by Patti Berg
She tried to ignore him, to go about her work as she sang, but for once he didn’t seem to be spying on her work habits. Instead, he looked around the room, his gaze resting on Christine for a moment before looking at Caleb.
Did she see a hint of a smile trying to crack through his hard exterior? Was it even possible for him to smile?
He disappeared only a moment later, and as she sang, Elena wondered if Frederick Innisk might actually have a heart. It was definitely something worth finding out.
“Duérmete, mi niño—”
“What a pretty song.”
Elena turned to find Christine O’Mara wiping her tear-filled eyes with a handful of tissues as she climbed out of the recliner and walked toward Caleb’s bed.
“It’s a Spanish lullaby. ‘Go to sleep, my child. Go to sleep, my love.’” Elena moved over a bit so Christine could get closer to her son. “I could teach it to you, if you’d like. Or better yet, I have a recording of my son singing it while playing the guitar. He has a beautiful voice.”
“A recording would be nice. Thank you.” Mrs. O’Mara kissed her son’s forehead, her fingers barely whispering over his cheeks, as if she were afraid anything stronger might further break his already battered body. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep, but—”
“You need the sleep, Mrs. O’Mara. And Caleb’s doing so much better than he was last night.”
“But he’s still in a coma and there’s no way of knowing when he’ll come out of it.” Her voice cracked. “If he’ll—”
The tears that had pooled in the corners of Mrs. O’Mara’s eyes now flowed freely down her cheeks, and she didn’t bother trying to stop them with the tissues.
“You must think I’m a horrible mother,” Christine said through her tears. “Oh, God, I am a horrible mother. To let him go off alone—”
“That’s not what happened, Mrs. O’Mara. Please, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Elena slipped her hand around Christine’s arm. “Caleb’s friend told the police that he’d talked Caleb into ditching school—”
“He’s too young to ditch school. Kids don’t do that until they’re older.”
“Six-year-olds do it too. My Rafael did it once or twice. You can’t be there every moment of every day.”
“I should have kept my eyes on him.”
Elena wanted to tell Mrs. O’Mara that God had been with her son, that He was watching over Caleb now, but she was careful not to tread on anyone else’s beliefs. Instead, she smiled warmly and held Mrs. O’Mara close while she cried. The poor woman was afraid of losing her son, the little boy who meant everything to her.
Through Mrs. O’Mara’s tears, Elena could hear the buzz and hum of monitors and a host of other medical equipment in the ICU. She also heard the familiar gait of Pastor Tom’s footsteps in the hall, heard the softness of his voice as he and Marge, the day shift nurse supervisor, said hello and smiled when he walked into the room. His sky blue eyes were filled with the compassion and deep, quiet faith that were so much a part of him, as he walked up to Caleb’s bed.
Christine looked up, smiling faintly at Hope Haven’s chaplain.
“Thank you for coming by again,” Christine said, stepping away from Elena and pulling a handful of tissues from a box to wipe her eyes.
“You’ve got a tough little guy here,” Pastor Tom said, placing a gentle hand on Caleb’s brow. “Spending time with the two of you has been one of the brightest spots of my day.”
“All I do is cry. That has to get boring after a while.”
“That’s much better than a frown, or you not being here at all.”
Looking back at Caleb, he took hold of the little boy’s hands, bowed his head and said a silent prayer.
Pastor Tom had a unique way of knowing when and where he was needed. No one had to ask for his help or advice—he just seemed to pop up out of nowhere, guided by the good Lord, he would say, if asked for an explanation.
Walking around the bed, he looked so much like a man of God in navy slacks and shirt, with a white clerical collar. He took hold of Christine’s hands, holding them close to his chest. “You look like you could use some strong coffee and one of the cafeteria’s special chicken salad sandwiches. I was just heading down there for an early lunch. Would you join me?”
“I can’t, Pastor. I left Caleb alone yesterday and look what happened.”
“Elena’s with Caleb, which means he’s in the best of hands. But, I certainly understand your wanting to stay with him.”
Pastor Tom smiled that friendly smile that seeped right into someone’s heart and soul and made her feel good inside. He also knew how to change a conversation at the drop of a hat, to help patients and their families look forward, not back—if that was needed, and in Caleb’s case, it was.
“I hear Caleb wants to play Major League baseball someday.”
Caleb’s mother nodded. “He wants to be a catcher.”
“It’s going to take some time for that to happen,” Pastor Tom continued. “First he’s got to come out of the coma, then he has to regain his strength so he can go home and practice, and although it may not seem all that important to you right now, you, Mrs. O’Mara, will need the energy to help him when that day comes. So come on, please. Let’s go down to the cafeteria. We can talk. And since it’s so nice outside, maybe we can go for a walk…or go to the chapel if you’d like.”
Christine looked from the pastor to Elena, and then at Caleb. “I don’t know.”
“Go on,” Elena said. “I’ll be here, and when you come back, maybe you can bring a little bit of that sunshine to Caleb.”
Christine smiled at last. “He likes playing outside.”
“Once he’s well,” Pastor Tom said, sliding a hand around Christine’s arm and gently leading her from Caleb’s room, “he’ll be back outside again.”
Elena watched them until they disappeared as she heard Pastor Tom ask, “What other sports does Caleb like to play?”
“Just about everything,” Christine answered, her voice fading the further they got from the room.
Caleb was a lucky kid to have such a devoted and loving mom.
The little boy’s eyelids fluttered, a positive sign, Elena hoped. She checked his vitals again and thought about the devotion the women in her family showed for each other. Her mother. Her grandmother. Her own love for Rafael. There was only one mom missing from the equation—Izzy’s.
She’d prayed that Sarah would turn her life around. Prayed that Isabel could have the mother she longed for.
She didn’t know if her prayers would be answered, but she held out hope for tomorrow.
Chapter Eight
CANDACE STARED AT THE ORIENTAL CARPET ON THE floor in her counselor’s office Thursday afternoon, the kaleidoscope of colors swimming in front of her tear-filled eyes. She hadn’t wanted to go to grief counseling. She was a nurse, a trained professional. She could deal with her grief all on her own. But her mom had nagged until Candace made the first appointment. She’d seen Lila Adams nearly half a dozen times now, but it all seemed useless.
A waste of money.
She should be home, playing with her five-year-old son Howie or taking her eleven-year-old daughter Brooke out for a special mom and daughter dinner before taking her to choir practice.
But she sat here anyway, her nose running and a lump in her throat, still suffering the loss of her husband.
“I don’t want to forget Dean,” she said, looking up at Lila for just one moment, then turning away from her, afraid she might see the compassion in her counselor’s face turn to judgment. “But the memories aren’t as clear as they used to be, and I’m so tired of looking at pictures of him when the smile that looks back at me never changes, when they don’t show the real Dean.”
Lila sat quite still, legs crossed, an Audrey Hepburn–like picture of perfection. She took a sip of tea from a delicate porcelain cup.
“Memories, no matter how precious they are, do fade, Candace. But that doesn’t mean t
hey leave us forever,” Lila said at last. “Memories crop up when you least expect them to. An aftershave commercial on TV might remind you of a moment when Dean stood in your bathroom shaving. Maybe he nicked his chin and you blotted away the blood, or you touched his cheek and wished it always felt that smooth.”
She did remember. “When we were still in college, he wanted to grow a beard,” Candace said, smiling at the memory that came to her all of a sudden, “but he was still shaving peach fuzz.”
“Do you remember how that made him feel?”
“I thought it would make him feel like he was less of a man, but Dean didn’t have hang-ups like that.” Candace wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye with the damp tissue she’d been twisting and turning in her hands. “Howie seems to have inherited the confidence gene from his dad.”
Candace crossed her jeans-clad legs, remembering the way Dean had carried Howie on his shoulders on a vacation to Walt Disney World. How they’d sat next to each other on the Dumbo ride, their hair blowing as Dumbo flew through the air. Their smiles had been so big, so happy. Except for their hair color—Dean’s blond, Howie’s brown and copper like Candace’s—Howie would be almost a mirror image of his dad someday.
“What are you thinking about, Candace?” Lila asked. “You seem a thousand miles away.”
“I was thinking about our last vacation together. We had such a great time. No work; all play. And—” Candace reached for a dry tissue and wiped away another tear, wishing the flash of memory she’d just had could have stayed buried deep in her subconscious.
“And what?” Lila asked.
Candace stared at her hands, no longer concerned about the tears streaking her cheeks. “We talked about having another baby. Maybe two more. We talked about buying a big-screen TV so Dean could watch baseball, and a bigger house for the bigger family we wanted and…and all we managed to get before he died was the TV.”
“Are you angry at Dean for dying and bursting your dreams?”
“I’m not angry at him, I’m just angry that my life and my children’s lives have been turned upside down. Brooke shouldn’t have to see a psychologist and neither should I. I want Dean going to parent-teacher conferences with me. I want him sitting by my side in church. I want him holding me when I go to sleep at night. I even want to hear his lousy singing this Christmas when we gather around the piano and sing carols.”
Lila set her teacup on the table beside her. “Holidays can be an awfully tough time, especially the first few years.”
“You want to know what the toughest thing is?”
Lila nodded. “Of course.”
“That you’re the only one I can share these feelings with.”
Candace stood, walked across the room and picked up one of the cookies Lila always kept at hand. She didn’t want a cookie, she just needed to move. Needed to do something with her hands besides worry a soggy tissue.
Taking a bite of the cookie, Candace returned to the chair and stood behind it. “My friends rarely, if ever, mention Dean’s name in front of me. My mom doesn’t talk about him. His parents don’t. It’s like he never existed—but he did. I miss him and I’m lonely and I can’t share my feelings with my closest friends because they don’t know what to say. They don’t know what I’m going through.”
“That’s why you’re here, and that’s why I asked you to attend my new group session.”
“I went last week, but I’m the only one who even mentioned the word grief. I’m the only one who said anything about feeling guilty. The others simply introduced themselves then clammed up, and it’s obvious none of us have anything in common—”
“But you do, Candace. You’ve all lost a loved one. You’re all still grieving.”
“So we’re supposed to sit and stare at each other until one of us gets the courage to talk?”
“The first session’s never easy, but dropping out can’t possibly make anything better.”
When Lila said those words, it was as if Dean were sitting in the room, looking at her, teasingly calling her a wimp, as he’d done so many times. Don’t chicken out, hon. Don’t be a wimp. But Dean didn’t know what she was going through now. He wasn’t here to hold her hand.
“Come to group next week,” Lila said, her voice soft even though her insistence came out loud and clear. “We’ll be meeting in my home instead of here. My receptionist should have given you a pamphlet with instructions on how to get there, the time—”
“She did, but—” Candace sighed deeply. “If I go, it’ll mean more time away from Howie and Brooke.”
“It could mean having a chance to let off steam with people who understand what you’re going through. But it’s your decision, Candace.”
That was another thing that was bothering her. She had to make all the decisions by herself—and she was tired of it. So very, very tired.
Running behind schedule, Candace and Brooke dashed across the Riverview Chapel parking lot. Candace could hear children singing inside, along with the rush of water in the creek that used to meander at the back of church property, but had overflowed its banks during the big storm a couple of months before and had been flowing heavily ever since. Not much had changed at Riverview Chapel over the years. It was still small. Still intimate. Still filled with wonderful people.
Brooke rushed to the front of the sanctuary after Candace opened the front door. The children’s choir director Rick Shaw was a taskmaster. He didn’t appreciate anyone being late, but he didn’t even nod at Brooke as she took her place in the front row. Instead, he waved his conductor’s baton merrily through the air as Brooke joined the others who were singing “Come Ye Thankful People, Come.”
Candace slid into a pew, joining a few other parents, a lump building in her throat as Brooke, her blue-eyed, blonde-haired little girl, sang out loudly. Three years ago, right after Dean died, Brooke had stopped speaking for a couple of months. She’d sat through counseling. She’d cried. She’d been angry. But gradually she’d healed. She wasn’t quite as fragile now, but she still missed her dad.
Candace didn’t want to think about how much she herself missed him. She’d thought about him enough already today. She had to move on.
Somehow.
“All right, children, that sounded pretty good,” Mr. Shaw said. “Fortunately we still have a few more weeks to work out the kinks so it will sound beautiful during our Thanksgiving services. But right now I’d like to talk for a moment about the Christmas concert.”
Christmas was nearly two months away. Why would he want to talk about it now?
“This year,” Mr. Shaw continued, “we’re going to stick with carols and hymns that everyone knows.”
“Jingle Bells?” one of the children shouted out.
“I think we’ll do something more in keeping with the reason we celebrate Christmas. I’ve printed up the words for all the songs we’ll be singing, and I’d like you to start practicing at home.” Mr. Shaw paced in front of the children. “We’ll be working on our program, designing costumes, writing our own short plays, and—”
He stopped in front of Brooke and Candace’s heart sank. Was she going to be punished for being late? Maybe left out of the program?
“Our music director and I have been talking, and we’ve decided we’d like a piano solo this year.” Mr. Shaw smiled down at Brooke. “We’d love it if you’d play ‘The First Noel’ for us, Brooke.”
Candace’s heartbeat sped almost out of control. Happiness and pride mixed together to form a megasized lump in her throat.
The sanctuary lights shone on Brooke’s blushing cheeks. “Are you sure you want me to do it?”
“Naturally,” Mr. Shaw said, putting a hand on Brooke’s shoulder. “Would you want to play for us?”
Brooke swallowed. A tear slipped down her cheek. She looked at Candace as if she needed or wanted her mom’s approval. Candace merely smiled. The biggest smile she’d managed in three years.
At long last, Brooke looked back at Mr.
Shaw and nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” Mr. Shaw said emphatically. “Now that that’s settled, let’s practice ‘We Gather Together to Ask the Lord’s Blessing.’”
Candace sat in the pew beaming at her daughter, thankful that she’d been here tonight to share such a special moment.
And oh how she wished Dean had been able to share the moment too.
Chapter Nine
HAMMERSTEIN’S BOOKSTORE IN PEORIA WAS packed with people on Saturday. It was huge, a place Anabelle knew she could get lost in, literally and figuratively. Of course, she’d always preferred a small, intimate bookstore like Francie’s Books & Things, that once stood in the heart of downtown Deerford. Francie Latrelle had known everything about books. She’d known her customers’ likes and dislikes and constantly recommended good reads. And then the economy took a downturn, and she had to close up shop.
Kirstie and Ainslee, both dressed casually in jeans and sweaters, led Anabelle in and out of aisles—Fiction, Mystery, Romance and Fantasy, Cookbooks, Study Guides, Reference and Medical. There wasn’t anything in particular that Anabelle wanted to look at, but she was happy to follow, watching her girls laugh and talk about anything and everything, just as they’d done earlier, over a big Italian dinner.
Twenty-three-year-old Kirstie led the pack toward the Architecture & Design section, her long, wavy black hair shining in the store’s bright lighting. Not exactly where Anabelle would look for nursery designs, but she’d give her daughters a chance to convince her that babies should have a room decorated in something other than pink or blue.
“Let’s try this one.” Ainslee pulled out a hefty tome that looked anything but babylike. With mom and sister following, Ainslee dropped the book on a big square table, sat in one of the hard, straight-back chairs and opened the oversized book. Kirstie sat next to her sister, while Anabelle stood behind Ainslee’s right shoulder, absently fingering her daughter’s mahogany hair as Ainslee flipped from page to page.
