Debrah Morris - When Lightning Strikes Twice

The facts had amazed her. In the United States alone, twelve hundred people a year were hit by lightning. Less than ten percent of the victims died, so from a statistical standpoint, it wasn’t miraculous that Joe had survived. That a trained doctor happened to be near enough to begin CPR immediately? Probably a coincidence. Or Joe’s dumb luck.

He would have suffered respiratory failure, followed quickly by cardiac arrest if the chain of events had been different. She couldn’t shake the idea that she’d been thrust on the scene for a reason.

With nothing to occupy her time once the housework was done, Mallory gave in to a strange compulsion to drive to the hospital and check on Joe’s progress. When she arrived, she discovered he’d been moved from ICU into a regular bed on third floor medical. She stopped by the nurses’ station to skim his chart and read the latest lab reports. Everything was normal. As were his vital signs. No indication of infection in the burns on his feet.

Modern medicine, one. Mother Nature, zero.

She was about to close the chart when one of Mac’s notations caught her eye: Mental status exams inconclusive for residual cognitive impairment. However, nursing staff reports episodes of confusion and disorientation. Consider neurological referral if condition persists.

Before she could ask the nurse on duty about those episodes, the doctor stepped into the cubicle on his evening rounds. He’d been kind enough to drive her home after she’d ridden to the hospital in the ambulance with Joe.

“Hey, Mallory, what are you doing here?” He pulled a patient’s chart from the rack and flipped it open to jot a quick note. “I thought one of the perks of being a clinic doc was no weekend duty.”

“Just checking on Mitchum.” She closed the chart and patted it. “Sounds like he’s doing all right.”

“Physically. He appears to have suffered some memory loss, but considering what he’s been through, his recovery has been amazing. In fact, I’m ready to discharge him.”

She shot him a questioning glance, and he shrugged. “No insurance. I’m catching flak from the business office to cut him loose.”

Mallory groaned. Mac knew her opinion of the early release policy for indigent patients. She turned to the nurse seated nearby. “Good news for the staff, huh? I don’t imagine Mitchum is a very pleasant patient.”

When Nurse Evelyn Dodd looked up, her apple dumpling face was etched with surprise. “Are you kidding? Joe’s a sweetheart. A real pleasure to have on the floor. Such a gentleman.” The middle-aged nurse pulled homemade treats wrapped in cellophane from the stash in her bottom drawer and offered them to the docs. “Here, you two look hungry. Actually, I’ll be sorry to see him go.”

Now it was Mallory’s turn to act surprised. Sweetheart and gentleman were not words she would have chosen to describe Joe Mitchum. “Really? That’s interesting.”

“He hasn’t had a single visitor,” Evelyn went on. “I asked if he wanted me to contact anyone, and he said there was no one to call. That just breaks my heart. A nice boy like that ought to have lots of folks worried about him.”

Nice boy? “We are talking about Joe Mitchum, right?” Mallory could believe the loner had no friends or relatives concerned about his well-being. He’d managed to alienate just about everyone who’d ever tried to have a relationship with him. The thing she found hard to accept was the nurse’s generous assessment of his personality. And the fact that he hadn’t summoned any of his bottom-feeder female companions to his bedside.

“Yeah, he’s not as bad as you made him out to be, Mal.” Mac finished charting and returned the file to the rack. “You had me expecting a dumb oaf with the IQ of a keg of lug nuts. Instead, he’s soft-spoken and polite. Pretty sharp, too, considering how close his brain came to frying like a funnel cake.”

“What gets me is he’s so grateful for every little thing we do for him.” Evelyn wiped a tear from her eye. “It’s embarrassing. I keep telling him I’m just doing my job. Speaking of which…” she slipped her stethoscope around her neck. “I’ve got vitals to check. You docs be good now.”

Mac bit into Evelyn’s brownie and rolled his eyes in bliss. “Mmm, delicious.” He noticed her watching him and sighed. “What?”

Mallory shook her head. “That just doesn’t make sense. I did some research on lightning strike survivors and didn’t find a single case where being charged with 100 million volts of electricity actually improved the victim’s personality.”

Mac laughed. “You never know. Maybe rubbing elbows with the Grim Reaper made the guy turn over a new leaf.”

“Hmph! Joe Mitchum would have to turn over a whole forest to achieve sweetheart status.”

Mac poked the last of the brownie in his mouth and held out his hand for Joe’s chart. “I’m writing the discharge order. I don’t have any medical reason to keep him, and I’ve already told him he could go home.”

“What about the ‘episodes of confusion and disorientation’ I read about?” Mallory fidgeted in the swivel chair. Sitting still was difficult. New nervous energy made her want to keep moving. Moving toward Joe. Disgusted by the thought, she forced herself back to reason.

Mac looked up from his note-writing. “Taking a jolt like that would give anyone a memory lapse. Didn’t your research turn that up?”

“Well, yeah.” Her reading had revealed a broad range of lightning effects. Victims often sustained skull fractures, ruptured eardrums, bruises on the heart, brain contusions and paralyzed lungs, among other things.

“He does fine on cognitive tests, but seems to have a few word finding problems and trouble recalling past events.”

“What about the neurological referral?”

“I told him if he’s still having problems in a week or two to let me know. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on him for me.”

“Me?”

“Isn’t that what neighbors are for?”

“Please.”

“Are you going to eat that?” Mac eyed the brownie she’d forgotten.

Mallory handed it over. “If you’re planning to remain a confirmed bachelor forever, you really should learn to cook.”

“No time.”

“I think I’ll look in on Joe before I leave.” Mallory made the decision sound professional. In truth, she’d had a weird urge to see him all weekend. What was the matter with her?

Walking down the hall, she gently pushed open the door to his room and watched his clumsy efforts to make the bed for a moment before speaking. “You don’t have to do that, you know.”

At the sound of her voice, he stopped trying to smooth the blanket and turned, leaning on a pair of aluminum crutches. When he saw her, his face creased in a wide, happy grin. “Mol-Mallory! I mean, ma’am. Dr. Peterson. Lordy, I don’t know what to call you.” He grasped the crutches and turned, leaning awkwardly against the bed.

It took Mallory a moment to respond. The lightning bolt had left quite a transformation in its wake. He was clean-shaven for the first time in as long as she could remember. His shaggy hair had been clipped short. A do-it-yourself job, judging from the uneven results. She noticed tiny flecks of gray gleaming among the dark strands. Were those new?

“You can call me Mallory. We go back far enough for that.”

“Yes.” He nodded and gave her a small, enigmatic smile. “We do.” He must have noticed her staring at his clothes. “Nurse Evelyn showed me the outfit I was wearing when I got here. Everything was so tattered, it looked like I was the loser in a bear fight.”

“Yes, that happens sometimes with lightning. Clothing is shredded, metal zippers and fasteners fuse. People have been knocked right out of their shoes.”

“She said the owners wouldn’t be needing these now.” He was dressed in a pair of freshly laundered jeans and a wrinkled white shirt that had been washed but not ironed. “I don’t know about wearing a dead man’s clothes, but since I was pretty near dead myself, maybe they won’t bring me bad luck.”

“I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

“I reckon not. I’ve been plenty lucky lately.”

Reckon? Hardly a Joe word. Now that she thought about it, he sounded different too. The timbre of his voice had changed. It was deeper, more confident. Temporary inflammation of the trachea maybe.

That wouldn’t account for the change in his eyes. Where before they had been mud-dark and flat, the luminous brown depths now possessed an indefinable mystery. As if that weren’t unsettling enough, there was also a new stillness in his features. Surely, such composure hadn’t been there before. Just looking at him was like glimpsing the familiar for the first time. Like what Brindon’s wife Dorian had said about the Eiffel Tower. The image had been imprinted on her consciousness for so long that when she finally saw it, she had felt an eerie sense of recognition.

Joe’s straight nose, firm lips and dimpled chin were the same. Yet, they were different, too. Finer. Like a stone tumbled by a river, until all its rough edges had been worn smooth. Why had she never noticed how good-looking he was? A twist of shame tightened her belly. Maybe she’d never really looked at him before. Never truly listened. Never given him a chance.

Her character flaws didn’t explain how he had morphed from a greasy, ill-mannered slacker into a clean soft-spoken man who said “reckon” and “ma’am” and endeared himself to career nurses. Now there was a mystery.

“Seriously. You don’t have to make the bed. They have people to do that.”

“Seems the least I can do, considering everything folks have done for me. They bring me tasty grub three times a day and juice and cookies whether I want ’em or not. Some lady’s always coming in to check my temperature and make sure I’m comfortable. It sure is a hospitable place. Hmm…guess that’s why they call it a hospital, huh?”

“Maybe so.” Mallory smiled, but his comments confused her. He was sincere, not flippant or sarcastic. Sincerity was not an attitude she expected from a man who had been born obnoxious and then suffered numerous relapses. “Dr. McKinley tells me you’re ready to go home.”

“Yep. As nice as it is here, I can’t afford to run up a bill for room and board.” He gestured to the bedside chair. “Would you care to have a seat?”

Mallory sat, marveling at his courtesy. The last time she’d seen him, he had suggested she buy a six-pack and watch a wrestling match. “Has anyone talked to you about your bill?”

“Yes, ma’am. A nice lady came in. Called herself a social worker. How can she be social and work at the same time?” He shrugged. “Said they’d fix me up with a payment plan so I can settle my debt when I get back on my feet.”

“Good. How are you planning to get home? Have you called someone to come for you?” Mallory tried not to stare, but was intrigued by the way the setting sun shone through the window and backlit his head with a golden corona.

“No. There’s no one I care to call. Since I’m afoot, I guess I’ll walk it.”

“On those?” She eyed the crutches propped against the bed. “Excuse me for saying so, but you haven’t exactly mastered their use.”

He grimaced apologetically. “I’m about as gimpy as a one-legged chicken. Dr. Mac said I should keep off my feet for a few days, but I figure I can make it home.”

“Slapdown’s twenty miles from here,” she reminded him.

“It is? Well, of course it is. Maybe hoofing isn’t the way to go.”