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"Im afraid to get my hopes up," she said quietly.
He paused at the closed door of Johnnys room and looked down at her. "I did not say that faith was easy; merely that it was necessary. And you are here, are you not, by his side? This takes its own kind of courage, yes?" He patted her shoulder and left her standing by the door.
She wasnt sure how long she stood there, alone in the stark white hospital; in time, though, she went inside and sat down. In a quiet, halting voice, she closed her eyes and talked to him. About what, she couldnt have said. All she knew was that a voice could offer light in a dark place, and light could lead you out.
The next thing she knew, it was morning. Sunlight glowed through the exterior window, illuminating the beige linoleum floor tiles and gray-white walls.
She unfolded from the chair and stood beside the bed, feeling stiff and sore. "Hey, handsome," she murmured, leaning down to kiss Johnnys cheek. The bandages on his eyes had been removed; she could see now how bruised and swollen his left eye was. "No more bleeding in the brain allowed, okay? When you need attention just try the old-fashioned ways, like getting mad or kissing me. "
She kept talking until she ran out of things to say. Finally she turned on the television that hung in the corner. It came on with a thunk and a buzz and showed a grainy black and white picture. "The machine you love so much," she said bitterly, reaching down for his hand. Taking his dry, slack fingers in hers, she held on to him. Leaning down, she kissed his cheek and lingered there. Though he smelled of hospitals and disinfectants and medicines, if she tried hard enough, believed strongly enough, she could smell the familiar essence of him. "The TV is on. Youre big news. "
No response.
Idly she flipped through the channels, looking for something in English.
Tullys face filled the screen.
She was standing in front of the hospital with her microphone held up to her mouth. Captions along the bottom of the screen translated her words: "For days the world has wondered and worried about John Patrick Ryan, the TV news producer who was seriously injured when a bomb exploded near the Al-Rashid Hotel. Although funeral services were held yesterday for the reporter, Arthur Gulder, who was with him, the Ryan family and the German hospital remained unavailable to journalists. And how can we blame them? This is a time of deep personal tragedy for the Ryan family. John—Johnny to his friends—suffered a serious head trauma in the explosion. A complicated medical procedure was performed on him at an army hospital near Baghdad. Specialists tell me that without this life-saving surgery on site, Mr. Ryan would not have survived. "
The picture on screen changed. Now Tully was standing beside Johnnys bed. He lay motionless on the white sheets, his head and eyes bandaged. Though the camera lingered on Johnny for only an instant before returning to Tullys face, the image of him was hard to forget.
"Mr. Ryans prognosis is uncertain. The specialists with whom I spoke said it is a waiting game to see if the swelling in his brain recedes. If it does, he has an excellent chance of survival. If not . . . " Her voice trailed off as she moved around to the end of the bed. There, she looked directly into the camera. "Everything about this case is uncertain right now, except this: This is a story of heroes, both in the war zone and at home. John Ryan wanted to bring this story to the American people, and I know him well enough to say that he knew the risks he was taking and wouldnt have made another choice. And while he was covering the war, his wife, Kathleen, was at home with their one-year-old daughter, believing that what her husband was doing was important. Like any soldiers wife, it was her sacrifice as much as his that made it possible for John Ryan to do his job. " The picture cut back to Tully on the hospital steps. "This is Tallulah Hart, reporting from Germany. And may I say, Bryant, that our prayers are certainly with the Ryan family today. "
Kate stared at the television long after the segment had ended. "She made us look like heroes," she said to the empty room. "Even me. "
She felt a flutter-soft movement against her palm. It was so gentle that at first she almost didnt notice. Frowning, she glanced down.
Johnny slowly opened his eyes.
"Johnny?" she whispered, half afraid that she was making this up, that the stress had finally cracked her. "Can you see me?"
He squeezed her hand. It was barely a squeeze, really; normally it wouldnt even qualify as a touch, but now it made her laugh and cry at the same time.
"Can you see me?" she asked again, leaning close. "Close your eyes once if you can see me. "
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
She kissed his cheek, his forehead, his cracked, dry lips. "Do you know where you are?" she finally asked, pulling back, hitting the nurses button.
She could see the confusion in his eyes and it scared her. "How about me? Do you know who I am?"
He stared up at her, swallowed hard. Slowly, he opened his mouth and said, "My . . . Katie. "
"Yes," she said, bursting into tears. "Im your Katie. "
The next seventy-two hours were a whirlwind of meetings, procedures, tests, and medication adjustments. Kate accompanied Johnny to consultations with ophthalmologists, psychiatrists, physical therapists, speech and occupational therapists, and, of course, Dr. Schmidt. Everyone, it seemed, had to sign off on Johnnys recovery before she could move him to a rehabilitation center near home.
"He is lucky to have you," Dr. Schmidt said at the conclusion of their meeting.
Kate smiled. "Im lucky to have him. "
"Yes. Now I suggest you go to the cafeteria and have some lunch. You have lost too much weight this week. "
"Really?"
"Certainly. Now go. I will return your husband to his room when the tests are finished. "
Kate rose. "Thank you, Dr. Schmidt. For everything. "
