Forgotten Lullaby. Rita Herron

of the humidifier grated on his frayed nerves. Even knowing the equipment attached to her body was meant to help her, he hated that she needed it. He hated the oxygen mask, the IV needle in her arm, the strong smell of antiseptic and other hospital odors that permeated the room.

      He was going crazy counting every breath she took. But it was the only way he could make himself believe she was alive. One breath at a time.

      A severe concussion, the doctor had said. Possibly brain damage. They were battling a head wound, the most dangerous and least predictable injury a body could sustain. No one would know the extent of Emma’s injuries, not until the swelling in her brain went down. But she couldn’t have brain damage. Not his Emma.

      Still, every hour passed in unconsciousness dimmed the outlook. His fingers trembled as he gently touched the bandage on her head. They’d shaved a small area, stitched the head wound and bandaged it. Ugly purple and yellow bruises marred her face, but the scrapes and cuts would heal. She would live, the doctors said—they just didn’t know when she would wake up.

      A wave of cold engulfed him when he remembered the condition of her car. It was a miracle Emma was alive. When she woke up, maybe she’d be able to tell them what happened. The police had been by to say they’d found a witness, a young boy who’d seen a Jeep sideswipe Emma’s car, then saw her veer off the road. He claimed the Jeep’s driver had stopped and gotten out to look in Emma’s car, then almost immediately driven away. But why would someone want to hurt Emma?

      “Please wake up, Emma,” he begged as he jolted up and paced beside her bed. “Why won’t you come back to me? Give me another chance.”

      But she lay still and silent.

      DRIP…DRIP…. BEEP…beep…beep.

      Emma tried to move her limbs, but they felt too heavy. Her body refused to cooperate, even her eyelids. What had happened to her?

      A dull low pain throbbed through her nerve endings. Even thinking tired her out. So easy to keep her eyes closed. So hard to open them. The bright light shone in a lone radiant beam that called to her, urging her to lose herself in the calm glow. To be swallowed up, away from the pain. To drift away, at peace…forever.

      The constant dripping and beeping in the background faded in and out. The voices. Sometimes a woman’s. Sometimes the husky rumble of a man’s. Sometimes distressed. Sometimes low and soft. Rolling over the pain and wiping it away. Soothing her into contentment. Drawing her away from the intense pull of the light.

      Somewhere in her subconscious, she realized she must be asleep. In a realm so far away no one could reach her. A place where she no longer had to be afraid.

      Sometimes the husky voice begged her to stay. Begged her to fight, to come back to him. But she didn’t know how. Didn’t want to leave the haven where she’d settled.

      A sharp grating sound drifted through her reverie, and she tried to turn her head toward the sound, tried to lift her fingers, but again heaviness weighted her down. She strained to open her eyes. Was it the woman’s voice this time? Or that calm lulling baritone?

      Suddenly her peace was shattered by a shrill eerie voice, “You should have died. You have to die.”

      Her pulse stirred, her reflexes jarred to life. Not again. No, not again. She tried to run toward the light, strained to hear the other voice, the soothing voice of the man who begged her not to leave. But pain stabbed through her limbs and she couldn’t find the other voice. It was dark. Black, suffocating emptiness tried to swallow her. She couldn’t breathe. She struggled to move, to twist her head from side to side, to free her arms from their leaden state. But something powerful closed around her neck, trapping her, pressing hard, cutting off her air. And the last sound she heard was another voice, gravelly and low, telling her she had to die.

      PANIC BOLTED THROUGH GRANT the second he walked back into the room. “What the hell’s going on?” The heart monitor was going crazy. “Nurse, Doctor, hurry! Something’s wrong!” Grant squeezed Emma’s hand, his heart stopping when he felt her cold clammy skin. Emma’s oxygen had been removed, her IV stripped. Blood dotted her arm and the bedclothes, and her pillow lay on the floor.

      Two nurses ran in and instantly checked her vitals.

      “What happened here?” one nurse asked, looking at the torn mask and blood suspiciously. The other nurse quickly reattached the oxygen tubing, mumbling orders and statistics that set his teeth on edge.

      He felt like shaking them. “Is she okay? Tell me something!”

      “She’s all right,” the first nurse stated calmly. “Was anyone in here with her when this happened?” She indicated the torn mask.

      Grant shook his head, his heart racing.

      “We’ll get her IV reconnected in a minute,” the other nurse added.

      The doctor hurried in. “Will you wait out in the hall, Mr. Wadsworth?”

      “No, I’m not leaving her—”

      “It’ll just be for a minute,” the first nurse said softly, coaxing him outside. “She’s all right now.”

      He leaned against the wall and was surprised to see Emma’s former boss, Dan McGuire, and Martha Greer approaching.

      “How’s Emma?” the housekeeper asked, her brows knitted in worry.

      He shook his head, too emotionally wrought to speak.

      “Did something happen?” Dan asked. “Has her condition changed, Grant?”

      His breath rattled out. “The heart monitor went off. And…” The image of the bloody IV rolled through his head, nauseating him. “The doctor’s with her now.”

      Martha and Dan waited silently with him while Grant willed his pulse to slow down. Each minute became an excruciating eternity.

      Finally the white-haired physician opened the door. “She’s stable now,” he announced. “You can come in.” He gestured toward Grant. “Only family for now.”

      “Of course.” Martha patted his arm, her cheeks ruddy. “You go on and be with her, Mr. Wadsworth. Tell her we hope she feels better soon.”

      “Yeah, tell her to get better,” Dan added as they turned to leave.

      “What happened?” Grant asked the doctor. His blood still roared in his ears as he made his way back to Emma’s bed. “Did Emma pull off her mask? Was she trying to wake up?”

      “I don’t know,” the doctor said, studying her chart. “But her vitals are stable again.” He listened to her heart, then turned to Grant with a worried expression. “Mr. Wadsworth, it looks as if someone else removed your wife’s oxygen. I don’t think she could have torn the elastic or jerked out her IV herself. You should probably talk to that detective about it.”

      “I will.” Grant dropped into the chair beside Emma and clasped her hand. Who would do such a horrible thing? The doctor left, and Grant gritted his teeth in misery. His emotions were on a roller-coaster ride from hell.

      The doctor had to be wrong. Maybe Emma had been trying to come out of the coma.

      But with Warner’s suspicions about Emma’s accident, Grant couldn’t take chances. He phoned the detective and reported the incident. Warner agreed to come immediately.

      Grant hung up and squeezed Emma’s hand again. The minutes dragged by, but she still showed no response. “Please, Emma, please, wake up.” He closed his eyes, fighting the tears seeping from beneath his eyelids. Desperate, he tried to strike a bargain with God. If Emma woke up, if he had his life back the way it had been before the accident, he’d come home earlier, he’d be a better husband.

      All the shoulds and shouldn’ts taunted him. He shouldn’t have let Emma go out that night alone. He should have gone to the drugstore, instead. And he shouldn’t have stayed at the bar with Priscilla after the business dinner, even if Priscilla