by Judy Duarte
“We’re still running tests and should have more answers for you in the morning. If her electrolyte levels were stable, we’d be scheduling gallbladder surgery.”
The doctor may as well have been speaking in a foreign language. “I’m sorry,” Walter said. “I’m not following you.”
“We’re dealing with two separate issues. First of all, Hilda is in need of surgery to remove her gallbladder, but because her electrolyte level is off, we’re unable to operate right now. How much liquid does she consume each day?”
Walter shrugged. “I’m not sure, but she carries a thermos of herbal tea with her. And she’s also got a water bottle. I’d say she’s plenty hydrated.”
“Overly hydrated,” the doctor said. “That’s the problem, and it’s probably adding to the confusion and disorientation she presented with.”
Could that—and not Alzheimer’s—have contributed to the forgetfulness that had been worrying her? If so, Hilda would be relieved to hear the news. Yet what was the deal with the gallbladder? Was it his place to ask?
“We’ve given her something for pain,” the doctor added. “And she’s resting easy. I can let you see her for a moment or two.”
Walter nodded, then followed Dr. Singh through the double doors and into the intensive care unit. His gut clenched at the sight of such seriously ill patients, at the bleeps and blips of machines and monitors, so he kept his gaze focused on the route the doctor was taking. The place seemed like a maze, and he just hoped he could find his way out of here if it became necessary to make a quick retreat. Right, left, right, right…
They paused at Hilda’s bedside, where she lay sleeping. Her coloring was wan, but at least she appeared peaceful and out of pain.
“I won’t wake her,” Walter said.
The petite doctor nodded as if she understood the complexities of a friendship Walter and Hilda had been tiptoeing around, as well as the medical condition that still seemed uncertain at best.
When Dr. Singh walked away, Walter focused on Hilda, but didn’t say a word. He noticed a leaf in her hair, which she’d probably picked up while lying on the grass. It was so small, he almost didn’t see it. Still, he plucked it away. He probably could have found a trash can, if he’d been looking, but he tucked it into his shirt pocket instead.
He continued to study the silver-haired woman. Her pulse throbbed in her neck, and her chest rose and fell with each breath she took. He wanted to say, “It’ll be all right, Hilda. Don’t you worry about anything. I’ll be here for you.”
Instead, he did as he’d promised the doctor—kept quiet rather than voice futile words like the ones he’d uttered to Margie time and again. The promises he’d made during desperate bargains with God.
I’ll quit drinking for good, he’d sworn. I won’t gamble or swear. I’ll be a better man, a better husband and father.
When Margie had died anyway, it had been clear that his pleas and promises had fallen on deaf ears. That God hadn’t cared about the man Walter could have been. So at that point, Walter had decided all deals were off.
Whether in outright rebellion or plain old grief, Walter had begun on his self-destructive path, a mindless revolt that had lost him the respect of his stepsons and Margie’s extended family. A downward slide he’d only recently been able to escape.
Another overwhelming urge to bolt rose up inside him, but he managed not to panic. Instead, he placed a gentle hand over Hilda’s, then slowly turned and walked away.
With each step he took away from her bed, he wanted to pick up the pace, to break into a run and try to escape the scent of disinfectant and medicine, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes upon the polished tile floor, the hollow tap-tap-tap of his own worn leather loafers.
Memories of death and desperation dogged him down the elevator and out the lobby doors, where dusk had streaked the sky in shades of orange and lavender. Too pretty for the kind of day this had been.
Determined to do what he’d told Hilda he would do, Walter made his way to the truck and patted the front pockets of his pants, feeling for the set of keys he’d tucked inside when he’d arrived. He couldn’t promise the woman that everything would be okay, but he could pick up the items on her grocery list and check on her pets.
Thirty minutes later, he pulled into the Canterbury Lane Apartments and parked in a visitor’s space near the carports, where a couple of teenagers stood near a beat-up, ten-year-old Toyota Celica, with its hood open. The lighting overhead flickered occasionally, but it gave off enough illumination for them to work on the vehicle that appeared to have been driven hard and wild.
The taller one swore out loud, then slammed his hand against the side of the car. “This is going to cost a fortune to fix.”
Walter grabbed the two plastic grocery bags resting on the passenger seat of his pickup, opting not to ask for directions to 6B and hoping he’d find it on his own.
Near the laundry room, two skateboarders had set up a makeshift ramp and were practicing some fancy moves—without helmets, of course, and wearing baggy pants sure to trip ’em up. Fool kids.
Walter glanced at his wristwatch. Where were their parents? Wasn’t it time for them to be doing something constructive, like reading a book or doing their chores?
From an open window in apartment 9B, a male voice—loud enough for the whole complex to hear—berated a woman, then lapsed into an onslaught of curses that would make a chain gang proud.
Hilda had been right. Her neighbors were young and noisy.
Walter found building six and made his way up the steps to her front door. If anyone wondered who he was or why he was here, they didn’t say anything.
He fiddled with the key in the lock until he finally got it open. He’d have to tell Hilda that she ought to notify someone in maintenance about it.
Once inside the apartment, he ran a hand along the wall until he found the light switch, then slowly closed the door and scanned the small, cozy living room. An autumn-colored afghan lay over the back of a brown tweed sofa, and two matching throw pillows lay at the sides.
The scent of furniture polish and cleaning products told him the place was spic-and-span in spots a man wouldn’t even think to look. And the scent of aged cigarette smoke suggested that a good paint job wasn’t enough to rid a place of the habits of old tenants.
He placed the two plastic bags he carried on a gray dinette table and removed the items he’d purchased. He stacked the box of cat litter on the floor and the bird seed and other dry goods—a jar of honey, bottled water, and dish soap—on the counter. The tea bags had been his own contribution. A little surprise for her, he supposed.
Next he removed the quart of milk, the margarine, and the nonfat yogurt into a small refrigerator, where an open box of baking soda had a prominent place on the neat and tidy top shelf.
Margie used to do that. “It’s to soak up the bad smells,” she’d told him.
Walter wondered if Hilda’s fridge always looked this way, as clean as the hospital room in which she now lay, or if she’d recently given it a good scrubbing. He suspected she was the neat and orderly type.
A chirp sounded to his right, and he spotted a birdcage with two little parakeets—one blue, the other yellow.
“Hey, birdies. Are you hungry?” Walter made his way toward the cage that was lined with the sports page of The Fairbrook Tribune. When he noticed the headline, “Padres Shut Out the Dodgers,” he realized Hilda had used this morning’s edition.
“What did you two think about that homerun in the seventh?” he asked the parakeets, chuckling to himself.
He didn’t know much about birds, but he suspected they had enough food to keep them going for another day. Still, maybe he’d better replenish their little tubs with new seeds and give them some fresh water. He figured Hilda would be pleased if he did, so he unhooked the wire door and reached inside, which really set off the blue one.
“Hush, now. Keep it down. You don’t want to wake the cat, do you?”
&nbs
p; After the birds had been taken care of, he scanned the small living room. “Here, kitty, kitty. I know you’ve got to be in here somewhere.”
No response.
Not that he expected one.
He found the litter box in the bathroom, which convinced him that there was indeed a cat living in here—somewhere. He eventually found the pesky feline in the bedroom when he’d got on his hands and knees and peered under the pale blue dust ruffle. The big, fat gray tabby, which looked more like a raccoon than a house cat, hissed at him from where it hid under the bed.
After replenishing the dry food and water, Walter did his best to change the litter box. He’d never been big on pets, and disposing of cat poop wasn’t his cup of tea, but he figured Hilda, who hadn’t had children, looked on these critters as her pride and joy. So he did the job he’d come here to do, then washed his hands in the bathroom.
As he reentered the living room, he took time to pause before a desk near a window that looked out to the carport. Beside a brass lamp, he spotted her telephone and a small calendar bearing a photograph of a lighthouse. Walter didn’t like snoopy people, but he couldn’t help checking Hilda’s plans for the month.
No bridge club, no church group. No meetings with a friend.
Next Thursday at seven o’clock in the evening, she had a dental appointment, though. Walter’s dentist did that. Stayed open late one night each week for his patients who worked nine-to-five.
Beside the phone, she kept a pad and pencil, where she’d made notes for herself.
Pay the utility bill.
Pick up prescription at pharmacy.
Woman at the park’s name is Maria.
Tucked next to a lamp was a bright, glossy advertisement of some kind. He probably ought to leave it be, but curiosity got the better of him. He picked it up, recognizing the snow-capped Alps in the background and realizing he held a colorful travel brochure of Austria and Switzerland.
Was she planning a trip? He hoped so.
Margie never did get the chance to chase her dreams before she died. Not even that second honeymoon in Hawaii that Walter had promised her.
“We’ll do it next year,” he’d told her, not knowing there wouldn’t be one.
Folks ought to travel before their time ran out.
And, hopefully, it wasn’t too late for Hilda.
Chapter 11
On Monday morning, Sam had just put on a pot of coffee when the doorbell rang. So as he made his way from the kitchen to the Spanish-tile entry, the aroma of the fresh-ground morning brew followed him to the foyer.
He swung open the front door and found Claire on the stoop wearing a pair of jeans, a black cotton top, and a daisy-fresh smile.
Her scent, something different than before, something soft and tropical, caught him by surprise. He couldn’t help taking a second whiff.
“Am I too early?” she asked.
“No, not at all.” He stepped aside to allow her in. “Analisa is still asleep, but she should be waking up soon.”
“Hmmm. The coffee smells good.”
“It’s almost ready.” He closed the door and led her to the kitchen, where the sputters and gurgles coming from the pot validated his claim. “Can I get you a cup?”
“Please. I’d love some.”
He removed two black ceramic mugs from the cupboard and filled them without waiting for the rest of the water to filter through the grounds. “How do you take yours?”
“With cream and sugar if you have it.”
When he turned, two steaming mugs in his hands, he spotted her staring at the front of the refrigerator, where Hilda had displayed several of Analisa’s pictures.
“I love children’s artwork,” Claire said, her back to him. “This one’s interesting. It has two suns in the sky.”
“Actually, the big one with the smiley face is God watching over us.”
Claire turned away from the colorful sketches, crossed her arms and grinned. “I’ve never met a child as spiritual as your niece.”
“Neither have I, but her dad was the same way.”
“Your brother?” she asked.
Sam nodded. “His name was Greg. He and his wife were missionaries.”
“No wonder Analisa has so much faith.”
“I suppose. Greg went through what I thought was a God stage when we were in high school, but he never kicked it. In fact, his beliefs only grew stronger. And as a result, we grew further apart and no longer saw eye to eye on anything.”
“I never had any brothers or sisters, which I’d always longed for. So it’s sad that you two didn’t get along.”
“Actually, when we were younger, we did. And now that he’s gone, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder to respect our differences. Greg was the only family I had.”
“At least you have Analisa.”
Yes, he did. “She’s a great kid, and I’ll do my best to raise her to be a happy, well-adjusted, college-bound young woman. I owe it to her father.” Not a day went by that Sam didn’t regret his inability to change the past or to make amends with Greg, but at least he had a chance to do right by Analisa.
He placed the steaming mugs on the table, and as he approached the fridge to get the milk, Claire stepped aside.
“I’m sure you’ll be a good father to her.”
“I hope you’re right. My old man didn’t set any kind of example, so I’m afraid I’m out of my element and feel inept more often than not.”
“I think all parents experience that feeling at times.” She slid him a wistful grin. “And you’re still pretty new at this, aren’t you? How long have you had her?”
“Her parents died a couple of months ago—within three weeks of each other. I flew down to get her the day I received word of Greg’s accident.”
“That’s not very long for you to get the hang of parenting or for her to adjust to being orphaned. I’m sure the idea of Heaven and a loving God is a comfort to her.”
“You’re probably right, but she seems to be a bit obsessed, and that concerns me.” Sam glanced to the doorway, just to make sure Analisa hadn’t snuck up on him, which happened sometimes. “She seems to be taking the faith bit too far.”
“What do you mean?” Claire asked.
“She talks about Heaven and God a lot. And she’s not only drawn pictures of Him, she’s gone so far as to write Him a letter.”
Claire leaned a shoulder against the fridge. “I’m afraid she’s written more than one, Sam.”
“How do you know? Did she tell you?”
“Actually, I’ve read them.” She straightened, then strode to the table. “Sit down. I need to tell you something.”
Sam pulled out a chair for her, then took the seat beside it. He pushed the sugar bowl and milk toward her, but she didn’t reach for it right away.
Instead, she gripped her mug with both hands, as though needing to hang on to something. “Each day after work, I drive to Mulberry Park, where I begin and end a five-mile run.”
He took a sip of his coffee, savored the caffeine-laden brew and waited for her to continue. But for some reason, she studied her cup and seemed to ponder her words.
When she glanced up, her gaze locked on his. “A couple of weeks ago, while I was sitting on a bench, cooling down from my run, a letter dropped out of the big tree in the center of the park. It was from Analisa and addressed to God.”
“How did she get it up there?” Sam asked. “Hilda never mentioned anything about it. And even if she’d known, I doubt she could have put it in a tree.”
“It would have been quite a climb for Analisa, so I suspect she asked someone for help.”
Sam didn’t like the idea of Analisa roping people—maybe even strangers—into helping her put letters meant for God in trees. His concern deepened.
Claire dribbled a dab of milk into her coffee, then added a spoonful of sugar and stirred. “From the letter, it was apparent that she was an orphan, so I felt sorry for her and responded.”
“You tal
ked to her?”
“No, I wrote back to her. And I went so far as to sign it from God.”
Sam’s brow furrowed. “You pretended to be God?”
Claire lifted her mug with both hands. “I only meant to give her the answers she needed in order to move on.”
“The answers?”
“She asked me—or rather God—about Heaven and wanted to know if her parents were happy there. As a mother…” She cleared her throat. “Well, as a woman who’d once been a mother, my heart went out to her. And I wanted her to believe that her parents were happy, that they hadn’t meant to abandon her.”
Sam could see where that explanation might help Analisa, although he wouldn’t have gone that far. A part of him wanted to argue that Analisa needed to face reality, but losing her parents, especially at her age, had to have been heartbreaking.
“For what it’s worth,” Claire added, “I’ve decided not to answer any more of her letters.”
“How many did you respond to?” he asked, hoping it hadn’t gone on long.
“Two. But I’ve been removing them from the tree so that some sicko doesn’t find them and stalk her.”
His gut clenched into a fist-size knot. “I’ll tell her to stop writing them.”
“Yes, but faith can be fragile. So I hope you’ll be careful not to shatter hers.” Claire tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Children are resilient, but Analisa’s belief in God and Heaven has probably helped her accept her loss and go on. So if you cause her to doubt…Well, I’m not sure that’s going to be in her best interests. Or yours.”
The truth of Claire’s statement leveled him with a cold, hard uppercut to the chin.
At the age of seven, Analisa had been through more than was fair, and just recently she’d begun to bounce back. When he’d gone to Rio del Oro to bring her home, her brokenhearted sobs had just about torn him in two.
“So what do you suggest?”
Claire lifted the mug and took a sip. “In my second letter—my last response—I told her that God was busy and introduced myself to her. I assumed she would know I was human, but she’s concluded that I’m a ‘helper angel.’”
