~ Wrong Side of Love ~

by

Diana Lee Johnson

"Well, my friend, will you wake up today?" She put her cool hand on Keene’s forehead, knowing he would still be burning with fever.

"Why, you’re not hot! Good Lord, did you die?" She put her head to his chest to listen to his heart, her eyes closed. Before she could concentrate enough to hear the beating, a hand touched her cheek. Brenna bolted up with a startled gasp. Her right hand clutched her wrapper to her chest. She tried to breathe as she looked toward him. His eyes were still closed.

"M--Mr. K--Keene? Can you hear me?"

Slowly, his eyes slitted open as he tried to open them to the daylight. "I’m not dead?" His words were but a dull rasp.

"No, you certainly are not! And you’re not going to be, if I can help it." Brenna was truly joyful at the prospect he might be mending.

"Do," he ran his dry tongue over his parched, cracked lips, "do I know you?"

"I’m Brenna McKeon. I operated on you a few days ago."

"You what?" He tried to clear his throat, but he was too weak. He had a vague memory of asking a boy on the road for water, then seeing a woman with a shotgun. Then a blur of an angel with raven black hair and pale white skin asking him where to find his name. This was the angel. He wasn’t sure about the lady with the shotgun or the boy.

Brenna went to the table and poured a glass of water from a pitcher as she continued to talk. "I operated on you. I took the bullets from your chest and shoulder, and I closed up the wound in your thigh."

"Are you a nurse?"

"No, I want to be a doctor. My father was a doctor, ‘til a Yankee major shot him for taking off a gangrenous leg and saving his life." She felt his forehead for fever, and smoothed his hair away from his eyes. "The war made it impossible, for now." Brenna put her right arm under the pillow and raised his head so he could sip the water. "Slowly now," she whispered.

"That was good, but I’d rather it was whiskey. I hurt like hell! Sorry, ma’am."

"I understand, Mr. Keene. Believe me, I’ve heard a good deal worse since this war began." Brenna studied his face. It was the first time his eyes were open for more than a moment. They were unusual, such a beautiful dark blue with a rim of brown that almost made them look completely brown, but they weren’t. They were blue--deep, rich, piercing indigo blue, and at the moment, Brenna felt as if they were burning a hole in her.

She swallowed and tried to collect her thoughts as she adjusted her wrapper making sure nothing untoward was showing.

Matthew Keene’s right hand slowly found its way to his bearded face. "Guess I’ve been out a while," he rasped.

"Four days and nights. It will be sometime yet before I can be sure, but I think you’re going to be all right."

"I--" Matthew coughed, his dry throat getting the better of him. The first cough set his chest on fire and he gave a single, short groan as he fought the pain which stole his breath away. He writhed on the bed with a strength he could ill-afford.

Brenna grabbed his arms, forcing him back down to the bed with her body. "Shhhh. You have to be still. You’ll tear the stitches loose. Shhhh." She tried to get him to quiet down. "It will come. You can breathe. Just slowly," she whispered, "slowly." She smoothed her hand over his forehead and hair, stroking him to calm him down. She knew he was in great pain, but he must remain still.

Eventually, as she stroked and shushed, Matthew’s desperate gasps for air became short panting breaths.

"I need to explain about your injuries, but first, let me get some laudanum. I know you’re hurting. I want to help, Mr. Keene. Please trust me."

He nodded weakly, the little energy he had, now gone. He lay silently shaking from head to toe as he tried to be strong, tried not to surrender to the urge to cry out from the pain.

Brenna poured a healthy dose of laudanum into a glass and gave it to him. She hated to use so much of it, but he needed it now. He was conscious and she must make him lie still. Perhaps, once she explained everything to him, he would be able to control his movements and avoid unnecessary pain, but now she must soothe him any way she could. Later, perhaps, alcohol would suffice to dull the pain, but for now, laudanum or morphine was in order.

His breathing slowed, but his pain was still apparent in his eyes. Brenna pulled a stool next to the bed and held his right hand in her left, resting them on his stomach. She stroked his forehead with the middle fingers of her right hand as she explained.

"I’m not a doctor, Mr. Keene, but I studied with my father for years, and was accepted to the New England Female Medical College four years ago, but the war came, and…Anyway, I’m really very good. My father says, uh, said," she corrected herself, "I was a better surgeon than he. I took the bullet out of your shoulder. The one in your chest punctured your lung, but it missed your heart.

"I repaired the tear in the lung, and a great deal of the pain you’re feeling is the air trapped outside the lung. It will go away soon. I also repaired a torn muscle in your thigh, I hope, and closed both sides. That bullet went clean through."

"I thank you for--"

Brenna cut him off by putting her finger to his lips. "Please don’t talk, unless it’s necessary. You really need to conserve your strength and your breath."