Chapter 9

Somehow Marshall had gotten to the hospital. He knew that he had been riding in the ambulance with Mary, of course, but he didn't really remember anything about the ride. He just remembered Mary's hand, feeling so soft and so fragile. But Marshall knew that Mary's hands were anything but fragile. They were strong, tough, unyielding. They had punched people out, handcuffed suspects, shot a gun to protect her witnesses…to protect her partner. Mary's hands were tough, like Mary, but it was hard to see them that way when Mary was lying there looking so pale.

And now Marshall was sitting alone in the waiting room, endlessly waiting. He had been approached hesitantly by a couple of young nurses inquiring about whether he had any injuries. He had curtly replied, "I'm fine," in a tone that suggested that no argument could possibly sway him from leaving his spot.

"Marshall," called a voice frantically. He looked down the hallway to spy Stan rushing through the hospital corridor, his cheeks turning red and his tie flapping against his body.

Stan rushed up to Marshall and stood slightly hunched over, catching his breath. "Have you heard anything, Marshall? Is she okay?"

Marshall shrugged, "I haven't heard anything, Stan."

"How long have you been waiting here, Marshall?"

"Forever…no, maybe about five minutes."

"Are you okay, Marshall?" asked Stan hesitantly.

"I'm fine, Stan. It's just Mary who got hurt. Why do you ask?" Marshall asked. But then Marshall saw what Stan must see. Marshall, standing in the hospital waiting room with scratches on his face, bruises on his arms, blood on his shirt. "This are just superficial cuts and scrapes, Stan, I'm fine."

"Okay, Marshall," said Stan. "Just promise me that you'll get checked out once we hear something."

"Sure, boss," said Marshall absent-mindedly, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Stan was puzzled at first about Marshall's reaction. This was like a replay of when Mary got shot. Marshall arrives at the hospital first, seeing here before she goes in to surgery. Stan arriving soon thereafter, rushing up to Marshall to ask what had happened. But last time Marshall had collapsed, crying, while this time Marshall seemed to be holding it together much better.

"Tell me what happened, Marshall," ordered Stan.

Marshall looked up, startled at the question. "I didn't tell you?"

"You only told me that you and Mary had been in a car accident."

"Well, I was going to bring Mary out to dinner to make her talk to me. You know we haven't been getting along very well lately. So I drove over to her place and blackmailed her into getting into the car with me. And I was driving to her favorite Mexican place. We were going through an intersection when a driver ran a red light and hit the passenger side door."

And then Stan suddenly understood why Marshall wasn't sobbing against Stan's shoulder right now. Last time Marshall hadn't seen Mary getting shot, hadn't seen her fall to the ground covered in blood. Last time Marshall hadn't forced Mary to go somewhere; Mary had gone to that house with no prodding from Marshall. But this time Marshall had seen Mary get hurt, had coerced her into leaving the house. Stan knew that Marshall was thinking that it was his fault, that he had put Mary's life and the life of her baby at risk.

"It's not your fault, Marshall," said Stan. "It was an accident. You were only trying to be a good friend to Mary. She loves you and she would never blame you."

"But it is my fault, Stan," protested Marshall. "I made her come out today when she didn't want to."

"Did you force her to come with you?"

"Basically. I picked her up and put her next to the car. She only got in when I…when I…when I blackmailed her."

"But she chose to get in the car, Marshall. I'm betting she wasn't scared about whatever blackmail you have coming out. I'm betting she just wanted to have an excuse to spend time with you that allowed her to keep up her wall of shutting you out."

"But I got into the accident."

"You can't control the actions of others, Marshall. I know you did everything you could to protect Mary. It wasn't your fault."

"But it must have been, Stan," Marshall said sadly.

"Don't say that, Marshall. You're the person who loves her the most out of anyone in the world. You've had your differences lately, perhaps, but that doesn't mean that fate is out to get you by taking her away from you. Be strong for Mary, Marshall."

Marshall looked at Stan, blinking away tears, and nodded briefly.

And they sat there in the waiting room for hours. Stan got up once or twice to make a phone call or to use the bathroom. Marshall just sat in the chair, burying his head in his hands and trying to make sense out of a senseless day. Stan suggested calling Jinx and Brandi, but Marshall refused, saying that he had to honor his promise to Mary.

After hours of silence, Marshall finally lifted his head and looked at Stan. He started saying, "I just…" but the doors to the waiting room swung open and a voice rang out, "Family of Mary Shannon."

Marshall and Stan rose at once. "We're her family," said Stan. "This is Marshall Mann and I'm Stan McQueen."

"Very good," said the doctor. "I see that Mr. Mann is Mary's power of attorney and that you're both cleared to receive updates on her condition."

Marshall looked up, startled. Given the deterioration of their relationship over the past few months, he wouldn't have been surprised if Mary had changed the power of attorney to Stan. She obviously couldn't put Brandi or Jinx in charge of making her medical decisions. But the fact that she hadn't changed her power of attorney warmed Marshall's heart just slightly. He knew that Mary was very organized about her medical information, particularly since she had gotten pregnant. The fact that she hadn't changed her power of attorney wasn't just oversight on her part; it was Mary saying that he was still the person she could trust the most out of everyone in the world.

"My name is Doctor Gonzalez," the doctor continued. "Miss Shannon is out of surgery now. Her left arm is broken, and she is badly bruised. She had some internal injuries as well, but we expect her to pull through."

Marshall's throat was suddenly dry, but he had to know. "What about the baby, Doctor Gonzalez?"

The older woman's face crumpled slightly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Mann, but the baby didn't make it." She spoke softly, hating to give the news that caused others pain, but they had to know.

"Does Mary know?" inquired Stan.

"She's still unconscious," replied the doctor, "but I'll be sure to be there when she wakes up in order to tell her."

"If it's okay with you, doctor," said Marshall, "I'd rather be the one to tell Mary. She would…she would want to hear it from me."

"Okay," agreed the doctor. "You can both come back and sit with her now," she said, beckoning the marshals to follow her.

They walked down a short hallway, and there she was, lying so still in the hospital bed, hooked up to monitors. Marshall sat by Mary's side, gently holding her hand, while Stan took a seat on the other side of the bed.

Mary looked as still as death, but Marshall could tell that she was still breathing. He didn't dare look at her stomach, didn't dare look at what now was lost.

Marshall knew that Mary would hate to have him see her like this. He knew that she hated being helpless more than anything in the world. She hated showing her vulnerability, showing that she could indeed be hurt. As much as she wanted to be, Mary was not made out of iron. Her body was flesh and blood just like everyone else.

It wasn't Mary's vulnerability that bothered Marshall the most, though. What really bothered Marshall was her stillness. It had been like this last time, too.

When Mary spoke, her arms conveyed half of the message. Her body language conveyed her tone and her mood, much more than most other people. Her eyes were always darting about, taking in her surroundings. Her hands were always fidgeting with something. When she was bored, Mary would always be throwing paperclips into the tiny basketball hoop that Marshall had constructed for her or making paper airplanes with rude messages written on them to throw at Marshall.

He, of course, had an arsenal in reserve of things to throw at Mary or to occupy her with, depending on whether he was feeling helpful or annoyed at her at that particular moment.

Her feet, too, would always be bouncing. She could never sit down for too long, but when she was sitting she'd cross her legs one way, then the other, then would sit cross-legged in her chair somehow, then would swivel around on her chair, then would slouch back in her chair. She fidgeted so much that one time she'd flipper her chair over backwards, much to the amusement of Marshall and Stan.

But now her feet were still, just like the rest of her. Her hands weren't twitching with the next trick to play. Mary was on pause.

And as much as Marshall hated seeing Mary so unlike herself, so still, he found himself dreading her waking up. Because when she woke up, he'd have to tell her, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to tell Mary that her baby was dead.