Tilting at Windmills by Joseph Pittman Page B

figures flew past him and into the closed ICU.
    “Annie . . .” he said, her name a whisper on his lips.
    Impossible minutes passed; he tried to watch through the glass until a nurse finally pulled a curtain across it. What, he wondered, could have gone wrong, so swiftly, so . . . awfully? It took fifteen endless minutes before anyone emerged, and thankfully it was Dr. Savage, her attending physician, wearing that same comforting expression and stethoscope.
    “She’s fine, Mr. Duncan—for now. We’ve got her stabilized.”
    “What happened?”
    He hung his head in silence, in contemplation. “We’re not sure—yet.”
    “What do you mean, you’re not sure? How about an educated guess? My God, we’re talking about a young woman’s life here. She’s got a daughter who needs her. We need to know, Doctor. Is Annie going to make it?”
    He grimaced, as though reluctant to share his thoughts. “Are there next of kin?”
    “Only her young daughter. Her parents are gone; there’s no one. I’m the closest you’ll get. Tell me, please.”
    “We’re . . . we’re concerned about a possible, uh, infection. But we’re monitoring her very closely.”
    “An infection? What kind?”
    “In the damaged lung. What pierced the lung was not one of her ribs. It was a piece of rusted metal. We believe we’ve cleaned the wound thoroughly.”
    “So what you’re saying is, we wait?”
    “Time heals,” he said, “or it plays its hand. We do our best, but we’re human. I’ll be honest with you, Mr. Duncan: Annie has suffered a grievous injury. Complications with these kinds of injuries are hard to predict. But we’re anticipating and we’re watching. I’m sorry. Right now, it’s the best I can offer.”
    Brian wasn’t satisfied with Dr. Savage’s vagueness.
    “I’m not going anywhere.”
    Dr. Savage nodded agreeably. “Stay as long as necessary. But don’t forget who needs your help more.”
     
    B rian stayed all day, sitting by Annie’s bedside, holding her hand and telling her how strong she was, how strong Janey was, too, how alike they were, and how she had to recover, not for his sake but for herself and, most importantly, for Janey. Finally, Cynthia urged him home, and he at last left the hospital as night fell. He rode back to the farmhouse in silence. His mind was numb and his body was drained of any energy. Luckily he was unfamiliar with the roads, their winding curves and smooth surfaces forcing him to concentrate on the drive and nothing else. He’d have to suspend the vigil he’d begun because tonight, Janey was his charge. He’d continue the vigil later, keeping watch until Annie was out of danger and in her own room, away from the morbid monitoring of the ICU. The doctor was right—there was someone who needed him so she could feel safe, secure, loved.
    Gerta Connors, who had come to stay with Janey until Brian got back, was waiting at the front door. She’d heard his car pull up.
    “How is Janey?” Brian asked, entering the house quietly.
    “Sleeping—finally. The poor thing; she doesn’t know if she’s coming or going, what’s night or day, what’s up or down.”
    “That’s another thing Janey and I have in common.”
    Gerta, one of Linden Corners’ longtime residents and perhaps its kindest, opened her arms wide and embraced Brian, patting him on the back.
    “Do you need me to stay?”
    “No, that’s not necessary.”
    Placing a comforting hand on his cheek, she said, “I’ll be back at eight tomorrow, so you can go back to the hospital.”
    “Thanks.”
    Gerta left, and he went in to check on Janey, who was sound asleep, hugging tight her stuffed purple frog. She was protected, he thought, by the resilience of youth, its innocence and faith. She wasn’t ready for the complexities of life.
    He retreated to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of lemonade. He still wasn’t drinking, still couldn’t for health reasons, and these days, he didn’t even think he missed