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Page 6 of Smuggler’s Cove (Twin Lights #1)

George picked up the phone and asked the operator to put him through to the Paterson Police Department.

Several minutes later, he had the answer.

The windshield needed to be replaced, and the front-end bumper and fender took a beating.

“You can pick it up at the impound lot. They want a hundred-dollar bond to secure fines against J.T. He’s going to have to go to court at some point.

Unless he can’t. But one foot in front of the other. ”

“I can’t thank you both enough. I invaded your privacy and brought a whole lot of commotion with me.”

“Now, you hush.” Betty frowned. “We’re family, and we will figure this out like family.” She put her arm around her sister. “I’ll fix us a cup of tea.” Then the two women burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” George asked.

“Tea.”

George shrugged. Understanding women required a skill he did not possess.

* * *

The next morning, Rita told Jackson they were going to visit his father, and Kirby would be staying with Aunt Betty and Uncle George.

Jackson was puzzled. He didn’t know what it meant to be in the hospital, but he guessed he was going to find out.

And why wasn’t his mother bringing Kirby with them? She gave him a vague explanation.

“Your father was in an accident, and we must visit him. Children Kirby’s age aren’t allowed, so he’s going to stay here until we get back.” She didn’t say how long it would be, because she really had no idea. She simply hoped it wouldn’t be indefinite.

George carried Rita’s suitcase to the car, and then Rita positioned Jackson in the back seat. Betty handed Rita a basket of sandwiches and waved them off.

It was eerily quiet the first half hour of their drive. Finally, Uncle George broke the silence.

“Jackson, when we get back, I’m going to take you fishing like I promised.”

“Okay,” was his response. Nothing more. His world had been turned upside down.

One day they were home; the next, they were on a bus and ended up at his aunt and uncle’s house.

A couple days later, his uncle was driving him and his mother to a hospital to see his father.

Why hadn’t his father come along with them in the first place?

His emotions were unidentifiable. He wasn’t unhappy that his father hadn’t gone with them.

Was that wrong? Now they were going to visit him, and he felt a little uneasy.

Was that wrong, too? He didn’t want to burden his fretting mother with questions, so he remained silent until she offered him a sandwich.

He took it, thanked her, and went back to his pensive mood.

He could tell they were getting close by the appearance of a few more cars on the road, buildings rising in the distance, and trees becoming fewer and more scattered.

Uncle George pulled in front of a police station, and Jackson asked, “Are we there?” It was the first he had spoken since his sandwich.

“Not yet, honey. Mommy must get our car first.”

“Where is it?” Jackson asked.

“I am going to find out. I’ll be right back.”

George offered to go in. “Let me handle this. You wait here.”

Before Rita could protest, George got out of the car and up the short stone steps. Several minutes later, he reappeared, holding up a set of keys.

Rita let the oxygen out of her lungs. “What about the bond?” she asked.

“Let’s not worry about that now. Let’s get the car. It’s just around the corner,” George explained, and drove them to the impound.

Once again George left Rita and Jackson in his car until he could square things with the guard and reclaim the vehicle.

Rita looked on as the guard pointed to their mangled auto.

She gasped when she saw the front end and the shattered windshield.

She got out of the vehicle, and her hands flew up to her face.

“Oh, George. I can’t drive this thing.”

“You’ll take my car, and I’ll find someone who can fix this. I’m sure the guard can recommend a place.”

Tears started rolling down her face for the third time in the past twenty-four hours. Why was this happening to her? She should have stayed at her sister’s. Now Jackson will see the smashup his father caused.

“Mommy? Why does the car look like that?”

“Oh, honey. That was from the accident your father had.”

Jackson’s eyes went wide. “Wow.” That was the closest thing to an emotion he expressed. Then he went back to brooding.

Rita turned to face him as she blotted the tears.

“Why do you keep crying?” he asked, pouting.

“Because, well, a lot of things have happened, and I’m a little upset. I don’t want you to worry. Everything is going to be alright.”

Jackson shrugged. He wasn’t convinced. Before they left for Aunt Betty’s, things didn’t seem alright at home. Now they were back.

George returned to his automobile. “The guy has someone who he thinks can patch this up in a day or two. Drive this to the hospital. As soon as I get some information, I’ll look for you there.”

The hospital was several blocks away, and Rita drove as slowly as possible without coming to a complete halt.

There was a sign for visitor parking in the front.

She asked Jackson to roll up the windows, and then she opened the rear door.

She took his hand, and they walked to the main entrance. A woman in a nun’s habit greeted them.

“Hello. I’m Sister Theresa. How can I help you?”

“Hello. Ny name is Rita Taylor. My husband was admitted two nights ago.”

The sister pushed up her reading glasses that hung at the tip of her nose and began to check the patient information log. She frowned. “He is in a special ward.”

“What kind of a special ward?”

The nun looked hesitant and eyed the little boy.

“Does that mean we don’t get to see him? I drove all the way from Barnegat. The doctor told me I had to come.” Rita tried valiantly to remain calm. “Something about paperwork.” She took a huge breath and let it out.

“Give me a minute, please.” The nun walked from behind the desk and disappeared down a hallway as Jackson looked on with curiosity.

“Is she going to get Dad?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Maybe a doctor.”

Several minutes later, and man in a white coat walked briskly with nun in tow.

“Mrs. Taylor?” he asked.

“Yes. And this is my son, Jackson.” She placed her hand on one of his shoulders.

“I’m afraid your son will not be able to visit him.”

“Why not?” Rita asked.

“It’s a special ward,” the doctor offered.

“Yes, I understand that, but why can’t my son visit his father?”

“Perhaps you should have him sit here with Sister Theresa while you go in.”

Rita turned to her boy. “You sit with the nice lady. I’ll be back shortly.”

Sister Theresa had experienced similar situations before.

No child should encounter a parent who was in the state Jackson Taylor was in.

“Come. You can sit here.” She patted a chair along the wall.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a coloring book and a few well-worn crayons.

“You can pull your chair up to my desk if you’d like. ”

Jackson followed her instructions. He opened the book and tried to find a page that wasn’t covered in markings from previous visitors.

“Thank you,” Rita said, and followed the doctor down a long hall.

“Mrs. Taylor, I must warn you. Your husband is in bad condition. He’s lucky to be alive.”

There’s that sentence again , she thought. “How bad is it?” She wanted to brace herself as best she could.

“With the exception of his left eye, nostrils, and part of his mouth, his head and face are completely covered in bandages.”

Rita was getting nauseous. She grabbed the doctor’s arm.

“Do you need to sit down?” he asked kindly.

“No. No. Let’s get this over with.” She hoped she didn’t sound cold, but there was no need to delay this excruciating situation.

The doctor guided her to a room that had a dozen beds, approximately six feet apart. One patient looked worse than the next. It was like being in the middle of a horror show.

“There was a fire last week. Most of these are burn victims,” he whispered.

Rita felt bile burn the back of her throat as she suppressed a gag. It was horrible. No wonder they wouldn’t let Jackson in. The sight would haunt him forever, as she knew it would haunt her for the rest of her life.

The doctor guided her to the side of her husband’s bed. He looked worse than she imagined. She touched his unbandaged hand. “Jackson? J.T., it’s me, Rita.”

He didn’t respond. She looked at the doctor.

“He hasn’t spoken since he was brought in. He was unconscious for the first two days, and finally opened one eye this morning.

“J.T. If you can hear me, blink twice,” the doctor requested.

Nothing. J.T. continued to stare at the ceiling.

“What do we do now?” Rita fought back her instinct to scream.

“He should be transferred to the VA hospital. We don’t have the capacity to treat him.”

“Treat him for . . . ?” Rita was still looking for some sort of diagnosis.

“His mental state, for one thing. We don’t know what kind of condition he will be in when his bones heal.”

If he wakes up was what the doctor didn’t say, but was understood, nonetheless.

“Can you explain the process? What do I need to do?”

“You’ll fill out paperwork. Do you have his discharge papers from the military?”

“Yes, somewhere at home. How did you know he was in the service?”

“The tattoo.”

“Oh, of course.” Rita remembered the star and bars on his forearm.

“The sooner you can get that to us, the better. He may recover much faster at the VA hospital.” The doctor tried to be encouraging, but by the looks of it, the outcome seemed bleak.

The doctor walked Rita back to the reception area where her son was doodling. She spied George entering the building. The minute she saw him, Rita began to sob.

George put his arms around her, and Jackson just stared.

Rita managed to compose herself. The kind nun handed her a hankie. Then Rita turned to Jackson.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but you’re not going to be able to see your father today.”

“Is he dead?”

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