With Mercy’s Eyes
Chapter 1
St. Philip Hospital, Los Angeles, CA
Tuesday, October 2nd
Lane wished he’d been in the car instead of Stephen. It should’ve been him unconscious in this hospital bed instead of the man he loved. He gripped Stephen’s hand under the double blanket as an ER doctor and two nurses rushed in.
“We’ve got to take him now, or he won’t make it,” the doctor said.
This wasn’t right—wasn’t real.
A woman in scrubs motioned Lane away. “Sir, we need to get your information.”
He ran after the staff as they quickly wheeled Stephen out. “Stephen? Stephen, I’m here. You’re going to be okay!”
He followed them to the elevator.
They wouldn’t let him in, so he ran for the stairs.
Two floors up, he caught them.
Halfway down the hall, an Authorized Personnel Only sign glared from wide doors, which swung open two seconds later.
Lane sprinted to make it through before the doors shut.
“Sir, you can’t go back there.” A nurse barred his way.
The staff took Stephen down the long, white hall. Distance blurred the label on the room they entered.
“Are you all right?” A man in scrubs tapped his shoulder as the partitioning door clicked shut. “There’s a waiting room right over there if you need to sit down.” He pointed over Lane’s shoulder.
Lane’s gaze flicked from the indicated room to the doors that separated him and Stephen.
“Mr. Harris?” The woman from before appeared beside him. She carried a tablet and stylus. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but we need to get these intake forms done.” She led him to a private alcove.
He numbly answered questions and produced an insurance card.
When they were through, he pushed into the waiting room and took the seat farthest from the door.
A man in mint green scrubs entered, holding a bag of personal effects. “Family for Stephen Parker?”
“Y-yeah. Here.”
The man approached. He set the bag in Lane’s waiting hands. “He’s in surgery. Someone will be out to talk with you soon.”
“Thanks.” It was the right word, but it made his tongue curl. There was nothing to be thankful for.
As the man slipped out, Lane opened the bag.
The sharp stink of asphalt and burnt rubber escaped the tattered pieces of his husband’s favorite lime green dress shirt and khakis.
Slivers of glass sneaked into the bag’s crimped corners.
Stephen’s watch, it’s face hopelessly broken, settled into the pool of glass. He’d given his husband this watch for Christmas three years ago, when they were still dating. It wasn’t the Rolex his father wore, but Stephen hadn’t cared. He’d proudly worn it to work every day.
Lane found Stephen’s phone, tangled in the remains of his pants. They hadn’t even pulled it out of his pocket.
It had been brand new two weeks ago. Now, the once-pristine silver backing was bowed. The screen protector had held the phone’s face together, but cracks crisscrossed every bit of it. Even if the phone still worked, it would have been impossible to use.
Cold metal kissed Lane’s hand.
Stephen’s ring.
He slipped it onto his right ring finger and clasped both hands together, so the matched tungsten bands touched.
Six years wasn’t enough time.
He shut the bag and kept it close.
As the minutes crawled, he scrolled through album after album of pictures on his phone: their first date, Stephen’s sister Stacey’s thirtieth birthday party, the night he and Stephen got engaged, their wedding two months ago…
“Lane Harris?” The surgeon stepped in.
Lane met him a few feet inside the door.
“Let’s take a seat over there.” The surgeon gestured to an empty set of chairs near the window.
Others quietly shuffled toward the opposite side of the room, pretending not to pay them any attention.
Lane followed, but every step dragged him down, as if sand filled his shoes.
The surgeon took a seat, but Lane hesitated. He knew what those furrowed brows and tight jaw meant. If Lane sat, the world would end. He paced between a snack machine and the chair to stall reality until he was ready. But he could never be ready.
To his credit, the surgeon waited.
A boy bought pretzels from the vending machine. The bag’s sharp crackle seemed to rip away bits of air as breathing grew impossible.
A newscaster droned about politics on the flatscreen mounted on the opposite wall. His voice picked Lane’s nerves, stealing snippets of attention, but not enough to eclipse the doctor’s presence.
Finally, he sat.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Harris. We did everything we could, but his injuries were too severe. Your husband is dead.”
Kennedy Funeral Home, Huntington Park
Saturday, October 6th
Lane sat in the front row as Stephen’s mother, extended family, and friends filed out. Only Stacey remained, sobbing on her knees between two lavish flower arrangements. Stephen’s father, as expected, was nowhere to be seen.
A cousin put an arm around Stacey and shepherded her out, leaving Lane alone in the cold chapel.
Silence filled every crevice.
Stephen should be standing beside him. Not laying in that casket.
“Mr. Harris, I’m so sorry to interrupt, but the graveside will begin shortly. Your sister-in-law and her family are waiting for you.” Kennedy’s director seemed comfortable in his black suit and tie, and compassion warmed his eyes.
Lane slipped both hands into his pockets to fight the chapel’s cool air. Stephen’s wedding band still hugged his right ring finger.
At the graveside, a mutual friend lauded Stephen’s character and accomplishments until everyone dabbed their eyes and Stacey wailed.
Guests filed past Lane and Stacey to shake their hands or offer hugs and condolences one more time before leaving. All except Stephen’s mother, who bypassed Lane altogether, laid a hand on her son’s casket, and left.
Stacey hugged Lane tightly. “I can’t take anything else today.” She choked each word. Her heels left a trail of holes in the tended grass as she ran to her car and drove away.
Fall leaves rained onto the canopy, and two dozen empty folding chairs topped a roll of Woodstock grass. Behind him, the coffin waited to be lowered.
Lane touched the lid. Filigreed roses textured its edge.
No more late-night talks over coffee and gas station pizza. No more running lines while Stephen did horrible voices for his scene partners. No more burning Thanksgiving casseroles or watching Stacey’s cat Huddles together.
“I don’t want to do this without you.” Lane sank to his knees. “You’re what got me out of bed these past six years. You promised you wouldn’t leave me.” He hid his face. “You promised.”
This excerpt is ©2024 D. T. Powell. No portion of this excerpt may be reproduced without express, written permission from the publisher.