Love - From His Point Of View!. Maureen Child

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      I remember being racked with shudders as the cold worked its way inside. At some point the shuddering stopped, but by then I was too far gone to realize what a bad sign that was. I remember thinking about Zach, but that isn’t tied to any one moment. Thoughts of my son are woven through all the memory bits, like the rocks. They were everywhere, too.

      I remember the angel.

      That part has a beginning, a middle and an end, beads lined up neatly in order. It was the warmth that called me back. It wormed its way deep inside and tugged at me, made me notice it. And with that noticing came a thought, sluggish but complete: the warmth was real. I knew that because I started shivering again, and shivering—any movement—hurt.

      I blinked open my eyes.

      It wasn’t her face that gave me the idea she was an angel. She was beautiful, but more exotic than angelic with her flat, wide cheekbones and tilty eyes. Her mouth was downright lush. But she had to be an angel. She was glowing.

      Deeply disappointed, I croaked, “I’m dead, then.”

      Those full lips twitched. “No, not at all.” She had a smooth sort of voice, sweet and thick like honey. And a Southern accent, which struck me as odd for an angel. “You’re going to be fine.”

      That seemed unlikely, but even less likely things were happening right before my eyes. “You’re glowing.”

      “I have a flashlight.”

      “No, it’s you.”

      “You’re imagining things. In fact, I suspect you imagined this whole conversation.” She touched my forehead. The delicate bracelet on her wrist brushed my skin, its tiny jewels winking at me. “Now, don’t be wasting all I’ve spent on you. Go back to sleep.”

      I wanted to argue, but my eyes obeyed her instead of me and drifted shut. I floated away on a warm tide.

      “Color’s bad. Rapid respiration.”

      Male voices. Hands messing with me. Where was my angel?

      “Nail beds are white, but it’s damned cold and he’s been here awhile.”

      “Distal pulse?”

      “Can’t find it.”

      I knew that voice. “Pete,” I said, or thought I did. It came out a groan. I made a huge effort and opened my eyes. Pete Aguilar’s face hovered over mine. Pete used to raise hell with my brother Charlie, but that was a long time ago. High school stuff. These days he…I blinked, trying to think of why Pete would be holding my hand.

      “You with us?” He squeezed my shoulder—the left one, thank God. “Hang in there, buddy.”

      Oh, yeah. “Paramedic.”

      “That’s right. Me and Joe are going to take care of you. Where do you hurt?”

      Everywhere. I felt sick, dizzy, scared. “Where is she?”

      “I need to know where you hurt, Ben.”

      “Shoulder. Head. I want…” I tried to sit up, but didn’t accomplish much.

      “Whoa. Stay still, or you’ll open up that shoulder again.”

      “Dammit, I want to know—”

      “I’m right here.” That was her voice—close, but not as close as she had been. “Lie still and let them help you.”

      It’s not as if I had a choice. Pete or the other man tipped me on my side. I would have belted him if I’d been able to move. As it was, I barely had the breath to curse them once they settled me on my back again.

      There was something between me and the mud now. A stretcher, I guess.

      “You’re a lucky man,” Pete told me cheerfully.

      Damned idiot always had been too happy for good sense. Just like Charlie. “Not lucky…fall off mountain.”

      “But if you’re going to fall off one, it’s nice to do it just before someone with paramedic training happens along. She kept you going until we got here.”

      Not an angel. A paramedic. No, wait—paramedics don’t glow.

      A thought slipped in amidst my confusion. “Tell them…power line down. Dangerous.”

      “One of Highpoint’s finest is keeping on eye on things until a crew arrives. Now, we’ve got to get you up to the ambulance where we can give you some oxygen, get a drip going. You’ll feel better then.”

      The other man had been busy with straps. The one he fastened around my chest pulled on my shoulder. I was just getting my breath back when Pete said, “Ready? On the count of three. One…two—”

      They lifted. I guess there was no way to do that without jarring me. I managed to hang on to the ragged edge of consciousness—mainly out of fear, I’ll admit. I wasn’t sure I’d wake up again.

      I weigh about 220. They couldn’t just carry me and the stretcher. They had to let the front end roll where it could, lifting it only when they had no choice. The downhill end, though, had to be lifted pretty much all the time. Pete took that end. He was a husky man, nearly as big as me, but that slope defeated him. After a few nearly vertical yards he tripped or slipped and set his end down suddenly. And hard.

      I heard myself cry out. It took everything I had to fight off the black, greasy wave. Then I heard her voice. She was arguing with them.

      She won the argument. While I was busy breathing, she took over at the head of the stretcher, leaving the downhill end to the two men. Not that I figured this out at the time. Then, I was only aware of pain. The need to stay conscious. And that she was near enough to touch me again, because she did.

      “Stubborn man,” she whispered. Her hand was warm on my cheek, so warm. Almost hot. That heat seemed to push me right out of myself. I lost my grip on consciousness and tumbled off into the darkness.

      Two

      I knew where I was before I opened my eyes. The emergency room at Fleetwood Memorial Hospital was a place of bad smells, beeping monitors and people who wouldn’t listen to me.

      “Deep puncture wound in the clavicular portion of the right pectoralis major,” someone was saying rapidly. “Some involvement of the deltoid. Patient complained of head pain earlier.”

      “He was conscious? Responsive?”

      “At the scene, yes. He passed out when we carried him to the ambulance. After administering Ringer’s…BP holding steady. Pulse…”

      The voices were fading in and out. My head ached and my shoulder was one huge, monstrous throb, but I didn’t feel as sick and dizzy as I had before. Weak, though. And tired. It was hard to pay attention, tempting to let myself drift off again. But if I did, other people would be making the decisions for me. I didn’t like that.

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