25 June 1959
The tires squealed as Lucien rounded the corner in front of the hospital, the car skidding to a halt beside the curb. In the space of a heartbeat he was out from behind the wheel, racing to the back of the car, where Jean lay stretched across the seat, her head resting against the window. Her eyes fluttered open along with the door, but as Lucien's hands reached for her they closed again. No words came from her, nor did any more of those hideous, wracking coughs, but her breath rattled unpleasantly in her throat and her chest heaved with the effort of it, and her skin was still hot to the touch. Getting her out of the car was a damn sight trickier than getting her in had been, but Lucien managed it just the same, and in a moment he was turning, marching smartly towards the hospital with his arms full of Jean.
As he went he did not spare a moment to think of appearances, to wonder how people might talk when word of this got out. Doctor Blake, with a wild look in his eyes, running for the hospital doors cradling his barely-dressed and barely-conscious housekeeper in his arms in the broad light of day; for the passersby who managed to catch a glimpse of him it was quite the strangest thing they'd seen all day - and quite the juiciest piece of gossip. Lucien had no time for such concerns; Jean was in a bad way, and her safety, her care, was his only priority. He stormed up the few short steps, fully prepared to kick the door open as he reached it, but he was saved by the timely arrival of a nurse. The poor girl had no sooner swung the door open, intent on walking out of it, than she came face-to-face with Lucien, with his grim expression and his terrible burden, and she promptly shrieked and leapt out of the way.
Lucien bulled right past the startled nurse, making a beeline for the counter where the ladies processed incoming patients. A few folks were milling about, none of them in particularly bad shape - not that Lucien took the time to examine his surroundings overmuch. He began shouting, instead.
"A little help, please!" he barked, and what few people there were gathered in that place parted before him like water. A helpful nurse, discerning at once the nature of his predicament, rushed off to fetch a gurney for his patient while another came out from behind the counter, intent on calming him. She was a brave one; he looked quite mad.
"Doctor Blake?" the nurse said. "Is everything all right?"
Lucien stared at her, made incredulous by the inanity of such a question. "No," he answered, still cradling Jean close. "It bloody well isn't. I need a bloody doctor."
Of course he was a bloody doctor, but Jean needed more help than he could give her at home. More hands, more medications, a fighting chance at beating the ailment that had laid her so low.
"I say, Blake," Geoffrey Nicholson's voice had never been so welcome as it was in that moment, booming out from behind Lucien's shoulder. "What's all this?"
Nicholson reached him at roughly the same time the first nurse returned with a gurney, and Nicholson stood to one side of it, helping Lucien as he carefully eased Jean down, his hand gently cradling her head while they settled her atop it.
"She has a fever," Lucien said. He was reluctant to pull away from her entirely, the weight of her delicate head cradled in his palm the only thing keeping him sane, and focused. "She's struggling to breathe, and she has a terrible cough. There was blood in her vomit."
"We'll take her through here," Nicholson said; with one hand he gestured down the corridor, and with the other he drew the attention of the nurses, beckoned them to come and assist. "The flu's going round. There are any number of possible causes for blood in her vomit, and we'll want to conduct a thorough examination."
With the help of the nurses Nicholson began to wheel Jean down the corridor, and Lucien moved with them, his hand still caught beneath her head.
"I'm sorry, Blake," Nicholson said as they went. "I know you're her physician, but given your personal involvement…"
He meant to bar Lucien from the examination room. Meant to force him to linger outside, as if he were no more than a layman, as if he were a worried husband, and not Jean's own doctor. For a moment Lucien considered voicing a protest, insisting on being by Jean's side the whole time, but his head knew what his heart did not; he was too involved, and his presence during the examination would be more hindrance than help. His worry for her might well cloud his judgment, make him combative and difficult, and what Jean needed now, more than ever, was a calm, professional team, and all the resources at their disposal.
"I'll just wait out here, shall I?" he said weakly as they reached the examination room. Nicholson offered him a sad smile, but then he was pushing the gurney through the door, and the nurses were jostling Lucien out of the way, and Jean slipped slowly from his grip. The door swung shut, blocking her from view, trapping Lucien in a prison of ignorance and worry. It was going to be a very long afternoon.
It was full dark, when Jean's eyes finally fluttered open. For a moment she lay very still, trying to get her bearings, trying to determine where she was, and what had become of her. She was lying in a hospital bed, in a small room with no window. A bit of light filtered in from behind the door, but it was the muted light of the hospital in the evening, and no voices echoed out from the corridor. The last thing she could recall was that Lucien had come to her bedroom at one o'clock for their usual appointment. What had become of the intervening hours? She closed her eyes, and tried to cast her memory back, attempting to dredge up some clue as to how she'd come to be in hospital, with a multitude of little tubes running from the crook of her poor abused elbow to the IV stand by the bed.
Lucien had come to her, she reminded herself. What next? She had begun to cough, and he had held her close, and the nearness of him, this man she longed for so desperately and yet feared she could never have, had torn at her heart, and left her weeping. The weeping turned to retching, she recalled, but she'd grown so short of breath, so dreadfully weak, that the image of her room and Lucien in it had grown dark. Faintly she recalled the warmth of him against her, and wished with all her heart he could have held her under any other circumstances. There had been a moment, then, when she had been certain her lungs were failing, that the end was drawing near for her, that poor Lucien would have to bear witness to her final moments, and she nearly began to weep again now, thinking how terrible it would be to put him through such an ordeal, when he had tried so hard and suffered so much. Evidently she was not dead; she ached down to her very bones and her throat was raw, but she could breathe a little easier, now, and her stomach was not churning as it had been before. Whatever medications the hospital had given her, they were clearly working wonders; she did not feel well, not at all, but she did not feel close to death, either, and she gave thanks for small mercies.
Satisfied with what little she could recall - that she had been dreadfully unwell, that Lucien must have brought her to the hospital - she sighed and once more opened her eyes, turned her head to look at the table beside her bed in hopes that she might find a glass of water there. She did, in fact, find a glass and a tall pitcher of cool clear water, but there was something far more compelling by the side of her bed, and she did not reach for the water at all.
It was Lucien, fast asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair at her bedside. His long legs were stretched out in front of him and his head lolled back against the chair, his eyes closed, his breathing deep and even. The hospital was fastidious about visiting hours, and Jean was certain it was far too late for visitors to be permitted, and yet there he was, Lucien, here and watching over her. He must have put up quite a fight, she thought, must have called in a favor with some of his doctor friends, in order to be granted such a boon, and the sight of him stirred something deep within her heart.
He could far more easily have gone home. Knowing that she was in safe hands, that her condition was improving, lectured by the nurses about what was and wasn't proper behavior, the right thing, the simple thing, the obvious thing to do would have been for him to go home, to have dinner, to sleep in his own bed and look in on her in the morning. And yet he had done no such thing; he had instead chosen to stay here, with her, to guard her sleep as if he meant to keep her safe from any further harm. As if he could not bear to be parted from her for a single moment.
Selfishly, she was glad he had stayed; more than glad. Her heart swelled at the sight of him, for after all the fear and pain of this day there was nothing she wanted more than to see him. Her Lucien, the lines of his dear, sweet face softened in sleep, here, with her. He had held her close, carried her from the very edge of death, she was certain, to this refuge, had with his strength and his determination saved her from calamity. If it was only pity or guilt that compelled him she was certain he would not still be here, and as she looked at him her memory flashed to a moment she'd nearly forgotten. His strong arms, holding her close, his strong legs, carrying the both of them out of the house, towards safety, his gentle voice, whispering my darling.
As last Jean allowed herself to admit what she had always known, what he had shown her in every touch of his hand, in every little pastry he'd brought to her, in the gentle way he'd shaved her head, in the tender way he spoke to her. Lucien loved her, and god help her, but she loved him. She loved him for his care, for his stubborn determination, for the boundless compassion of his heart. She loved his handsome face, and his strong hands, and his reckless pursuit of truth. She loved him, every inch of him, down to the bones of him. Before now she had thought whatever tender feelings they nursed for one another would fade with time, but instead she found them only growing, the bonds they tied them together strengthening day by day. She recalled the warmth of his kiss, and her own bitter doubts, and how the tension that her rejection had caused between them had brought her grief, as much as it had done to him. Being without him was unthinkable to her, now.
Perhaps it would have been simpler to let him go. Perhaps he might have been happier, in the end, with a woman who was well, who could give to him everything he needed, everything he deserved. But he was not out with some other woman, was not even at home comfortable in his own bed; he was here, with her, and she could not help but feel as if a veil had been lifted from her eyes. She had thought herself close to death, but he had saved her, and in so doing it seemed to Jean that he had given her a second chance. A chance to set things right, to fight for the future they could have, the future she knew they both longed for. She had urged him to turn his thoughts away from her but he had done no such thing, had only carried on, quietly devoted to her, and she would not, could meet such tender regard with further obstinance. He had made his choice, and he had chosen her, and she wanted him too badly to turn away from him again.
One of his hands was resting on the bed by her side, as if even in sleep he could not stop himself from reaching for her, and her gaze drifted down to that hand. They had discussed it once, the details that might make a man or a woman attractive, and Jean had confessed that a man's hands were quite attractive indeed, had told Lucien that the story of a man's life was written on his hand. This hand of his was broad and strong, the fingers thick and yet dexterous enough for surgery, and the piano. His skin was tanned, marred here and there by small, silvery scars, memories of a thousand ancient hurts. That hand was strong enough to punch, to strangle, deft enough to cut, practiced at healing and wounding both, but he had used that hand to care for her, had smoothed that palm across the soft skin of her head and reminded her that a woman did not need hair to make her beautiful - that she did not need it. That hand had held her, and brought her safe to this place. It was a hand she longed to take hold of, and never let go.
This moment of stillness, on this dark night, this brief respite from the bitterness and pain that had dogged her steps for moments, had changed Jean's heart indelibly. I am on the road to Damascus, she thought. Paul had been journeying to arrest the followers of Christ when the voice of the Lord spoke from the heavens, and changed the course of his life forever. So, too, had Lucien's gentle care finally broken the levees of Jean's own heart, and allowed her love for him to flow freely at last. What lay in store for them at the end of this road she could not say, but she meant to venture forth into that unknown with Lucien by her side, his hand in hers. If he would have her, after all the pain she'd caused him. Given his presence by her bed, she rather thought he might.
And so she reached for him, at last, and let her hand cover his, her fingers curling round the breadth of that hand until she was holding him close.
"Thank you," she whispered. He had caught her when she stumbled, held her when her own strength failed, carried her through darkness to this moment of peace, and she would be grateful for every day of her life, however many of those she might be allowed, for the constancy of his love. With the warmth of his hand beneath her own and the comforting sound of his steady breathing filling her ears Jean closed her eyes, and drifted off to a gentler sleep than any she had known for quite some time.
