The Doctor's Wife

Chapter 11. A Bull and Some Crockery

For the next week, Christy and the others nursed him like a wee babe. He'd been too weak to lift even a spoon, so they'd all taken turns feeding him, giving him drink, and--much to Neil's consternation--attending to his daily lavation.

He had refused to let David or any of the other men bathe him. Normally strong as an ox--or stubborn bull, according to Dr. Scott--he was also as heavy as a member of the bovine family. It took both David and Jeb to lift him into the basin, and when it was over, he was out-of-breath and his forehead beaded with sweat. What point was there in bathing?

Christy had insisted he at least allow her to shave him and give him a sponge bath, so he gave her that. But while he might have enjoyed such intimate closeness in the past, he was too weak to act on any of the things his willy wanted to do. It was more than he could bear. He'd asked that only Jeb or even David clean him up after that.

Neil had never felt so humbled. It was awful, to have to rely so much on others. He could not even get up to take a piss without help.

As a proud, strong, self-reliant man of the Cove, Neil almost welcomed the stupor the morphine gave him. But, as was appropriate, Dan Scott had started to wean him off the opiates. Neil's leg ached, but not as it had before. It was healing.

His pride, however, was still in recovery.

He dreamed of water. Cool and crisp, sliding down his tongue as he sipped from a ladle. So pure and refreshing...it was positively healing. He was just outside his cabin, taking in the sounds of birds and the bubbling creek below. He turned, looked down, and saw his own two feet, standing.

Och this was surely a dream.

He looked up again at his cabin and saw his wife through the window, fussing over the stove...he suddenly hoped she was not making fried chicken. There was no dark smoke...yet...unlike last time... He smiled lazily, his eyes relaxed. A lovesick fool, he was. He brought the ladle to his lips again to drink, but this time the water felt hot and...dry...how could water feel dry?

He awoke. It was just a dream. His mouth was dry, his tongue felt thick, and his throat felt scratchy. His eyes, heavy from sleep, slowly squinted in the candlelight. It was dark.

What time was it?

There was a glass of water on the nightstand, with a pitcher beside it. But the nightstand, normally just next to the bed, had been moved to make room for the rocking chair in which is wife now slept. It did not look comfortable, even though she'd padded it with pillows. Her head was angled to the side against a pillow, one hand drooping over an armrest, the other on a book in her lap. He noted there was also a second chair--a wooden one from the kitchen, with chipping blue paint. Most likely for Ruby Mae or another Cove woman to sit and visit with Christy as she kept vigil. Did women always have to do things in pairs?

His leg hurt, but he suspected they'd dosed him again with morphine while he slept.

It was only two steps to the nightstand--to water. Maybe. With his leg safely splinted, if he steadied himself first on the bedpost, he could probably make it to the other chair, and then the nightstand. Probably.

She looked so peaceful in the chair, her lips slightly parted in repose. He knew it was only pride keeping him from waking her, even if he told himself otherwise. Failure is not an option, Neil MacNeill.

He pushed himself up with his arms to a sitting position. There, that wasn't too hard. He tossed the quilts to the foot of the bed, and bent his unbroken right leg at the knee so it made a triangle, with his foot flat on the mattress. Then he swung the same leg over the bed. Hooking it on the side of the bed for leverage, he gingerly lifted his splinted leg with both hands and heaved it until he felt the floor with both feet.