COUNTING THE SECONDS He hated hospitals. His queasy fit in front of the doctor had been no joke—any mention of bodily injuries or broken bones made him feel light-headed and nauseous.  It was ironic, considering that he had been the one to be shot at Rosslyn…he should be very used to hospitals by now.  Maybe it was somehow different when you were the one who was hurt. Even TLC programmes made his gorge rise; especially that one where the doctors kept flipping up some poor guy’s knee cap as the camera focussed in closer and closer.  When he had been immobile on his couch, supposedly letting the stitches in his chest heal, Donna would flip on ‘Operation’ or some equally horrible real-life emergency room show and then dance about the room with the remote so that he couldn’t change the channel. Donna… The chair in her hospital room was really uncomfortable.  He leaned forward, edging near the bed; his fingers were steepled beneath his chin as he stared at her battered body—her bruised and torn face—and watched the monitors beep out the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. That sound was the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. Her eyes remained shut, no matter how many times he silently yelled for her to open them.  Her bed was raised to such a level that she should be able to just look over and start talking.  Maybe she would wonder why he was there; why he wasn’t still in Washington helping the President decide whether or not to unleash hell on the Palestinian chairman.  It was obvious enough to him why he was there.  She should be able to understand intuitively.  Right?  Maybe she would expect actual words and full sentences explaining why he refused to comply with visiting hours and why he wouldn’t leave the room, even for a sip of water or the chance to stretch his legs.  He should be able to come up with something plausible—a 760 verbal score had to stand him in good stead at some point in his life, right?  Then again, maybe not.  Not when he was looking at her pale face in this badly lit hospital room and wanting to shake her until she woke up and looked at him with those wondrous eyes of hers. He wasn’t going anywhere.  And in the meantime, he had to come up with some kind of an excuse for running out of the White House as soon as Leo had suggested he go someplace else to deal with all of this. Listening to the pulsing sounds of the machines hooked up to her beloved body, Josh’s mind wandered off to some distant place, where he wouldn’t have to explain anything.  Because Donna would already know how he felt—and why he was there. ******** He woke up countless hours later.  There was still no change—the abrasions on her face seemed just as rough and deep.  Her hair was matted—he couldn’t tell if it was from sleep, or the operation, or travelling from Gaza to Germany.  Somehow he doubted that anyone had bothered to brush her hair or fix her pony-tail since…well, since whenever the bomb had gone off. A wave of anger crashed over him, making him feel fully awake and restless in his hard, plastic chair.  How could anyone do this to Donna?  A small voice in the back of mind had tried time and again over the past day to make him realise that no one had targeted Donna specifically—she had been an American and that had been cause enough.  But Donna?  Why Donna?  Why hadn’t she been in the other car with Andie?  He briefly remembered how relieved Toby had seemed the second he had seen Andie, whole and mobile, waving to a faceless camera and being broadcast across the airwaves.  Donna wouldn’t be up and about like that for months yet. He could handle being shot again, he thought.  It would suck, for sure, but if it was a choice between facing the nightmare of Rosslyn again, or reliving the infinity of minutes between when he had first heard about the explosion and when he had finally walked into the German hospital room, it was a no-brainer.  And then, if he was shot again, maybe Donna would come and take care of him as she had before; move in and re-institute ‘The Rules’ and hold him in her soft, strong arms when he was in pain or out of his mind with fear from forgotten nightmares.  He would go through it all again in the space of a second, if it only meant that he didn’t have to be here in Germany, right now, watching this woman…this woman who had come to define who and what he was in life…slumber in a mindless coma. Reaching out for her hand, he carefully cradled it between his own, mindful of the tubes and drips attached to her alabaster skin.  She had to come out of this—he knew she would, the doctor had said so, but he was still out of his mind with fear.  Not girly fear, like the kind that makes the girl you’re at the movies with jump into your lap at the scary part of the horror flick and spill your popcorn all over the floor; but real fear, that nameless black hunger that squeezed the breath out of your lungs and left you shaking when you didn’t know how to move. What if something happened?  A collapsed lung was nothing to scoff about; he knew, he’d been there.  And what about her leg?  He’d heard of people dying from blood clots before…what if one developed in her leg? His brain was working overtime with morbid images of tragedy: he might just walk into the room at some point and find that she wasn’t there.  And so he could not leave her, not for an instant.  Because the thing that scared him the most at that moment was the thought that, even though he was sitting next to her, stroking her fragile hand, she still might be able to slip through his fingers. ******** “Mr Lyman.  Mr Lyman!” “Huh…what?”  Josh jerked awake.  He looked at his watch to see what time it was and then realised how hopeless that was.  “What time is it?” “It’s nearly 5:30 in the morning.  You have an urgent call from the White House.” “Oh,” he nodded.  “Okay.”  He flipped open his cell phone and then thought better of it.  “Where can I…?”  He gestured towards the phone and the nurse shook her head.  “I’m sorry, but we don’t permit cell phone usage in the hospital.  We have a landline already hooked up for you.” “Oh, thanks.” He looked at Donna.  He wouldn’t say she was sleeping peacefully—how could you be peaceful with your leg in traction and a breathing tube coming out your nose?  “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can bring the phone in here?  I don’t want to leave her.” Shaking her head again, the nurse smiled sadly.  “I’m sorry, but that’s not possible.  I’ll tell you what—you go and take your call and I’ll stay with Miss Moss.  That way she won’t be alone at all.” Relief flooded through his system.  “Thank you.  That’s—thank you.”  He backed out of the room, still not able to take his eyes off of her.  “I’ll be right here, Donna,” he whispered.  They were the first words he had spoken to her out loud since first stepping into the room.  It wasn’t until he was half-way into the corridor that he dared to look around and find his bearings. The nurse was standing off to one side of the room, looking at the various print-outs from the machines hooked up to Donna’s body when the patient first began to stir.  At first the only noises she made were whimperings; moments later, she tried to lift her hands above her head, as though warding off something heavy and obstructive. “Josh…Josh…I want Josh…”  Her pleas were faint, barely audible to anyone not sitting right at her bedside.  Still, the nurse must have heard something because she walked over and quickly checked Donna’s pulse.  Bending low so that the bed-ridden woman could speak directly into her ear, the nurse smiled and listened closely.  “What was that, honey?” she asked.  “Did you call for someone?” Sniffing in pain, Donna shook her head, keeping her eyes tightly closed.  “It doesn’t matter.  It doesn’t matter.”  Josh hurried back from his phone call.  Leo had just wanted an update on Donna’s condition and Josh had given him one as quickly as possible.  Leo’s last words had been to get his ass back to the girl’s bed, though for once Josh graciously overlooked the obvious double entendre.  When he entered the room, he slowed down his movements, not wanting to disturb Donna’s need for rest. “Is she okay?” he asked. The nurse looked over at him as he sat down and waited until he had taken her hand in his once more before answering.  “She woke up briefly and tried to move around a bit.  Then she asked for someone just before she fell asleep.” “Really?”  Josh’s eyes were bright with anticipation.  “Yes.  Is your first name Colin?” Suddenly there was no air left in his lungs.  The black fear crept back inside, taking up every crevice and empty space before swirling down to linger in the pit of his stomach. “Colin?  She asked for Colin?” The nurse nodded.  “She said it quite distinctly before slipping off.  Something like, ‘Where is Colin?’  That’s you, isn’t it?” He shook his head as the blood drained from his face.  “No.  No, I’m not Colin.  I don’t know any Colins.  I’m Josh.” “Oh.”  The awkwardness in the room was fierce. “She didn’t say anything about Josh?”  His voice was very thin as he spoke.  “She didn’t ask for me, or anything?”  Not wanting to make a sad situation any worse, the nurse just smiled faintly and quickly stepped out of the room. Josh turned back to the bed at stared at Donna’s pale face; only now, he felt as though he, too, had been through an explosion. “Donna!  Donna!”  She made no response to his call.  He lightly pressed his lips against her palm then set her hand down on the stiff hospital sheets.  “Oh, Donna,” he sighed.  “Who is Colin?” FIN feedback: ballynihinch@hotmail.com