Sky Zone: A Novel (The Crittendon Files) (23 page)

54

Shakespeare phased in and out during the bumpy ambulance ride. At one point he took inventory of his condition. His arm was still killing him, but the rest of his body seemed okay. Except for his throat. It was terribly parched, which he determined was the result of the icy oxygen mask strapped too tightly to his face.

Normally he would fight such a thing and insist he didn’t need any help.

But not this time. He was just too tired. Too zapped of all energy to put up any kind of fight.

So he rested.

In fact, he slept …

But now he was awake again, wide-awake with an IV stuck in his wrist, sitting half upright in a cold hospital bed with sheets that felt like plastic.

The guy behind the curtain on the other side of the hospital room was coughing his lungs out. It was driving Shakespeare crazy. Why on earth didn’t they give him something?

“You need to drink some water or something,” Shakespeare called toward the white curtain that went from ceiling to floor, hanging from a metal track.

The man only coughed louder, to the point of retching.

Suddenly a pale little doctor in a white coat appeared with a clipboard under one arm, rubbing his hands with antiseptic he’d pumped from a device on the wall. “Good evening, Mr. Shakespeare. I’m Dr. Theodore Brogden. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. A little tired. But pretty good.”

“Sit up for me and take deep breaths.” Brogden probed Shakespeare’s big chest with cold fingers, placing his stethoscope in various places. He had a large nose and smelled strongly of cologne. “Is that the deepest you can breathe?”

“No.” Shakespeare concentrated and took in some really deep breaths. “What’s the problem, Ted?”

The doctor paused. “Do you remember blacking out?”

“I got light-headed. I think I was just hungry or dehydrated or something.”

“That’s possible. You needed nourishment. When’s the last time you ate?”

Shakespeare thought about it. “Lunch. I was gonna have dinner on my break, but … well, we never got around to breaks.”

“Yes, your wife told me you were working at the arena this evening.”

“You talked to Sheena?”

“Yes. She’s on her way.”

“Oh shoot, that’s not necessary. What on earth is she going to do with the kids? Darn it, Ted. I should call her and tell her not to come.” He started to go for his phone, but the doctor told him to wait; he wasn’t finished.

The man on the other side of the curtain was coughing to death.

“Did you have any chest discomfort or upper body pain before you passed out?” Brogden asked, scratching the curly black hair that sprang from the sides of his head.

Shakespeare thought about it. “No.”

“Stomach pain? Shortness of breath?”

“No.”

“Anxiety. Nervousness?”

Shakespeare chuckled. “Anxiety … a little, I’d say.”

“Do you drink an excessive amount of alcohol?”

“No.”

“Are you on any medications?”

“No. Well, just fish oil for cholesterol.”

There was a knock at the door, and Sheena entered, wearing sweats, a black baseball cap, and a sympathetic frown.

“Who’s watching the kids?” Shakespeare said, then realized that wasn’t a very kind greeting when she’d come to be with him. “Sorry. Hi, honey.”

“Mandy,” she said. “What’s going on? How are you?”

Mandy was their twentysomething neighbor who still lived at home, didn’t work, and mooched off her parents. All she did as far as Shakespeare could see was tweet, text, and talk on her phone.

“I’m fine. You didn’t have to come,” Shakespeare said.

The doctor introduced himself. “His blood sugar plummeted,” he said. “It’s possible he may have some form of hypoglycemia.”

“Seriously?” Sheena said.

The doctor pursed his lips. “Too early to tell. We’ve got his blood sugar climbing back up to normal. I’m going to keep him for the night, however.”

“Oh sheesh,” Shakespeare protested. “You’re gonna have to give that guy something for his cough, or neither of us is gonna get any sleep.”

Sheena glared at him.

“If everything looks good in the morning, we’ll send you home,” said Dr. Brogden. “But I want you to see your personal physician first thing in the morning to get to the bottom of this. It is nothing to flirt with.”

“We’ll get him in tomorrow,” Sheena said. “Thank you very much, Doctor.”

The physician marked something on his chart and started to leave.

“Can I walk around, Ted?” Shakespeare asked. “I mean, this sugar you’re feeding me is getting me hyped up. I’ve got to move.”

Sheena shook her head.

The doctor faced him. “That’s fine. Just be careful with the IV. That’ll probably come out within another hour or two. Your nurse will be checking it.”

“Great. Thanks,” Shakespeare said. “And Doc, please, give that guy some cough syrup or something on your way out, will you?”

“We’ll see what we can do.” He was gone.

Sheena and Shakespeare stared at each other.

She stood with her arms crossed, purse over her shoulder, hair up under the cap. “Are you all right?” she said.

He nodded, relieved to be reunited with her after the attack. “Come here.”

She approached slowly, arms still crossed.

“Closer,” he said.

She got within two feet and stopped. He reached out and drew her into his arms. They remained still like that for some time.

“I owe you an apology,” he finally managed. “For a lot of things.”

She was quiet in his big arms. They hadn’t held each other in so long.

“I’m gonna change,” he said. “You deserve better than I’ve been giving you.”

Slowly, ever so slowly, she rested her head on his shoulder.

As far as Shakespeare was concerned, that was a start.

A good start.

55

“Help me up—please.” Pamela grimaced as Jack and Margaret raised her up to the edge of the hospital bed. Jack had delivered the news about the baby possibly having a brain hemorrhage, and the room had fallen silent for the past five minutes, except for Margaret’s sniffles.

“Where’re you going?” Jack said as Pamela stood, leaning her weight on his shoulder and Margaret’s.

“Bathroom,” she said.

She didn’t want to talk about the baby.

She needed to be alone.

They walked with her, slowly.

Her legs were stiff, and the pain in her abdomen from the C-section was sharp and deep.

She heard Jack’s phone go off.

“I’ll be okay,” she said. “Leave me alone for a minute.”

“Are you sure?” Margaret said.

“Yes, Mom—I’m sure.”

She immediately regretted how nasty that sounded.

“By the way, I talked to the nurse. She’s going to bring a breast pump in a little while,” Margaret said.

Pamela didn’t respond. She got into the bathroom, closed the door, and gingerly made her way to the sink.

There was a tap at the door. “Did you hear me?” her mother called.

“Yes, Mom! That will be delightful,” she jested.

Pamela leaned over the sink on her forearms and peered into the mirror. Her blonde hair was frizzy and wild, as if she’d just ridden a hundred miles in a convertible. Her brown eyes seemed almost black and were sunken into her head.

What a hot mess.

She ran cold water, splashed her face four or five times, and patted dry with a spongy towel that didn’t seem to absorb any water.

With a great deal of pain, she eased her way onto the toilet.

Ouch. Oh …
She was sore everywhere, from the chest down.

Once she got into a semicomfortable position, she just sat there and stared at the floor—remembering the fall.

She’d gotten her nails done in a glossy bright orange that day.

Coming out of the salon, she’d stepped off the curb and fallen.

It hadn’t even been that jarring!

Okay, forget it. It happened. It’s in the past.
She leaned forward and rocked.
What if he is … does have special needs? We keep going. There’s no choice.

I keep working, and Jack watches the baby.

Or he gets the job at the
Gazette
, and I come home.

We face it. We deal with it. We cope.

She thought of their older friends who were empty nesters and how much fun they all said it was to be romantic couples on their own again. She thought of the people she knew who had children with special needs—how much time, energy, and money it required of them. It drained the very life out of them and aged them by twenty years overnight.

And so that was going to be their lot?

Would it draw her and Jack closer or drive an even bigger wedge between them?

There was another knock at the door, and she replied as nicely as she could muster, knowing it would be her mom.

“It’s me. Can I open?” Jack said.

“Yeah.”

The door opened a crack, and he popped his head in. “You okay?”

She nodded wearily.

“You’re not gonna believe it,” he said. “That was Shakespeare. He blacked out at the arena. He’s here! An ambulance brought him to the ER. Says he’s fine. They think it might be hypoglycemia. His blood sugar bottomed out.”

“Great, we can have a party,” she said numbly.

“Sheena’s here too, for a while. She might go back home. He’s staying the night.”

When he seemed to realize she didn’t have a whole lot to say about his big news, he focused in on her. “Are you sore?”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“Are you up on your pain relievers?”

“Yes.”

“What else can I do for you?” he said.

“I’m a little hungry. Maybe some fruit?”

“Your mom has bananas and apples.”

“Apple sounds good.”

Knowing Shakespeare, he might pop in any minute.

“Would you get me my makeup bag?” she said. “It’s out there somewhere.”

Jack disappeared and returned with the small pink bag.

“Maybe I should get a shower?” she said.

Before he could say anything, she made up her mind. “Nah. I’ll wait till morning. Go on. Skedaddle. I’ll be right out.”

“Okay … are you gonna be up for a little surprise in a minute?”

She deflated. “What kind of surprise, Jack? Really?”

“A visitor.” He stared at her like a wide-eyed kid.

Her heart suddenly leaped. “The baby!”

He frowned and shook his head. “No. Not yet.”

“Jack, not Shakespeare and Sheena—I’m not up for that.”

He shook his head with a smile. “Nope. You’re gonna like this. Just get yourself prettied up.”

“Jack!” she protested, but he’d left.

That made her mad.

There was no visitor she wanted to see, except her baby.

She dug into the makeup bag, found her brush, and began working on her hair. Who could it be? Not his parents. They lived in Florida and didn’t travel far from home anymore.

She found her lipstick. Maybe Derrick and Zenia? That she could live with, but not for more than a few minutes. She was dead tired and hoped Jack would take her mom home for the night so she could get some sleep.

There was a tap at the door. “Honey, you ready?” Jack said.

Honestly?
She was kind of annoyed at him for railroading this visit with whoever it was. Instead of answering him, she checked herself in the mirror one last time, figuring a lady could only look so good in a light-gray hospital gown, then slowly entered the room. Whoever it was would just have to get over her glamorous appearance.

Standing there tan and larger than life—in
her
hospital room—with curly dark hair and incredibly rugged-looking beard stubble, was rock legend Everett Lester.

Pamela stopped. Her face flushed.

Her breath was gone.

Someone was behind him—his wife, Karen, and their son. She probably knew more about them than they knew about themselves!

Realizing her mouth was open three inches, she shut it and crossed her arms, thinking how homely she looked and how she could kill Jack for not preparing her better.

“Hi, Pam. We’re not going to stay long; we know you’ve had a long day.” Everett smiled brilliantly and reached out his hand, engulfing hers. “I’m Everett Lester, and this is my wife, Karen, and our son, Cole.”

Everett wore several thick leather bracelets, and she immediately noticed the black, swirling tattoos on his forearms—tattoos she had seen a million times in magazines like
People
, and which she knew from media reports he wasn’t proud of.

Pamela looked at him, at them, at Jack, at Margaret, and back at him. She tried to speak but almost began crying instead. Margaret
was
crying, with her hands locked together in front of her mouth and her eyes welling over with tears.

Pamela wanted to say, “How do you do? It’s such an incredible pleasure to meet you,” but nothing came. They must have realized she was shell-shocked.

“These are for you.” Karen stepped forward with a colorful summer bouquet. “There’s a funny story behind them.”

Jack laughed and spoke up excitedly, looking like a kid who’d just downed a giant energy drink. “We met backstage at the arena. When they heard you were about to have a baby, Karen wanted me to bring you the dozen roses Everett had given her. Obviously, they got left behind.”

“I would have gotten you roses, but they didn’t have any in the gift shop,” Karen said.

Pamela finally found her voice. “I know all about the roses, what a big part they played in your past! This is incredible. Thank you for coming. I … I’m … in shock.”

They all laughed, and Margaret blubbered even more.

Karen said something about the baby, but Pamela was enraptured with Everett, who was absolutely mesmerizing. To think that this was the legendary metal front man who’d performed before sellout crowds on famous stages around the world, standing in her hospital room! No matter what the future held with the baby, this moment,
right this second
,
was special, and Pamela was determined to celebrate it.

“Pam, did you hear that, honey?” Jack said.

She snapped out of it with an idiotic chuckle. “I’m sorry. I … I just … No, I didn’t.”

“I just wondered how you’re feeling,” Karen said. “You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

“Oh gosh, I know. I was stupid for even going to the rally. But when I heard you were going to be there, that close to home”—Pamela looked at Everett—“I just couldn’t miss it.”

Everett and Karen looked at each other and smiled.

“That was the scariest thing I’ve ever been through,” Karen said.

“Me, too,” said Cole.

Karen put her arm around the boy and squeezed him. Everett rubbed the top of his head.

“I know, buddy, it was bad. But we made it, didn’t we? God took care of us. Thanks to people like Mr. Jack here, not too many people got hurt—except the one security guard who died.”

“And except the bad guys,” Cole said. “They got what was coming to ’em.”

“That’s right, except the bad guys,” Everett said.

A reverent silence fell over the room.

“We should go.” Everett looked at Karen, who nodded.

“Thank you so much for coming, and for the flowers,” Pamela said. “I’ll never forget this.”

“Truly, this was special,” Jack said.

“I’m going to put these in this spare pitcher for now.” Karen gently placed the flowers in the plastic container and filled it with water.

“Mr. Lester?” Margaret spoke up, her voice cracking. “I was wondering if I could have your autograph?”

“Most certainly.” Everett went into motion.

“I was thinking you could sign this bulletin thingy.” She dug in her purse and pulled out the program from the night’s campaign rally.

“Oh, now, that’ll be a keeper,” Jack said.

Margaret finally produced a pen, and Everett signed with a confident, looping stroke.

“Now I’m not gonna see this pop up on eBay or Craigslist, am I?”

They all laughed.

“Not a chance!” Margaret beamed and reached out for the autographed program as if it were a gleaming diamond pendant.

Cole whispered something to his mom and buried his head in her chest.

“Okay,” Karen said. “Well, good evening to you all, and best of luck with the new baby.”

Pamela made sure she got a hug from Everett, who smelled as delightful as he looked.

As they began to file out, there was a knock, and the door opened.

“Mr. and Mrs. Crittendon?”

“Trevinia,” Jack said. “Come in.”

The pretty supervisor Jack had mentioned popped her head in. “Oh my goodness, you have a full house.”

“Is everything okay?” Pamela’s heart kicked up a notch, and she determined right then that this had been the most stressful day of her life. “What is it?”

“Well …” Trevinia shot a knowing smile at Everett. “It just so happens that I have a hungry little fellow right outside with me. Do you think you’re up for a feeding?”