by Judy Duarte
“Hi. It’s Claire. I’m sorry for taking off in such a rush. I was afraid I’d have a meltdown, and I didn’t want you to see it.”
“Russell Meredith is a touchy subject, and I should have known better than to have brought him up.”
“No, I’m glad you did. It needed to be said.” Silence stretched between them, and she pressed herself to continue. “You were right, Sam. I need to let go of this obsession to see Russell punished. It won’t bring Erik back, and it won’t help me heal. So I’ve decided to back off. I won’t object to his release.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Not necessarily for Russell’s sake, but for yours. And for the boy’s.”
They were at a point where she could wrap up the conversation—if she wanted to. Yet she clutched the receiver as though she could hold on to whatever connection she and Sam had. “I’m not a mean, vengeful person.”
“I know you aren’t. The thought never crossed my mind.”
That was good. His opinion of her mattered more than anything else had in a long time, and she wanted to make sure he understood where she was coming from. “It’s just that Erik was my life. And losing him…”
“I know.”
Unspoken words and emotion filled the line again, and she forced herself out on a limb. To ease toward the truth. “I wrapped myself into a cocoon, hoping to insulate myself from any more sorrow than I could handle. But being with Analisa these past few days has helped me come to grips with my loss. Life goes on, and to be honest, I’m finally beginning to feel human again. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to continue babysitting until Hilda can come back to work.”
“Does that mean that I still get dinner out of this arrangement? Having you around has its perks, Claire.”
She couldn’t help but grin. “You mean my grandmother was right? The way to a man’s heart really is through his stomach?”
“That’s one way.”
A peace-filled hush—sweet and tentative—swept over them again. While she’d like to bask in it, she also wanted to confront it, but wasn’t sure how.
The comment she’d made about the way to his heart had been a slip of the tongue, and his response had been a loaded innuendo.
Or had it been?
“One of these nights,” Sam said, “I’d like to hire a babysitter and take you out to dinner and the theater. Just let me know when you’re ready.”
When she was ready? Her pulse spiked, and she fingered the hem along the neckline of her tank-shirt. “What do you mean?”
“I’m asking you for a date and giving you an out at the same time.”
A full-on smile broke across her face. “Now that’s an interesting ploy.”
“I thought so. Is it working?”
“Actually, I think it is.”
Sam laughed. “Good.”
Another silence filled the line, this one loaded with possibilities.
“You left without eating,” he said. “Are you still hungry?”
She placed a hand on her stomach, realizing she hadn’t given food any thought since returning home. “Actually, I’ll probably make a sandwich.”
“You know, I fed Analisa after you left, but I haven’t fixed my own plate yet. Why don’t you come back? We can eat on the deck.”
A sandwich in front of the television suddenly held little appeal. “It’ll take me a few minutes to get there.”
“I don’t mind waiting.”
After they said good-bye and the line disconnected, Claire remained seated on the edge of the mattress and scanned the bedroom, which she’d been meaning to redecorate ever since Ron had moved out.
It was definitely time for fresh paint on the walls. Something bright and colorful would be nice, as well as new bedding to match. She might go so far as to replace the furniture, too.
Maybe, in the morning she would call Vickie and ask if they could add a shopping trip to their spa-day agenda, something they’d always enjoyed in the past.
Actually, the idea intrigued her. So did the thought of returning to Sam’s house and joining him on the deck, even if they would have to tiptoe around their feelings.
In spite of an almost overwhelming urge not to dawdle, she did run a brush through her hair and applied a dab of lipstick and mascara. Then she slipped on a pair of tennis shoes and headed downstairs.
She stopped in the kitchen, where her cell phone lay on the counter, and shoved it in her pants pocket more out of habit than need. Then she snatched her purse and keys from the table and headed for the laundry room.
The hint of a breeze whispered through her hair—or so it seemed—and she paused in the doorway that led out of the house and into the garage. Her senses went on alert, and for a moment, she felt uneasy. Unbalanced.
Don’t wait, something inside of her urged. Go now.
She shook off the compulsion to obey, as well as any questions regarding her sanity, locked up the house, and climbed into the car instead.
As she slid behind the wheel, she couldn’t help muttering, “That was weird.”
She backed out of her driveway and, after closing the automatic garage door, headed down the street. When she reached the stop sign, she made a left instead of a right, just as if she’d been instructed to do so by someone in the passenger seat.
But there was no one there; she knew because she’d looked.
She turned onto Peachtree Circle, then Chinaberry Lane—another alteration from her usual route. Yet the closer she got to Mulberry Park, the more convinced she became that this was exactly where she needed to be.
Up ahead, the headlights illuminated something that lay in the gutter where the sidewalk met the blacktop road. A bag of…laundry?
No. Not laundry. A small crumpled body.
Oh, dear God.
Erik.
No. Not Erik.
She hit the brakes, then shifted the transmission into park, leaving the car in the street, the headlamps on, the engine running. In what felt like one fluid movement, she threw open the door and rushed to the injured child’s side.
A bloody face from a nasty head wound would have made it difficult to recognize the boy, but the red T-shirt that was a size too small, the jeans with the gaping hole in the knee, and the dark hair in need of a trim told her who it was.
Trevor.
His skateboard lay off to the side—in the street.
Oh, God. No. She checked for a pulse while she pulled her cell phone out of her pocket, then dialed 9-1-1 and reported the accident. “Hurry. Please. He’s unconscious and bleeding.”
When assured that paramedics were on the way, she took Trevor’s hand, her mind slipping into an instant replay of the day Erik was struck by a full-size SUV and thrown into the bushes at the side of the road.
She’d jumped off her bike and run to her injured son, clawing her way into the brush until she found him lying bent and battered, his blood seeping into the ground, his essence gone.
Trevor’s hand, as Erik’s had been, felt cool and lifeless in hers.
A strange sense of déjà vu settled over her this evening, and she tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the differences: Erik had been on a Sunday afternoon bike ride with his parents and had been dressed in full safety gear, while Trevor had been outdoors at night on his skateboard, alone and without any protection at all.
Still the similarities plagued her, as did an onslaught of questions.
What had happened? Why was he out so late? And where were the helmet and pads Claire had given him?
She directed her questions at God, yet they seemed to dissipate in the air, just as they had three years ago when she’d begged and pleaded with Him to no avail.
Even the unexplained compulsion that had seemed to lead her here like a whisper on the wind had grown still. And just as she’d had no idea where it had come from, neither did she know where it had gone.
“Hang on,” she told Trevor. “Help is coming.”
As a siren sounded and red lights flashed, she struggle
d to claim a sense of relief.
Near Trevor’s body, on the sidewalk, she spotted a sheet of paper folded several times over. It was crumpled a bit. On the outside, light from her headlamps enabled her to read: To God From Trevor.
Had he been on his way to the park so that he could place it in the mulberry tree?
Aw, Trevor. I never should have answered that very first letter.
What had she been thinking? She’d never expected it to come to this.
Two paramedics—one a blond woman—jumped out of the ambulance, rushed to the stricken boy and began working on him.
“Rico,” the female said, “Get his vitals. Then let’s strip and flip.”
Then the thirty-something blonde, who appeared to be calling the shots, asked Claire, “Did a car hit him?”
“I don’t know,” Claire answered. “I have no idea what happened. I was just driving and spotted him lying here.”
The blonde, who’d lifted Trevor’s eyelids to look at his pupils with a light, glanced up long enough to ask, “Is he your son?”
“No.”
Trevor could be her son, though. If she volunteered to take him as a foster child. To be the mother he deserved.
“He was riding a skateboard,” Claire added, as if that could somehow explain all of this.
“BP is one-ninety-two over one-thirty-six,” Rico said. “Pulse forty-eight.”
“Do you know who he is?” the woman asked.
“His first name is Trevor. He lives in an apartment complex off First Street with a guardian. Her name is Katie. That’s about all I know.”
“Get the C-spine on and get his head in line on the backboard.” The woman who appeared to be in charge glanced at her watch. “Four minutes and counting. Let’s get oxygen started, then we’re out of here.”
As the duo worked together, they carefully placed a still unconscious Trevor on the backboard and then onto a gurney.
“Can I ride with him?” Claire asked.
“Sure. Get in.”
A bearded, long-haired man who’d been standing to the side—Claire had no idea who he was or what he’d been driving—volunteered to move her car and leave it at the curb.
“The keys are in it,” she told him.
After the paramedics loaded Trevor into the ambulance, the man handed her both the keys and her purse, leaving her vehicle now parked safely on the side of the road.
She thanked him.
The stranger, his blue eyes bright and compelling, nodded toward the ambulance. “Now go.”
Claire nodded, shrugging off the thought that his breezy, whisper-soft voice sounded familiar, and focused on the injured child.
Just as she had the day Erik had been struck by Russell Meredith’s SUV, she moved as though she was on autopilot, climbing into the ambulance and buckling up for the race to Pacifica General.
As the sirens roared and the red lights flashed, she watched the paramedics work on the boy. Rico began an IV in each of Trevor’s arms.
Where was Katie? She was the one who should be here with him, the one worried about his well-being.
Claire reached into her purse with stiff and trembling fingers and withdrew the telephone number Trevor had given her. Then she opened her cell and dialed.
One ring. Two. Three…
A click sounded, followed by the canned voice of an answering machine. “Hello, you’ve reached Katie and Trevor. We’re not able to get to the phone right now, but please leave your number.”
Claire responded to the prompt. “Katie, you don’t know me. My name is Claire and I have some very bad news. Trevor had an accident and is being transported to the hospital by ambulance.”
With the siren blaring in the background, that last piece of information probably wasn’t necessary.
“I’m not sure when you’ll get this message,” Claire added, “but you can reach me on my cell.” She recited the number. “I’ll be waiting with Trevor until you arrive at the ER.”
“No answer?” the blond paramedic asked.
Claire shook her head. And there was no telling when Katie would get the message—especially if she was out partying with her friends again.
The blonde radioed the base hospital and recited Trevor’s vitals. Claire wasn’t an expert, but his condition hadn’t seemed to change since they were taken at the scene. “The patient is unconscious and appears to have a skull fracture. We’d like permission to take him to Pacifica General. Our ETA is six minutes.”
In the meantime, now desperate enough for a miracle, Claire began to pray silently.
“Please let him live,” she pleaded. “Don’t you have enough kids in Heaven?”
As Walter drew near Pacifica General, he heard an approaching siren and let up on the accelerator. As the ominous sound grew louder, he glanced in the rearview mirror, spotting the flashing red lights of an ambulance racing to the ER. He pulled to the right and allowed the emergency vehicle to pass.
Poor soul, he thought, as the ambulance turned into the hospital entrance.
Walter eased his pickup back into the street and followed the same path until he reached the Y bit of the driveway, where he veered to the right toward visitors’ parking.
There was a time when coming to the hospital had unnerved him, but not so much anymore. Besides, he was eager to check on Maria and the baby.
That same crooked grin, the one that had begun the moment he’d laid eyes on the four-pound, two-ounce newborn, was tweaking his lips again, and another surge of pride washed over him.
Imagine that. There was a new kid in the world, a boy who would soon be walking and talking and throwing a ball.
Earlier today, he’d stood at the window and watched Walter Carl snoozing in his little bed in the NICU nursery. The precious sight had been awe-inspiring—and a little scary, too. But he and Maria had been assured the little guy was doing as well as could be expected.
It had been after two o’clock this afternoon when he’d finally left the maternity ward. He must have been a sight, too, with his feet dancing on clouds and his tail dragging the ground. In his daze and his obsession with the miracle he’d just witnessed, he’d forgotten to stop by and see Hilda on his way out, so he would visit her first tonight.
She probably wondered what had happened to him, and he couldn’t wait to share the news with her. If she was up for a wheelchair ride, he’d take her to the fourth floor to see the new baby.
As he neared the lighted entry, he glanced at his wristwatch. Whoops. Nearly nine. He hoped no one threw him out before he got a chance to at least talk to Hilda.
He entered the lobby, tipping his head at the lady wearing a pink smock, then made his way to Hilda’s room, only to find her alone and crying.
“Hey, there.” He slowly eased toward her bed. “What’s the matter?”
She swiped at her tears with the back of her hands. “Nothing.”
Walter wasn’t what you’d call an expert on women, but when one was crying and said it was for “no reason,” he knew better than to believe her. “Is there something I can do to help?”
She shook her head, then reached for a tissue from the small box near her bed. “No. I’m afraid nothing can be done.”
“Suppose you tell me about it anyway.”
She dabbed at her eyes and sniffled. “The doctor said I can’t go back to work for a couple of weeks.”
“And you’re crying because you’ll miss Analisa?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. I’ll get some disability payments, but they’ll take a while to kick in and…” The flow of tears began anew, and when she’d gotten control, she dropped her hands into her lap and tore at the damp and wadded tissue.
Walter took a seat next to her bed. He lifted his hand to place it on hers, then drew it back, afraid she’d think he was too forward. “Why don’t you try me, Hilda? Sharing the load is what friends are for.”
She sniffled again. “It’s just that I…” She turned to him, her red-rimmed eyes searchi
ng his. “I’ve lost so much already, and while I’m not thrilled with the apartment in which I live, it’s the only home I have. I just hate the thought of moving again.”
He wasn’t sure what to say, what to offer. “I have a pickup, so I can help with that.”
“Thanks, but it’s not just moving boxes and furniture.” She took a deep but wobbly breath, then let it out slowly. “I used to have a house, the single side of a duplex my late husband and I bought back in the sixties. It’s where we lived when we were first married. And then about ten years later, when the other side became available, Frank insisted we buy it, even though it was a financial stretch for us. ‘It’ll be a good investment,’ he’d said. ‘Something to provide extra income in our old age.’”
It seemed like a fine plan to Walter, and he wondered what had happened, how she’d lost it.
Always one to clam up about his own problems, he hated to push for more information. So he figured he’d just keep quiet, much the same way Carl used to do when Walter had rambled on about Margie’s death and the grief that had led a brokenhearted widower to drink himself into a stupor more nights than not.
Hilda cleared her throat. “Last year I lost the duplex plus the bulk of my savings, so I had to move into an apartment. I also had to come out of retirement. Thank goodness Mr. Dawson didn’t hold my age against me and hired me to care for Analisa.”
In spite of his intent to keep still and let her share as much or as little as she felt comfortable with, Walter asked, “How’d you lose the house and your savings?”
The floodgates opened again, and she bit down on her bottom lip before meeting his gaze. “I feel so foolish. I swore I’d never tell anyone about it. But keeping it in is eating me something fierce. And…” She sniffled.
Walter reached for another tissue and handed it to her, wishing there was more he could do. “I’m not one to repeat tales or sit in judgment when a good friend makes a mistake.”
“A good friend?” she asked, a hint of a smile stealing her frown.
“Well, I thought we were.”
She reached over and stroked his arm, letting her hand linger. “I suppose there isn’t anyone else in this world who’s been a better friend to me in the past few days.”
