Passegiatta Pt. 09

Santoni looked at Goodwin with narrowed eyes, rinsed the thermometer off and stuck it under Goodwin's tongue. He looked at his wristwatch and felt Goodwin's pulse. After another minute he looked at the thermometer and shook his head.

"Okay, that's it. We're going to the hospital. Let's go."

"What is it now?"

"Over 103. Now let's go. This isn't good, and you know it. You say your neck is stiff?"

"Jon? I think you'd better call an ambulance..." Goodwin's world grew faraway and misty, he felt the earth reaching up for him, and it felt for a moment like he was falling . . .

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He woke in the night; he could see someone sitting in a chair by the window inside a tiny, antiseptically bare room. The world smelled of strong disinfectant and garlic. He smiled, tried to lift his head from the starchy pillow and the pounding began . . .

"Crap-almighty! Son of a bitch!"

A small bedside lamp flipped on; Goodwin shielded his eyes: "Youch! Bright! Off!"

"Tom? Oh, thank God!"

He turned, saw Margherita in the brilliant light, saw tears on her face and in her eyes."

"Hey, kiddo. How's your mom doing?"

"Tom! Tom! You . . . she's fine, she's doing just fine. Going home tomorrow."

"Tomorrow? No way. It's way too soon for that. She needs at least two weeks . . ."

"Tom. You've been here almost two weeks. In a coma until three days ago, then the medicine began to work. We've been very worried, Tom. Very worried."

Her words drifted around the perimeter of his consciousness for a moment, then worked their way in. "Two weeks?"

"Yes, Tom."

A nun came in and looked at Goodwin and smiled, then ducked quickly out of the room. She came back a few minutes later with a glass full of water, crushed ice and a straw.

"Drink this," the old woman said. "Slowly, doctore, slowly."

"Gad, my mouth tastes like a barnyard!"

Santoni came into the room.

"Eh, so the lazy no good bum decides to wake up, does he? About time!"

"Jon? What the hell . . ."

"We'll talk about all that it in a while . . . later, alright?" He was looking from Goodwin to Margherita surreptitiously, as if there was a secret he wanted to guard.

"Yeah, sure. How's Mrs Morretti?"

"Great, Tom. No problems. Now you? Tell me how you feel."

"Weak. And my head hurts."

"From the spinals. Sorry."

"Jeesh! How many did you do?"

"Several, my friend. Meningococcus, you understand?" Again Santoni averted his eyes while he spoke quietly.

"Meningitis?"

Santoni nodded. "We have been feeding you Ceftriaxone through a central line for quite some time now, and some Vancomycin too. To be on the safe side."

"No wonder I feel like shit."

"Yes, no wonder. Warmed over shit, too. Now you excuse me, okay Tom. I got to go and get ready for surgery."

"What time is it?"

"Eh, Margherita? You get him up to speed on things, okay. I see you in a while, Tom."

"Up to speed? On what?"

"Tom, we didn't know how ill you were, if you were going to make it. We didn't know what to do."

"And? Why do I get the feeling you've left out something important here?"

"We, uh, well, we called your father?"

"You didn't. Please God tell me you didn't."

"Vico did. Yesterday. They talked yesterday."

"Is he here?"

"No. He's coming Friday. Four days from today."

"Swell." Goodwin shook his head as contradictory impulses flew through his mind. "Oh, well, c'est la vie. Comme il faut . . . oh, excuse me . . . this is as it should be, I suppose. Too many pieces of the puzzle missing. Anything else I need to know?"

"Elsie will not leave your boat. It is still in Rapallo, and the Doncasters stay there too. The woman Trudi stays there too, with Elsie."

"Swell."

"What does this word mean? This swell."

"Huh? Oh, something like 'oh, great,' but a close cousin of 'fuck,' 'shit,' 'damn,' and 'holy Mother of God!'"

She laughed and Goodwin thought once again how good it felt to hear her laughter; it washed over him and made the pain in his head roll away for a moment, but he could see she was holding something back from him.

"Now, what aren't you telling me?" He looked at the reluctance in her eyes, reluctance, and a little mischief. "You're not telling me something. What?"

"No, Tom. You have enough on your mind now. With your father coming."

"Don't try to protect me, Margherita. Not me."

"Why shouldn't I? I love you," she exploded. "I love you so much it hurts to breathe when I am away from you. I can not go to work, I can not eat, I can not leave this room, and I will not until you are well, or . . ." She looked away, embarrassed by her outburst.

"Or what?" Tom seemed quiet now, almost embarrasssed as well. "Margherita? What won't you tell me?"

"I think I am with child." She looked at him, measured him. "I think I am with our child."

He looked at her for a long time, held out his hand to her and she leaned into him, put her face on his fingers. He closed his eyes, and was soon asleep.

She heard his breathing slow, heard the gathering quiet take the room again, and she pulled back and looked at him.

He was smiling. Softly, gently smiling.

And she understood. Everything was beginning to make sense.

End Part IX