Protect My Heart

Chapter 9

Clover

"Your husband was brought in five hours ago as John Doe. Your husband is Logan Tyler, correct? One of our staff identified him as a local police officer."

Before I rushed out of there, Margaret said, 'Perfect timing of him. I hope you continue with our sessions.' The doctor mentioned Logan's condition wasn't an on-the-phone conversation. So it must've been horrible.

What if it's a joke? What if he's there and doesn't remember me? What does he look like? Has he changed a lot? Does he have a big, caveman beard? Is he bald? Does he have a new family? Is he... dead?

Questions spiralled in my brain. Dr Eders greeted me by the reception desk, leading me down the hallway. The smell of antiseptic filled my nostrils. In my teenage years, I spent plenty of time in hospitals. And now my husband was there after being missing for two years. No explanation – and I was supposed to greet him with open arms, or what?

"There he is." Dr Eders pointed to the window in Logan's room. I gasped aloud at the sight of him.

Nonetheless, the sight of him hooked to a bunch of monitors had me aching. Tubes attached to his body. The IV fluid had the nutrients to keep him steady.

"A man found him lying on the street a few blocks from here. The ambulance brought him here. It seems that he was shot. We found two bullets lodged in his upper chest and shoulder. We completed the surgery, but he made it through. Now we just have to wait to see what the blood loss might've done to his brain, do you understand?"

Palming my mouth, I put my other hand on the glass. "He's here..."

"Mrs Tyler, if I may ask, when's the last time you saw your husband?"

Slightly uncomfortable, I shrugged. "Two years ago."

"So you've not heard from him since?"

"No. Why? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I understand this may be hard to hear right now, but I have to show you." She raised an image, then an X-ray too. "His ribcage has been battered. It seems he recovered from it, but with the extra injuries, we don't know the long-term effects. He has abrasions on his arms and lower stomach. We found signs of a fractured spleen. It has healed surprisingly well, but that doesn't decrease my point. Look at the photographs, please."

In the photographs of Logan's lower stomach and upper chest were... scars? Bruises and scars – all different shapes and sizes – scattered his body. Most were faded yellow, some purplish blue. A zigzag shaped scar ran across his chest, and my hands fisted the edges of the photos. I flipped to the next which was of his back. Larger amounts of those.

It was something out of a horror movie.

Where's he been?

"I..." I struggled to come up with an answer. "I have never seen them on him before. Only this one stab wound, but it's from years ago. The rest of them weren't there."

I handed her back the photographs, touching the glass. "I need to see him. Can I go in?"

"You may, but if he does wake up then take it easy on him. He needs plenty of rest and no stress. If you detect any sign of alertness, notify me immediately."

The sterile antiseptic scent coated the room. Too many memories from my adolescence. Somehow, two years later, I still had that magnetic pull towards him. I observed his features in the meanwhile, spotting those minor differences. If possible, his hair was more untamed and longer. Not that boyish hairstyle with the floppy swoop. A beard coated his chin and jaw, but it increased his attractiveness. Even if he resembled a caveman. He was dressed in only the hospital gown, his arms braced on either side of him.