Second Chances

Second Chances

Pt. 10

by G. Lawrence

Jack and Jenny seek their future

This romantic adventure novel has been a sequel to Diminished Capacity. All characters are over 18 years old.

Recap: Suffering from a ruptured spleen, Jack persisted in convincing several Middle Eastern nations to attend a peace conference. Now, nearly three years after leaving the United States on a United Nations peace keeping mission and subsequent kidnapping, he is finally on his way home though stricken with a deadly infection. Jenny and Alex are with him. This is the final installment of Second Chances.

* * * * * *

Mrs. Patricia Blair

Blair House

New Haven, Connecticut

Dear Mrs. Blair,

Our analysis indicates that Jack has been experiencing a mental deterioration due to lingering post-traumatic stress. His years of inadequate medication were not helpful, and this illness may have manifested in his Quixotic quest to found the Kronoss Conference, where he was successful at a steep cost. We believe his best chance of recovery is to be placed in a supportive environment rather than an institution. Sincerely yours, Dr. Sandra Livingston

Chapter Ten

GHOSTS OF BLAIR HOUSE

"He's awake," a nurse said.

She made it sound like a miracle. There was a wrap around my chest. Had I been operated on?

A doctor wearing a long white coat strolled in, looking tired, and checked the monitors. There must have been six screens. The room felt like an army hospital, orderly and professional.

"Did you chop anything off?" I wanted to say, but only my lips moved. There was no sound. I noticed Jenny lying on a cot in the corner, dead asleep.

The nurse went outside, returning with Alex a moment later. She looked like she'd been sleeping, too, wearing pajamas and a yellow cotton robe. Her carefully styled hair was a mess.

"Morning, Jack," Alex whispered as she pulled up a stool. "How do you feel? Any pain?"

"Don't know," I said, barely.

Alex realized my throat was dry and gave me water through a straw. I hadn't felt thirsty, or hungry. I hardly felt anything at all. Probably a morphine drip.

"It got pretty bad, but you've been there before," Alex said, sounding cautious. "Fowler says he's never seen anyone so hard to kill."

"Tell him... screw himself," I replied.

"He said worse about you, and his language was more colorful," Alex smiled, looking at me with expectation.

"I would have called. It was complicated," I apologized.

"You can explain that later. But it had better be good."

"What's wrong with Jenny?" I asked.

"Really? What's wrong? From the moment she heard you were still alive, she was waiting for your call," Alex said, rebuking me. "She left Yale to stay at my apartment, hoping you'd call me. I've never seen a woman cry so much. She hasn't been eating or sleeping. How could you treat her like that?"

"I was missing for two years. I thought she would have found someone else by now."

"Don't you love her anymore?"

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"Missy, I'm not the same man I was in New York. Excited. Looking forward to the future. Being in love. That world slipped away from me. I don't know if I care anymore."

"You cared enough to start a peace movement."

"Not enough to see its conclusion."

"Did you have your medication?"

"Not exactly," I confessed.

"Sandra can help you through this. She has before."

"Maybe. But I'm afraid of giving Jenny false hope."

"False or not, you need to give her something."

"How long am I going to be...? Wherever I am?" I asked.

"Germany. Landstuhl Regional Hospital. And we don't know how long you'll be here. The doctors are trying to figure that out."

I watched Jenny continue to sleep. She must have been exhausted.

"I want to speak with the doctor. The straight story, no bullshitting," I demanded.

"We warned him," Alex said, waving to a nurse.

The doctor was already waiting, a grave gray-haired professional with a no-nonsense demeanor. I gave Alex a look to chase her away, though I suspect she already knew what the diagnosis would be.

"We've stabilized the splenic rupture, but the infection damaged your heart, liver, and just about everything else," the doctor lectured. "We need to operate again, but afterward, it will be weeks before you can be moved. We can do it here or try to take you stateside."

"New York Presbyterian," I decided, thinking it would be close to Jenny and Alex. "What are my chances?"

"Fair. Better if we induce coma and let your body heal," he suggested cautiously, for we both knew the risks.

"Thank you, sir. I'm ready when you are," I agreed, trying to shake his hand. I was barely able to raise my fingers a few inches.

"It's my honor, Captain," the doctor said.

The doctor went to the door, motioned to the nurses, and everyone started running around. Alex came back.

"Tough decision?" she asked.

"Siding with the best odds. But if I don't make it--"

"No, we aren't going there," Alex interrupted. "You're through the worst part, and Father James is tired of giving you Last Rites."

"Can you wake Jenny for me? Have her wash her face and get a cup of coffee before we talk."

"You're not going to break her heart again, are you?"

"I hope not," I said.

It took Jenny twenty minutes to clean herself up. She returned in a clean dark blue dress, probably loaned to her by Alex, and sat next to my bed, sipping her coffee and dreading what I might say. I loved her so much at that moment.

"Your behavior is unacceptable," I said. "How am I supposed to get well while worrying about you? Is that fair?"

"Fair? What's fair about...?"

"Be quiet, Red. You've been bossing me around for years. Now it's my turn," I insisted. "You're going back to school. You're going to exercise and sleep properly. When I'm finally out of this situation, we'll see where we stand. But you better put on some weight. You need to look like a woman, not a starving boy. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Jack," she sheepishly said.

"Do I need to send Sandra Livingston after you?"

"No, I'll be good," she promised, kissing me on the cheek.

"So, what are you thinking?" I asked.

"I'm thinking you wouldn't yell at me unless you expected to get better," she answered, smiling with relief.

The doctor and nurses returned, ready for action. They tossed me on the gurney, rolled me to an ambulance, and raced to the airfield where the Palmer Media jet was waiting. The doctor soon had me back on the IVs. It made me wonder how much I would owe Daniel if I lived through this. Having been declared dead, I assumed my assets were gone, and the Army was being cagey about my backpay. And the way I figured it, they owed me a lot of money. $7500 a month times 28 months. I could pay off Taylor Place if I still owned it.

The jet was a two-engine Gulfstream large enough for eighteen passengers, but half the seats had been removed for my bed and medical equipment. The nurses wasted no time strapping me down. I took a look out the window. I'd had surgery in Germany following Sirputa, when they rebuilt my collar bone, but never had a chance to see the country. A month later I was sent back to Afghanistan for medics were badly needed.

I slept most of the way to New York until we landed at LaGuardia. There was quite a fuss at the terminal, with cops keeping people back behind a rope line. I hoped they weren't expecting me to give a speech.

The transfer to the ambulance went smoothly and we pulled out. I hadn't expected a police escort. There were no sirens or anything like that, which was good. I have no fondness for sirens. From time to time, I would notice clumps of people on sidewalks or near the highway. Many held signs though I couldn't read them.

"You could run for mayor," Jenny said, looking out the window.

"I may need a job," I replied.

Before long, they were unloading me at the emergency entrance of Columbia Presbyterian. There was a huge crowd of media and spectators. The reporters were shouting questions, but I wasn't able to make them out. And wasn't in any shape to answer them, the world around me being somewhat hazy. Alex, Jenny, and several security personnel surrounded my gurney, hurrying but not running.

The Palmer family met me in the admittance center. Debbie was twenty years old now, a confident young woman. I heard she was studying medicine. Amanda was looking good, too, and Daniel appeared prosperous. Probably a little heavier than he should be.

"We're so glad you're home," Debbie said, taking my hand.

"Don't worry about a thing," Daniel assured me. "I've got the best doctors in the country scrubbing up."

"You've been very generous, sir," I said.

"And you're wondering what I want in return?" he asked.

"It crossed my mind."

"Just make it through this, son. We'll talk later," Daniel answered.

I had a few minutes with Jenny and Alex but didn't offer any big goodbyes. It would just worry them. And then I was off to surgery. I didn't know if the doctors would find an induced coma necessary or not. It was four weeks before I found out.

_________

I drifted out of my long sleep slowly, finding myself in a shadowed room hooked up to tubes. I didn't feel sick, or dead, only tired. It wasn't a hospital room. More like a bedroom converted for medical use, like I'd used at the dead congressman's house in Alexandria while in FBI custody. I noticed the room was filled with oak bookshelves, old furniture, and lots of medical gadgets.

A head poked in the door and disappeared. Was that Martha? My next visitor was no illusion.

"Dr. Jenkins said you'd wake up today," Patricia Blair said, taking a seat next to my bed. She wore a pink outfit similar to a nurse's uniform. Her graying hair was in a bun.

"Where am I? What day is it?" I asked.

"It's October 25th, and you're at Blair House. You've been here since late September," she explained. "Much more comfortable than that hospital."

"Is this appropriate? The press--"

"Jack, you need to stop worrying so much about what the press thinks," Patricia interrupted. "You are staying here until you're better, and that's going to take time. You had better set your mind to that right now."

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"You've got lots of questions. You always do. I'll answer them when Dr. Jenkins says you're ready, and not before."

I nodded my head, beginning to fall asleep again.

For the next two days, I mostly slept. But was very curious when awake, wondering what my prognosis was. I was visited by a doctor in the mornings and had a nurse nearby at all times. Whenever I asked questions, about anything, I was told to be patient. Even Pat tended to stay mum.

They finally got me out of bed, dressed me in blue-striped pajamas, and rolled me in a wheelchair to a bedroom filled with physical therapy equipment. Every muscle in my body needed reconditioning. The initial exercise was walking on parallel bars. My breath was the first to go, the legs quick to follow. Pat absented herself so I wouldn't be embarrassed.

"Good start," the physical therapist said, a big blond-haired Swede named Floyd who looked like a wrestling coach. He even had a whistle on a cord around his neck.

"Thank you, sir," I said, huffing and puffing. "Let's do this twice a day."

"Once a day, Captain Lawrence. For now," he replied.

The following afternoon, after a big conference involving everyone but me, I was walked down the long hall to the living room and allowed to sit on the couch. Like a normal person. Even the short walk left me without much wind, and I knew it meant the operation had been difficult. But the scar on my side was healing. That was one good thing about sleeping through weeks of post-surgery.

Martha brought a tray of soup, wheat bread and orange juice. She didn't frown at me like she always had before. I hoped she wasn't in poor health. Patricia sat on the couch, feeding me, and looking deeply into my eyes.

"This is the first day I think you're really here," she remarked.

"Where?"

"You've been in a daze. Dr. Jenkins says it's to be expected. You want to know how much this all cost, don't you?"

"How did you guess?"

"Because you always worry about my finances. You have since I almost lost Blair House and gave me your life savings. Well, don't worry. This is all paid for, and we didn't even have to touch my money. Or yours."

"What money do I have? Did the Army finally come through with my back pay?"

"My lawyers never distributed your estate. I was going to wait until Bobby and Jenny got married and then share it between them. And Diminished Capacity was number three on the New York Times Best Seller List for weeks. When you came back from the dead, it went to number one. Rafael Martín is very jealous. Daniel sold the movie rights."

"That should be your money. I was declared dead," I mentioned.

"Well, you aren't dead. As for all this medical equipment, Jenny set up some sort of 'Save Jack' internet fundraiser. We'll have enough left over to help others. Like the National Children's Rescue Fund."

"Do I have any secrets left?"

"Probably, but not as many as you think. What else would you like to know?"

"Who's playing me in the movie?"

_________

The doctors were right about a slow recovery. For the first week, Blair House was like a tomb, everything devoted to my rest. For short periods, I would exercise and gradually began to eat real food. How the hell had I gotten so sick? Everything after Damascus was a haze. It didn't stop me from reading the sports section of the newspaper. My beloved Eagles were doing great. I avoided current events, especially the peace conference. If it had crashed and burned, I wasn't ready to know. It was strange to be reading English again.

I did have one early visitor that Patricia wasn't happy about, but he had the power of the U.S. Army behind him.

"Captain Lawrence, you're looking damn good," General Fowler said, sneaking into my darkened room at naptime. He wasn't wearing his eyepatch.

"Compared to what, sir?" I sleepily asked.

"Compared to the last time I saw you, with a fucking priest hovering over your half-dead carcass mumbling that Latin crap," he replied.

"Is there something you need, sir?" I inquired.

"I have a mission for you," he said. "Important. Top secret. Probably dangerous."

"You have got to be goddamn kidding me!" I said, trying to sit up.

"Well, yeah kid. Having a little fun with you," Fowler confessed, pushing me back down. "But I do have a proposition. Even though you were declared dead, you can still come back in. I'll make you a lieutenant colonel. Give you an elite brigade. Humanitarian missions. Disaster relief. Whatever pansy shit you want."

"It's a tempting offer, but I have no idea what my health prospects are. A colonel needs to inspire confidence."

"Confidence? What the goddamn fuck are you talking about?"

He reached into a briefcase to take out a book. It was America's Lost Hero by Rafael Martín. It had a colorful cover by an artist trying to imitate Picasso. Unlike Rafael's first effort to exploit me, An American Hero, this updated version included my childhood, Thanksgiving Eve, the Tabrit mission, and my fall from grace before leaving for Syria. I immediately decided not to read it.

"Martín had to write a postscript once you came alive again, but every kid in the country is reading this crap. And everyone knows how kids hate reading. Hell, I read this trash myself. It's great. Recruiting thinks you'll double our new enlistments. What young soldier doesn't want to serve with Colonel Jack Lawrence?"

"I think you exaggerate, sir. Three years ago, I crawled out of America with my tail between my legs."

"You're on your meds again, right?"

"Yes, fully medicated," I confirmed.

"We'll talk about this again after Turkey Day," Fowler decided, getting ready to leave. "You'll be up and running by then."

"I appreciate your confidence," I replied.

"Jack, nothing has ever held you back for long. It's time you stopped following and started leading. By the way, you've got a surprise coming. A big surprise."

"I don't much care for surprises, sir," I warned.

"Sorry, not my secret to tell," Fowler replied, grinning like the devil.

Patricia rushed in the moment Fowler was gone, fluffing my pillow and taking my pulse.

"I was afraid Collin would upset you," she said.

"Collin?"

"Jack, General Fowler may have had no love for my husband, but he's been your champion. He's supported Bobby in his writing, and Jenny in her international relations. He may be rude, crude, and inappropriate, but he's part of our family. We love him warts and all."

"He got me thinking," I admitted.

I started moving around on my own more often, going to the gym or sitting in the kitchenette where I could see Long Island Sound. It allowed the house to get back to normal. Sometimes I would visit with Joseph and Charlotte, Patricia's Secret Service detail, or discuss the New England Patriots with Samuel the Butler. I still preferred my beloved Philadelphia Eagles. Martha was frowning at me again, which made me feel better.

"How is Jenny doing?" I dared to ask one morning over breakfast, for Patricia never mentioned anyone outside the household. Apparently to save me unnecessary stress.

"Jenny is doing marvelously. Yale allowed her to make up the classes she missed, and she'll be graduating in June with a master's degree in media studies. Then you can get married and start giving me grandchildren."

I spit up my orange juice.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"You are the love of her life. I think she is the love of yours. What's the problem?" she asked.

"You know that better than anyone."

"Jack, you are like a son to me, so let me be clear. Because you grew up on the streets, you think Jenny is above you. She's finishing her graduate degree where you barely finished high school. She grew up with money and you grew up poor. Sandra Livingston calls this a false inferiority complex. And that's all it is. Words. The things you fret over aren't important to a woman's heart."

"I want the best for her," I pleaded.

Patricia leaned over, whispering. "Jack, you are the best."

"What about all that other stuff? Jenny was fired. Attacked by the press."

"I think you'll find the mood of America has changed since you left for Syria."

"The facts haven't," I answered.

"You may not know as many facts as you think, but that's for another time," Patricia replied. "We're going to have a small party on Friday. It's time your friends see how well you're doing."

Wearing new gray sweats, I got out on the beach that morning for the first time since leaving Bethlehem. I wasn't able to go far, but each day got better, gradually expanding my walks to a mile or more. There was something soothing about the broad sands of Long Island Sound. The blue skies. The rolling surf. I started thinking it was time to leave Blair House, I had imposed long enough, but where would I go?

The neighbors had a spaniel named Rags who came out when I walked by, and he soon became the perfect beach companion. He barked but never talked. Sometimes I would visit with old men fishing in the surf.

On a gray Thursday, I walked a little too far, finding it hard to get back. I sat on a weather-beaten bench, waiting for my legs to stop aching. A middle-aged man in a blue windbreaker came down from Blair House, walked along the surf, and took a seat next to me. He looked familiar.

"You are in bad shape not to remember me," he said.

"Thomas Blair?" I asked.

"Governor Thomas Blair now."

"What crime have I committed this time?"

"Other than refusing to marry my niece?"

"One, that's none of your damn business, and two, you're the last person I'd expect to hear that from. When did I graduate from persona non grata to potential family member?"