by Patti Berg
What a blessing it was to have Isabel and Rafael living under their roof, even when Rafael was making way too much racket in the basement downstairs practicing his music, as he was doing right now.
As much as she wished she and Cesar could have their home all to themselves, as much as she wished twenty-six-year-old Rafael could find a good woman to love and marry and create even more wonderful grandchildren to spoil, Elena loved sharing their home with Rafael and five-year-old Isabel.
Elena took a bite of cookie, remembering how quiet the house had been when Rafael had lived on his own, before he’d met Sarah and before Izzy was born. He’d struggled as the bass player and backup singer in a band that played a lot of weekend gigs in Chicago; but he’d found a one-bedroom fixer-upper that he could afford, and with Elena and Cesar giving him a lot of hand-me-downs, he’d had a pretty decent place to call his own.
And then he’d met Sarah.
Elena heaved a sigh, thinking none-too-fondly of the pretty and petite girl who’d wrapped Rafael around her little finger, before getting pregnant three months later.
That wasn’t completely Sarah’s fault, of course; but once Elena had found the drugs in Rafael’s apartment, once she’d learned that Sarah had a problem and wouldn’t stop using, even though she was expecting, Elena couldn’t stop worrying about the health of her first grandchild.
Now she mostly remembered the five-pound-eight-ounce newborn with a hefty scream and a 100 percent healthy body, and how she’d fallen in love with the curly-haired baby long before she was swaddled in a pink blanket and placed in her arms.
Sarah had worried that she’d be a lousy mom. She’d been afraid of hurting the baby, not intentionally, of course; but she admitted that drugs were a problem for her, and she didn’t want to go to rehab, in spite of Rafael’s encouragement.
A few days after Isabel’s birth, Sarah disappeared, leaving a note for Rafael saying he and Isabel would be better off without her in their lives.
Rafael hadn’t agreed, not in the least. At first he was angry, then resigned to the fact that he’d be raising their daughter on his own. A month later he and Izzy moved back to Deerford, back into the home where he’d been raised.
For Cesar and Elena, having Izzy in their lives, living under their roof, was like having the second child they had always wanted, but couldn’t have.
Elena was just about to grab another cookie when the kitchen door opened, the cold breeze ruffling the black-and-white gingham curtains and blowing Cesar and an abundance of autumn leaves into the house.
It wasn’t often that Elena threw her arms around her husband, but he’d barely closed and locked the door before she was smushed up against his chest, feeling his heart beating in time with hers.
“I thought you’d be in bed long before now.” He planted a lingering, feel-good kiss on her forehead.
“Too many things on my mind.”
“The Harvest Festival?” Cesar pulled away and dropped his duffel bag on one of the dinette chairs.
“That and…you.”
Cesar winked. “Nice to know I fit into your thoughts on occasion.”
Although there was laughter in his voice when he uttered those words, she knew at the back of his mind that Cesar sometimes felt excluded from her life, what with work, helping to care for Isabel, all of her projects—like the Bread of Life Harvest Festival—and the Bible study group she attended each Monday evening, not to mention church.
They’d argued about the time she gave to everything but their marriage more than once. Elena thought she was always there for Cesar, but since she’d returned to church, since she’d brought God back into her life after a long absence, he’d told her more than once that he felt neglected.
This, however, wasn’t the night for a long and meaningful conversation about their marriage. She loved him; he loved her. Somehow they’d get beyond the bump that had arisen in their lives.
“I suppose the festival is consuming a bit more of my time than I’d expected,” she said, “but this is something new for the community, and I’ve had to start from scratch.”
“You take too much on your own shoulders. You need volunteers.”
Cesar—now wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and athletic shoes instead of his uniform, and looking much younger than his forty-eight years—stripped off his jacket and tossed it over a hook in the laundry room, just off the kitchen. He turned and walked into the kitchen.
“Quintessa and some of her friends are going to call potential donors, which is a huge help.” Elena watched Cesar open the fridge, take out a carton of milk and fill a tall glass.
“Want some?” he asked.
“I’ll share yours,” she said, smiling. “As for the cookies, I ate half a dozen while waiting for you to get home. Did you have to go back to the station after coaching at the Y?”
“Yeah. Had some hefty reports to write and a hit-and-run court case tomorrow that I needed to get ready for.”
“I suppose that means tomorrow’s going to be as tough as today?”
Cesar shrugged, taking everything in his stride. “I don’t get paid to do the easy things.”
“But it’s not every day you jump into a raging river—”
“It was a creek, hon, running high and a little too fast.”
“You saved a little boy. That’s the only thing that matters.”
“If I hadn’t, someone else would have.”
Again he opened the fridge and rummaged around. “Any tamales left from last night?”
Elena scooted in between Cesar and the refrigerator that was almost bursting with leftovers, soda and milk and fresh vegetables. “Rafael ate half of them with dinner tonight, but I saved some for you just in case. Sit down, and I’ll warm them up.”
Cesar sat on one of the gray vinyl dinette chairs and stared at the stacks of paperwork Elena had left on the table. “I take it this is festival paperwork?”
Elena nodded. “Lots and lots of to-do lists.”
“Think you’re going to make enough money to buy furniture for all three Habitat for Humanity homes?”
“If we don’t,” Elena said, sliding the thick, corn husk–wrapped pork tamales she’d made onto a plate and setting them in the microwave, “I’ll be hitting up every doctor at the hospital for a hefty donation, and I’ll give a shout out from the pulpit of every church in town asking people to reach a little deeper into their pockets.”
“The economy hasn’t been all that great lately. Maybe you should curb your expectations.”
Elena crossed her arms over her chest. “That would be like asking you to shoot for the hoop without trying to score a basket. I’ve never gone hungry. I’ve never lived on the streets. The people getting these houses have worked hard, day and night, building walls and hanging doors and windows. They’ve smashed thumbs learning how to use a hammer and—”
Cesar put up his hands in surrender. “Okay, I get your point. You’re not going to stop until you have enough money to completely furnish each home.”
“Not me. The people of Deerford. A big portion of them, at least. Can you imagine how special Thanksgiving will be for the new homeowners?”
“I can imagine the look on your face when you go shopping for sofas and chairs and pillows, although…you might want to go with something a little more modern than the fifties.”
The microwave dinged, and Elena removed the plate of tamales. “I’ve got it all scoped out already.” She grabbed a fork and napkin for her husband, and he pushed paperwork aside, cleaning off a spot for Elena to set the plate. “The Friedrichs—the people who own Carol’s Furniture and Appliance—have promised to sell everything at cost.”
“Think you could get me a new truck at cost?” Cesar asked, grinning as he dug into the tamales Elena set down before him.
“I think your current wheels will have to do for a while longer.”
“I was thinking about giving my truck to Rafael and—”
“His car’s fine, Cesar. I lo
ve helping him out, but I don’t want to make life too easy for him. Besides, he says he’s saving up for a down payment on a van that’ll hold his guitars and amps.”
“He could get by with a smaller car if he’d give up the idea of becoming a music superstar.”
“You had your dreams, Cesar. He has his.”
Cesar didn’t comment, although Elena knew exactly what he might have said if they’d continued to drone on about the subject. He’d say that Rafael should get a real job. Something stable. Maybe become a cop and get a regular paycheck, health insurance, paid vacation time and retirement.
Elena agreed with her husband, but Rafael loved his music. He made enough to pay for Izzy’s day care and made sure they both had good health insurance—something Elena and Cesar had insisted on. He paid them a modest amount for rent and food every month, and he was always on time.
Still, they had to be careful and not do too much, like giving him a good vehicle instead of encouraging him to save and buy his own. They didn’t want Rafael and Isabel moving out, but they longed for Rafael to be independent again.
While Cesar ate his tamales, Elena imagined her son graduating from the academy, dressed in a Deerford Police Department uniform, driving a squad car and arresting the bad guys. And after a long day at work, maybe he’d go home to a new wife. And more babies.
Her thoughts came to a halt when Cesar said, “I stopped by the hospital a couple of hours ago to see how Caleb O’Mara’s doing.”
All of a sudden she was no longer picturing her son dressed as a cop. The snapshot in her mind was a bruised and battered little boy wedged in a pile of downed trees, their roots and limbs holding him captive, as the water from Lincoln Creek rushed over him.
“He was in ICU tonight, still in serious condition, still in a coma but holding his own—or so I was told.”
“You didn’t get to see him?”
Cesar shook his head. “His mom and dad were there, and I figured it would be best to stay out of everyone’s way.”
“You should have introduced yourself.”
“And I suppose you would have liked for me to tell them that I saved their son?”
“I know you’d never do that, but—”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Cesar winked. “And I wasn’t about to barge into the room, either, not with his mom crying and his dad sitting in a chair, his head hanging down, looking like his world had come to an end.”
“I can understand that, but if Caleb’s still in ICU tomorrow, will you come by and let me introduce you to his parents, if they’re there?”
“Why? I don’t need thank-yous. You know that.”
He rose from the chair, ending the discussion as he took his plate and glass to the sink, rinsing both and putting them in the dishwasher.
Elena turned off the kitchen light and heard Cesar’s footsteps directly behind her. She turned and smiled at the man she loved, then cradled his face in her palms. “You’re a good man, Cesar Rodriguez. A very good man.”
“So you’ve told me…more than once.”
His smile slowly turned to a frown, as if something had just dawned on him. “You know, all this ‘you’re a good man’ talk is usually accompanied by a request for me to do something I don’t want to do. Some crazy scheme you’ve dreamed up that’s going to require a bunch of my time or, worse, something that’s going to require a strong back, more than likely mine.”
Elena hadn’t had an ulterior motive, not at first, but one amazingly popped into her mind. “Well, now that you mention it…” She let her voice trail off.
Cesar shook his head. “I’m not marching in a parade. I’m not dressing up as an ear of corn or a scarecrow for this Harvest Festival of yours.”
“Actually, it’s the dunk tank I have in mind.”
“Oh no. I’m not getting dunked in cold water when it’s forty degrees outside. That swim I took today was enough of a soaking for a while.”
“Come on, Cesar. You’ve done a lot of good things in town, but I’m sure many of the people you’ve given tickets to over the years would love the chance to send you plummeting into a tank of water.”
Cesar grinned, pulling Elena into his arms. “I’ll do it if you do it, sweetheart.”
“Naturally.” Elena smiled, thinking of all the money for charity the dunk tank would make. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Chapter Seven
THE NEXT MORNING, ELENA HAD THE PRIVILEGE OF discharging Harrison Fogarty at 9:02 am, sending the occasionally crabby guy home to be with his family. A few hours later, two dozen yellow roses were delivered, with a thank-you note from her cantankerous patient.
Dear Cinderella,
In case you didn’t notice, I hate being sick. Thanks for sticking with me, in spite of my foul temper. If you’re interested in buying a new home or investing in property or buying glass slippers or finding a castle in the sky, I’m the guy to come to. I’ve attached my business card. Give me a call.
Harrison
Something told Elena that Harrison Fogarty would be back in the ICU within another year, his stomach once again riddled with ulcers. The guy was a workaholic, and some things just couldn’t be cured.
Elena cupped one of the roses in her palm and inhaled its sweetness, such a refreshing change from rubbing alcohol and pine cleaner. With the rose’s scent lingering, she slipped quietly into Caleb O’Mara’s room. He was still in a coma, yet the cerebral edema—brain swelling—that had been causing intracranial pressure was reacting favorably to oxygen therapy, plus his IV fluids and medications. Elena had thanked the good Lord more than once that Caleb hadn’t had to undergo a ventriculostomy, a procedure in which the surgeon cut a small hole in the skull and inserted a tube to drain excess cerebrospinal fluid.
So many things were looking good for the little boy. His mom, Christine O’Mara, on the other hand, was exhausted. According to the night-shift nurse, the boy’s mother had left the hospital yesterday only long enough to go home and shower.
Christine was curled up now in a recliner on the far side of Caleb’s bed, sound asleep, a baby blanket Elena assumed was Caleb’s, cuddled in her arms.
The midday sun streaked through the room’s window, casting warming rays and God’s heavenly love on Christine and Caleb. Elena checked the level of oxygen in Caleb’s blood and adjusted his respirator, enjoying the hope-filled rays herself. As she took his temperature and rearranged some of his IV tubes, Elena watched his dark brown lashes flutter just above cheekbones that had been scraped and cut and stitched. His delicate, black-and-blue eyelids quivered, and she hoped he was deep in dreams of birthday parties or Christmas morning instead of reliving the rough ride he’d taken beneath the current in Lincoln Creek.
She brushed a curl away from his eyes and wondered if he was as sweet as he appeared, or if he was all worms and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, 100 percent inquisitive little boy, as her own Rafael had been.
Even after just one night, nearly everyone in the hospital had already fallen in love with Caleb. They didn’t keep pediatric trauma patients at Hope Haven all that often. Usually they transported serious cases to Children’s Hospital in Peoria, but Caleb had stayed, reaffirming the decision in a lot of minds that Hope Haven needed its own Pediatric Intensive Care Unit—a PICU—and a children’s ward too.
There had been debate over the subject for years, and Elena was pretty sure that Hope Haven’s administrators and board would make it happen, sooner rather than later—as long as they didn’t encounter dissension from Frederick Innisk. Deerford was growing; many young families with children had moved to town. Even though Peoria’s PICU was wonderful, and it was only sixty-five miles away, the people of Deerford had been asking the hospital to expand to provide more extensive pediatric services.
But money was obviously an issue. Albert Varner had not been in the hospital since Elena saw him storming out on Monday. Chief Financial Officer Zane McGarry, Quintessa’s boss, seemed to be in charge. And Frederick I
nnisk had become a plague on the hospital, creeping around, showing up when they least expected him, making everyone ill at ease.
However, the hospital’s monetary woes and Scrooge Innisk were the least of Elena’s concerns. Caleb was her only priority—and the only ICU patient in her care at the moment, something that could change at any time.
She took a quick look at the computerized chart in Caleb’s room and entered a few notations. His breathing was still a bit labored. His blood pressure had stabilized. Even the chalky white skin that was nearly hidden by his black-and-blue bruises was beginning to turn pink.
Elena adjusted Caleb’s pillow, checked for swelling in his ankles, and when she touched toes that were icy cold, dashed out to the nurses’ station, took a couple of heated blankets from the warmer and went straight back to Caleb’s room.
Christine barely moved in the recliner when Elena covered her with a toasty blanket. Caleb didn’t move, either, as she tucked him up all snug and warm, just as she had done with Rafael when he was a little thing.
Elena hummed softly as she retrieved a fuzzy blue bunny from halfway down Caleb’s bed and curled it up where he would be able to see it when he finally opened his eyes. The bunny, a floppy bit of fluff, had been a gift from Izzy, who’d heard Elena and Cesar talking about the little boy at breakfast. It had shared her bed along with half a dozen other stuffed animals for the past year or two, but she’d wanted Caleb to have it.
“Thumperina”—the name Izzy had given the bunny—“keeps his eyes open all night long watching out for lions and tigers and bears, oh my!” she’d said, her eyes wide when she’d given the bunny to Elena that morning. “It could be awfully dark and scary in the hospital at night, kind of like being all alone in the forest with man-eating trees and flying monkeys watching you, so Caleb might like having Thumperina around for protection.”
Caleb was not much older than Isabel. He’s probably just as bright, Elena thought, and he’ll probably like slumber song, just like Izzy.
“Duérmete, mi niño,” Elena sang softly. It was a lullaby she’d learned from her mother, one that Spanish people had been singing for many generations. “Duérmete solito,” she continued, even when Frederick Innisk peeked into the room.
