Chapter 3

John found that Carolyn was right — the home fries were delicious. But what was far more delightful for him was having breakfast with another human being. And not just any old human being, either (although any old human being would have given him some pleasure, after close to two years of isolation).

Carolyn Maxwell had worked all night — and it had been an eventful night where she worked — but she was still as lively and pert as any of the customers in the diner who, presumably, had just gotten up from a good night's sleep.

John wasn't feeling so perky himself, despite his having grabbed three hours of sleep in the camper. But the food was good and the company was wonderful. He was a happy man.

"This is — unusual for me," he told her over coffee. "I never ... I don't get much of a chance at ... socializing."

"It must take a lot out of you, doing what you do," she said.

"You mean like in the stories you read about miracle healers?" he said. "How they exhaust themselves with the strain of touching people and taking away their pain? Well, it's not like that, really."

"It doesn't put a strain on you, doing it?"

"Nope. At least, I don't think so. I don't really feel anything at all. I mean, maybe a little something, like a little buzz, you know? But it's not like I feel drained of all my energy, or like I'm personally taking on all the sick person's pain. It's not at all like that."

She looked at him. "Well, you look ... tired."

"Yeah, but it's only like anybody would be tired after hours spent traipsing around hospital corridors. Sort of like you might feel after a hard day's work, you know?"

"But you're a young man," she said. "You look like you're in good physical shape. Sure, you were up all night and all, but then, so was I — and I'm only a couple years younger than you."

"I got a few hours sleep while you were still working," he said.

"Not enough, though. I think this — what you're doing - must be taking something out of you, even if you don't feel as if it does."

"Sometimes," he told her, "I'll get in the truck and drive out of a town afterwards, and maybe drive two-three hours before I stop for rest. So it can't be that I'm all that tired. I usually feel like, you know, that I ought to make a little getaway, just in case somebody might have noticed me at the facility."

"I didn't really think you'd wait for me to get off work," she said. "I had the feeling you would run. I thought I could see it in your eyes."

"I told you I'd wait. It was part of our deal."

He could have added that he had known, even before leaving the ICU, that he wouldn't be able to bear leaving without seeing her again.

Neither of them said anything for a little while. John was in no hurry to go anywhere. He was enjoying being in the company of this tiny, cuddly looking young woman. It was a rare chance for him to be doing something normal people got to do all the time without their even thinking about it.

Finally, Carolyn reached over and lightly touched the back of his hand. "Could I maybe ... ask you for a favor?" she said.

"A favor? Sure. What?"

"It's my dad," she said. "He lives with me. He's real sick. Advanced diabetes. He hasn't got very long, and he's suffering now - a lot. The doctors are talking about amputating his legs."

"Jesus."

"Could you ... come by? See him? See if there's anything you could do?"

"Of course I could," he told her. "But it'll cost you."

"What? How much?" she said, her eyes showing disappointment. "I didn't realize you would expect..."

"That last strip of bacon?" he said, smiling. "There on your plate? Were you gonna eat that?"

It was decided that Carolyn would drive him to her house and John's truck would be left where it was. After describing her car to him, she walked back to the hospital grounds alone to retrieve it, and then waited in the car outside the diner for John to join her.

"After you see my dad, I suggest you take a long nap in our guest room," she said. "I really think it would do you a world of good."

"I am tired," he admitted. "What about you? When are you going to sleep?"

"After I see how my dad is doing. I'm going to make up a story about you, for him. Will it be enough, if you just, y'know, shake his hand as if you were being introduced? No other hocus pocus required for this to work?"

"A simple handshake will do it," he told her. "You just concentrate on your story."

"Okay. You're going to be here for a friend's wedding," she told him. "My friend hasn't got any more room for out-of-town guests, and I offered to put you up."

"I should have brought my bag," John said.

"If you want to stay longer than a few hours, we'll go back to the truck and you can get whatever you want," she said.

Carolyn's house was, she told him, actually her parents' home. Her mother had died several years before. Her father, forced to retire from his work as an accountant because of ill health, had left management of the family home, and of his remaining life, to his only daughter.

The house was a two-story traditional dwelling in a pleasant neighborhood not far from the hospital. When they arrived, Carolyn parked the car inside the garage and suggested that John stay in the car while she dismissed her father's overnight home care attendant. "I don't suppose you want her to see you," she said.

He was pleased that Carolyn was sufficiently impressed with his desire for anonymity that she would think ahead in matters of this kind.

After only a brief wait, she came back to tell him he could come inside.

Carolyn's family home had that institutional smell that comes with the presence of severe long-term illness. John was confident that he could help her father in a fundamental way, but he worried about how she would explain her father's sudden and spectacular recovery.

"I've been worrying about that, too," she said when he'd raised the issue. "He's bound to hear about what happened at the hospital overnight. But, unlike the hospital patients you visited, he'll be in a position to zero in on a particular event — your visit."

"How about if I wait until he's sleeping?" John said. "You can forget about introducing us, and I can just leave quietly, afterward."

"He's sleeping now," she said, "and that would work fine. Only there's a problem."

"What?"

"I don't want you to leave. Quietly or otherwise."

"I don't really have any choice, Carolyn," John said.

"Maybe not. But we need to discuss the matter, at least."

"All right. After I see your dad, I'll leave and get a motel room, out on I-20. I'll get some sleep, like you said. You're right, I am very tired. And you. You need to get some sleep, too."

"I have a feeling that if you help my dad, my usual going-to-bed hour is going to be postponed for quite a while," she said.

"You need to think about what you're going to say to people, about your dad," he said. " ... How you're going to explain his recovery."

"That's a big problem," she agreed, "but there's nothing I can do about it except confront it."

"I'll call you," he told her, "late today after we've both had a chance to get some sleep. We can meet and discuss it then."

He went into her father's room and gently touched the sleeping man's shoulder.

It was after nine a.m. when Carolyn drove John back to his camper, and after ten by the time he had checked into a motel farther down Interstate 20 and collapsed into bed. The camper was an okay place to sleep when traveling. The little air conditioner and the undersized-but-quiet Honda generator he had rigged up managed to keep it cool at night - at least when John had parked someplace where use of the generator was feasible.

But a decent, clean motel room with air conditioning and a full-sized bathroom? Way better.

Not for the first time, he said a little prayer of thanks for Albert Cosgrove and his generous contribution to The Cause. While John Healer might not have much of a social life, he could at least make himself comfortable wherever he went.

He slept hard, well into the afternoon. Even after awakening, he held off until six p.m. before calling Carolyn at home. He wanted to make certain she'd been able to get enough sleep before her shift that night at the hospital. John figured she most likely was due back at work again around eleven p.m.

Maybe, he thought, they could meet someplace before that, and have dinner together.

When he called, she confessed that he had surprised her again. "I figured you had taken off and I wouldn't ever see you again," she said.

"Why would I do that?" he said. "Sure, I'm trying to stay out of public view, but you've already demonstrated that you weren't going to tell anyone about me."

"My dad is up and walking around on his own!" she said. "He's very tentative about it — cautious - because he doesn't trust it himself. But it's just ... undeniable! He's better."

"He should be completely recovered," John said. "You need to take him in, have tests done."

"I do think he's entirely cured," she said. "But I've ... encouraged his caution for the time being. I figure I can wait to take him in for testing until you've gotten out of town."

"Good thinking," John said.

"Don't worry about his medication," she said. "I can handle that all right, until his doctors have said grace over him."

"Any news from the hospital?" he asked.

"They called and woke me up just before noon," she said. "I'd just gotten myself to bed after the fuss my dad had been making. They wanted to tell me not to talk to the press, that the public relations people should be referred any and all inquiries."

"Little did they know who had the real story on what went down," he said.

"Oh, the papers and the television people are pretty much getting it all, second-hand," Carolyn said. "including my description of the Mystery Man."

"Does this mean we can't have dinner together?" he asked.

"I think if we were to go into Atlanta, it would be okay," she said. "My picture hasn't been used in the papers or on television, and as long as I'm not seen with you by anybody I know, what harm could come of it?"

"You don't know anyone in Atlanta proper?"

"I don't know anyone in Atlanta, proper or otherwise," she said, laughing. "Sure, it's only — what? — twenty-five miles? But I'll bet you've spent as much time in Atlanta as I have."

"My motel is west of you," he told her. "Let me drive back in, and we can go on into Atlanta in the camper."

"Are you planning to leave town tonight?" she asked.

"No. I won't even check out. I can spend another night. I'm curious to see what will be in the morning papers."