Perry Mason dragged his eyelids open. At first, everything looked blurry. He blinked several times. His vision cleared, and he realized from the way that the light was falling on the walls that it was mid-morning, and that he was resting in his own bed.
Every inch of his body felt sore. Even lying flat on the mattress and pillows, as he was doing, seemed exhausting. However, he still felt better than the last time he had been awake – the intense headache had abated, and the pain he felt with each breath was far more bearable. He also noticed that the oxygen tent had been removed from around his bed. Could it be that, against all medical odds, the merciful Lord had decided to spare him?
Piecing together his memories, he recalled Della arriving at his apartment to nurse him, an interval of painful darkness in which he felt as if he were burning up, and then waking up, only to be told by his doctor that he was on death's doorstep. He remembered making his confession, receiving the Viaticum from the priest, then asking to see his sweet Della one last time. He smiled as he recalled how she had spurned the revelation that she was about to inherit his luxury apartment building with its sizable income. He had seen countless people commit murder for five thousand dollars, and she had said that she would rather have him than that amount of money, legally, every month. And then she had openly said that she loved him! He had tried so hard to keep his eyes open and his arms around her when she began to sob on his shoulder, but the fever and the pain had won. Poor Della! How much had she been through!
And where was she? Where was his faithful, precious girl? Perry was filled with eagerness to see her again. He lifted his head an inch off the pillow – it felt as heavy as a ton of bricks – and surveyed the bedroom. It was then that he descried Della lying on the spacious window seat.
"Della!" he said. His voice was so faint that he could barely hear it. He took a few deep breaths and tried again. "Della!" It was far from a loud utterance, but it was definitely strong enough to reach her ears. However, Della did not stir.
Perry began to realize that something was wrong. First of all, he had seen Della resting many times on the couch in his office, and he knew that she was a light sleeper, and tended to sleep comfortably curled up on her side. Now, however, she had not responded to his calling her name, and was lying supine on the window seat, her arms stretched out at her sides. Worst of all, her face seemed as white as the pillow beneath her head.
Fear began to choke the defense attorney. Had his Della caught his illness? How selfish he had been, sending for her, having her sit in an oxygen tent with him – the air in it had probably been full of contagion! He would rather die ten times over than have her suffer a fraction of the pain he had been through for the last several days.
"Please, God, no!" he whispered.
He had to know. He had to get across the room, take her in his arms, and see how she was. With shaking hands he began to clumsily push the covers off himself. Then he tried to sit up. It was a futile attempt; he fell back upon his pillows before he was three inches above them. He was about to try again when two hands suddenly appeared and pushed him back down.
"Perry, what are you doing? Are you trying to bring about a relapse?" Dr. Hawley demanded to know, as he resolutely pinned the attorney to his bed with his comparatively strong grip. "Good thing I heard the bedclothes rustling and came in to check on you!"
The lawyer gave him a wild, desperate look.
"Bill, what is wrong with her?" he gasped out, gesturing in Della's direction. "Has she caught it? What is her prognosis-"
"Calm yourself, Perry," the physician said kindly. "Ms. Street has caught nothing. You think that I would have let her nurse you if you were infectious? I know she is sleeping soundly, but that is because she was in such a state after the…conversation…the two of you had that I had no choice but to inject her with a stiff sedative in order to calm her down. I feared that she might permanently damage her vocal cords from screaming and crying or that her sanity might give way if we left her to herself. The drug should wear off in an hour, and she will be as hale and hearty as ever."
"You swear it? She's not ill?"
"Yes, Perry, I promise you that she is not ill. But if you want to follow her example, you must lie still and quiet and conserve your strength. You have had a very, very close call. After we medicated Ms. Street and left her to rest on the window seat, we all turned our attention back to you. Frankly, I expected your final agony to start any minute, but somehow you lingered, hour after hour. And then, at four in the morning, I found sweat upon your forehead, your temperature several degrees cooler, and your breathing less labored. I knew then that you would live. Every doctor has a few cases of scientifically inexplicable recoveries in his career, and I am quite glad that you surprised me the way you did. You are a very fortunate man, Perry Mason. But you must be careful, and not overexert yourself for several weeks." The doctor reached for a glass of water and brought it to his patient's parched lips. "Drink this, and then rest while you wait for Ms. Street to wake up. Your friend Paul Drake is also here, sleeping on the couch in the living room. He was very relieved when I told him that you would be alright."
Reassured, Perry obeyed. He swallowed the cool liquid and then fixed his eyes on the occupant of the window seat impatiently.
Thank you for all the reviews! I was afraid that I would lose more readers when I took the risk of making it seem as if Perry would pass away, but you were absolutely wonderful and stuck with me. I don't think I have ever killed off a character in my fanfiction writing. I love happy endings too much. Now we need to let Della know that Perry will be alright...
Please review!
