Solemn Oath

“I understand, Arthur. Your wife is in good hands. Dr. Bower is one of the best.”

Claudia reached down and squeezed his left arm. “See there, Arthur, I told you Dr. Bower will take good care of Alma.” The nurse’s brisk, familiar manner almost always calmed frightened patients. She gestured toward the turban. “We need to get this fixed up and get that shoulder back in shape so you can be there for Alma. The helicopter’s here now to pick her up and take her to the trauma center in Springfield.”

Arthur caught his breath and reached up toward the side of the bed, as if he might try to get out. “I don’t want her to go alone.”

“There’s no room in the helicopter for any passengers, but she won’t be alone once she gets up there,” Claudia soothed. “I saw half your tour group climbing into one of the vans to drive up and meet her there. The rest are staying here to pray for you. They seem like good people.” She squeezed his arm once more before leaving the room to check another patient.

Mercy read Claudia’s notes on Arthur, then did her own assessment. He was a little tachycardic from blood loss, but IV fluids were already running into his uninjured left arm, and his pressure was already rising. Good sign. His heart would slow down naturally.

Another shout reached them from the next room, and Arthur laid his head back against his pillow and sighed. “That poor man’s sure hurting. Can you do something for him?”

Mercy frowned. She had heard the drunk driver had no obvious injuries. “Someone will be getting to him as soon as possible.”

“He’s not drunk, you know.”

Mercy looked up from her chart and studied Arthur’s green-gold eyes. “How can you tell?”

“I speak Spanish. Alma and I are missionaries in Mexico. He’s making some sense. He’s saying over and over again how sorry he is, and that he doesn’t drink, doesn’t do drugs.”

Mercy didn’t comment. She heard that a lot.

“He’s also confused and hurting,” Arthur added.

“Isn’t he the man who hit you and your wife?”

Arthur nodded, then worry marred the fine features of his face once again. “My wife…I wish I could be with her.”

A light, warm baritone voice reached them from the doorway. “I came over to give you an update, Arthur.”

Mercy silently caught her breath and let the calm strength of that familiar voice settle over her like a blanket. She and Arthur both looked up at the same time to see Lukas Bower walking in to join them, his trauma shield in place over his gray framed glasses. His short brown hair was disheveled as usual. Lukas stood a couple of inches taller than Mercy’s five feet eight. In her eyes he had grown at least a foot since she had first met him last spring. Her gaze met his, and she smiled. The smile he returned was only for her, and the brilliance of it heated her cheeks. One of the nurses had told her once that when she entered the E.R., Dr. Bower’s face looked as if he’d just received a special gift.

He stepped up to the bed, his blue eyes calm and reassuring behind the glare of glasses and shield. “Arthur, your wife is awake and talking, and she’s worried about you. I told her you’d be fine.”

Arthur raised a hand toward him. “Will you let me see her before they take her away? Please. I want to talk to her a second. I just want to tell her I love her.”

Lukas looked at Mercy, then looked back at Arthur and nodded. “I think we can do that. They’ll be wheeling her out in just a moment, and we’ll roll you into the hallway and let you rendezvous with her there. No, don’t try to get up. We don’t want you bleeding on us again before Dr. Mercy can get you stitched and get that shoulder fixed.” He gestured to Mercy and laid a hand on her arm briefly. She released the brake on the exam bed, and together they rolled the bed out into the open space as the flight nurse and paramedic wheeled Alma past.

At the sight of Alma’s bandaged and IV-tubed body, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears once again. He reached out and touched her shoulder. “Hi, sweetheart. I love you. I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

“Oh, Arthur,” she cried softly, “I can’t believe this is happenin’. I’m just so glad you’re alive. For a while, I thought…”

The flight nurse placed a gentle hand on Alma’s shoulder. “Mrs. Collins, we need to get you into the helicopter now.”

Alma nodded. Arthur drew his hand back, then kissed his fingertips and reached out and touched Alma’s cheek with his hand. “I’ll be praying with every breath.”

Mercy allowed Lukas to help her push Arthur’s bed back into the room. “Thanks, Lukas.” She laid a hand on his arm, as she had found herself doing often lately without even thinking about it, as if a physical connection to him might anchor their friendship more securely. “Lukas, Arthur doesn’t think the man who hit them is drunk. He also says the man’s in pain.”

Lukas turned his attention to Arthur. “What kind of pain? Where? We’re waiting for the interpreter to arrive, and we can’t communicate with him. My college Spanish died of disuse.”

Arthur wiped leftover tears from his face. “I speak Spanish. Why don’t you let me try to talk to him? I can—”

“We need to take care of you,” Mercy said. “We’ll get an interpreter.”

Arthur looked up at her and sighed. “Give him a chance, Dr. Mercy. What if he’s hurt worse than I am?” He raised his voice enough to be heard over the din of the E.R. and spoke a few phrases in Spanish, then winced, as if the extra exertion and sound hurt his head.

There was no reply.

He repeated the phrases, and seconds later he received an answer. He looked back at Mercy. “It’s his mouth.”

Mercy glanced sharply at Lukas. “A fracture from impact?”

Lukas shrugged, his attention focused on their patient. “Arthur, we aren’t going to hold you liable as an interpreter, but will you please ask him if he had the pain before the wreck?”

Arthur did so, and they all understood part of the answer. “ Sí .” Lukas and Mercy did not understand the remainder of the words, but the expression on Arthur’s face told them it was significant.

“Does toothache medicine make you drunk?” Arthur asked them.

“How much toothache medicine?” Mercy asked.

Arthur asked the man, then interpreted. “He’s used a bottle today.”

Mercy caught her breath and turned to Lukas. “That could be—”

“Dangerous.” Lukas spun out of the room. “Judy,” he called to the secretary, “I need a stat ABG in Three.” He rushed to the next room. “Lauren, would you help me?”

“Is the man in trouble, then?” Arthur asked Mercy. “Can’t you just push my bed into his room the way you took me out to see Alma?”

“No need.” Mercy stepped out the door, saw Claudia at the desk and motioned to her before turning back to her patient. “Dr. Bower knows what tests to give, what drugs to use.” She studied Arthur’s expression. He had shown no resentment toward the person who had injured him and his wife. “We need to take care of you now.” She pulled on some sterile gloves and a face shield. “Claudia,” she said as the nurse walked into the room, “I need 2 milligrams of Versed and 25 of Demerol, slow IV push. Then have X-ray bring over some wrist weights. Arthur, we’re going to try to reduce your shoulder dislocation with the prone method. We’ll give you some medication for the pain, then we’ll turn you over on your stomach and drop your right arm over the side of the bed with some weight on your wrist.” She unwrapped the elastic bandage while Claudia carried out her orders, collecting and administering drugs and ordering the weights.

The wound in Arthur’s scalp was deep and star-shaped with no active bleeding. Mercy cleaned it with some peroxide. “How did you get this, Arthur? Do you remember?”

“I think I hit the corner of a concrete balustrade, but I don’t remember actually doing that, just waking up beside it.”

She probed the wound with her gloved finger, felt him jerk. “Sorry, Arthur. I’m checking for any rough surfaces, making sure there are no obvious deformities. I don’t feel any, but I’ll get a CT later.” She cleaned it a little more, then stepped back to allow Claudia to prep the site.

Five minutes later the weights arrived and Claudia had the wound ready for stitching. Arthur was groggy, feeling a lot less pain than he had been before. He groaned a couple of times when Mercy and Claudia turned him over and placed the padded weights on his wrist as his arm hung down over the side of the bed.

Mercy watched his profile as she prepared to anesthetize the wound site. “How long have you and Alma been married?”

He barely winced when the needle first touched his flesh. “Twenty-seven years. We got married as soon as Alma graduated from high school.” His voice was only slightly muffled, since Mercy had taken the pillow out from under his head to keep his neck from stretching backward too far. “We knew what we wanted to do from the time we were in junior high, so we couldn’t see any reason to wait.”

“You mean to tell me you and your wife knew you wanted to be missionaries to Mexico from the time you were in junior high?” Mercy could tell when the local anesthesia began to work, because he no longer tensed when she touched him.

“Yes, we did. God was calling us there as surely as I’m lying here.”

Mercy took her first stitch. “I don’t suppose you could be involved in medical missions? Somehow you knew that man wasn’t drunk. That was a good call.”

“No, I’m not medical. Sadly, I’ve just seen a lot of drunks.”