Marshal's Law

MARSHAL'S LAW #12: TIMING HAS A LOT TO DO WITH THE OUTCOME OF A RAIN DANCE

“G’morning, beautiful.”

Startled, she blinked, trying force her eyes to focus. A work-roughened hand brushed her cheek and smoothed a stray lock of hair away from her face.

 “Marshal,” she said, finally able to see him. She turned her gaze to the room, her expression coiling into confusion. “Where am I?”

“The hospital,” he said and leaned his arms onto her bed.  He touched her again, as if it comforted him.

”The hospital?” she repeated and turned to take in the room again.  Though there was no denying the biomedical equipment, the bed or the awful pull-out on which Marshal had obviously slept, she couldn’t comprehend her circumstances.  She felt fuzzy.  “I thought you were in trouble.”

Marshal’s eyes darkened dangerously. “So you told me.  That son of mine got an earful.  He’ll be lucky to escape a licking once he gets here.”

Monica pushed herself up on her elbows, worry wringing her heart. “He can’t come here,” she said. “He’s watching my children.”

“They’re coming, too.”

Monica’s hand shook when she tried to press her fingers against her temple; but Marshal pulled it away and held it, sandwiched between both of his gentle, work-rough hands. “Don’t worry over it now, sweetheart.  Do you need anything?”

Monica blushed furiously. Here she was, coming to rescue him and what did she do?  She ended up in the hospital, in an ugly hospital gown, needing help for the most base, awful task . . . she hid her face in her hands.  “Could you call the nurse?”

“Already done.  They wanted to know when you woke,” he said, then, eyes narrowed and head tilted, he added, “Do you need some help getting to the bathroom?”

Heavens yes!  Her bladder was stretched so tight that it hurt.  She squirmed even to think of it.  But there was absolutely no way she was going to stand up in this . . . this . . . atrocity of a nightgown.  Her face felt barren of any of the careful make-up she’d applied.  Her hair, her hands slipped into the knotted, kinky mess, what was happening with her hair?  This was not the way she wanted to look when she faced him again!

“Stop frettin’, woman.”

“I don’t think I can stand up,” she finally admitted. “I can’t stop shaking.”

“They said that was normal.”  He scooped her up into his arms, her bare behind hanging below the arm that held her knees.  Monica was mortified, but he carried her into the bathroom as if she weren’t a burden and set her on the toilet as if it . . . weren’t a toilet. “I’ll give you a few minutes,” he said and closed the door behind him. 

She would have taken more time to simply burn in her embarrassment if her body hadn’t had other plans.  As if a faucet were turned, everything seemed to release . . . and release . . . and release.  Finally empty, she flushed and, before she could figure out a way not to call for Marshal’s help, a nurse bustled into the bathroom. 

“How are you feeling?” she asked and reached around to turn on the shower. “You certainly look better.  Don’t you worry none over that shaking.  It’ll be gone in no time.  You won’t even remember it.”  She spoke as quickly and as briskly as she worked.  Handing Monica a comb, she said, “You might want to work those snarls out before you take a shower. I’m going to go get you a shower chair, so that you can sit while you clean off, okay?  You just sit there and work on your hair for a minute.  I’ll be right back.”  Then, as promised, she disappeared.  The woman was a five-foot-five-inch tornado.