Chapter 1 : Part 2

A Sundog Moment
by Sharon Baldacci

(Page 2 of 6)

"The same thing," she finally breathed, closing her eyes, ready to lose herself in him. He suddenly stopped moving, which was enough to cause her eyes to fly open and see dark eyes brimming with laughter.

"You love Mrs. Whittaker, too?"

She blinked and threw back her head in laughter, then they held on to each other as they both dissolved into giggles.

"You wretch; you are a wretch," she gasped, "and I intend to go home-" Her last word was cut off in a definitive kiss that went on and on . . . then there was no more conversation. Their bodies swiftly folded into each other, enjoying a familiar and exciting duet of touching and kissing . . .

The small rattle of a hospital door jerked Michael awake, the dream that was a memory shattered like glass breaking. Quickly he looked toward the bed. No movement. Good. God knows she needs to rest.

He quietly met the doctor right inside the room. Michael motioned toward the hall and they didn't speak until the door was firmly closed behind them.

"Well?" The question was stark, asked roughly by a man sandwiched between a myriad of dreadful possibilities. Michael already knew a stroke, the first suspected cause, had mercifully been ruled out. He could barely breathe waiting for the news.

Records in hand, the doctor walked over and sat down on a nearby padded bench. He hit with the good news first. "It's not a brain tumor as we feared, Michael."

"Thank God." Limp with relief, he sagged against the wall, his eyes closing briefly. Nothing, he was sure, could be worse than that suspicion.

"Then what is it? Do you know?"

Dr. Gordon Jones didn't like giving bad news to his patients; it was that much harder when it was a friend. He said nothing, merely held out a piece of paper. Michael looked at it and his mouth went dry and his heart was suddenly beating so hard his chest hurt. The noise in his head was deafening.

Gordon was speaking, but Michael just looked at him, dazed. "What?"

"Multiple sclerosis, as you may know, is chronic and incurable, but there are some new therapies that might buy us some time. My recommendation is to get her started on one as soon as possible. And Michael, there is every reason to be hopeful. Research is getting closer and closer. I don't want you, or her, to forget that. There is every reason to remain very optimistic."

Gordon wondered if his friend even heard him as he saw the stunned look, the wash of countless emotions sweep over Michael's face. He was sorry. But there was nothing he could do. "Do you want me to tell her? Or would you rather-"

Michael shook his head immediately. "God, I don't want to. But I'll try . . . tomorrow. After I see how she is. Do you . . . think she'll be better?"

Gordon shrugged. "Possibly. Hopefully. I'll be here early to check on her."

Michael nodded. "I'll be here." He looked hard at the doctor. "You are quite sure?" His voice was colorless.

"Completely sure. I've been consulting with the best neurologist in the city. He concurs. The MRI shows more than one lesion. Lesions or scarring is the result of the inflammation," he explained, "and that's causing the symptoms. The loss of coordination, the spasticity. That will, hopefully, be temporary. However, there may be some residual impairments. Or not. We'll just have to wait and see."

They stood and Gordon gave Michael a reassuring handshake. "Don't forget, there is a great deal of promising research going on." With these hopeful words hanging in the air, he left.

Michael walked into the silence of a deserted parking lot, shadows from the streetlights making it an eerie and unfamiliar place. He got into his car carefully, his movements as weighted and as heavy as his spirit.

When he arrived home the house was dark and looked as lonely as he felt. He entered through the back door, flipping on lights as he moved from room to room. He retrieved yet another newspaper from the front porch and tossed it on top of all the others that had been left unread over the past days. Last month it had seemed imperative to keep pace with current events nationally and internationally. Now the only event he was concerned about was sheltered in a small hospital room with uncertainties shrouding it.

Eventually the night began bowing out to morning and Elizabeth woke early, with no memories of the dreams that raced and snatched through the night, leaving only a dim trace of confused and scattered emotions.

Slowly, tentatively, her blue eyes opened to a shadowed room, a few faint brushes of gray etched on the drawn shades.

Copyright © 2004 by Sharon Baldacci

About the Author

Sharon Baldacci was diagnosed with MS twenty-one years ago. An award-winning journalist, she lives in Virginia with her husband and two sons.