For All Their Lives (27 page)

He poured four from the bottle he kept in his shaving kit, then propped her up so she could swallow them with water. His heart fluttered wildly when he smoothed the wispy blond curls back from her forehead. She was burning up. “I have to get you a doctor, Casey. I'll call down to the desk, and then I'll go and fetch Lily.”

She knew she was being foolish, stupid even, but she didn't want a doctor, didn't want to be put in the hospital, not on Christmas, not when Mac was here. “No. Just get Lily. Promise me, Mac. If I'm not better tomorrow, we'll call a doctor. This is just a . . . cold that got out of hand. I've spoiled everything, haven't I?” She was crying again, unable to stop.

“Shhh, it's all right. You haven't spoiled anything. I'll take care of you. I'll do whatever you want. Juice, you said you wanted juice. I'll get juice. Yes, orange juice, whatever kind you want. A toddy. You know, tea and whiskey with butter. Or is that rum? I'll get one of those too. That smelly stuff they put on your chest. Some kind of plaster. Vicks salve, Musterol. My mother used to grease me up like a pig when I was little and got sick. I'll do that . . . okay?” he asked anxiously.

“Fine. Yesss,” Casey said, drifting into a feverish sleep.

Mac sat next to the bed, Casey's hot hand in his. She looked so sick. God, what if she died? He felt himself growing light-headed. He shook his head and bit down on his lower lip.

He couldn't let anything happen to her. She was part of him now, the reason for his future. If he had to go against her wishes, he would do it and deal with her reaction later. When she was well, she would understand. But first he had to fetch Lily. Lily would know what to do.

He returned to the hotel room with Lily in tow, and she didn't know what to do. Her eyes became fearful when she looked at the thermometer. There was no way she could hide her concern from Mac, so she didn't try. Instead she sent him to the drugstore for homemade remedies she knew wouldn't work.

“Casey, listen to me, please. We have to get a doctor for you. I know how you feel, but this time . . . this isn't going to go away with aspirins and Vicks salve. You need antibiotics. You're a nurse, I'm a nurse, and we both know this is foolhardy. Please, Casey, let me call a doctor.”

“Tomorrow if I'm not better. I do feel a little better now that I'm warm,” Casey lied. “Not on Christmas, Lily. I've had colds like this before,” she lied again.

“Luke Farrell is in town,” Lily said quietly. “I saw him the day before yesterday. I can try and track him down. You'd let him look at you, wouldn't you?”

“Luke's here?”

“Yes, and he asked about you. He's on his last week of R and R. He extended. This is the fourth time. He's either at this hotel or the Ambassador. I'll see if I can find him after Mac gets back. A shot, some antibiotics, and by tomorrow you'll be feeling better. Please, Casey, don't be stubborn. Don't put Mac through this. I've never seen a man so upset.”

“All right,” Casey whispered. “What's my temperature, Lily?”

“One hundred and four.”

“I've spoiled everything. Who's taking care of your baby?”

“He's well taken care of. I can stay as long as you need me. As soon as Mac gets back, I'll see if I can find Luke. Try to sleep.”

When Mac returned, Lily helped him with the alcohol rubs and the chest plaster. Casey was so exhausted, she fell instantly asleep the moment they wrapped her back in the towels. “I'm going to see if I can find Luke. It might take me a while, so don't worry if I'm not back right away. Just keep swabbing her forehead with the alcohol. If she wakes up, give her more aspirin. When you run out of things to do, decorate your Christmas tree.”

“Is she going to get better, Lily?” Mac asked worriedly.

“Of course. Luke will know what to do, and if anyone can talk sense into her, it's Luke.”

Mac frowned.

“Don't worry about Luke, it's you she loves.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Only to me. I'll see you in a little while.”

How vulnerable Casey looked, how sweet and lovely. And so very tired and weary. How could he fault her for not wanting to go to a hospital? People died in hospitals. She'd probably seen more death in these twenty-two months than a team of doctors back in the States would see in a lifetime. They'd written about it in their letters. In one she'd sworn that even if she were on her death bed, she would fight against going to a hospital. It wasn't that she was afraid of medical treatment. It was simply defined in her mind as death versus life. There was no gray area, no middle ground. She'd even poked fun at herself. He'd chuckled over the whole thing, thinking they were both young and had fifty years or so before either one of them would have to think about going into a hospital. He wasn't chuckling now. He was worried sick.

Mac lost track of time as he changed the alcohol cloths on Casey's forehead. Once he took her temperature. One hundred four point five degrees. He'd started to decorate the skimpy pine after that, but he kept one eye on the restless woman on the bed. When he saw the string of colored lights come alive, he tried to make himself believe that nothing would happen to Casey because it was the Christmas season. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.

He needed a drink. He called down to the bar and ordered a double scotch and soda. When it arrived, he gulped it down and ordered another. He added two fat, colorful buddhas to the tree and a colorful pin cushion that looked like a Christmas ball. He added a tacky paper fan with a plastic handle he had to bend around a spindly branch. Last to go on the tree were two strings of beads, one crystal and one a god-awful purple. He stood back to view his handiwork. It was awful, but beautiful. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

He sat down and guzzled his second drink. He thought about Alice and the kind of tree she would have the servants decorate. It would be glittery as hell, and artificial. One year she'd had a white plastic tree decorated with blue lights and blue balls. It was the most ghastly thing he'd ever seen. Another year she'd decorated the same white tree with pink Victorian bows and tiny little crinkly pieces of paper shaped to look like fans. Last year he'd gone out two days before Christmas with Benny and they'd cut down two monstrously large spruce trees. He'd lugged one home and set it up in the living room. He'd wanted to decorate it right then, but Alice said no, it was still dripping wet. When he got home the next day, the tree was outside by the garage and the white one up and decorated with red balls and red lights. It had taken him exactly seventy-three seconds to pick it up and hurl it across the room. Alice had let it stay that way until his father stopped by early on Christmas Eve. All
he'd
done was raise his eyebrows and say, “Another tantrum, Mac?” That year he'd spent the rest of Christmas Eve with Benny, and Christmas Day with Sadie.

His tree, here, was looking better and better. In fact he thought it the most gorgeous thing he'd ever seen.

He ordered another drink and some food, his eyes glued to the most beautiful Christmas tree in the world.

 

L
ILY SLOSHED THROUGH
the teeming rain, her clothing soaked, her hair plastered to her head, her slippers a soggy mess. She was walking because she'd been too embarrassed to ask Mac for cab money.

She'd left messages everywhere for Luke Farrell. She'd been to Army Headquarters, to the USO on Nguyen Hue, and to every bar along the way. She'd been up and down Tu Do Street three times. She finally found him in a Basque restaurant on Nguyen Hue having a midnight supper. He was also drunk.

“Sweet Lily, is that you?” Luke asked, stuffing his face with yellow eggs smeared with ketchup and honey. “What brings you out at this time of night?” he asked, his eyes full of concern. “It's not safe. Is the baby sick?”

“No, it's Casey, Luke. She came down from Pleiku today, and she's very, very sick. She has a hundred and four fever. It's probably higher now. She refuses to go to a hospital. I've been looking for you for hours.”

Luke pushed his plate away. “You left her alone? Didn't you at least get her a mama-san to watch over her?”

“In this weather? I was lucky I found one to watch Eric. Her . . . lover is with her. Will you come?”

“I'm drunk, Lily,” he said morosely. “You want me to treat Casey while I'm in this condition?”

“Drunk, sober, it makes no difference. I've seen you cut a man open and put his insides back together when you were just as drunk. Please, you must come, Luke.”

“Of course I'll come,” he muttered. “Coffee! American!” He fumbled under the table for his thong sandals.

“Where's your medical bag?” Lily asked anxiously.

“At the counter. Is it still raining?”

“Yes. Luke, if you want to take a cab, you'll have to pay.”

Luke was suddenly so sober, his eyes so intent, Lily backed up a step.

“Are you telling me you don't have any money? I asked you the other day if you needed anything and you said no. That was a lie, obviously. You've been trundling around in the rain all night looking for me. You're a kind person, Lily Gia. We'd make a good team. Almost as good as Casey and me. Her lover, huh? Is he a stand-up guy, Lily?”

“Yes, Luke, he is,” Lily said quietly.

 

“I'
D BET MY
medical diploma this is viral pneumonia,” Luke snapped. “Lily, call a cab. Major, I'll be the bad guy here. I'll carry her down. She belongs in the hospital. I don't give a shit what she says. You don't ever mess around with viral pneumonia, not over here anyway. We need to run tests.”

“Okay, Doctor,” Mac said, relieved the decision to hospitalize Casey was out of his hands.

Mac thought his heart would break when he heard Casey whimper and say, “Oh, Mac, it's the most beautiful Christmas tree I ever saw.” His eyes were moist when he followed the gangly doctor down the hall to the elevator. She would get well. She had to.

Hours later Luke returned to the hotel, his feet dragging. Lily was right: Mac Carlin was a nice guy and he loved Casey. Any fool could see that. Carlin probably loved Casey as much as he did. Casey loved Carlin too. Jesus, he was always the last one out of the gate. He pitched his medical bag against the wall. Long fingers wiped at his eyes. Raindrops? Tears? Both, he thought glumly.

Casey was lost to him, but then he'd known that for months. Seeing Mac Carlin in the flesh and talking to him convinced him that the torch he carried for his nurse needed extinguishing. God, it hurt.

Luke propped the pillows behind his head and then cradled it in his laced fingers. He stared at the ceiling, which was so blindingly white it made his eyes water.

An instant later he was on his feet. There was no way in hell he could stay here. He walked for hours in the rain, without knowing or caring where he was. He ended up back at the hospital, and had no idea how. Instinct, he guessed. “I look,” he muttered to no one in particular, “like something the cat dragged in and then took back out.”

Luke spent five minutes observing Mac Carlin sleeping propped up on a leather couch. He wished he didn't like the guy. His shoulders slumped lower.

Satisfied that Casey was resting and in good hands, Luke left the hospital a second time.

It was full light when he threw himself on the hotel bed. He had a pounding headache and he knew he was strung tighter than he'd ever been in his life. The urge to smash something was so strong he pounded his clenched fists into the pillows. A look of stunned surprise crossed his face when feathers mushroomed around the bed.

The scorching anger building in him.was directed at himself. “You're stupid, Farrell, a dumb hick from Squirrel Hill, Pennsylvania. Fucking stupid!” he seethed. Luke's clenched fists whacked the pillows again. More feathers took flight. His diagnosis of Casey, rendered at five
A.M
., was viral pneumonia. It would take at least another day before the diagnosis was confirmed, but he knew, and there was nothing he could do. Not one damn thing. He was certain Casey was in good hands. This wasn't his turf, he had no say. The doctors had been more than kind when they listened to him. Professional courtesy. Casey had Lily and Mac. She didn't need him. She didn't want him.

Jesus Christ, why had he thought . . . He'd hoped. And he'd prayed. Spending all those shifts with another person, be it eighteen hours or six, taking meals, writing letters, spending all their free time together . . . He'd foolishly thought he had a chance with Casey. They'd shared their hopes, their fears, their dreams, with one another. They'd held hands. He'd even told her about Jimmy Oliver. Not once had she mentioned Mac Carlin's name aloud. He knew about Carlin, everyone did. He told himself over and over that if Casey didn't make Carlin come alive, say his name, share the contents of his letters, then he wasn't really in the running. He was so goddamn stupid it was sickening. Fool! His fists whacked the pillows once more, and then the wicker headboard.

He loved her. Stone-cold sober, he'd told her so. He hadn't made a joke of it either. She'd hugged him, kissed him on the cheek, squeezed his hand, and smiled. There were tears in her eyes when she left to go back to her quarters, leaving him alone with tears in
his
eyes. He should have known then, and stopped dreaming about something that could never be.

Luke was on his feet, shaking the feathers off his damp clothing. He threw his clothes into his duffel any old way and called down to the desk for his bill. He was going back to do what he did best.

Ten minutes later he paid his bill. He asked for an envelope and stuffed all his money into it, licked the flap, then pounded it shut so the glue would adhere. He scrawled Lily Gia's name and address across the front. “Have someone hand deliver this,” he said to the desk clerk.