Read Online Winter Moon by Dean Koontz - Free Book Online
Authors: Dean Koontz
Tags: Fiction
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how tightly woven the fabric of the community, each family first protected and cherished its own. Without the intense and all-excluding love of wife for husband, husband for wife, parents for children, and children for parents, there would be no compassion for people in the larger community beyond the home.
In the ICU cubicle with Jack, she relived their life together in memory, from their first date, to the night Toby had been born, to breakfast this morning. More than twelve years. But it seemed so short a span. Sometimes she put her head against the bed railing and spoke to him, recalling a special moment, reminding him of how much laughter they had shared, how much joy.
Shortly before five o’clock, she was jolted from her memories by the sudden awareness that something had changed.
Alarmed, she got up and leaned over the bed to see if Jack was still breathing. Then she realized he must be all right, because the cardiac monitor showed no change in the rhythms of his heart.
What
had
changed was the sound of the rain. It was gone. The storm had ended.
She stared at the opaque window. The city beyond, which she couldn’t see, would be glimmering in the aftermath of the day-long downpour. She had always been enchanted by Los Angeles after a rain—sparkling drops of water dripping off the points of palm fronds as if the trees were exuding jewels, streets washed clean, the air so clear that the distant mountains reappeared from out of the usual haze of smog, everything fresh.
If the window had been clear and the city had been there for her to see, she wondered if it would seem enchanting this time. She didn’t think so. This city would never gleam for her again, even if rain scrubbed it for forty days and forty nights.
In that moment she knew their future—Jack’s, Toby’s, and her own—lay in some far place. This wasn’t home any more. When Jack recovered, they would sell the house and go…somewhere, anywhere, to new lives, a fresh start. There was a sadness in that decision, but it gave her hope as well.
When she turned away from the window, she discovered that Jack’s eyes were open and that he was watching her.
Her heart stuttered.
She remembered Procnow’s bleak words. Massive blood loss. Deep shock. Cerebral consequence. Brain damage.
She was afraid to speak for fear his response would be slurred, tortured, and meaningless.
He licked his gray, chapped lips.
His breathing was wheezy.
Leaning against the side of the bed, bending over him, summoning all her courage, she said, “Honey?”
Confusion and fear played across his face as he turned his head slightly left, then slightly right, surveying the room.
“Jack? Are you with me, baby?”
He focused on the cardiac monitor, seemed transfixed by the moving green line, which was spiking higher and far more often than at any time since Heather had first entered the cubicle.
Her own heart was pounding so hard that it shook her. His failure to respond was terrifying.
“Jack, are you okay, can you hear me?”
Slowly he turned his head to face her again. He licked his lips, grimaced. His voice was weak, whispery. “Sorry about this.”
Startled, she said, “Sorry?”
“Warned you. Night I proposed. I’ve always been…a little bit of a fuck-up.”
The laugh that escaped her was perilously close to a sob. She leaned so hard against the bed railing that it pressed painfully into her midriff, but she managed to kiss his cheek, his pale and feverish cheek, and then the corner of his gray lips. “Yeah, but you’re
my
fuck-up,” she said.
“Thirsty,” he said.
“Sure, okay, I’ll get a nurse, see what you’re allowed to have.”
Maria Alicante hurried through the door, alerted to Jack’s change of condition by telemetry data on the cardiac monitor at the central desk.
“He’s awake, alert, he says he’s thirsty,” Heather reported, running her words together in quiet jubilation.
“A man has a right to be a little thirsty after a
In the ICU cubicle with Jack, she relived their life together in memory, from their first date, to the night Toby had been born, to breakfast this morning. More than twelve years. But it seemed so short a span. Sometimes she put her head against the bed railing and spoke to him, recalling a special moment, reminding him of how much laughter they had shared, how much joy.
Shortly before five o’clock, she was jolted from her memories by the sudden awareness that something had changed.
Alarmed, she got up and leaned over the bed to see if Jack was still breathing. Then she realized he must be all right, because the cardiac monitor showed no change in the rhythms of his heart.
What
had
changed was the sound of the rain. It was gone. The storm had ended.
She stared at the opaque window. The city beyond, which she couldn’t see, would be glimmering in the aftermath of the day-long downpour. She had always been enchanted by Los Angeles after a rain—sparkling drops of water dripping off the points of palm fronds as if the trees were exuding jewels, streets washed clean, the air so clear that the distant mountains reappeared from out of the usual haze of smog, everything fresh.
If the window had been clear and the city had been there for her to see, she wondered if it would seem enchanting this time. She didn’t think so. This city would never gleam for her again, even if rain scrubbed it for forty days and forty nights.
In that moment she knew their future—Jack’s, Toby’s, and her own—lay in some far place. This wasn’t home any more. When Jack recovered, they would sell the house and go…somewhere, anywhere, to new lives, a fresh start. There was a sadness in that decision, but it gave her hope as well.
When she turned away from the window, she discovered that Jack’s eyes were open and that he was watching her.
Her heart stuttered.
She remembered Procnow’s bleak words. Massive blood loss. Deep shock. Cerebral consequence. Brain damage.
She was afraid to speak for fear his response would be slurred, tortured, and meaningless.
He licked his gray, chapped lips.
His breathing was wheezy.
Leaning against the side of the bed, bending over him, summoning all her courage, she said, “Honey?”
Confusion and fear played across his face as he turned his head slightly left, then slightly right, surveying the room.
“Jack? Are you with me, baby?”
He focused on the cardiac monitor, seemed transfixed by the moving green line, which was spiking higher and far more often than at any time since Heather had first entered the cubicle.
Her own heart was pounding so hard that it shook her. His failure to respond was terrifying.
“Jack, are you okay, can you hear me?”
Slowly he turned his head to face her again. He licked his lips, grimaced. His voice was weak, whispery. “Sorry about this.”
Startled, she said, “Sorry?”
“Warned you. Night I proposed. I’ve always been…a little bit of a fuck-up.”
The laugh that escaped her was perilously close to a sob. She leaned so hard against the bed railing that it pressed painfully into her midriff, but she managed to kiss his cheek, his pale and feverish cheek, and then the corner of his gray lips. “Yeah, but you’re
my
fuck-up,” she said.
“Thirsty,” he said.
“Sure, okay, I’ll get a nurse, see what you’re allowed to have.”
Maria Alicante hurried through the door, alerted to Jack’s change of condition by telemetry data on the cardiac monitor at the central desk.
“He’s awake, alert, he says he’s thirsty,” Heather reported, running her words together in quiet jubilation.
“A man has a right to be a little thirsty after a
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