giving me sips of water and tea to make up for dehydration." She mustered a smile. "I feel stronger today. The laudanum has quieted the pain."
Mental and emotional effort wearied Michaela, forcing her to sink deeper into the pillow and to steady the wrapped shoulder with her right hand.
"That's okay, Ma," Colleen smiled. With a light touch on her mother's right hand, she continued, "You go back to sleep, now."
Brian added, "We love you, Ma." He placed a soft kiss on her brow. "See you later," he chirped with his usual optimism.
By midday, Michaela was stable enough to rest on two pillows and to snuggle against Sully's shoulder. They harmonized their actions, with doctor as patient and husband as caretaker. A maid delivered an afternoon tray that introduced buttered bread and cider to the patient's intake. The result was increased sensitivity in Michaela, who frowned and grunted slightly at every spasm.
"Here," Sully ordered. "Eat one more bite and finish your drink. Then you need a nap."
"It's amazing," she grinned at him, "how bossy you can be when you tend to me."
He shared a loving glance with the old, familiar Michaela, whose teasing humor blended flirtation with infuriating sass. "You need tendin," he replied with a firm kiss on her lips. "That's what I'm here for." They settled once more into a quiet pose, with Sully measuring every move to avoid jostling her.
After 48 hours of bed care, Michaela awaited Andrew's final in-house examination. Bandage removal prickled the stitches, but the stroke of a warm, sudsy washcloth on her upper arm and chest was worth the twinges.
"Lift," he directed. "Turn toward me."
"Ah," she sighed. "That's much better."
As he wrapped her shoulder in a lighter dressing, he stated doctor's orders to the mentor who had taught him the basics of frontier trauma medicine: "You can go home, but you have to remain in bed for two weeks. Replace the bandages every day. Keep the wound wiped clean, but dry. Come for me if you develop a fever or swelling."
He was even stricter on the recovery period. "No stretching and no lifting, especially Katie. The less you tax those torn muscles, the faster you'll heal."
Michaela nodded agreement with his advice. "I'll be careful."
Relieved to be taking her home, Sully shook Andrew's hand and promised, "I'll see she gets her rest."
"I'll look in often," Andrew stated in a professional tone mixed with genuine friendship.
The transfer from hotel room to wagon left her sapped and listless. On the right and left, Brian and Matthew supported her upright form on the wagon bed.
"Ready for a ride?" Sully flicked the reins over Demon's back and drove as smoothly as the road allowed. At the homestead porch, Michaela embraced the entrance with her eyes and considered how close she had come to dying.
"We're here, Mrs. Sully," her husband teased. "I'll carry you the rest of the way like a bride over the threshold."
"I can manage," Michaela insisted. "Just help me climb all the steps." Her tread was even, but wobbly.
The easing of the patient upstairs and into a fresh nightgown took only minutes, but felt like an eternity. A merry fire soon drove off the early morning damp. Michaela scooted back against the headboard and panted a bit. "My own pillow," she smiled, straightening the coverlet. "I could sleep for a month."
Sully slipped in alongside her and supported the damaged shoulder to relieve stress on her torso. "You need a good long nap," he ordered in his take-charge mode.
She nodded and lapsed almost instantly into sleep.
For the first time in three days, Sully had the leisure to envision menace the clinic door and a steel barrel pointed at her heart. He could imagine her horror at the pull of the hammer. Anger alternated with puzzlement that anyone could commit so senseless a crime against an unarmed healer, especially a lone woman. Sully banished rage by telling himself that the shooter had to be unhinged. With loving words and caresses, he nuzzled her into sleep and snoozed a bit beside her.
By the end of the second week, the attacker was caught, judged, and hanged. Meanwhile, Michael made a shaky visit to the greatroom to sit by the fire and read stories to Katie. "Here's your favorite bunny story. See his fuzzy ears?"
Katie's finger traced the bunny's body in mid-hop. "Bunny," she smiled. "Bunny, mama."
Meanwhile, Brian sprawled on the hearth rug with ruler and pencil to finish a geometry proof. Wolf lay on the cool wood floor and kept watch.
Sully rejoiced at Michaela's progress and at her willingness to rest and eat well without complaint. To his surprise, she never fretted over the clinic or her patients. For once, she had no maternity cases for the next month and no immediate surgeries.
By day, Michaela cultivated good spirits. At night, she curved spoon style against Sully's back and slid her hand over his midriff to clasp his thumb. Over time, the repeated pose bemused him. Her grip reminded him of Katie grabbing her bunny in the crib before curling up for sleep.
"Are you well enough for lovin?" he whispered.
At his caress to her thigh, she moved closer. The two resumed intimacy with tentative, almost courtly couplings. "Oh, I've missed you," she sighed. "Don't stop." Less passionate than usual, she yearned for his touch and the after-glow of lying in his arms for strokings of her hair and for tender, pre-sleep murmurs. At first, Sully blamed illness for the change in his bedmate, but her persistent need for nestling and reassurance made him uneasy.
On a snowy Saturday evening, when Brian joined some young teens for a sleigh ride, Sully put Katie to bed and returned downstairs to find Michaela sitting upright in a studious posture at the fireside. She leaned forward. Both hands swept her long tresses forward to dry from a shampoo in lemon-scented soap and rainwater.
"You smell nice," he murmured, nibbling her ear. "Whatcha thinkin?" he asked, his lips at the nape of her neck, where damp, fragrant curls invited.
Spreading her coppery mane over the back of the chair, she smiled at his insight into her sometimes over-busy thoughts.
"How did you know I was thinking about anything special?" She teased with a slight edge in her voice, as though conceding a need for a straight answer.
"I can tell, even from the back. What's on your mind?" He sat cross-legged at her feet and pulled her robe up for a kiss on the knee and a stroke of her calf. "Nice legs," he flirted. The touch on her calf reminded Michaela of their honeymoon and the first time that he had viewed her naked body with those brazen, lustful eyes.
"I was just thinking about other couples I've known—my parents, my sisters, close friends. They change over time—their marriages change. Have you ever noticed that?" Her question was open-ended, not intended for an immediate answer.
She continued, "They shift in who takes care of whom and who makes decisions for their home. It's almost as if they become new people and get to know each other all over again."
After a pause, she directed him toward the main issue: "Do you think that's normal?"
"Sure. Every couple changes." He was glad to discuss the emotional developments that had weighed on his mind.
Michaela stopped fluffing her moist hair and concentrated on his response. "How so?"
"I saw it with Snowbird and Cloud Dancin. They were always involved with their children and tribe until One-Eye shot Walks on Clouds. The loss made them quieter, almost like they shared a terrible secret." Sully's warm palm massaged his wife's bare toes and arches, which turned bright pink in the heat from oak embers. "They still loved each other, but in a different way. A private way."
"Sully," she hesitated before moving to a touchy subject. "I've changed, haven't I?" Her eyes begged for reassurance from the only person who could restore her confidence.
"You have," he began, looking back with a worshipful gaze. "So have I. Somethin terrible has hurt our family. Even Katie notices." He stilled his hands and leaned back against her thigh to inhale the fragrance of fresh-washed skin. "But we'll get through it."
"Do you mind . . . I mean, do you care that I'm not my old self?" She rested her cheek on his head and trailed her fingers over his chest as though massaging answers from his heart.
"If you think back to the time we met, we've both been through a lot of changes." He paused, then observed, "Mostly for good."
"Like what?" she pursued.
"Well, I'm not grievin for Abagail and Hannah any more," he began. "And you recovered from losing David in the war. And from losin your pa and leavin home."
"What else?"
"You're a full-time ma with a grown son, two teenagers, and a baby. You have a clinic and a bunch of people dependin on you. You have a new house." He tweaked her big toe, "And you have me."
Michaela let a few moments pass between them, then edged into the question that troubled her most. "Do you mind how much more I rely on you?"
"Mind?" he echoed. "I'd mind if you didn't need me." He rose to his knees and embraced her.
Michaela exhaled in relief. She stood up, gathering her robe for the climb to their bedroom. "Let's continue this discussion in more comfort," she coaxed, rubbing his lower back with her fingertips. "I want to hear more about the new me."