A Fortuitous Meeting (4) "Of course you didn't." She looked up into his face, his brown eyes sparkling behind the glasses she remembered retrieving. She let her eyes play along his face, now not quite so damaged, her glance fell on the scar above his eye, and there it was, that incessantly mischievous lock of hair teasing her. She seemed transfixed by it. But it was Andrew Crance who was taken aback. He took in Anne's mediumly plump figure, her hair curling at her ears, sweeping majestically to her shoulders, her exquisite face, not to mention her red, summer outfit which made her eyes look very peaceful, and her hair... He had to shake himself. "Please forgive me for staring. I don't even know that I got a good look at you before." Anne Chambers laughed, showing her almost perfect teeth, her smile shaking this nervy adventurous pilot in places he had forgotten existed. "The last time you saw me," she reminded him, "you were sick and injured, just a bit confused, and ready to go to sleep." "You are right," he said, finally coming out of his shock. "I was pretty tired. I think I slept off and on for about three days after you left. My head didn't quite clear till then anyway." "Well," she said, falling into step beside him, "it's probably a good thing you were a little dazed. When we met I was in a robe and slippers. What a way to meet someone, eh?" I must have been dazed not to notice you even in a robe and slippers, thought the thirty-three-year-old private pilot, resisting the urge to take her by the hand as he led her out to the little white Cessna 172 which gleamed invitingly and helped her into it. "I think under the circumstances any way you would have been dressed would have been fine." Anne stuffed herself into the aircraft, strapping herself in, holding her hands out for the headset. She couldn't help blushing at his comment. "I think you're right." She took the headset out of the pilot's hand. "You want me to listen in?" "Yes, of course. Amuse yourself with ATC lingo. Besides I can talk to you, it will be easier." "So," she said settling in, "this is what it's like when the cockpit isn't damaged." "This is it. Scared?" "No. I'm not the one driving this bucket of bolts." His laugh was sudden and expressive, warm, and tingling. "Oh, it's more sophisticated than that. This isn't a Liberator." "True enough." She met the pilot's eyes, her smile just as easy. "I trust you, though. You got the other plane down okay." "Just okay?" He turned and smiled at her, wondering why in the last four months since their fortuitous meeting he had been so nervous about calling her. "More than okay. Did you check the fuel on this baby?" He snapped his fingers. "Damn! Forgot!" Their friendship was sealed. "OF course I did. Come on, let's get out of here! I'm starving." "Yes, he will." Anne and Doctor Gregory stood outside the cubicled area where the man whose name she still didn't know lay professionally covered and wired. "We're running some tests. All symptoms indicate concussion. We’re just waiting for the results to show us how bad it is. And he’s got a lot of stitches, too. He won’t forget this accident, that’s for sure. He’ll have scars to prove it happened." "Is he awake now?" "I think so. He's kind of lethargic and in pain, but we can't give him anything, not till we know more." "Did you find any identification? Any family?" "Yes. We found a married sister. We called her, she's on her way." "No wife?" "Doesn't appear to be one, as far as we can tell. Would you mind staying around for a while? I know you don't know who he is." Anne Chambers who knew what it was like to be in a precarious situation, in unfamiliar surroundings, and who would want the same amount of courtesy, nodded mutely. "I'll stay with him. We've already dismissed classes for the day. I'll help out as much as I can." Later, when the doctor had left, Anne slid quietly into the little cubicled area and looked at him. A nurse sat at a desk outside his room, she had waved her in to see him. She watched him breathing, looked at the injured head that lay bandaged on the pillow, golden blonde hair falling over the forehead, touching the stitches above his eye. She came to the cold railing, put her hand on it, leaned down and looked at the pilot's eyes. She touched his hand, his eyes opened. "Are you awake?" she asked, quietly. "I'm kind of awake," he said as if he were far away, not really sure who he was talking to. He turned his head to see her but stopped as pain shot through his eyes. "I wouldn't do that," she said unnecesarily. "Just lie still." She lay one hand softly on his shoulder, and with her other one, gently traced the head bandages, touched the soft, golden strands of his hair. "You feeling okay?" "Headache." "I bet. That fence is worse off than you are." He looked confused. "Fence?" "The fence you hit? You don't remember?" No response. "My head." "I know." She wanted to do something. She felt helpless watching the lights flash on the heart monitor, and the tubes draining all his vital fluids. She stroked his head again. "Do you want anything?" "I'm thirsty. I just want a drink." Anne didn't really know why she had asked him that, she knew he would want a drink, and now she had to refuse it. "The nurses said no fluids til the tests came back. I know you want a drink." Her heart went out to this man who only wanted water. "But I'll tell her that's what you want." "Okay," he whispered, almost as if the effort were too much for him. Silence passed between the pilot and the girl. She wondered if he knew she was touching him. He tried to bring her face into focus. "Who are you?" She put her hand on his. "My name is Anne. I helped you out of the plane." “Hmmm.” Satisfied with this answer, he closed his eyes, no longer interested in his surroundings. She let her gaze wander from his face to the lights, and then back to his face again. Her attention was drawn back to him as he moved slightly, lifted his head, whimpered. "Easy," she comforted, as if he were a child, "easy there. Everyone wants you quiet. To make sure you're okay." Another moment of silence passed between them. "Your sister is coming to see you." "My sister? Rachel?" Thank God, Anne thought, he knew his sister's name even if he didn't remember slamming into a fence in a crippled plane. She moved between the equipment and the bed and came to stand facing his bandaged head. The white bandages covering the cuts and bruises, obscured most of his face, but highlighted his hair. She reached out and touched it again. She almost felt as if she were invading his privacy touching that hair, but she just couldn't help it. She looked through some pictures on the small table and picked one out. She leaned down by him. "Do you want to see a picture of her?" The pilot opened his eyes, took one hand, pointed out the face in the photograph of four people. "Rachel." "And do you see yourself in this picture?" The pilot thought about it for a minute, pushed it away. "Not in it." Well, at least he knows he's not in the picture, he's not confused about that. "What's your name?" He thought about that for a minute. "Andrew," he whispered. He winced, obviously uncomfortable. "My name is Andrew Crance." He gestured toward her, she leaned down and touched his head. "What about the plane? My plane." "They took it. Gone." She didn't know if the pain in his face was from the realization of his plane's destruction or the intense headache. He pointed at something with his hand, she followed his fingers toward a pen. "You can see that?" "can't move my head there. It hurts. Can you give it to me?" "You want me to write for you?" The pilot, anxious, uncomfortable, sick, conceded. "the registration number. Write it for me. they're going to want to talk to me." She wrote for him, then stroked his head, covered his hand with hers. "Okay. I'll find out. Just rest now. Don't worry your head about it. that head already has enough to worry about today." She thought she saw a slight smile play across his lips, his eyes well up a little, but then he closed them as she smoothed the golden blonde hair away from his eye, careful to avoid the jagged line of stitches which extended from his eye across his hairline. Anne heard a rustling on the other side of the bed and looked up to see the nurse smiling. "Well," she said, cheerfully, "you're doing as good a job as anyone. How do you know what to ask?" "I teach seventh graders. I've dealt with a few head injuries." Anne left the pilot, and joined the nurse outside the curtained area. "He was asking about his plane." "Keep him calm. That's important." "I wrote down the number. I didn't ignore his question. That would make him more anxious." the nurse gave Anne an approving look. "You are very smart, Anne. You didn't ignore his concern. sometimes patients have real concerns and people just ignore them. Anyway, good thinking. He's okay now?" "He's just lying there." "Good girl, Anne. You're hired for the job of calming him. Sounds like you already know how to do that." The two women glanced up at a third woman who had joined them at the curtain. "Mrs. Kennedy, his sister," announced the nurse. "We got the tests back," the nurse explained to the women, "he does have a pretty nasty concussion. He'll be here a few days, just to bear watching." "Can he have a drink?" Anne asked, solicitously. The woman the nurse called Mrs. Kennedy chuckled a little, then grew serious. "He'd like the part about the drink," she explained, "probably needs one!" They exchanged tentative, understanding glances, acknowledging her humor. "He was asking for water," Anne explained to his sister. "Yes, of course, now that the tests are back, we can give him water. Doctor Gregory said it would be okay." The nurse wrote something on his chart. Anne put her hand out to the worried woman wearing a blue suit and pearl ear rings. "My name is Anne Chambers," she said by way of introduction, "I'm the one who called the ambulance." "Rachel Kennedy." She took Anne's hand, held it for a moment, then let go, immediately, unable to explain why, liking this young, confident woman who had taken charge. " I got here as quickly as I could. Apparently Andrew had my work number in his wallet in case of an emergency. He's always been practical that way. He has a lot of common sense to go along with his adventurous character." Mrs. Kenedy disappeared behind the curtain to be with her brother. "Not too long now, Mrs. Kennedy," said the starched nurse, slipping a watter bottle into her hand, "he's getting kind of tired." They watched him for a few days, both women taking turns sitting with him, sometimes together, sometimes separately. He opened his eyes sometimes, acknowledged their presence, but remained lethargic and sick. The quiet imposed upon him allowed for slow, but steady healing of the bruised skull and brain.The svital fluids his body needed for proper functioning returned to previous acceptable levels. "No major complications, thank God," said Doctor Gregory. "He just needs quiet and bed rest for a few weeks. I'm going to let him go in a few more days, but I want him quiet. That's imparative." The doctor, who in his usual routine was busy and overworked found time to smile. "No planes! Not yet." During a period when Andrew Crance slept, his sister and Anne sat in the hospital cafeteria staring at bitter cups of coffee. "Poor Andrew," commented his sister, "he was always getting hurt as a boy, climbing trees and such things, this tops them all!" Anne stirred sugar into her cup, hoping it would improve the taste of the bitter coffee. "I'm glad he's better. That was very scary seeing him out there." "Doctor says he still doesn't remember the accident. He will. He'll remember it, hopefully it's not when he has such a nasty headache." Anne watched Rachel stirring her cup, noticed that her eyes were tired, the look on her creamy white face a little uncertain. "What's wrong Rachel? Something is bothering you, and it's not your brother. It's more than that, I mean." The woman sighed, vigorously stirring the heavily creammed liquid in her cup to rid herself of some nervous energy. "Well, actually, it's getting him home. The doctor says in two days, and I'm just trying to work out how to get him back. Maybe I can get David to do it, I can't really get any more time off work, so he'll just have to do it." "I can do it." Rachel looked a bit unsure. "No, really, I don't mind. We're out of session now, I've got tons of time stretching before me, just a bunch of social engagements and a few income opportunities, but my schedule is very flexible and I don't mind helping at all. Where does he live?" "about fifty miles from here." "Okay. Just give me directions. That is, if you don't think he'll be too uncomfortable in a stranger's car." "Stranger?" Rachel was surprised. "Anne, I don't think he really considers you a stranger, not after running across the street and helping out. He won't mind. You probably saved his life." “Oh, well,” Anne thought, thinking of that teasing strand of golden blonde hair across the pillow, "I don't know about that." "DO you think he could have retrieved that cell phone?" Anne remembered him lying sick and dizzy on the grass, hardly aware of what was going on around him. "Probably not." The two women had gotten along easily since their first meeting outside his cubicle, and Rachel couldn't help thinking that this wouldn't be the last time she ever saw Anne Chambers. "I am curious, though" said Anne, more cheerily, finishing her coffee. "He has no wife? No children?" "No. No, he doesn't. He was always a bit too foot loose for that, he loves his plane, you know. He's really going to miss that little Cessna. Well, he never loved any woman enough to give up that plane, or he never found a woman who would love him enough not to ask him to give it up." "Okay," said Anne, not sure she really wanted to know all that. "I'm talking too much now. He'd shoot me for saying that. He'd just say he didn't want to get married, he wouldn't really put all that explanation into it." Anne decided out of boredom to get another cup of coffee. She returned to the table with two fresh cups. "Andrew, he's an excellent pilot, has a lot of experience, has a cool head, he'll probably be back up there, soon. But now...well, he's going to need some looking after, and I can do that part if you don't mind getting him home for me." Two days later, Andrew was sitting up, his hands in his lap, smiling. Anne saw the strands of blonde hair touching the stitches. It was kind of becoming. He looked at her, this time much more steadily. "Hello, Anne," he said quietly, studying her with curious, brown eyes, as if, she thought, he had never really seen her before. "Hello, Andrew. You look a lot better, more like, well, more..." "Human?" asked the pilot, putting his hand up to touch the stitches above his eye brow, and the sore, bruised spot on the part of his head that had violently impacted the frame. "My head still hurts, kind of feels like I was hit by a mac truck, tired, kind of dizzy sometimes, but," he smiled anyway, "Doctor Gregory is saying I can go tomorrow." "Looks like it. I'll come and get you tomorrow, drive you back to your house." "Oh? You and Rachel worked something out, then?" "She'll drop by tomorrow night after work, check on you. No planes, yet, doctors orders." "Okay." He was resigned, or was it that he was tired. "Only one question. What kind of coffee do you want me to bring you tomorrow?" "Coffee?" He contemplated that for a moment, smiled, showing white teeth, making his eyes lively, despite the stitches. "Oh, any kind will do. Pilots fuel." Before Anne came to meet the pilot, she bought an ice pack, and a bottle of Tyloenol. The pain reliever she slipped into her purse, and the icepack she slipped into the bag that held all his posessions. She then proceeded to the lobby, where she met him with a cup of coffee and a map. She walked beside him, gently taking his arm when they came to stairs. "Please forgive my protective mode, we don't need you falling down stairs now. Falling out of the sky, that was dramatic enough for one life time." He chuckled a bit, grateful for her steadying hand. He was still feeling a bit unsteady, but at least he was walking, and for this he was very thankful. "Rachel told you where I live?" he asked as she slid the key into is side of the car and unlocked the passenger door for him. "Sort of. I think she's been a bit worried about you, she just gave me general directions. I got specific directions off the Internet." "Good girl," said the general aviation pilot with obvious approval, sliding into her now cleaned blue Toyoda Cammery and putting out his hand for the cup. He apraised it, sipped, smiled. "Starbucks?" "NO, no. I made it." He touched the healing cut under his eye, the stitches would come out on their own. He gingerly touched the bandage at the hairline and the string of stitches above his right eye. He had an appointment to see his physician in a week. Anne suddenly turned and gave Andrew an unashamed glance, taking in the stitches, the small face scratched and bruised. There was something different about him. The pilot sat calmly, aware of her intense interest. Wordlessly, he took his right hand, traced his eye, tapping a lens. "My glasses. I'm wearing my glasses." Anne leaned back in her seat, suddenly laughing, as if the tension had released. "That's it. You look different." "An improvement?" he questioned, his eyes sparkling behind the glasses. "Well," caught off guard, she shrugged. The pilot chuckled, but that made his head hurt. "An improvement," he said, "I'll buy that. An improvement from lying out on the field bleeding."
Copyright © 2002 Shelley Alongi |