Fireflies - By David Morrell Page 0,28

Donna, who came around a corner, adjusting the ties on her hospital gown, and paused as David smiled at her.

David’s smile was broad enough to hurt his cheeks, deep enough to squeeze his heart.

Donna, who had died in his nightmare at the age of seventy-nine, and who even then had seemed as beautiful as the day he had married her.

On his wedding day, he’d been so afraid to give up what he thought of as his freedom, even though he’d made the commitment to combine his destiny with hers, that he’d almost fled from the church.

But he’d abided by his commitment, and when he’d turned from the altar to witness his soon-to-be wife proceeding with such pride and dignity down the aisle, her white gown so magnificent, her brown eyes, auburn hair, and dark oval face so lovely, his heart had rejoiced.

Just as it rejoiced now as he stared at her with wonder—her experience-wearied features midway between the glowing smoothness he’d witnessed on his wedding day and the ashen wrinkles he’d seen on the day she died.

Despite the swirling in his brain, David walked toward her, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her tenderly on the lips. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”

She studied him with welcoming eyes. He swore they glowed. And he swore something else. As eerie as it seemed, he felt that she felt, she knew, that they were gazing at each other, with wonder, as if a miracle had occurred, from a perspective forward of another half-lifetime, of almost forty years.

“In case I haven’t told you often enough,” David said, “I love you.”

Donna’s grin was as winsome as when she’d been twenty-one or seventy-nine. And her humor was as endearing as ever.

“Oh, hell,” she said and kept grinning. “Don’t bore me.”

“Deeply,” David said. “Always. You don’t know how much I mean ‘always.’”

“Don’t I? I do know. Yes!”

Inches away, they surveyed each other’s eyes, and David was suddenly sure that he saw behind her eyes the same desperate knowledge he had, as if they had both returned, both been given a second chance. A reprieve. A miraculous opportunity. To reverse the greatest loss of their earthly existence.

To save their son’s life.

“Yes, always,” David said. “Deeply and forever, I love you.”

Donna’s grin changed to solemnness and, more, the epitome of determination. “I understand. Believe me, yes. Deeply. Forever. We’ve got a job to do, the greatest job of our lives.”

David’s festering question burst from him. “Where’s Matt?”

“He went for a bath.”

Just as in my nightmare! David thought.

“Dad.”

Turning, David saw him.

3

The interval between extensive surgery and the bone-marrow transplant had permitted sufficient time for Matthew’s hair to begin to grow again. Matthew’s scalp was fuzzy with hair. He even had the shadow of a mustache.

But as Matt returned from his bath, holding his robe together with one hand while he gripped a portable radio in the other, he looked flushed. His eyes looked dull. And he was staggering.

“Jesus,” David murmured.

He and Donna rushed to him. Matt wobbled, about to fall as they caught him.

“Almost lost my balance in the … almost cracked my head getting out of …”

“The tub,” a nurse said behind him. “I kept a close watch. I held him tight, but …”

“Slipped. Dizzy,” Matthew said. “Could hardly get out of the … nearly hit my head on the sink.” He gasped. “Need oxygen. Can’t breathe.”

While the nurse took off her gown and put on a fresh one, David and Donna helped Matthew into his room. His knees kept buckling. They eased him onto his bed, then quickly used the sink in the room to wash their hands with disinfectant.

By then the nurse had joined them, washing her hands as well.

“Can’t breathe,” Matt repeated.

“What’s wrong with him?” Donna asked.

David fought to control his dizziness.

“The effects of the chemotherapy. His low blood factors.” The nurse’s tone was reassuring. Nonetheless she frowned, checking Matthew’s pulse.

“David, he’s been like this since you left this morning,” Donna said. “I’m worried—more than usual.”

She had good reason to worry, David knew with inexplicable certainty. His arms and legs tingled in cold, then hot rushes.

“His heartbeat’s slightly higher than normal for him. Eighty-five instead of seventy,” the nurse said. “That’s probably from the exertion of taking a bath and coming back to his room.”

But her frown persisted as she wrapped a cuff around Matthew’s arm and pumped it full of air to monitor his blood pressure.

“Need oxygen,” Matthew repeated.

“Give it to him,” David said.

“He probably doesn’t need it. Most likely he’s