Hidden Jewel (Landry 4)

"It would help if your wife returned soon, monsieur," she said.

Daddy nodded. When he turned back to me, he looked as if he had aged twenty years in a minute. We entered the ICU and were directed to Pierre. The I.V. bag dripped its solution through the tube and into his arm. His eyes were closed, and his complexion was waxen, his lips so dull they almost looked white. I saw his chest barely rise and fall under the sheet, which was drawn up to his chin.

Daddy gulped back a moan and reached for Pierre's hand. "Hey, buddy," he said. "We're back. We're with you, Pierre. Pearl is here beside me. Come on, Pierre. Open your eyes and look at us." He rubbed Pierre's hand gently and waited, but Pierre was like a solid wall, unmoving, unresponsive, not even a blink of an eyebrow.

"Why is this happening to us?" Daddy moaned, his head back. "Maybe Ruby is right. Maybe it is some sort of curse. One horrible thing after another, beating us into submission, destroying us for daring to be happy."

"You mustn't think like that, Daddy. You mustn't give up hope. If for no other reason, then for Pierre. He needs us to be strong now."

Daddy nodded, but not with conviction. He stared at Pierre, watching his chest rise and fall, and then he sighed, lowering his head. Finally he lifted his sad eyes, a shadow of gloom making them look even darker.

"I'm going to go get a cup of coffee," he said. "I'll be back in a moment. You want something?"

"No. I'm fine, Daddy. Go on."

He rose and walked out, his shoulders sagging as if the air above him weighed tons. I turned back to Pierre and took his hand in mine.

"Pierre," I began. "We need you desperately. Mommy blames herself for what's happened; she's run off, and she won't come back until you start getting better. Please help us," I pleaded. "Fight this urge to sleep away your life. Return to us, to Mommy. Think of what this will do to her. Please, Pierre," I said, the tears streaming down my cheeks. My heart felt like a lump of lead in my chest. I sat there holding his hand, praying.

If Mommy would only come walking through that door. Why couldn't the s

pirits that whispered in her ears tell her she needed to return? Unless of course, they were evil spirits.

The scream of another patient in pain across the room snapped me back to reality. I had no idea how long I had been sitting there, praying and dreaming.

"I'm sorry, my dear, but we have to keep our visits short in ICU," the nurse said when she came up beside me. "You and your father can return on the hour if you'd like."

I nodded and gazed at Pierre again, but just as I was about to get up and let go of his hand, I felt his forefinger twitch. It was like a sting of electricity up my arm.

"He moved!" I cried.

"What?" The nurse looked at Pierre whose eyes remained shut.

"His finger. It moved in my hand."

"Just a nerve reaction, perhaps," she said.

"No, no, he's reaching out, reaching back. Please, let me stay."

But. . .

"Please, a little while longer. I have to keep talking to him!"

"I must ask you to lower your voice," she said. "There are other patients, all critical, here."

"I'm sorry."

"The regulations for visiting in ICU are five to ten minutes for immediate family every hour on the hour," she repeated in an authoritative monotone.

"Go get the doctor," I demanded, spinning on her. "I definitely felt my brother's finger move, and it was no nerve reaction."

"Get him!" I insisted. She saw the fire in my eyes

and bit down on her lower lip. Furious herself, she pivoted and marched back to the nurses' station. I sat down again and immediately began to talk to Pierre. "I know you can come back to us, Pierre. I know you don't want to be in this horrible hospital room with these horrible people any longer than you have to. Listen to me. We need you. I want you to wake up so Mommy can come home. I promise you, as soon as I leave here, I'll try to find her if you'll open your eyes. Please do it, Pierre. Jean wants you to help Mommy too. I'm sure he does."

I stood up and leaned over the bed to wipe the strands of hair off his forehead the way Mommy always did. Then I brought my lips to his ear and softly sang the old Cajun lullaby Mommy had often sung to him and Jean when they were little. As I sang, I heard footsteps behind me.

"Mademoiselle?"