Where the Heart Chooses

Prologue That woman moaning could not be me. Sebrings didn’t moan, and neither did Manns, which I was by marriage, although I’d been a widow for more years than I liked to think. Neither moaning nor crying ever solved anything, ever made anything better. I strove to bite them back. “Hang on, ma’am. We’ll get you out!” There was a screeching, whining sound as the fire department’s Jaws of Life extricated me from the wreck that was my son’s car. The paramedics eased a backboard under me and raised me onto the stretcher. “We’re taking you to the emergency department of George Washington University Hospital, ma’am. Can you tell me your name?” “I’m…I’m Portia Mann. Gregor—” It was difficult for me to breathe. “Who?” “Gregor Novotny. My…” I drew a shallow breath and tried again. “My driver. How is he?” “He’s already on his way to the ED.” That told me nothing. “My…son…Quinton Mann.” “Jesus! There’s another injured party? He must have been ejected. Whitie, you’d better take a look—” “No, not here.” I would have been amused, but even that hurt too much. “He’ll worry…” “I’m sorry, I understand now. The authorities will notify him, Mrs. Mann. Now, we’re putting you in the ambulance. Small bump.” While one of the paramedics worked on me in the back of the ambulance, getting my vital signs, assessing my condition, the other drove with the lights flashing and the siren wailing. “You’re going to feel a pinch.” She started an IV. I had to concentrate to breathe around the pain, and I was unable to question her further. I began to slip in and out of consciousness. During one of those brief spans of consciousness, I felt the ambulance come to a smooth stop. The stretcher was maneuvered out the rear door and wheeled past doors that slid apart to allow entrance. The lights in the ED were bright even through my closed eyelids. “Bay three!” someone directed. I could feel the cool metal of scissors as they cut my gown from me. How had they managed that without cutting the lynx coat my husband had given me on our honeymoon? “Mrs. Mann, can you understand me?” I started to nod, but my head felt as if it were about to explode, so I contented myself with a whispered, “Yes.” “Good. We can’t give you anything for the pain, not until the doctors have examined you.” “Well, tell them not to…not to dawdle, would you?” There was muffled laughter. “Yes, ma’am.” As if from a great distance, I heard the words, “Possible fractured hip.” “Concussion.” “Internal bleeding.” “Possible pneumothorax.” I was too tired to pay much heed. A hand took mine and held it tightly. The grip was familiar. Nigel? No, of course not; how foolish of me. He had been gone for twenty-four long years. This was my son. I knew that without opening my eyes. “Don’t you dare die on me, Mother! Do you hear me?” Well, yes, Quinton. I imagine the entire emergency department can hear you. “Will she be all right, Doctor?” “She’ll be fine, Quinn.” Mark Vincent—my son’s lover—and I wanted to laugh. His tone guaranteed that if I were not fine, someone would pay dearly. “Does she have any allergies, Mr. Mann?” “No. Generally she’s healthy as a horse.” Really, Quinton. So crass! “Listen, Quinn. I’ve got some stuff to do. You’ll be here, right?” “I’ll be here. Mark.” My son’s voice was strained. “I’m not going to ask what you’re going to do.” “Good. You know I wouldn’t tell you anyway. Mrs. Mann?” Mark’s words were soft in my ear. “You heard Quinn. You’d better damn well be alive when I get back!” I was so pleased he was in my son’s life. I’d need to tell him that. “We have to get your mother to the operating room now, Mr. Mann.” “Yes. Of course.” His hand tightened around mine, and then released it. He must have bent close to me, because his breath was warm against my cheek. “I love you, Mother.” I love you too, my beloved son. “Mr. Mann? DCPD. I have some questions…” I would have liked to hear those questions, but the stretcher was being wheeled away. And I was just so tired…