by Patti Berg
“Thanks so much, Phyllis.”
Elena pulled her hair back into a ponytail, as she sat down in front of her computer to finish up her reports on Caleb O’Mara and to see if the doctor had written any new orders for Mrs. Ackland, her patient in ICU room 3. Mrs. Ackland’s daughter was traveling abroad in Europe and had been very difficult to reach when her mother was brought in by her visiting nurse. Fortunately she was already on her way back to the States. Elena’s only hope was that she would get here soon.
“You seem a million miles away, Elena,” Phyllis said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Elena could think of a bunch of things. Take over the Harvest Festival. Create a petition to save Varner, the children’s ward and PICU. Lock Frederick Innisk in a broom closet. But she kept those thoughts to herself.
“Any chance you have time to get me a cup of hot chocolate from the cafeteria?” Elena asked, digging for her wallet. “I meant to get some while I was downstairs and totally forgot.”
“You have too much on your plate, Elena. I’m surprised it’s only a cup of hot chocolate that you’ve forgotten.”
“That’s why I keep lists.” Elena laughed as she put a five-dollar bill in Phyllis’s outstretched hand. “Get yourself a cup while you’re at it.”
The buzzer in Mrs. Ackland’s room went off, and Elena heard a weak, “Help me. Please.”
“Poor lady,” Phyllis said, closing her hand around the cash. “I’ll read to her this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Phyllis,” Elena said, pushing away from the desk and heading for Mrs. Ackland’s room.
“What can I do for you?” Elena asked, gathering Mrs. Ackland’s icy hands in hers. “Are you having trouble breathing again?”
Mrs. Ackland looked into Elena’s face with cloudy green eyes that Elena was sure had once been bright and beautiful, full of hope and joy. “I just wanted to talk,” she said, her voice soft and quavering. “Is that okay?”
“Of course it is.”
“How is your granddaughter today?”
It hadn’t been all that long ago, just a few hours, that Elena had talked with Mrs. Ackland about Izzy, but time had a way of expanding and contracting in the ICU. As far as Mrs. Ackland knew, she could have arrived in the hospital five minutes ago, or even five days.
Elena would never correct her. She just wanted to keep her comfortable.
“Izzy’s just fine.”
Elena warmed the chestpiece of her stethoscope in the palms of her hands, not wanting to shock Mrs. Ackland with the touch of something cold when she listened to her lungs, heart and intestinal tract.
“Her grandfather and I went to Peoria on Sunday and had a lovely day.” It had been a spur of the moment trip, taken after Elena decided to attend a Saturday evening church service instead of two on Sunday morning, one of her attempts to renew her marriage and her husband’s faith in her.
“I like Peoria,” Mrs. Ackland said, closing her eyes. “Pretty place, especially this time of year, when the daffodils are blooming.”
There wouldn’t be any daffodils for another six months, but it didn’t hurt to let Mrs. Ackland have that pretty and colorful picture in her mind.
“It’s our favorite time of the year to visit,” Elena said. “The tulips were all ablaze: pink ones, yellow, orange and red. What’s your favorite color, Mrs. Ackland?”
“Red, I think. Yes, I like red. Does Izzy like red?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. We bought shoes while we were in Princeton. I bought some black heels, and I got her some red Mary Janes. They’re special shoes to wear to church.”
“I had red shoes one Christmas.”
“Do you still have them?”
Mrs. Ackland shook her head, her eyes closing softly, as if she’d fallen asleep, but she spoke softly, “When my children moved me into their home I had to get rid of a lot of things. I imagine the red shoes went to a thrift shop.”
“Then someone else will be able to wear them and look beautiful,” Elena said, smoothing a short lock of white hair away from her eyes.
Mrs. Ackland opened her eyes again. “Any chance I could have some tea?”
“I’m afraid not. Maybe in a couple of days.”
“That would be nice.”
“I might even be able to bring you a cupcake in a couple of days.” Elena pulled the sheet off to the side, picking up a damp tissue and dropping it into the trash. “Izzy and I made cupcakes last night, and she and her dad—my son, Rafael—took them to her preschool this morning.”
“I made cupcakes for my children too. That was a long time ago, of course. Before you were born.”
“Do you have a favorite kind of cake?” Elena asked, putting the chestpiece of her stethoscope on Mrs. Ackland’s chest, listening carefully and not liking the quiet whooshing sounds she could hear coming from her heart. There was too much turbulence in her normal blood flow. Too many murmurs. “What about frosting? Do you have a favorite?” she asked, hoping to keep Mrs. Ackland calm and comfortable.
“My mother made spice cake. Lots of cinnamon and nutmeg. Too much nutmeg for me”—she wrinkled her nose at the memory—“so I cut that out of my recipe and added applesauce and a bit of pumpkin. My husband and daughter liked…” Mrs. Ackland frowned, as if trying to remember. “Cream cheese. I think. Yes, that’s it. They liked cream cheese. I was happy with whipped cream.”
“Sounds like a recipe I’d love to try.”
“I know it by heart. Remind me later, and I’ll write it down.”
After smoothing the covers over Mrs. Ackland’s chest, Elena walked to the end of the bed, lifted the covers and took a look at thin ankles and long, bony feet. She found an extra bed pillow on the recliner and propped it under Mrs. Ackland’s legs. Her feet were cold, her heels irritated and beet red.
“Why don’t we put some socks on your feet?” Elena suggested, rummaging through a drawer where the nurses kept extra gowns, disposable underwear and other personal needs items for their patients. The socks were rather ugly, something Marge had fought to change, but ran up against a brick wall when it came to budget restraints. Still, the ugly gray socks did the trick and patients rarely, if ever, complained.
Elena lifted one of Mrs. Ackland’s feet, massaged it gently with soothing lotion, working it up her ankle and leg, before doing the same with the other foot.
“That feels nice,” Mrs. Ackland said, her wheezing starting again.
“We want to keep you as comfortable as possible.” Elena slipped socks onto Mrs. Ackland’s still cold feet and fastened on foam heel guards before tucking in the blanket, simple tasks that an aide could do, but something Elena enjoyed.
“There,” Elena said, “all snug as a bug in a rug.”
Mrs. Ackland laughed, then coughed harshly.
Elena was adjusting Mrs. Ackland’s oxygen when Phyllis Getty came into the room, scooting a chair up close to the bed. “I found a wonderful book in the chapel, Mrs. Ackland,” Phyllis said, then turned to Elena and whispered, “Your cocoa’s on the desk. Go take a quick break.”
Phyllis sat down in the chair and opened the book. “‘Chapter One. Thin rays of afternoon sunlight filtered through the leaves of the old maple tree that dominated the front yard of the Howard family home. Unshed tears blurred Alice Howard’s vision as she squinted up at the tree’s majestic canopy. How was it possible that more than fifty years had passed…’”
Phyllis’s voice was soft and soothing. Mrs. Ackland’s cough eased and the elderly lady closed her eyes, a smile on her face.
Elena slipped out of the room. Though there were things that troubled her about Hope Haven Hospital, like financial woes, too much paperwork and Frederick Innisk, there were many more things to be thankful for.
Phyllis Getty, for one.
Chapter Seventeen
SUSAN BOYLE’S BEAUTIFUL VERSION OF “I DREAMED A Dream” swirled around the inside of Candace’s car as she drove past Cavendish House. Living in the 1850 Greek Revival mansion
had been a dream of hers when she was little. Now she dreamed that Brooke might hold her wedding reception there someday.
Candace laughed at her thoughts. It had better be a good ten or fifteen years before Brooke walked down the aisle.
Candace hummed along with the music as she neared Lila’s home. She was feeling pretty good and began to wonder why she was bothering to go to tonight’s counseling session, but she was just a few blocks away and wasn’t going to turn around now.
She turned off Cavendish Drive and onto Winthrop Place, slowing when a red Mercedes roadster in front of her pulled to the curb, a good distance from any of the houses on the block.
Candace’s instincts kicked into gear. Was everything okay? Had the driver had a heart attack? Was someone sick?
Continuing to go slow, Candace looked through the roadster’s driver’s side window, thankful the car was parked beneath a streetlight, and saw a somewhat familiar woman, her blonde hair pulled back into a tight French roll, a dark turtleneck covering a long, slender neck.
The face registered in seconds—Megan Gallagher, the woman who’d briefly visited the grief group last week.
Once a nurse, always a nurse, which meant Candace believed in helping people no matter when or where. She pulled her car to the curb and backed up a few car lengths. Turning off the engine, she climbed out and walked back to the Mercedes.
“Everything okay?” Candace asked, peering through the window.
Megan frowned for a moment, then rolled the window down when she seemed to place Candace’s face.
“I’m Candace. We met briefly in Lila Adams’ grief counseling class last week.”
Megan smiled. “Of course. Thanks for stopping, but I’m fine. Really. No flat tires. No engine problem.”
Considering how red her nose and eyes were, Candace could tell that she’d been crying. “Let me guess, you’re trying to decide if you really want to go to the group counseling session or if you want to cut and run, maybe hole up in a dark movie theater somewhere?” Candace said, knowing that feeling all too well.
“Germain’s Ice Cream, actually, to buy a quart of rocky road and eat the whole thing in one sitting.” She sniffled then managed a grin. “Would you like to go with me?”
“Sounds fun, but…believe it or not, I felt better after last week’s session than I’ve felt in months.” The cold night air seeped through Candace’s jacket, and she rubbed her arms to ward off the chill. “Once we all started talking, I realized we shared a lot in common—especially our reactions to our grief.”
Megan twisted the diamond-studded wedding ring on her left hand. “I keep asking myself, Why me? Why do I get the chance to go on, to maybe even be happy again, when my husband’s gone?”
“I went through that in the beginning,” Candace said, “but I had my two children and a job, and I had to earn money to pay the bills. For them, I couldn’t fall apart. Not completely.”
Megan attempted to wipe away her tears, but there were far too many. “After the funeral,” she said, her lips quivering, “everyone seemed to disappear, and when the shock wore off, when I realized I was alone, I fell apart. Since then, I haven’t been able to talk with anyone but Lila.”
“Let me guess,” Candace said. “Your friends never mentioned your husband’s name and if you brought him up, they’d change the subject or have to get off the phone or—”
“Exactly.”
Why did grief have to be so tough? Candace wondered. Everyone had to go through it at some time or other, which made it seem like it should be easier.
But it was torment.
Megan reached into a purse that looked like it was worth half a small fortune and took out a pack of tissues. She dabbed at her nose then stared out the windshield, quiet for the longest time.
“We should get to Lila’s,” Candace said at last. “What do you say? Think you’re up to going?”
“I’d prefer that quart of rocky road, but…okay. I’ll give it a try.”
“Great,” Candace said. “I’ll see you there.”
Jazz, Verla, Olive and Lila turned and stared when Candace and Megan walked into the room fifteen minutes late. “We’re glad you made it,” Lila said, folding her legs beneath her in an overstuffed armchair upholstered in emerald velveteen, a new acquisition since last week. “Help yourself to some tea and have a seat.”
“I’m sorry we’re late.” Megan bypassed the tea and sat in one of the two plum-colored corduroy chairs at Lila’s right side. “It’s all my fault, because once again I didn’t want to be here. But Candace, bless her heart, talked me into coming.”
Candace sat next to Megan, balancing a cup of orange-and-cinnamon-flavored tea on her jeans-clad lap. “She was doing the same thing the rest of us have done at one time or another.”
“Sitting in the car,” Jazz asked, “debating whether or not to get out?”
“Exactly, but I’m here now and I’m coping. Sort of.” Megan wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand, smearing mascara over the already dark circles. “Of course, all I seem to do anymore is bake up a storm. Pastries and cakes, and I take everything to the senior center and the soup kitchens and the homeless shelters, and then I go antiquing and buy things I really don’t need.”
“We all cope in different ways,” Lila said.
“I didn’t lose a husband,” Jazz said, “but I lost my mom, and I miss her. Since I no longer have her to care for, I’m trying to learn how to fill my life with other things.”
“I’m going to teach her how to make pottery,” Olive said, “and Jazz is going to keep me organized.”
“And we’ll have each other for company,” Jazz added. “No more being alone.”
“I’m rarely alone.” Candace put her teacup on the coffee table, then stood and walked across the room, looking at all the romantic prints framed on the walls. The heroes and heroines. Princes and princesses. The lovers. “I’m with patients all day and I have my children and my mom to go home to, but—”
“But what, Candace?” Lila asked.
“I’m tired of being alone.”
“That’s understandable,” Verla said. “My guess is that we’re all tired of being alone.”
Candace turned, seeing the understanding yet questioning looks on the women in the group. “But…I’m so tired of being alone that…that I’m thinking it would be nice to have a man in my life to share things with. Someone to talk with after the children are asleep, someone who’ll listen to me when I rant and rave about something that rubbed me wrong at work, someone who’ll laugh when I complain about the rising price of chicken breasts. I want to share those things with the man I love.”
Lila leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, gazing at Candace. “With Dean?”
Candace shook her head. “He’s not here any longer. Dean’s always in my heart and even though I miss him every day and every night, I want to fall in love again; I want to be in love again with someone who’s flesh and blood.”
There. She’d finally had the courage to admit it.
Candace sighed heavily. She even thought about wiping the tears from her eyes, but she hadn’t cried. Not this time. Not for herself.
Candace looked toward Lila for advice. “Is it wrong to want that?”
Lila shook her head. “It’s just another step in the process.”
“I feel like I’m betraying Dean’s memory—but more than that, I want to move on. And when that dawned on me this past week, I felt a rush of relief. I felt good, and for the first time in a long time, I dreamed of a future rather than the past.”
The cemetery’s thick lawn had turned from a lustrous green to the color of winter wheat seemingly overnight. In the light of the moon and stars it looked like fresh snow stretching for miles, interrupted only by headstones and the mausoleum where the Cavendish family lay.
It was long past time to be home. Candace had gone for coffee with Megan Gallagher after their counseling session, and they’d talked for over two hours abou
t baking and decorating and antiquing. They’d even talked about golf, the first time Candace had allowed herself to think about the sport since Dean had died on the back nine.
For the longest time, she’d gripped Megan’s fingers as they sat across the table from each other, and she’d listened to Megan talk about her husband. She’d loved him so.
When they parted, Candace invited Megan to join her and her friends at Cuppa Coffee Wednesday morning and again for church at Riverview Chapel on Sunday. She’d balked, as Candace had imagined she would. It was hard to go from married to single, to listen to others—who weren’t grieving—talk about their weekends, their daily lives, their spouses.
All the fun they were having.
But Candace knew she wouldn’t have survived the worst of her days following Dean’s death if it hadn’t been for her family and friends, not to mention the job she’d loved. Helping to bring babies into the world had helped her make it through the many long and lonely hours each day.
The road through the cemetery curved and swirled through various sections of the memorial park, but Candace had been here so many times her car seemed to know exactly where to go; where to park. Candace opened her door and climbed out into the chilly night air. She wrapped her scarf tightly about her neck and trekked through the maze of crosses and headstones, tall trees and hedges, until she came to the hallowed place on a little bit of a rise that had been nearly a second home to her for such a long time.
“Hi, hon.” She kissed her fingers and pressed them against the name etched deeply in the granite: Dean Alan Crenshaw. “Sorry I’m so late, but…”
For some odd reason she’d started to make an excuse for being late, then she stopped. Dean wouldn’t have wanted excuses or lies. He deserved better. He deserved honesty.
The gold and burgundy chrysanthemums she’d placed on the grave last week had dried and at least half the flowers had blown away. There was a time, not so long ago, when she’d brightened Dean’s grave with roses and daisies, iris and daffodils every other day. Now she came only once a week.
