Authors: Leen Elle
Edith, Carolyn, and Maureen were indeed shouting, yelling at both one another and at Dr. Fitzgerald, who was fumbling through his bags and making a mess in the corner. There was so much going on that no one even noticed Gail's entrance; she stood flat against the wall with her hand upon her mouth.
For a moment the nurses' bodies blocked the bed from view, but then Edith darted out of the room in search of a stretcher and Maureen stepped aside to grab a large tin bucket from the closet. And there he was, lying beneath covers stained in red and looking far worse than Gail had ever seen him, far worse than she could have ever even imagined.
Though his hair was damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead in ginger-colored clumps, his face was snow white, as though he were freezing cold, and his hands were shaking uncontrollably. It looked as though he hadn't slept in days for his slate gray eyes were encircled in a mask of black. But worst of all, the sight that made Gail's eyes widen in horror, was the blood. It covered the top of his sheets, his pillows, his pajamas, and his mouth.
Before Maureen had managed to pull out the large pail, Nathaniel's chest jerked forward and he coughed dryly. First he only spit up a few drops of red, and then he began to heave and the blood came rushing out. Maureen yanked at the tin one last time, freeing it from the closet's mess, and rushed forward with it, placing it before the invalid's mouth as he continued to vomit.
Gail felt as though she might be sick herself, but she couldn't make out the words to speak or the strength to move. Her mind was racing and all she could think about was the blood and how much blood one can lose before they're dead. The exact amount was unknown to her but she was certain Nathaniel was coming close.
The door slammed open and Edith wheeled in a stretcher, Dr. Hopson following. He spotted Gail and only shouted, "Out! Out! No visitors, Miss St. James!"
But Gail could barely think, much less leave the room. She only managed to ask, her voice frail, "What's happening to him?"
Suddenly Maureen's hands were upon her shoulders, physically leading her back out the door.
"Miss St. James," she said quickly, breathing fast, "You mustn't stay in there."
"But I want to stay with Nathaniel."
"He's very ill, miss."
"I know he's very ill but I don't want to leave him. He would want me to stay."
"You'll make yourself sick if you stay much longer. There's too much blood for so young a girl to see."
"But what's wrong with him? No one's telling me what's happened!"
"We don't know what happened, miss. Only that he's worse, much worse. When we entered the room this morning he looked as he does now and he hadn't the voice or the strength to call for help. He was already covered in blood."
"But what are you . . ."
"We're doing the best we can, Miss St. James."
"Can
I
. . ."
"It'd be best if you go home for now. He's being admitted into surgery. Dr. Fitzgerald and Dr. Hopson have come to take him away and . . ."
"But is that what he wanted? Is that the choice he made? You can't do it if he . . ."
"Mr. West signed the papers last night, miss. Everything's in order. We just hadn't expected it all to occur so soon so we're a bit rushed but I assure you that he's in the best of hands and . . ."
Edith held the door open as Carolyn passed through, carrying a folder and a sack of bloody sheets. Gail looked anxiously into the room to see Nathaniel lying upon the stretcher, his eyelids fluttering and his teeth chattering as though he were caught in a blizzard. Dr. Fitzgerald raised a large needle, filled with a yellowy liquid, before injecting it into Nathaniel's elbow. In only a moment, the invalid became perfectly still, unconscious, lying upon the stretcher as though it were his deathbed.
The two doctors rolled him out of the room and headed quickly down the hall towards the operation room. Gail stood silently, watching him go with Maureen still beside her.
"You ought to go now, miss," said the young nurse, "They won't be through for a few hours. If you like, we can arrange for a messenger to be sent to the tavern as soon as Mr. West's awoken."
But Gail shook her head, "No, no, that's quite alright. I'll be staying here."
"But miss . . ."
"I'll be downstairs. So as soon as he's come out of that room . . ."
"Of course.
You will be alerted immediately."
So, with her heart trapped in her chest, Gail slugged back down the steps towards the kitchen, where she would eat stale biscuits and bitter tea and wait.
*****
His lanky legs bent beneath him and a brush in his hand, Brook leaned towards the canvas and carefully added a few darker strokes of gray to the stones of the bridge. Then, dipping the brush in the glob of blue paint and the black, he dashed a bit of the navy along the ripples of the water. These were adorned with a few tiny specks of white, making the water appear as lifelike as it looked running beside him.
Glancing back towards the bridge, he caught sight of Emy, gazing off wistfully at the river and standing as still as a statue, as she'd been doing for him for the past three days. Nevertheless, as she caught a glimpse of him staring at her, her eyes dropped for a moment and her cheeks turned rosy. Brook smiled and, after washing off his brush, he mixed it into the red and white and dabbed it on the canvas to make his portrait of Emy blush. He'd already decided what he would name the painting.
Sweet Emmeline
.
After three weeks spent in at the festival in Clarendon and Norrance, it was nearly time to head home again. Brook looked forward to heading back to Brighton, of course, but he was really very disappointed that this would all end so soon.
The past few weeks felt like a dream, free of worries and filled only with glorious artwork, a bashfully sweet girl, and the intoxicating scent of paint. Nothing was ever planned. They roamed the streets as if they'd lived there forever and wandered into cafes and theaters like wide-eyed children. They'd listened to the street performers and sketched passersby from a bench; Brook was always willing to lend Emy a hand the days she wanted to try herself.
Heading home could only change things, he thought. She would retreat again, silently hiding behind her sisters and scarcely saying a word. Now, when it was just he and Emy, although she was still rather reserved and didn't always speak freely upon her thoughts, she wasn't quite so hidden from him and she wasn't able to sneak behind anyone else.
A cold wind blew past and Brook rubbed his bare fingers together for some warmth; he could never paint with gloves on. Then, picking back up his paintbrush, he dipped it into the paint and headed again towards Emy, feeling as though something weren't quite right. He'd had this nagging feel all day. As though he should just change one thing about the painting, one minor detail that might perhaps make the Emy on the canvas appear more like the Emy on the bridge before him. But it hit him just then, as he glanced quickly from the painting to Emy and back to the painting again. Nothing he could do would fix it. He could never, try as he might, paint something as lovely or as sweet as she.
It should be stated that Brook was a man who believed very strongly in acting upon impulse. If one didn't follow their impulses, he believed, and
act
exactly as their heart wished them to in all acts of life, they would end up leaving too many things unsaid and too many desires unfilled.
As soon he realized that nothing could be added to the painting to make it any better, a sudden impulse came over him. And, accordingly, he determined to act upon that impulse. Setting down his paintbrush and palette, he stood up and brushed off his pants. Then, sticking his hands in his pockets, he strolled slowly over to the bridge.
Seeing him walking towards her, Emy glanced over instinctively but tried, nevertheless, to remain a motionless model.
As he neared her, Brook called out, "Emy! Hey, Emy, come over here!"
"I can move then?"
Brook laughed, "'Course.
Come here."
Emy blushed but came to the edge of the bridge, following Brook's lead. Just as she had the first day, she wore her white cloak with the broad collar and her black-ribboned hat. Brook stopped just before the end of the bridge so Emy did the same. They were still separated by the bridge's short, stone wall.
"Is something wrong?" asked Emy, looking down over her clothes and then trying to tilt her hat a bit, "Is my hat not in the right position? I felt sure it was off kilter and I was afraid it would ruin your picture but I . . ."
"No, no," he shook his head, "It's fine."
"Are you sure it's not . . . ?"
Brook reached a hand forward, letting one of her soft locks of hair run through his fingers, "It looks lovely, Emy."
Needless to say, he'd rendered Emy speechless by this point. She stood perfectly still again, feeling her cheeks
grow
hot.
And then Brook, resting his hand upon that blushing cheek, acted upon his impulse. He leaned forward and he kissed her. And it was not a quick, childish kiss that ends a moment. Nor was it silly, joking kiss shared between friends.
It was a sweet, lingering kiss that left Emy quite breathless.
*****
After nearly eight hours of waiting, Gail's table in the hospital's dining area was almost entirely filled. And Nathaniel was completely right, she'd found out. The food really was slop. But she ate it anyway because her stomach was rumbling and she refused to leave the hospital.
There were dry, crumbly biscuits, watery soups, and mushy vegetables. They filled the plates before her, some partially eaten but most only nibbled at. Nearly a quarter of the table was covered in tea glasses, all empty. It was a pitiful sight, truly, but whenever the cook tried to clean up some of the dishes Gail refused to allow it. She wanted to see how many different things she could eat before the day was through. And she promised that if she was still there by six o'clock she'd wash everything clean
herself
.
And as the clock's hands neared five thirty, she felt rather certain that she'd be in the kitchen in no time at all. So, with a tired sigh, she rested her feet upon the chair across from her and leaned back to continue waiting.
But it was only moments before Maureen appeared in the entryway. And as soon as she did, before she could even say a word, Gail spotted her and jumped up from her chair.
"I can come up now?" she questioned quickly.
Maureen nodded, "Yes, Miss St. James. But he's not awake yet and . . ."
"I don't mind!"
Gail breezed past
Maureen,
bounded up the stairs two at a time, nearly knocked into a few doctors, and was yelled at by the Chief of Staff. She arrived at Nathaniel's room only to find him, as Maureen had suggested, fast asleep. His sheets and pajamas had either been cleaned or replaced, for there was no blood in sight, much to Gail's relief. The horrifying image of this morning, blood everywhere and Nathaniel as white as a ghost with those blackened eyes, would occur in her nightmares for years to come.