Page 9 of Smuggler's Cove
Several minutes later, and man in a white coat walked briskly with nun in tow.
“Mrs. Taylor?” he asked.
“Yes. And this is my son, Jackson.” She placed her hand on one of his shoulders.
“I’m afraid your son will not be able to visit him.”
“Why not?” Rita asked.
“It’s a special ward,” the doctor offered.
“Yes, I understand that, but why can’t my son visit his father?”
“Perhaps you should have him sit here with Sister Theresa while you go in.”
Rita turned to her boy. “You sit with the nice lady. I’ll be back shortly.”
Sister Theresa had experienced similar situations before. No child should encounter a parent who was in the state Jackson Taylor was in. “Come. You can sit here.” She patted a chair along the wall. She opened a drawer and pulled out a coloring book and a few well-worn crayons. “You can pull your chair up to my desk if you’d like.”
Jackson followed her instructions. He opened the book and tried to find a page that wasn’t covered in markings from previous visitors.
“Thank you,” Rita said, and followed the doctor down a long hall.
“Mrs. Taylor, I must warn you. Your husband is in bad condition. He’s lucky to be alive.”
There’s that sentence again, she thought. “How bad is it?” She wanted to brace herself as best she could.
“With the exception of his left eye, nostrils, and part of his mouth, his head and face are completely covered in bandages.”
Rita was getting nauseous. She grabbed the doctor’s arm.
“Do you need to sit down?” he asked kindly.
“No. No. Let’s get this over with.” She hoped she didn’t sound cold, but there was no need to delay this excruciating situation.
The doctor guided her to a room that had a dozen beds, approximately six feet apart. One patient looked worse than the next. It was like being in the middle of a horror show.
“There was a fire last week. Most of these are burn victims,” he whispered.
Rita felt bile burn the back of her throat as she suppressed a gag. It was horrible. No wonder they wouldn’t let Jackson in. The sight would haunt him forever, as she knew it would hauntherfor the rest of her life.
The doctor guided her to the side of her husband’s bed. He looked worse than she imagined. She touched his unbandaged hand. “Jackson? J.T., it’s me, Rita.”
He didn’t respond. She looked at the doctor.
“He hasn’t spoken since he was brought in. He was unconscious for the first two days, and finally opened one eye this morning.
“J.T. If you can hear me, blink twice,” the doctor requested.
Nothing. J.T. continued to stare at the ceiling.
“What do we do now?” Rita fought back her instinct to scream.
“He should be transferred to the VA hospital. We don’t have the capacity to treat him.”
“Treat him for . . . ?” Rita was still looking for some sort of diagnosis.
“His mental state, for one thing. We don’t know what kind of condition he will be in when his bones heal.”
