Owen's Touch Page 4

  “What do you want me to say? And why do you want me to say it?” he asked, wondering why she was staring at the blood-pressure and cardiac monitors.

  “When you spoke, her readings changed,” the nurse explained. She glanced at the patient, then over her shoulder at Owen. “Talk some more, Mr. Blackhart. Talk to her.” She indicated the unconscious woman. “It may be coincidence, but let’s just experiment a little....”

  Owen took his hands out of his pockets and walked closer to the woman’s bedside. Her head and eyes were swathed in white. Her body looked frail and bruised beneath the pale print of the hospital gown and the stark white of the bedsheets. Her hand was scraped and covered with recent cuts.

  She looked all alone in the world. Weak and defenseless. On the edge of eternity. Needing only the slightest excuse to release her tenuous hold on the slender thread of life.

  He stopped near her bedside, wondering what he could say that might penetrate the depths of her comatose state. What could pierce that heavy veil? What could connect with some fragile remnant of her wounded mind?

  “Do you remember me?” he asked in a low, quiet voice. “We met last night In the rain and the darkness. I pulled you out of your car....”

  The nurse whirled and looked at him. Excitement was gleaming in her eyes. She motioned for him to continue talking.

  “I came back to see how you were doing,” he explained. “It looks like they’ve done a good job of patching you up.” His voice softened, and he smiled slightly. “You’ve got to help, though. Give them some sign you’re trying to stay with us. People want to hear from you. Everyone’s pulling for you to get better. Did you know that?”

  The nurse motioned for him to keep speaking, and she hurried out of the room, turning in the direction of the nurses’ station.

  Owen pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. The injured woman looked sickeningly still to him. The monitors might be showing some interesting activity, but her body looked like it hadn’t moved a muscle. Not so much as an eyelash, if he could have seen her eyelashes beneath all those bandages.

  “They’ve put an ad in the paper,” he said. “They’re hoping someone will recognize your description and tell us your name. Did they tell you that? It seems your identification’s not been found yet, so they don’t know who you are.” He half laughed. “Hell, I don’t know what to call you. I’d just as soon not call you anything until we know your real name. So, I won’t call you by any name. Not yet, anyway.”

  The nurse returned with a woman and a man. They were wearing white lab coats and had stethoscopes draped around their necks. Their names were on plastic tags and identified them as physicians.

  At their urging, he continued a quiet monologue with the unconscious woman while they studied the readings on the monitors, touched her and observed the patient’s reaction to Owen.

  When Owen stopped and looked at them with a clear question in his eyes, the physicians glanced at one another. The young man deferred to the woman, who seemed a little older, but still young to be in charge, from Owen’s point of view. Physicians were getting younger every year, apparently. Or he was getting older.

  “I’m Dr. Kelway,” the woman said. “I’m with the neurology department here at Cleary Hospital....”

  Owen thought she seemed young but experienced. She didn’t look like she was thirty yet, but her calm and professional manner impressed him.

  “When you talk to the patient, she appears to respond. We see changes in her pulse, her respiration and her blood pressure.”

  “Is that good?”

  “It’s wonderful. It means she’s connecting with us, instead of sinking into depression or deeper into the coma. As I understand it, you didn’t know her before the accident.”

  “That’s right”

  “That’s unusual.” The blond doctor stared at him for a moment, then looked thoughtfully at her unconscious patient.

  “What’s unusual, Doctor?” Owen asked, annoyed by her cool observation. Did they think he was lying about knowing the woman? He pressed his lips into a hard, flat line and stared at the three medical people.

  “It’s just that I would have expected that if you could reach her, we should be able to reach her, get the same kind of reactions that you are. But we don’t. She hasn’t been responding to any of us, as far as we can tell. You are the only one to get a response from her. Now, if you were a close friend or family member, that would make a certain amount of sense. Emotionally we all connect at a deeper level, a different level, with those we know well or love. But you say you’re a stranger—”

  “I am a stranger,” he interrupted pointedly.

  “Yes. I’m not arguing with you, Mr. Blackhart,” she said, trying to soften her words with a somewhat apologetic tone and a conciliatory smile. “It’s just an unusual occurrence. But it’s one I’m very happy that we have. We can work with it.”

  “Work with it? We?” Owen asked sharply.

  The physician motioned toward the door.

  “Perhaps we could discuss this down at the nurses’ station,” she suggested. She glanced toward the patient, still unmoving in the hospital bed. “At this point, we need to assume that Jane Doe can hear some, if not all, of what we say...or at least, what you say. It might be wise to have a frank discussion where our comments can be considered before we say them in front of her.”

  Owen shrugged and got up. They walked out of Jane Doe’s room and reassembled at the nurses’ station. Several other staff members were there now, busy with other cases. They were too absorbed in their own duties to pay any attention to the four people huddling to discuss the comatose woman with no name.

  “To cut to the chase, Mr. Blackhart,” said Dr. Kelway, “could you keep talking to Jane Doe?”

  “For how long?”

  “For as long as it takes. Or as long as you can. Until she comes back to us and can communicate with us herself, or...”

  “Or?” Owen lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

  “Or until she dies.” Dr. Kelway’s expression softened.

  The comment hit him like a body blow. And the request for him to stick around indefinitely hadn’t been much easier. Owen frowned.

  “She may die, then.” He spoke without noticeable emotion.

  “Yes.”

  “Let me think about it,” he said grimly.

  “Of course. If there’s anything I can say to your employer that might help buy you some time...” Dr. Kelway offered cautiously.

  Owen laughed harshly.

  “That won’t be necessary, Doctor. Believe me.”

  Chapter 3

  She was adrift in the depths of a sinister sea.

  There was no direction. No up. No down. And yet, she intuitively grasped that she was sinking ever deeper into its mysterious Hadean embrace.

  She was dangerously tempted to slide into those deathly arms. To relax. To put an end to the struggling. To let go. She was hanging on to the last of her strength by a very slender thread.

  But a primitive urge stubbornly kept welling up within her, forcing her to resist that hypnotic, nearly irresistible attraction. Somewhere in the innermost depths of her mind burned the memory of a happy young woman. A woman with dreams and hopes for the future. A woman with a wrong to avenge. And sometimes a man’s chilling smile lanced through her jumbled thoughts, tearing her emotions apart and spurring her to battle harder to survive.

  But then, just before she could find the key to it all, remember everything, pull away from the whirlpool that bound her, the suffocating waves of that darkling sea rolled over her once again. Thundering, it pulled her down into its bottomless depths.

  She screamed for help, but no one heard. The ocean smothered her words. They rose like faint bubbles through that deep sea of coma, and when they reached the surface, they sounded garbled, even to her own, deafened ears.

  If only she had someone to cling to. Someone to touch, to give her hope. Someone warm to melt the bone-deep chill that was freezin
g her.

  She reached out with her left hand, stretching her fingertips until they were as far as they could go. She strove to break through the surface of the abyss. Surely she could find him again, if only she could reach out far enough. He was there somewhere. He had held her, saving her from death’s jaws once before. But she had fallen back into its horrible maw after he had let go of her.

  Many times she had tried to find him, only to have cold touch her palm. Or something sharp and hard. Things she recoiled from instinctively.

  She vividly remembered the touch of his hand, and the low, reassuring timbre of his voice as that burning dragon had roared and tried to swallow her broken body whole. He had saved her then. And if she could reach him again, surely he would pull her from this cold, wet shroud.

  But it was so hard to concentrate, to focus on finding him. And a relentless, aching pain kept pounding inside her head. She was weak and confused. Was she reaching in the wrong direction? She choked on a half sob born of frustration and despair.

  “Help...” She struggled to say the word aloud. Forced her lips to move, wondered at the strangeness of the sounds.

  Then the miracle happened.

  She felt his hand grasp hers. Warm and strong. Hope flowed into her, just as it had before.

  “Hang on,” she heard him whisper.

  He sounded a million miles away. She strained to hear the rest.

  “I won’t let go,” he added, his voice gruff and gravelly sounding, but louder now.

  She felt the softening around her face, in spite of the horrendous pressure of the sea as it pounded on her head from every direction. Relief. She’d found him! She’d found him at last. A sigh feathered across her lips. The slightest hint of a smile touched their soft, still lines.

  “Don’t...let...go....” she struggled to say. It was so hard to form the words. So very, very hard. She couldn’t be sure what they sounded like, either. She feared they weren’t coming out right. But the man gently tightened his hold on her hand, and she relaxed. He’d understood her. She knew he’d understood her then.

  Tears burned in her eyes and seared the bandaged skin of her face. Her fingers tightened in mute thanks.

  Please don’t let go, she thought fiercely, struggling against a growing terror of the oblivion enveloping her. Hold on to me...please, don’t let me go....

  Coherent thought began to splinter, and the world disintegrated around her. The last sensation she had was of hearing a man’s low, reassuring voice and feeling the firm, solid touch of his hand holding hers.

  With him nearby, it seemed less dangerous to drift into the small death of sleep.

  Owen felt her fingers relax. His gaze snapped up to the monitors. He held his breath, fearing the worst.

  “It’s all right,” said the nurse. “She’s just fallen asleep.”

  “I thought that’s all she’s been doing,” Owen observed dubiously.

  “Well, with the coma, it’s trickier to identify semisleeping states and normal sleeping states,” she conceded easily. “It’s just my opinion, of course, but the readings seem like normal sleep to me.”

  Owen felt relieved. He respected the nurse’s judgment.

  “I’ll take your word for it,” he said.

  The nurse left. When she returned, she was finishing up before going off her shift. After she’d noted the readings on the patient’s chart, she replenished the intravenous bag hung beside Jane Doe’s bed. Then she came around to the side of the bed where Owen half dozed in the chair. His hand still covered the unconscious woman’s.

  “Mr. Blackhart?” the nurse called quietly.

  His eyes opened, pinning her with an uncannily alert gaze that startled her.

  “I thought you were asleep,” she said, taking a step back in surprise.

  “I was. I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Oh. I see. Well, I was just getting ready to leave. There will be someone new coming in to check on the patient for the next shift. And the doctors are due for morning rounds soon.”

  Owen checked his wristwatch. The sun would be up soon. He looked over at the woman whose hand lay so still and cool in his. She was still breathing regularly. And he thought the color of her cheeks looked a little better than it had last night. Or maybe he was just getting used to the stark white bandages contrasting against her pale, clear skin.

  “You’ve been holding her hand for hours, Mr. Blackhart. Wouldn’t you like to get some rest? Or at least stretch your legs a bit, get something hot to drink?”

  “I’ll take a break in a while. Don’t worry about me.” He smiled slightly. “I’m a hell of a lot more comfortable than she is, I expect. If she can take it, I suppose I can.”

  The nurse didn’t look too persuaded.

  “I’m sure that Dr. Kelway didn’t intend to glue you to the patient’s bedside when she asked you if you could stay with her, talk to her for a time. She would have been pleased if you’d spent an hour here, talking to the patient or touching her hand. Why, you should have seen the doctor’s face light up when she came by the nurses’ station on her way home a little while ago. She walked down the hall far enough to see you sitting in this chair, holding the patient’s hand, and she looked as surprised as I’ve ever seen her. She was delighted that you stayed at all, believe me, Mr. Blackhart. You know, she’d be the first to tell you to pace yourself, to take a break from this as often as you need to.”

  “Does Dr. Kelway get this involved in all her patients’ cases?” he asked curiously.

  “Yes. She’s very dedicated. But we all get...especially involved with a case like this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, most patients have families or friends who come to their assistance when they’re hospitalized or unable to speak for themselves. Others...aren’t so lucky.”

  “Like...” Owen looked at the nameless woman’s delicate hand lying in his.

  “Yes. Like Jane Doe. She needs us, not just as nurses and doctors but as people who’ll try to look out for her best interests until she can look out for herself again. It’s...an act of charity,” the nurse explained, laughing a little uncomfortably. “My, I didn’t mean to sound like I’m sermonizing.”

  “You weren’t.”

  She looked at him curiously.

  “Why are you doing this for her, Mr. Blackhart? If...I may ask?”

  “Consider it an...act of charity,” he answered.

  “Remember to take a break, Mr. Blackhart. If she wakes up, you shouldn’t look like Rip Van Winkle.”

  “Why not?” he asked, grinning slightly. “She doesn’t know what I look like.”

  “People form an image of what someone looks like from the sound of their voice,” the nurse countered sagely. “And you have a very...attractive voice, Mr. Blackhart.” The nurse smiled broadly. “Take time to shave if you stay the day, hmm?”

  Owen snorted his disdain.

  “I didn’t say I’d be here long enough to get a five-o’clock shadow,” he stated.

  The woman’s hand moved, and he turned his full attention to her.

  “I think I’ll be seeing you tonight, Mr. Blackhart,” she announced with a shrug.

  “Really?” he said, his voice sharpening with annoyance. He hated it when a perfect stranger could anticipate him so accurately. He was tempted to leave, just to prove her wrong. But the hand moving in his quelled that thought. “Maybe so,” he conceded softly. He moved his fingers, wrapping them gently around Jane Doe’s in silent reply to her questing. “Maybe so...” he whispered to himself.

  He dozed off again without much effort. He was accustomed to sleeping in planes and trains and waiting rooms all over the world. The hospital chair wasn’t the most comfortable place he’d ever spent the night in, but it wasn’t the worst by a long shot.

  His grip loosened as he slept, but he never lost contact with Jane Doe’s hand. Footsteps eventually roused him from his slumber, and he opened his eyes as three doctors and a male nurse walked into the roo
m a couple of hours later. They looked at him briefly, then they turned away and began discussing the patient among themselves. So he closed his eyes and dozed off for another couple of hours, her hand firmly in his.

  He was awakened next by the touch of a hand on his shoulder. It was the male nurse, and he indicated that they were moving Jane Doe. Reluctantly, Owen withdrew his hand from hers. Her fingers tightened on his, and he bent close to her, murmuring reassurances.

  “You’ve got to go on a little trip. I can’t go with you. But I’ll be here when they bring you back. Hang in there. This won’t take too long.”

  She reached up, her hand seeking the sound of his voice.

  Owen was startled. So startled that when she touched his cheek, he didn’t know what to say. So he caught her hand with his and pressed it to his roughened and unshaved jaw.

  “You must be feeling better, lady,” he said in that gravelly voice he always had in the early morning before that first swallow of coffee. Then he comfortingly squeezed her hand and firmly laid it back down on the bed again. “They won’t let me go with you. But I’ll be here when you get back. I’m still waiting to hear your name, you know.”

  She didn’t move, but he thought she heard what he was saying. Something about the softening of her lips made him think she was smiling a little. Maybe she’d even understood him.

  The nursing staff rolled her out of the room and wheeled her bed down the hallway, heading toward the X-ray department. They were going to take new views of her head. Owen rubbed his neck, stiff from the uncomfortable sleeping position he’d been in, and wondered whether the radiographs would bring good news or bad.

  Just then a teenage girl stopped in the doorway and glanced doubtfully at Owen. She was wearing the brown-striped apron and buttermilk white clothing that was the uniform of the hospital’s volunteer corps. In her hand, she carried several pieces of paper, obviously notes and messages accumulated from various sources around the hospital, all in the process of being delivered.

  “Mr. Blackhart?” she asked uncertainly while nervously fingering the envelopes and notes.