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By Ginny Shearin Chapter 1
Catherine had been
there for a little more than three weeks - ever since they had brought
Vincent back from that distant cavern. He had obviously been
self-destructive, though none of them could know exactly what had
happened. His clothes were torn, his hands and chest were cut and
bruised, his face was scratched, his hair was wild and matted. The
roaring and snarling had been truly frightening, leaving Father and the
others torn between their fear for Vincent and their fear for
themselves. They had sent for Catherine and Peter, and they had come.
Father and Peter took over, seeing that he was transported back to his chamber as gently as possible and providing all the medical attention they knew how to provide for his unusual physiology. They had finally found faint signs of life, but he hadn’t moved at all for several days; so all that remained to do was to wait and hope. Mary had come to help; and they had carefully cleaned his wounds, bathed him, and dressed him in a soft loose nightshirt. There was an IV pumping minimal sustenance into his nearly lifeless form, and a catheter ushering away its remains. His bed had been moved to allow easy access from either side, the IV stand and other tools of the medical trade on the side near the wall under the stained glass window.
While Father and Peter and Mary did their best for Vincent, Catherine had stayed out of the way; but she wasn’t about to be left out when it came to waiting and hoping. She stubbornly refused to leave except when they examined him or bathed him. As many times as she had wished to see those massive shoulders and more uncovered, she knew he had no intention of allowing it yet; and she wouldn’t compromise his wishes when he had no say in the matter. During those times she would take care of some of the few needs she had for herself, other than being with Vincent.
Some of the tunnel
dwellers would periodically gather near Vincent’s door, hoping for a
word of encouragement about his condition; and they often saw the need
for concern about Catherine as well. One of them might insist that she
eat, or that she go to her virtually unused guest chamber for a change
of clothes or a short rest. Sometimes she would search Father’s library
for reading material. For the other approximately twenty-three hours of
the day she was next to Vincent’s bed. She read to him, talked to him,
held his hand - carefully at first, because of his wounds - stroked his
cheek and forehead. When she fell asleep, it was in the chair with her
head on the bed beside him or sitting on the side of the bed with her
head on his chest, always with one arm stretched across him. If he moved
or woke, she wanted to be there to know.
For nearly a week
there was no movement at all, then the restlessness began. He thrashed
around in his sleep, muttered unintelligible, argumentative, anguished
sounds, appearing to suffer through endless nightmares. He seemed almost
constantly tormented. Catherine’s touch and her voice soothed him
temporarily; but even with that, he was restless. During the most
frightful times she simply stretched out on the quilt beside him and
held him as she had during his illness in her apartment, whispering
soothingly to him until the worst of the attack had passed. Father said
nothing, because even he could see that she gave his son at least
temporary relief from his continual suffering. Almost two weeks passed
this way; then as suddenly as it had started, the restless torment
subsided and the frightening stillness returned. For several days the
only movement they detected was the slow, steady rise and fall of his
chest. The slight sound of his breathing was their only source of
comfort and hope.
Peter had begun to
worry nearly as much about Catherine as he did about Vincent.
Father was too
worried about Vincent to be quite as aware of her exhaustion. On the
third day of that frightening stillness, Father hesitantly asked if she
could feel anything through their bond, any suggestion of a change in
Vincent’s condition, any hint of a return to consciousness.
She considered her
answer carefully, both of them knowing that her side of their connection
wasn’t nearly as strong as Vincent’s.
“No change,
Father,” she answered wearily. “He isn’t really with us; but he doesn’t
seem to be leaving us, either. I don’t know why it feels this way, but
it’s as if he has a decision to make and hasn’t made it yet.”
“Dear God,” Father
breathed, as much to himself as to anyone else, “Please let him make the
right decision.”
Catherine again
picked up Great Expectations, opened it to the marked page, and
began to read. It had made a difference in her recovery. Maybe it would
help him, too.
Peter tried to talk
his old friend into getting some rest, but Jacob was as stubborn as
Catherine.
Father found a
small chest to prop his feet on and sat down in the large chair at
Vincent’s writing desk. He hung his cane on the arm of the chair and
alternately watched Vincent, dozed, and listened to Catherine read. He
silently reprimanded himself for his earlier opinions of Catherine’s
intentions and suitability for his son. She was unmistakably devoted to
Vincent, and Father had come to love her, too. There was no doubt about
Vincent’s feelings for her. Despite his continuing misgivings about the
wisdom of their relationship, he had to admit to a great respect and a
certain degree of awe at the kind of love they shared. He had never seen
Vincent so happy, nor sometimes, so distressed; and his suspicions were
that this illness, madness, whatever it was, might, at least in part,
have something to do with their relationship.
Catherine was
reading and holding Vincent’s hand when she felt a subtle stirring as he
shifted almost imperceptibly in the bed. She stopped reading, waiting
for some other indication that it hadn’t been her imagination, hoping
that there might be . . . .
There it was again. His hand had moved very slightly in hers.
“Vincent!” She
whispered excitedly. Her hand reached for his cheek as she stood and
leaned closer over the bed, repeating his name a little louder and
looking for any kind of response to her voice.
Peter returned just
as Catherine stood and leaned toward Vincent. He nearly dropped the
dinner tray he had brought for them when Father fairly flew from the
chair, brushing past Peter to reach his son. Peter deposited the tray on
the desk and quickly joined them. This time Catherine couldn’t make
herself leave. She just stood back hopefully, seeing that she wasn’t
interfering with their efforts.
“Well?” asked
Catherine impatiently after the two doctors had looked and listened for
what seemed to her an eternity.
“Not much to tell,”
Peter answered, “but his breathing isn’t quite as shallow and his
heartbeat seems a little stronger.”
“That’s a good
sign, isn’t it?" she nearly pleaded.
Father put an arm
around her shoulder and kissed her forehead, finally seeing that she was
as spent as he. He had to admit she was a remarkable young woman.
“At this point,
Catherine,” he answered, “anything is a good sign; but this, I’m afraid,
is a small one. His physical wounds are healing quite nicely, amazingly
well under the circumstances; but I think you and I both suspect that
the state he’s in has little to do with physical wounds.”
Catherine looked
down, not able to meet the older man’s eyes right now. She knew he
blamed her. She blamed herself.
Father instantly
regretted his remark. It had been said very matter-of-factly, a
statement of his thoughts. It had not been meant to be unkind,
especially spoken when she was obviously so tired and frightened. He
stroked her hair as he would to comfort one of the children and used his
best parental tone on her.
“You look
exhausted, dear. Perhaps you should take a break and have some dinner.”
“No, Father,” she
responded. “Maybe later.”
With a deep sigh
she sat down and picked up the book, slipped her hand under Vincent’s,
squeezed it firmly and began to read.
Father shook his
head in resignation, sat back down, and poured himself a cup of the warm
tea.
“Catherine?” he
called, holding the cup up to offer it to her.
She glanced out of
the corner of her eye and shook her head, never looking up and never
missing a word.
Peter was sleeping
in Father’s chamber next door. Several times during the night Catherine
detected other vague feelings that Vincent had stirred slightly. When it
happened, she would kiss his hand or hold it a little tighter, and keep
reading. She wasn’t going to say anything to Father. He had finally
fallen into a real sleep in the chair, and she didn’t want to disturb
him unless there was something a little more substantial to report. If
anything important happened she wanted him to be alert enough to give
his son the best of care. For that he needed rest, a luxury he hadn’t
allowed himself much of lately. She was grateful that Peter was there
for back up.
Catherine had read
to Vincent all night, so tired that, until the last few pages, she was
barely aware that she was about to finish the book. When she read the
last line, she closed the book and placed it on the small table beside
his bed.
“Vincent?” she
called softly, pulling the chair nearer to the bed.
Leaning closer to
him she took his hand in one of hers and placed her other hand on his
chest.
“Please come back
to me, Vincent. I need you.”
No response. Tears
rolling quietly down her cheeks, she released his hand and moved into a
now familiar position, her head resting on the bed and her arm sliding
across his chest. Eventually she fell asleep.
She woke with a
start. Had she been dreaming, or did he really make a sound? She looked
at Father. Surely he would have heard. No, he was still dozing in the
chair. She had seen Vincent injured or drugged or ill before, but he had
always retained enough of his strength to point to belief in his
recovery. Seeing him this still and lifeless for so long had made hope
more difficult.
Then she heard it -
a small groan accompanied by a very slight shifting of position.
“Vincent!” Can you
hear me?” she called.
Father was almost
immediately at her side, fighting the sleep from his eyes and asking
what had happened.
“A sound, Father .
. . sort of a groan . . . and he moved a little.”
Father checked
Vincent’s eyes and pulse, then he reached for his stethoscope and
listened. For the first time since Vincent’s illness he looked a little
hopeful.
“His heart sounds
stronger and his breathing is nearly normal; but that, I fear, is about
all I can offer.”
“But that must be
good,” she insisted, trying to coax some words of encouragement out of
him.
“Yes, I think
that’s good,” he agreed. “We just can’t know how good for the time
being.”
Vincent voiced
another small groan and moved again. Catherine stroked his cheek with
the backs of her fingers and looked up at Father. They both smiled for
the first time in days.
Again, in his best
parental tone, Father suggested that Catherine have something to eat.
Again she refused, afraid Vincent would wake without her presence. She
needed a break, and the food still on the tray from last night indicated
to Father that she hadn’t bothered with dinner.
Well rested at last,
he braced himself for the inevitable argument that would likely follow
and insisted that Catherine have some breakfast and take at least a few
minutes for her own needs.
“I don’t know where
you find your strength, Catherine. We are all truly impressed by your
stamina, but everyone has limits. What will you do if . . . .” He
stopped and corrected his terminology. “What will you do when he does
awake? Say his name and immediately collapse across him so he can begin
to worry about you? Waking to find you in such a state would concern him
more than his own health.” With a heavy sigh, he continued, “Then he
would undoubtedly blame Peter and me for not taking better care of you.”
Lifting her chin with his hand and looking at her with a pretense of
seriousness, he went on. “You know, don’t you, that this could easily
take an ugly turn if you aren’t in better condition than this when he
sees you.”
She smiled, knowing
he was right, but reluctant to let Vincent out of her sight. The fact
that Father had inserted some levity into his argument meant that he
must feel more hopeful about Vincent’s recovery.
“On a more serious
note,” Father persisted, lowering his hand to her shoulder, “Some of
Vincent’s recovery could very well depend on your support, and right now
you look as if you can barely support yourself. Peter and I will take
this time to attend to his needs. We’ll dress his wounds and have him
examined and in clean clothes by the time you return.”
With a slight
twinkle in his eye, he added, “And how do I say this delicately? You
could do with a little sprucing up yourself. Everyone knows that Vincent
wouldn’t care how you look, but is this the image you would have him
wake to?”
There it was -
argument complete. He smiled and congratulated himself on his success
when Catherine threw her untidy self at him, hugged him, and kissed his
cheek.
“Alright Father,
you win. Vincent and vanity . . . strong arguments.”
She walked to the
bed and brushed a kiss on Vincent’s forehead. Father wondered if she
would have allowed herself that kiss if he had been awake.
She lingered for
one more look, touched his shoulder gently, and then pulled herself
away. It would be easier to face the others in the dining hall with even
this thin sliver of hope.
Catherine managed
to hold on to her composure and eat breakfast while answering the
numerous concerned inhabitants of Vincent’s world. When Mary had the
opportunity, she managed to spirit a grateful Catherine away to a warm
bath, the first one she’d had in days where she could completely
submerge in the water. Mary had left her alone with instructions to
relax and take her time, promising that she wouldn’t be interrupted. She
knew she had some time before she would be allowed back in Vincent’s
chamber, so she granted herself a few extra minutes of indulgence. It
was heavenly. Between a real meal and a real bath, she felt rejuvenated,
and much closer to presentable. She changed into clean clothes, used the
soft, well worn towels to dry her hair, and brushed it into the best
semblance of order she could manage without a hair dryer. After a quick
trip to thank Mary for being so thoughtful, she returned impatiently to
be with Vincent.
“Has there been any
change, Father?” she asked.
“Nothing to speak
of.”
“Well, I am now
well fed and clean; and I should warn you that getting rid of me again
will take much more effort than the last time.”
With that
announcement she gave him another appreciative kiss on the cheek,
plopped down in the chair next to Vincent, and returned to her vigil.
Father smiled
indulgently, shook his head, and returned to his own.
During the day
Vincent’s movements gradually increased, and finally, early in the
afternoon, he opened his eyes. Father had been close by and saw him
first.
“Vincent, do you
hear me?” he asked.
“Catherine?”
Vincent whispered.
“Nice to see you,
too, Son,” Father chuckled, patting his cheek. Turning to Catherine, who
was already at his side, he said, “I’ll get Peter. I’m sure Vincent will
be content with your company for a few moments.”
“I’m here, Vincent.
I’ve been waiting for weeks to see those beautiful blue eyes again,” she
said tenderly, tears of relief falling as she spoke. She sat on the edge
of the bed and rested her hand on his shoulder. “It was as if a part of
me was fighting for life, too.”
Father and Peter
returned to the chamber quickly and moved into action around Vincent’s
bed. Catherine again moved out of the way, but not out of the room. She
had no intention of missing any new developments.
“Can you understand
what we’re saying?” Father asked him, checking his vital signs as he
spoke.
“Yes.”
“How many fingers
do you see?” Peter asked, smiling.
“Two,” Vincent
whispered.
“Do you feel pain
anywhere?” Father questioned.
“No.”
“Can you move?”
Father continued.
“Not sure.”
Seeing very slight
movement of hands and feet while they spoke, Father decided not to worry
about that for the time being. He and Peter continued to check all the
signs they needed to monitor while Catherine waited impatiently.
Meanwhile Vincent closed his eyes and fell asleep again. Frightened,
Catherine rushed to the bed.
“Father. Is he
still . . . .”
“He just fell
asleep, dear.
Don’t worry
too much. He seems to be gaining some strength.”
He put his arm
around her, and she gratefully rested her head on his shoulder,
accepting the comfort.
For the rest of the
afternoon Vincent drifted in and out of sleep. When he finally seemed to
be awake, he was obviously too weak to expect much in the way of
communication. They carefully phrased questions to allow him to answer
in very few syllables. Both times he woke later in the evening, he
seemed more aware of his surroundings and a little more able to
communicate.
Early in the
morning he was able to string a few words together, but it was obviously
difficult. Catherine still sat next to him, quiet while he slept,
talking to him when he was responsive, but continually touching his hand
or his arm to comfort him and reassure herself. By the middle of the day
he was much more responsive, but still very weak. Mary had brought lunch
for Catherine and broth for Vincent, and Catherine insisted on feeding
him. Father and Peter propped him on the pillows to make it easier for
her, then left the room and moved next door to Father’s chamber to give
Catherine some time alone with a now awake Vincent. They would be close
enough to be back on a moment’s notice if needed, but far enough away to
allow the two younger people a little privacy.
As she fed him the
broth she was remembering her own recovery after he found her in the
park. She hoped her presence was providing him the same comfort he had
given her, even under those bleak circumstances. When the broth was
finished, Catherine put the empty bowl on a small table close by and sat
down on the bed beside Vincent, resting her hand beside him.
He placed his hand
over hers.
“Thank you,” he
said quietly.
Catherine lifted
Vincent’s hand, softly kissed the back of his fingers, and asked if he
would like her to read to him. Hearing a quiet “Yes,” she held up a book
and asked, “Sonnets?”
When Vincent showed
approval with a slight nod, she made herself comfortable on the side of
the bed, opened the book and started to read Shakespeare’s sonnets at
random. Eventually turning to Sonnet 71, she continued to read, slowing
and hesitating at the end.
Tired with all these for restless death I cry,
As to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,
And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
And captive good attending captain ill.
Tired with all
these, from these would I be gone,
Save that to
die, I leave my love alone.
That last line had
hit a little too close to home, and before she could stop them, tears
were again rolling down her cheeks. She hadn’t meant to do that. He was
more aware now, and she wanted him calm and healing. She didn’t want to
do anything to upset him, but it was too late. She put the book down,
covered his hand with both of her own, and tried to talk through her
tears.
“I was so afraid.
You were so still and lifeless. I was really afraid I would lose you.”
Vincent squeezed
her hand very slightly, looking past her as he spoke. “Perhaps it would
have been better for you if you had,” he barely more than whispered.
Obviously laboring to say it, he added to that statement. “Then your
conscience . . . would allow you a normal life . . . with a man . . .
who can give you what you deserve.”
Catherine stared at
him in disbelief and stood suddenly, snatching her hand away from his,
then exploded at him.
“Vincent, I have
never been so angry with you! Where does this obsession to send me off
to find another man come from?!”
Peter and Father
came rushing in from the passageway. “Catherine!” Father called as he
hobbled rapidly toward her.
“For the love of
God, he’s been conscious less than a full day! What hap . . . .”
“That’s right,
Father!” she retorted in his direction, her eyes flaring. “He’s been
conscious less than a full day. We’ve been here for weeks, out of our
minds with worry that you might not be able to save him; and the first
complete sentence I hear from his lips is to tell me that I would be
better off if he had died - that it would leave me free to find another
man and a normal life. He’s going to hear this before he comes up with
any other equally stupid ideas.”
Peter grabbed
Father’s arm when he started to protest.
“Let her go, Jacob.
She’ll know if she’s causing him any harm, and she’ll stop. Let her get
this out. She’s earned it.”
Jacob unwillingly
backed up, but not too far, as Catherine turned her anger back to
Vincent.
Vincent rested
stoically against the pillows with his eyes closed.
“How dare you
suggest it might be better for me if you just drift off into the
afterlife and leave me here to go on without you. That would be a lot
easier for you than staying and facing our problems, wouldn’t it? How
could a man as intelligent as you . . . .”
“Catherine,” he
opened his eyes and strained to interrupt, “If I were a man . . . we
would have no problems.”
“Fine!” she shot
back, “A beast as intelligent as you. However you choose to see
yourself.” Immediately regretting her words, she calmed slightly, but
without compromising her anger. Tears were pooling in her eyes again and
beginning to slip down her cheeks. “I don’t know how a
being as intelligent as you
could think such a thing. I know plenty of good men who would be fine
husbands and fathers, but I don’t want them. Can’t you see that it
wouldn’t be fair to either of us? He would expect me to love him
completely, which I could never do; and I would be looking for the kind
of love you give me, and a bond between us. No one else can give me
those things. I can live without my world or parties and theaters, I can
live without money or travel, I can live without sunlight, I can
certainly live without the DA’s office, I can live without children . .
. or without making love to you if that’s a deciding factor in your
mind. What I can’t live without, Vincent, is you.”
She thought Father
was probably nearing apoplexy at this point, but she couldn’t stop now.
Peter and Father
looked at each other, both feeling like intruders into this particular
communication . . . wishing they could leave the room, but not daring to
go.
Her mood softened a
little more and she reached for him again, stroking the back of his
hand. “All of us know that you could
still will yourself to live or die.
But know this, Vincent. If you choose to die, I will be here in
your life until one of us draws a final breath.
And if you choose to live . . . I will still be here in your life
until one of us draws a final breath. Know this, too, Vincent. If you
die, you won’t be leaving me available for someone else and a normal
life. You will only be leaving me alone. You said once that we’re on a
journey that no one has made before, that we must go with courage and
with care.”
She sat on the bed
beside him, raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, all the emotional
upheaval of the last weeks finally taking its toll. She fell across his
chest and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing. “I can’t make that
journey by myself, Vincent. Please don’t leave me alone. I love you.”
Her voice drifted off into her tears. “I love you. I love you so much.”
“You won’t be
alone, Catherine. You have my promise.”
Father and Peter
had tears in their own eyes as well. Peter checked Vincent briefly, and
he seemed stable for the time being, in spite of being thoroughly
berated by his beloved. Vincent and Catherine each clearly needed the
comfort of the other right now. Peter all but dragged Jacob to his study
for some tea to calm him down, the thought crossing his mind that
something stronger might be in order.
“She meant what she
said, Jacob. I doubt that she could have made a stronger commitment if
there had been a church and a preacher. She’s never leaving Vincent’s
life voluntarily; so you might as well accept that she’s going to be a
part of yours, too - and a formidable opponent if the two of you
disagree on what may be in Vincent’s best interest.”
Father sat at his
desk, his forehead resting on his hands in resignation.
“I know,” he
answered wearily. “I know.”
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