Chapter 5

Charity sent Caroline for the nurse. She was afraid if she let go of Phinn's hand, she would lose him again. Her eldest daughter bolted from the ward and returned a few minutes later with a gray-haired woman who had introduced herself two days ago as Sarah. With Charity still holding his hand, she examined Phinn, her face skeptical.

Finally, she said, "Mrs. Barnum, everything appears to be the same. Are you sure you didn't imagine…"

"No." Caroline's reply was emphatic. "He spoke. He remembers our song."

The nurse shook her head, "Maybe you thought…"

With her fingers still entwined with her husband's, Charity said, "We didn't imagine it! We didn't! If you don't believe me, sit with us until he speaks again!"

Sarah's expression softened into sad compassion. "Maybe he did speak, Mrs. Barnum. Maybe he did."

Charity could tell the nurse still didn't believe her, and she was too exhausted to argue.

Sarah made some notes on the papers at the end of the bed, then left them alone again.

Looking defeated, Caroline said, "I heard it, Mama. I know I did. He finished our song."

Charity finally removed her hand from Phinn's and crossed to her daughter. Wrapping her arms around her, she said, "I know you did, love. I heard it, too."

"Then what do we do?"

Charity thought it over before saying, "Come here. Let's sit close to him and tell stories. Tell the most fantastic story, like he used to do before you went to sleep at night."

Caroline looked elated, and so Charity sat across the bed from her. She took Phinn's hand again and listened as her daughter began to recount stories Phinn had told years before. Caroline's eyes were full of light as she recounted the adventures of princesses and pirates and animals come to life. She was still enough of a child to appreciate the wonder of fantasy stories. At some point, in the wee hours, Caroline could no longer stay awake. Charity helped her daughter to the bed where she had been sleeping. Then, she returned to her husband. Very carefully, she crawled into the small bed with him. She was very still, so as not to touch any of his injuries, but she rested her head on his chest and told him about all the magic he'd brought into her life. After a few minutes, in spite of her determination to talk to him until he spoke again, she fell asleep.

A few hours later, as dawn broke, Charity woke to the sound of a smooth, deep voice. Opening her eyes, she realized Phinn was murmuring again. With her ear against his chest, she could feel the vibration of his words.

Lifting her head, she heard him say, "Charity. Caroline. Helen."

He repeated their names another two times before falling still. His words were still raspy and quiet, but he was speaking. She had not imagined it. But his eyes still remained closed.

Charity talked to him for a bit as the rising sun painted the room in pink and copper, letting Caroline sleep. She told him Helen was at home and that everything was taken care of. She told him the circus was going on each night. She wanted him to be calm, if he could hear her. He murmured a few more times, but did not wake.

Charity didn't know what else to do. Suddenly, she wondered if this was all Phinn would ever do. She remembered her mother talking about a friend whose father was kicked by a horse and fell into a deep sleep and never did more than mumble for the last six months of his life. The thought made her nauseous. Truly unsure what to do, she slid out of the bed and splashed her face with water from the basin by the bed. Then she took Phinn's hand again.

She stared at him, trying to find proof that he, the real him , was in there somewhere. On an impulse, Charity leaned in and kissed him on the mouth. It wasn't obscene, but it was with great intention in hopes that he would feel how much she loved him.

To her surprise, just as she was about to pull away, Phinn reached up and ever so gently touched her face with his left hand. When she pulled back, his eyes fluttered, and then opened.

Phillip sat on one of the familiar hay bales backstage at the circus that same morning. He'd been there since before dawn, unable to sleep. Anne had stirred when he left the Barnum's house. They were making use of the guest quarters, which were more than adequate considering he and Anne lived in flat a few blocks away that was barely big enough to swing a cat. Phillip had always been frugal when it was his money he was dealing with. That was the reason he'd had enough to bail out P.T. after the fire. It was the reason he was going to be able to buy a beautiful home—when the time was right. Now, however, all thoughts of the future escaped him.

The sound of rustling skirts caught his attention, and Lettie was almost on top of him before he realized she was in the tent.

"Whatcha doing, ringmaster? Show's not for hours."

Phillip looked up into her dark brown eyes. Lettie had a quick wit, when she was comfortable with her surroundings. He assumed it was in part a defense mechanism, but beneath the wit was a soft heart and it showed in her eyes. She looked at Phillip like she wanted to ask a lot of questions. But she didn't.

Phillip sighed. "I couldn't sleep. Murray, from the Board of Trade, was here yesterday. Says he thinks the ropes were bad. And the pulleys are too narrow. That's why the rope snapped."

"Well they sure figured that out quick," Lettie snapped, adjusting her simple house dress over her knees as she sat down beside Phillip.

"That's what they do." He shrugged in defeat.

"So, what's that mean for us?" Lettie's question was casual, but Phillip could sense the worry.

"Nothing, yet. Murray agrees it was an accident. Nothing malicious involved. But, you know, everyone's always looking for a reason to shut this place down."

Lettie sighed. "I don't see why people have to be so hard-hearted. What's wrong with giving people a good time? What is so wrong with us?"

Phillip looked her over. "Some people will never accept anything that's different. They don't like the fact that we break the rules. They hate that Anne and I come to their fancy parties, and they don't like how P.T. makes his money. When people are used to power, to stepping on the backs of those who are different or just less fortunate, they don't like having that power challenged. The circus challenges them. We dare to imply that the people they push into the gutter are worth lifting up, even fighting for."

"So what's Murray going to do about us?" Lettie asked more gently.

Phillip rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. He said they have to discuss his findings. But if they think we're a 'public threat,' they can shut us down."

Lettie laughed with obvious sarcasm. "We're not hanging the audience from the tent poles."

"I know," Phillip hung his head, "but people who hate us just don't care."

Lettie looked away, her spirit too dampened to reply, Silence passed between them for a few minutes.

Suddenly, in a whirl of skirts, Anne came flying through the canvas flaps of the tent.

"Phillip!"

He looked at her, confused.

"It's P.T.! He's awake! Charity says he's awake! She sent a message from the hospital." Anne was out of breath, but she handed him the slip of paper.

Phillip read over the message written in the neat penmanship of a courier.

He's awake. Come as soon as you can. He asked for you.

Charity.

Phillip read it over and over, sure it was a joke.

Finally, Lettie snatched it from his hand, read it, and said, "Come on! Don't sit there like you've got a busted head, too!"

The questionable nature of her joke was lost on Phillip as he rose from the hay bale, kissed Anne firmly on the mouth, and ran from the tent.

He was out of earshot when Lettie said, "I'll guess we'll just meet him at the hospital, then."

Charity stared into Phinn's eyes for at least a minute, looking for recognition, looking for the man she loved. He looked back. His eyes appeared more brown this morning in the warm dawn light.

Finally, he said softly, "Charity?"

She felt her eyes well up and tears run down her cheeks again. She gently leaned her forehead against his and whispered with great relief, "Phinn."

Once Charity fetched the doctor, the space around her husband's bed quickly filled with people. All three nurses on duty were making notes or awaiting instructions while the doctor examined Phinn from his broken legs to his wounded skull. Phinn winced and cried out a couple of times at the examination. The doctor looked confused, as though he didn't believe what he was seeing.

Charity sat beside the bed in the spindly chair, gently stroking Phinn's hair and waiting for the medical staff to conclude what she already knew—he was an incredible man who had defied the odds.

Caroline sat on the bed behind Charity, smiling broadly and twirling her dark brown hair around her fingers. She looked ready to burst into tears of happiness.

Dr. Warshaw asked, "Could I speak with you, Charity?"

She nodded, rose from the chair, and followed him out into the corridor.

He said, "Your husband has defied my expectations. I can say now, I didn't expect him to last the first night. He seems to know you and your children, and the basics of his life. This is a good sign. However, I want you to be prepared. He is awake, but he is far from getting out of the bed. I haven't seen a lot of patients survive this kind of injury to the head, so I can't tell you exactly what to expect there. I have, however, seen a great number of injuries to the limbs and the spine. Very often, these things heal, but the patient is never able to walk again. And I want you to be prepared, Charity, because I know what your husband did for a living. I know he's never been one to be...still."

Were it not for the genuine compassion in the doctor's face, Charity would have slapped him. She was livid that he would turn such a joyous moment into telling her her husband would be a cripple.

She took a deep, calming breath and stated, "My husband is not done with his work. Not even close. Don't you dare tell me what he can't do. No one tells P.T. Barnum he can't do something!"

Then she turned and stormed back into the ward.

When Phillip arrived at the hospital, one of the nurses working at the front desk escorted him to the ward with which he was now familiar. The long, airy room faced east, so the sun was pouring through the windows when he entered. Nurses were attending to patients up and down the ward, but he focused on the bed just to his left. Charity sat as she had been for almost a week, holding her husband's hand. Caroline was on the other side of the bed, in another wooden chair. She appeared to be talking to her father. Phillip would have sworn nothing had changed, but when he got closer, he realized P.T.'s eyes were open and he was listening to his daughter.

Phillip walked to the end of the bed, and P.T. turned to look at him.

"Phillip." The showman's voice was raspy, but he seemed fully aware of who stood before him. "How's my circus?"

Phillip was stunned for a moment. He knew he should have expected no other question from P.T., but it still caught him off guard. After a brief silence, Phillip couldn't help laughing. Charity joined him, and P.T. cracked a tiny smile himself. Caroline giggled, and for the first time in days, Phillip felt a weight lift.

Cocking his head, he answered, "The show must go on, you know. Did you expect us to shut down without you?"

P.T. raised an eyebrow, and Phillip felt the tension drain from his body. This banter was so normal, and yet he hadn't realized how much he missed it until this moment. He drew a deep breath as his eyes welled up with tears of relief.

After about an hour, Anne arrived with Lettie and Helen in tow. The nurses warned them all that they could have just a few more minutes, and then they had to leave the other patients in peace. Anne wrapped her arms around Phillip, and he could feel the relief in her as well. Helen climbed into her sister's lap and placed a delicate kiss on her father's forehead. She looked so much like Charity, with her blonde ringlets shining in the sunlight. Caroline pushed her sister off, as they were almost the same size, and pretended to be annoyed. Phillip could see she was only pretending, because Caroline was so much like her father—determined and headstrong, and yet kind to a fault.

Lettie took P.T.'s hand and squeezed it, but she didn't say anything. Phillip knew she loved P.T. like family. She was the first act he'd invited into the circus, and Phillip knew how much Lettie loved him for that.

After another thirty minutes, the nurses began to usher them out of the ward.

When only Charity remained, Phillip took the chair where Caroline had been sitting.

P.T. turned his head slightly, looked him over and said, "So...how's my circus."

For the next few minutes, Phillip filled him in. He talked about attendance numbers and which acts were rotating in each night. He talked about a new act they had interviewed the week before P.T. fell and how their rehearsals were coming along. He talked about anything except the Board of Trade, because he didn't want P.T. worrying about the future of their circus in his current state.

They were interrupted when Dr. Warshaw came into the ward.

Standing at the end of the bed and reading the nurses' notes, he said, "Mr. Barnum. I'd like to try having you sit up in the bed."

P.T. stared back at the doctor like he'd issued a challenge and said, "No problem."

Phillip glanced at Charity. She crossed to where Phillip was standing and pulled him toward the doorway while the doctor talked to P.T.

Quietly, Charity said, "When the doctor came this morning, he examined everything. He says the wounds look good, on the outside, but what's inside is more difficult to assess. His right leg looks straight enough, but the doctor can feel several breaks. It's terribly painful, every time he examines his legs." She took a deep breath. "John says the pain is good, because Phinn can feel all of it, but he's not making any movements. Not his legs. Not even his toes. So he's concerned...about his spine."

Phillip felt a twinge of fear begin to take root again in his belly. A different kind of fear.

The nurses returned, bringing with them an assortment of vials and bottles and syringes. They took their places on either side of the bed. Phillip glanced at Charity, who had begun to look more and more concerned. Each nurse attended to different wounds, applying the ingredients of the bottles and rewrapping P.T.'s head and right leg. They worked meticulously, and Phillip couldn't help but admire their craft. Then, the one on the right, who they all now knew as Margaret, drew some liquid from one of the vials into a syringe. She placed it on the table by the bed.

Charity looked up at Phillip and then grasped his hand for support. They both sensed something was wrong, or at least that the atmosphere had shifted. Both nurses, following Dr. Warshaw's instructions, took P.T.'s hands. The doctor moved to the head of the bed. He placed his left arm behind the showman's shoulders. Phillip felt like the sound in the room became muted as the doctor instructed P.T. to try to sit up, allowing the two nurses to help pull him up as the doctor lifted his shoulders. Holding onto the nurses' hands, who had clearly done this many times and were stronger than they looked, P.T. glanced at Phillip and Charity before trying to lift his weight from the bed.

What happened next would stay with Phillip for a long time.

P.T. let out a scream that caused Charity to gasp and her hands to fly to her mouth. It was a feral, awful sound that drove right through Phillip. It was a cry from the kind of pain that drove a man to an early grave.

Even with the help of three people, P.T. was only able to lift himself about six inches off the pillow.

Just about the time Phillip was ready to intervene and Charity looked ready to cry, the nurses let go and Dr. Warshaw let P.T. lay back down. Then Margaret swiftly seized the syringe from the table and stabbed it expertly into the showman's thigh.

The doctor looked at Charity and said, "Morphine."

From the look on Dr. Warshaw's face, Phillip could tell their excitement had been quite premature.