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She moved a fraction of an inch and immediately regretted it. Red-hot pain twisted her midsection, brought a surge of nausea so strong, she thought she'd vomit. All thoughts of life after death vanished.
She felt as if she'd been hit by a bus.
It had all been a dream. There was no second chance for 15
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Tess; no family to join or ability to hear. No man standing by a crib, reaching out.
She was surprised by the sharp regret that flashed through her. She'd really wanted that second chance at life. At love. No one in this life would have missed her.
Disappointed, she closed her eyes and sank back into the darkness of oblivion.
She was dreaming she could hear. "... blood loss ... don't know ... not good ..." Tess clawed her way to consciousness. The pain was still there, gnawing with dull teeth at her midsection, but it was more manageable now. She said a quick prayer to the God of anesthesia and coaxed her eyes open.
She was in a huge bed, looking up at the floor. She frowned in concentration, willing her tired eyes to do their job, and h
er equally tired brain to function. Blinking, she tried again.
It wasn't a floor. It was a ceiling built of oak boards. "Dead? Don't know . . . possible."
Tess gasped. She'd heard that! She struggled up to her elbows. The effort left her shaking and winded and in inconceivable pain. Her head pounded. She found a stationary lump of black and focused on it.
The lump became a shadow, the shadow became an old man. Sparse gray hair studded his pointed, balding head. Thin wire-rimmed glasses perched precariously on his beaklike nose. Rheumy eyes stared into her own.
"Mrs. Rafferty? Axe you okay?"
Tess glanced around for Mrs. Rafferty.
He scooted his stool closer. The wooden legs made a squeaking, scraping sound. He laid a skeletal, blue-veined hand on her shoulder and squeezed gently. "Welcome back."
This was no dream. She could really hear.
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"Whaas?" Tess tried to speak, but her throat felt as if she'd been screaming for hours. She signed her question instead: What's wrong with me?
The man glanced over his shoulder at the shadows in the room's corner. "It's like she's trying to say something. ..." He leaned closer and peered into her eyes. "I'm Doc Hayes. Do you recollect me?"
She shook her head no.
He frowned and pushed to his feet.
Even in the midst of her pain, she marveled at the slow, tired shuffling of the doctor's footsteps. After so many years of silent nothingness, the common, everyday sound of his bootheels scuffing across the floor was indescribably wonderful.
He melted into the shadows by the door. "I don't know, Jack. It's the damnedest thing I've ever seen. I was pretty sure she was dead. This ain't the sort o' thing one sees ever' day. She might be sort o' ... different for a while. Who knows? Appears her memory's shot to hell."
"What can we do for her?" It was another male voice, softer and richer. The warm, brandy-soft sound of it sent a tingle slithering down Tess's spine.
"I don't know," the doc answered. "But if she gets a fever or takes a turn for the worse, send someone for me."
The shadows moved. The door creaked open, then clicked shut. She was alone.
Confusion swirled about her like a thick, gray fog, drawing her into the mists. Tiredly she glanced around her hospital room, but the shadows were so thick, she couldn't make out much beyond her own bed. Yet something about the darkened room felt weird. Apprehension tingled along the back of her neck. She'd been in enough hospitals to recognize one, even in the dark. Where was the familiar antiseptic smell and muted buzz of fluorescent lighting? And docs hadn't made house calls since Welby.
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Minutes ticked by, quietly, without the marching tick of a clock to herald their passing. She stared up at the strange ceiling, feeling the warmth and light from the lamp beside her bed. The acrid scent of a burning wick teased her nostrils.
