Two Kings (History Plays, Book 4)

5: sun that warms you here shall shine on me

Richard—five years earlier

"It's four in the morning," I mutter, as I roll over to answer the phone, half naked and tangled in the sheets. That sounds like a poor way to answer the phone, however our Little Harry is not one for understanding times of day and night, and needs to be reminded when he calls that other people are sleeping.
"Uncle Richard? Can you come? My mom is sick she—,"
"What?" I'm suddenly fully awake. Anne pats my arm, sitting up groggily. Her drugs make her sleepier than I.
"They're going to take her to the hospital. I need to—they said the baby's coming early I—,"
"I'm coming um—just stay there, I'm coming," I say, sitting up, "Harry? Harry listen to me, wait there, I'll come and drive you."
"What is it?" Anne asks, mostly awake.
"Mary's in labor, Harry called," I say, standing up. We both know it's far too early, it's two months too early. That's not horrible, but it's not at all great, "Can you—,"
"I'll get the others, you get Harry," she says, getting up and sorting for clothes. We both know that Little Harry will respond possibly only to me if he thinks he needs to be with his ill mum. He worships his mum. So does his father.
I have another call to make. Harry called us, but I'm willing to bet not his dad.
It rings three times before he answers.
"Harry? It's Richard—Mary's gone into the hospital—,"

Henry—five years earlier

"What?—what's wrong—no the baby's not due not for another two months," I say, pressing the phone to my ear. Reception is crap. I can barely hear him.
"Just get back all right? I'm not there yet—,"
"Well, fucking get there."
"I will. I will. I promise, just come home."
"I'm coming," I say, slamming the phone down. I'll be there. Two days. Two days is too long but I'll be there. She's strong. She's so strong. She'll be okay. I'll be there.

Richard—five years earlier

"I'm here, I'm here," I say, running down the corridor of the hospital. I'm wearing a sportcoat over sweats, barely armed with a couple of knives and one gun. My men are behind me, but still.
Harry's been kept out in the hallway, he's bouncing and pacing, yellow eyes focused on the door to his mother's hospital room.
"Anne took the others downstairs," I say, petting his hair. He does not react. It's not going well. She's still in surgery. Last they told me they didn't think they'd get to save either of them. Harry is stone.
"They said she started bleeding. Why would that happen?" Harry asks, hands in fists.
"I don't—I don't know," I say, a hand on his shoulder.
He doesn't say anything more. I feel like I should have some wise words for him. My own father died in a hospital not unlike this. What am I supposed to say? That it's all right? I know it's not. All I hear is my own heart in my chest and my own weird mourning for this other person who loved my Harrys as much as I did.
"Is this her son?" The nurse asks.
"Let me see her," Harry says.
"They took the baby to the NICU for now, you can see her. She's resting," the nurse leads us in. A doctor is waiting to explain things to me.
"Are you her husband?" He asks.
"Her brother in law," I say, shaking my head, "Her husband is out of town, he's on his way. Her other children are downstairs with my wife."
"They can come up one by one. She's resting out of surgery now so, that's good," the doctor nods.
"Can he sit with her?" I ask.
"As long as he likes."
That turns out not to be true. Mary crashes an hour later. She never wakes up, her vitals just go down and refuse to come up. That all too familiar beeping of monitors, a crash cart, and Harry, Harry just starts screaming.
When my father died I sobbed. I collapsed on the floor and sobbed. I cried for him to come back, lying on the cold hospital room floor. My grandfather just scooped me up in his arms and crushed me to his chest. Just smothered me in his terribly strong arms. I don't know how he knew that I was coming apart at the seams. That my heart and soul were shattering into a million pieces, and that the only thing that kept me together was his tough arms crushing me into his chest.
Harry screams and tries to throw himself on her. Instinctively, I sweep him off the ground, crushing his slim frame to me, so that he feels my heart beating, alive, and my strength when he has none. Harry sobs, I've never seen such tears stream from his face, or such emotion. He sobs and begs her to come back.
"No—no mom—-mom—I need you—-no no," his voice is hoarse from screaming. Eventually the doctors push us out, and I just carry him back to the bench we were sitting on. He screams and struggles.
"Hit me, sshhhh, shhh I know, I know," I kiss his hair and let him rage against me, tough hell fire, generations of anger and love of pain spent into his tiny arms.
"She loves you so much, shhh," I just keep on holding him like that on the bench outside the room. He keeps screaming and sobbing I don't know how long. They don't move her. She's gone, but they know better than to move her till I give the word.
We're there all day, Harry falls asleep like that, fitfully, his usual two hours, but this time it's crushed in my arms so he doesn't shatter entirely on the hospital floor. And when he wakes any trace of joy is gone from his face. He demands to see his new baby sister. Everything is a blur, I barely remember my morning meds, Anne ushers the little ones in. Harry has for some reason hundreds of dollars in his pocket. He pays the hospital staff to leave his mother's body as his siblings sob over it. Harry himself goes and stands in NICU monitoring nurses and watching his pale, fragile baby sister learn to breath.
And then someone tells me my Harry is here, his plane landed.
"Tell him to meet me at the house," I say, quietly. I'm not about to tell him the news over the phone. We'll bring the children. He needs them. Then we can come back here. I'm not having that scene in a hospital room. "No one but me is to tell him."