Chapter Three: Connected

Mrs. Neilson didn't feel hungry as she left the office building where she worked. In the year since she'd taken the London job, she had often missed lunch, content simply to bury herself in work and hope to forget the bustle of the outside world. It was sometimes easier, she found, to block out life's little trials than to bother to face them like anyone else. Even as she did it, Mrs. Neilson cursed herself for her cowardice.

Fool, her mother's voice hissed at her, How can you ever expect to heal if you lock yourself in that stuffy office all day? I raised a fighter, not a quitter!

What her mother didn't realize was that it was a fight to even go to the office; the only thing that helped her get up in the morning was the thought of her daughters, the rays of light penetrating the darkness of her thoughts. Mother never understood that the seclusion was the safest way to fight the madness. It wasn't quitting; it was the simple choice she made.

Happy, Mother? She thought bitterly as she made her way down the busy sidewalk, towards the internet café where she sometimes dined. In truth, Mrs. Neilson didn't think she could bear to spend another lunch hour indoors; today, she felt like walking. It was a cloudy Monday, two days after the dreadful incident in the park. Mrs. Neilson had waited patiently for the ambulance, watched solemnly as they loaded the poor man into the back, and done her best to answer the police's questions. Pen and Kath had behaved very well, as if they understood perfectly the morose nature of the events.

"But what will happen to the angel?" Pen had inquired nervously as they left the park.

"The doctors will make him better."

"I hope he finds his wings again."

Mrs. Neilson didn't mention that, as the paramedics checked the man's weak pulse, they did not expect a recovery.

"He's lost a lot of blood. He probably won't make it."

Her eyes filled with tears at the memory, and she angrily cursed herself for being so emotional. She had done everything she could to help the man, and no amount of tears or prayers could possibly restore strength to his broken body. Yet, deep down, Mrs. Neilson couldn't shake the guilty feeling that her help wasn't enough; she had glimpsed the pain on the man's ashen face, a pain that seemed much deeper than physical. No one should have to endure such pain…

Shut up! She silenced herself. You've done all you can do.

But that didn't stop her from changing her course, heading instead towards the hospital. Emily, you're insane.

"Excuse me, I'm here to see the victim of a shooting…"

The reception nurse gave her a bored expression. "Name?"

"I'm not quite sure…"

The nurse rolled her eyes. "This is a hospital, ma'am, not a zoo. We don't allow uninvited visitors in our Intensive Care Unit without the proper pass and identifi-"

"Thank you."

Mrs. Neilson made to leave the lobby, than veered towards the lift marked "Visitors."

Intensive Care Unit: Floor 3

The short ride upstairs seemed an eternity. Mrs. Neilson fiddled nervously with her ring, wondering what the hell she thought she was doing. The lift doors opened into a comfortable waiting room. She suppressed a shiver as she stepped onto the institutional linoleum of the unit. Mrs. Neilson had never liked hospitals; they always seemed to be hiding something, concealing the pain and suffering behind comfortable chairs and couches, covering the stench of disinfectant and death with cheery lights and potted plants.

The reception nurse seemed much more friendly, flashing Mrs. Neilson a warm smile as she approached the desk.

"May I help you?"

"Yes. Er… I'm here to see a man… he was brought here on Saturday. I don't know if he's still here."

The nurse smiled sadly. "Oh yes. The shooting. I'm afraid one of the victims has left us; the other four are recovering."

Mrs. Neilson's heart gave a nervous leap. "I… erm, one of them was quite badly off. He was found in the park…"

"He's recovering, slowly," the nurse's brows knitted in confusion, "That's odd. You're not the only one inquiring after him. Some people from the police have been here already."

Mrs. Neilson stammered, "Er, may I have his room number, please?"

"Certainly," the nurse gave her a stern look, "Although ,I must ask you, if you intend to skulk around like that dreadful French policeman, your time will be best spent elsewhere. He's still unconscious."

"Oh, no." she replied, wringing her hands in anxiety, "It's just, I wanted to check up on him, make sure he's all right…"

The nurse smiled. "Of course. Room 3270."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Neilson hurried down the linoleum corridor, wondering again what the hell she thought she was doing. The walls and ceiling of room 3270 were a stark, institutional white. The shades were open, allowing weak rays of sunlight to fall across the figure on the bed. Mrs. Neilson stifled a gasp as she approached the man's bedside.

He lay peacefully on his back, clad in a thin hospital gown. His skin was a translucent, paper white, veins showing blue on the thin wrists and neck. The face, before blood-spattered and contorted in pain, bore a more serene expression than it had in the park. Thin tubes ran from his forearm to a machine by the wall; it beeped regularly as it monitored his weakened pulse.

Mrs. Neilson took a seat beside the bed, exhaling in wonder at the sight before her. She felt the warm tears brimming in her eyes, but made no attempt to brush them away. She spoke, barely a whisper.

"What happened to you?"

"An unfortunate accident."

She looked up, surprised, to the voice that greeted her. The newcomer wheeled himself over to the bed; he was an aging man, of ample build and stature. His harsh features expressed an air of kindness, worry, and a proud dignity. Mrs. Neilson found herself locked within his gaze, his deep brown eyes penetrating into her soul. He was slightly balding, but made up for that fact with the dark, bushy eyebrows that were knit tightly in confusion and worry. She was surprised that such a powerful man could possibly be confined to a wheelchair at his age, but quickly noticed the explanation: this man, too, wore a hospital gown. Mrs. Neilson stood up, quickly, and retreated from her place at the bedside.

"I'm terribly sorry sir," she stammered, "Please excuse me. I was only…"

"Not at all, my child," he halted her with a wave of his hand, "Please stay." His accent was soft, American heavily riddled with Spanish and Italian.

Hesitantly, she returned to her seat. This man expressed kindness and a sympathetic understanding. Nonetheless, she wrung her hands nervously, searching for an excuse for her awful intrusion.

"I'm sorry for the intrusion. I just wanted to check on him, well, mainly for my girls' sake. They've been so worried since we found him in the park, and…"
"I understand perfectly," he smiled, "Witness to atrocities can make humanitarians out of us all. Silas would be glad to know he was in such good hands."

At this, the man glanced to the sleeping patient and signed audibly. Mrs. Neilson sensed great sorrow and pain in his manner. He continued.
"He's in stable condition now, thank the Lord. He had been bleeding for so long the doctors weren't sure they could pull him through it. Thankfully, Silas has an unnaturally strong spirit, especially for one with a life such as his," he smiled weakly, "I am Bishop Manuel Aringarosa. I am pleased to meet my friend's savior."