Dillon pressed his hand against her forehead. “You’re burning up. Better take some more aspirin.”
“I hate to without asking the doctor first. Aspirin might not be good for the baby.”
By the time they reached Paris, Dillon was worried, although Debra assured him that her sore throat was simply the result of her exposure to mountain air. He fought Monday morning rush-hour traffic to get her to her obstetrician, and they reached his office just as it was opening. The nurse, with kindness and concern, guided Debra into an examination room and asked Dillon to wait outside. He didn’t like it, but he waited. After several waiting patients averted their eyes, he realized he must look like a reprobate. He hadn’t shaved during their trip and had spent a virtually sleepless night on the train.
Finally, he was ushered into the doctor’s private office. “Madame Burke has a very nasty throat,” he said in heavily accented English. “I—” He made a swabbing motion.
“He took a culture,” Debra said with a grimace.
“Strep?” Dillon asked. “No offense, Dr. Gaultier, but if it’s that serious, maybe you should recommend a specialist.”
“I agree,” he said, giving a brief nod. “Let us await the lab results. We should know by tomorrow.”
“I’m sure it’ll be all right,” Debra assured her worried husband. “He prescribed an antibiotic. I’ll stay in bed today and let you wait on me hand and foot.”
Dillon tried to return her smile, but she looked so ill that he couldn’t find anything to smile about. He saw her into their apartment and got her into bed before running two blocks to the nearest pharmacy to have the prescription filled. She swallowed the capsule and drank a cup of tea before lapsing into a deep sleep.
Only then did Dillon remember to call the work site. He spoke to the foreman he had placed in temporary charge before leaving the previous Friday. The Frenchman convinced him that everything was all right and urged him to stay at home with his ailing wife. Throughout the long day, he sat at Debra’s bedside, taking catnaps in the chair, waking her only when it was time for her medicine.
In spite of her fever and discomfort, she managed to quip jokes when he carried her into the bathroom to relieve herself. “Good thing this didn’t happen in my ninth month. You wouldn’t be able to lift me.”
Dillon ate a sandwich for supper, but couldn’t coax her to take any more than a cup of beef bouillon. “My throat’s already feeling better, though,” she told him. “I’m just very weak. A good night’s sleep is all I need. You look like you could use one, too,” she said, running her hand over his bearded chin.
After giving her her medicine, he undressed and got into bed with her. Exhausted, he fell asleep as soon as he lay down.
During the night he awakened. Squinting through the darkness, he consulted the clock on the nightstand. It was time to give Debra another capsule. He switched on the lamp.
And screamed.
Debra’s lips were blue, and she lay very still.
“Oh, God! Oh, Jesus! Debra! Debra!” He threw his leg over her and straddled her thighs. He flattened his ear against her breasts. He sobbed with relief when he heard her heartbeat. But it was faint. She was barely breathing.
Dillon leaped from the bed and pulled on his clothes, fastening none of them. He crammed his bare feet into sneakers. Gathering Debra in his arms, blankets and all, he ran through the dark apartment and burst into the hallway. He descended the stairs at a treacherous pace. Should he summon an ambulance or drive her to the hospital himself? He finally opted for the latter, reasoning that by the time he located the number and, with his limited French, conveyed the urgency of the situation, it might be too late.
“God, no, no.” A strong wind tore the words from his mouth as he raced from the building to his parked car. He deposited Debra in the front seat. She slumped to one side, and again his voice cracked on a rough prayer.
He knew approximately where the nearest hospital was located and sped off in that direction. The tires screeched on the pavement and echoed off silent buildings as the car careened around street corners. He steered with his left hand while massaging Debra’s wrist with his right. He kept up a running chatter about how he would never forgive her if she died.
The emergency-room staff instantly discerned the seriousness of her condition and whisked her away on a gurney. Dillon had to run to catch up. At a door marked with words he couldn’t read, he was barred entrance by people he couldn’t understand. He fought them off and tried to lunge through the doors after the gurney. Eventually he was restrained and bodily removed to the waiting room, where an English-speaking nurse threatened him with expulsion from the hospital if he didn’t calm down.
“Calm?” he cried hoarsely. “My wife looks like death, and you expect me to be calm? I want to
be with her.”
She remained firm and finally talked him through the various forms that had to be filled out for admittance to the hospital. Then, left alone, Dillon paced until he was too weary and distraught to take another step and dropped into a chair.
He hung his head, pressing his thumbs deeply into his eyesockets and praying to a god he wasn’t convinced existed but paradoxically mistrusted. What else would this selfish deity claim from him? Hadn’t he given up enough? Everyone he had ever loved had been taken away from him: his parents, his granny, the counselor at the reform school who had taken a special interest in him.
He was jinxed. People, beware. If you love Dillon Burke, you die.
“No, no,” he groaned. “Not Debra. Please, not Debra. Don’t take her, you stingy son of a bitch.”
He bargained with the unseen power, vowing to sacrifice anything if Debra could be spared. He promised to live a good life, to feed the hungry and clothe the naked. He made an oath never to ask for anything ever again, if this one small favor could be granted—??Let her live.”
“Monsieur Burke?”
Dillon’s head snapped up. A doctor was standing a few feet from him. “Yes? My wife? Is she—”