Chapter 8

Jerome was delirious and exhausted from swimming for many hours on end. Now it was later in the day, about 6 o'clock in the evening.. He couldn't see straight, everything was spinning, and he stopped to breathe and rest his strained muscles. But McHallan's boat came to him in five minutes. He saw Jerome gasping for air in the middle of the water, and grabbed him by the neck, shaking him violently and uncontrollably. "Come on, Morrow! Snap out of it! You only have one-and-a-half miles to go!"

He eventually did regain consciousness, and sped off swimming to the end. Soon, he could hear a huge crowd of people, and saw a small town, with different kinds of flags fluttering everywhere. His legs throbbed with pain, and his arms ached from constant swimming. But he didn't give up; Victory was just half a mile away, so despite the torture he was going through, he swam the fastest he had ever swum in his entire life. The saltwater stung his blue eyes, making them bloodshot and swollen. He felt a sharp pain in his right leg, like a knife, but he kept swimming.

Finally he reached the harbor where the race ended, and swam through the finish line, where thousands of people took pictures and cheered. He stood up with much difficulty, and looked around. There were a bunch of bleachers, huge grandstands, full of cheering people waving flags from the United kingdom, the United States, and Russia. His first impulse was that he won, and he felt very proud. But then Portia ran up to him, embracing him, kissing him.

Then it hit him like a ton of bricks; He was in second place. He lost first place to Portia. She kissed him, and said, "Jerome! You made it!"

He thought to himself, "No, I didn't make it! I lost! I lost to an INVALID, a Faith Birth." His joy turned to extreme disappointment. He was a failure. He could not believe it at all. "It must be some nightmare, this isn't happening," he thought to himself. But it wasn't a dream. Million Dollar Morrow lost.

Eventually, Nikita Trovsky came in and was in third place, and James St. Clair came in last. Portia stepped onto the first podium, Mr. Trovsky in third, and Jerome trudged to the second place platform. The King of England came onto the huge stage, like it was a grand ceremony. He placed the golden medal on Portia's neck, the silver on Jerome's and tried to fit the bronze around Trovsky's large head. Then there was the largest cheer he'd ever heard. Scores of people were there, applauding, celebrating. But Jerome blocked it all out, all he could think of was the fact that he lost. He was not happy for Portia one bit. He hated her.

Late that night, they left on the Chunnel, the underwater train tunnel that connected France and England through the English Channel. Portia was asleep in the first car, but Jerome sat alone in the last train car. Portia had tried to cheer him up, she didn't know that he was angry at her. Then, Coach McHallan walked in and sat by him. "Morrow, you OK?"

Jerome didn't answer, just kept looking at the back of the seat in front of him, stewing in anger inside.

"Jerome, I know you're mad that you didn't win first place."

Still no answer from him.

McHallan sadly shook his head. "It happens to the best of them, Morrow. Just don't do anything crazy, don't hurt yourself over it." Then, he left to the front of the train.

They reached London in an hour, it was about 9 o'clock at night. As he walked to the door, Portia ran up to him. "Wait, Jerome!"

He turned around, scowling. "What?"

She hugged him, "See you tomorrow. I love you so much."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, I don't want to leave you," she said, but kissed him again, and got a taxi.

Jerome didn't get a taxi, he was just going to walk to his flat. He didn't care if he got mugged, he wasn't worth anything. No one would miss him, or so he thought. So he just sauntered down the dark street.

On his way, he thought to himself, "I'm not worth anything," and other things. Then, he saw the street full of cars, speeding down the road. Without giving it a second thought, he stepped out in the street.

"I'll just end my life, and it'll all be over and done with. Just one step, it won't hurt," he thought, and a car screeched to stop. Jerome was struck by the car's force, and he heard a crack. Suddenly, a spasm of pain shot through his entire body, and he fell to the ground. He couldn't breathe, and tried to gasp for air. But he couldn't. He couldn't speak or cry out in pain. Then, everything blacked out.

Portia ran into the hospital. She was wearing a red trenchcoat and a red and black hat, her signature high heels on. It was 6 o'clock in the morning. She sped to the front desk. The nurse there said, "Can I help you?"

Her eyes welled up with tears, she spoke out with her throat forcing down a steady stream of tears, "Yes, I just got a call saying a Jerome Morrow is in the hospital."

"Oh yes, Jerome Eugene Morrow, floor 2, emergency ward."

She quickly said, "Thank you," and ran to the stairs, flew up them, and reached the front desk of the emergency floor. To the nurse that was there, she said, "I'm looking for a Jerome Morrow. He came in here around 10 o'clock last night?"

"Oh yes, hit by a car?"

She was shocked, "Hit by a car?!"

"Yes, he's in room 12, down that corridor."

"Thank you," she uttered, her heart racing, and walked to the room. She reached it, and went inside. Jerome was there, lying in the bed, looking forward at the wall. He had an IV in his arm, and a steady heart rate. He was fully conscious and alert. She slowly walked in the room, and took a better look at him.

He was completely different. The color was gone from his face. He looked pale. His eyebrows, usually turned up from smiling, were pointed downward in a hateful glare. His eyes were sunken in, and had dark circles under them. They were no longer that intense, vibrant blue; they were more of a gray color. He didn't even look at her.

"Jerome, it's Portia." she quietly said.

"I know," he robotically replied.

She moved closer to him. It was as if he had aged 15 years. He didn't look 22 years old. "What happened?"

He didn't answer.

"Jerome, please," she started to cry, "I'm worried. Were you hit by a car?" (He nodded slowly.) "How? When?"

"Last night," he said quietly.

"How?" she asked. She didn't get a reply, and sat at the edge of the small hospital bed. "Jerome, talk to me."

"I don't want to!" he yelled.

"Fine," she pulled a handkerchief from her purse. "Jerome, I need to tell you something," then she blew her nose.

"Tell me then," he grumbled.

"OK. I am pregnant."

"What?" he sat up with great complication.

"You heard me, I am 'with child', in the family way, gonna have a baby, however you want to say it."

He frowned still, and reclined back. "It's not mine."

She yelled, "Of course it's yours! Who else's would it be?! You're the only one I've been with!" and started to cry softly.

He said, "How long?"

"About one week," she replied.

"Oh," he sighed, and scratched his arm. "How?"

She didn't understand, "What do you mean?"

"It's not my child, so how did you get pregnant?" he said.

"Jerome, it is from you. How did I get pregnant you ask?", she stopped and laughed. "The stork brought it."

He rolled his eyes, "I mean. ."

She angrily said, "How do you think I got pregnant? You think it's some immaculate conception?! We had sex. Must I explain what we did in detail?!"

He shook his head, and looked at her. "No."

Portia tried to change the subject. "Are you OK? Are you going to be out of the hospital soon?"

"Yeah, I think so, but not without a wheelchair for the rest of my life."

She stood upright. "What?"

"I can't walk ever again. A paraplegic, a cripple, however you want to say it," he replied. "Now go away. Leave me alone."

"NO! I won't let you be this way! Come on Jerome, we can get a house in the countryside, maybe out of Lincolnshire or Devonshire! A little house. . ."

"No. I can't."

Sobbing, she said, "Yes you can. We-we'll get married and have a little house, a little family, you can get surgery to repair your legs. It's all right."

It was too much. All this was bothering him. He bellowed, "GO AWAY!"

She gave up. Portia stood up, and wiped her tears away. Trying to be strong, she walked to the door. "Fine. I'll leave. Just remember, I love you. I love you so much, you'll never know. Goodbye, Jerome Morrow," and with that, she left him.

He had the impulse to go after her. His heart screamed, "Go get her! You love her!" But he couldn't even walk. So he let Portia go, he let her get away.

It was as if he felt the pit in his heart triple or quadruple in size.

He pulled the silver medal from the dresser next to the bed. It was beautifully shining, the front emblazoned with two swimmers racing, and hung on a red, white, and blue ribbon. He looked at it, and thought, "I was never meant to be one step down on the podium. I'm second best."

It was the one object that destroyed his life, that would make him never be able to walk again, and lose the only woman he ever loved, the only woman that ever loved him; his true love, Portia.

His life before him was now dark and full of sadness, all because of. . .

One SILVER medal.