Mulberry Park

by Judy Duarte

  Claire hadn’t needed to hear the rest, hadn’t wanted to. The civil suit must have broken Russell financially, although she wasn’t going to beat herself up about that now. And apparently Katie, who could have blamed Claire for at least some of her problems, wasn’t going to throw rocks about that at this point, either. Not when Trevor was fighting for his life.

  As it was, grief and guilt had wormed their way into the stilted conversation, which she could understand. Yet a few false assumptions were coming to light, making things even more awkward.

  The assistant district attorney had painted Katie, a onetime foster child with no family of her own, as a greedy young woman who’d roped herself a wealthy executive and who would lie to keep him out of jail. But Katie had taken on the job of raising Russell’s son, and even though whatever money and property he’d accrued over the years appeared to be gone, she’d stuck it out.

  As if there weren’t enough ugly and discomfiting thoughts to deal with, regret reared its head and pointed a gnarly finger at Claire, who’d thought the worst of Trevor’s guardian and made assumptions she’d had no business making. She’d even gone so far as to report her suspicions to child protective services.

  How did one go about backpedaling on a claim like that? She didn’t know, but she would make some calls first thing in the morning.

  “Did they say how long the surgery would take?” Katie asked, drawing Claire from her self-incriminating thoughts.

  “No. They didn’t.”

  Katie’s shoulders slumped, and she exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “What am I going to tell Russell? He’ll be devastated if…” Again she glanced at Claire and clamped her lips, cutting off any further explanation.

  “Come on.” Claire stood. “Let’s tell someone at the front desk that you’re here. Maybe there’s some news they can share with us.”

  Claire led Katie to the ER receptionist. Moments later, a nurse’s aide escorted them both back to a special room where the family and friends of surgery patients waited.

  They didn’t talk much; they were probably both caught up in their own thoughts and fears. Yet as grueling as it was to stay, Claire couldn’t bring herself to leave Katie alone. Nor could she deny her own sense of helplessness. Her own instinct to reach out to a God who’d seemed distant, uncaring, and silent for the past three years.

  Once upon a time, Claire had believed in miracles.

  Maybe she still did. Especially when God appeared to be the only one who could help.

  She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and silently cried out for a miracle. But as she began to open herself up to spiritual discourse, she couldn’t help laying her own pain upon the Throne, her own failures. Her guilt.

  Confession, they said, was good for the soul. And maybe they were right.

  She’d been so caught up in her own pain, her own loss, that she’d failed to see that tragedy had struck two families that fateful day.

  Who knew why some children were spared and others taken? It was beyond her understanding. But it wasn’t beyond God’s.

  As her prayer deepened, as she opened her heart and mind, the first sense of peace she’d felt in years began to fill her battered soul. Before she could get anywhere near enough of it, the neurosurgeon came into the room looking for Katie.

  “We managed to do some repair work,” the doctor said, “but it will be a long time before Trevor is out of danger. We lost him twice on the table, and we’re not sure whether that caused any permanent brain damage.”

  Katie’s tears gave way to heart-wrenching sobs, and Claire fought against an onslaught of her own. Surely there was something she could do.

  You know what needs to be done. The voice, the barest of whispers, had returned.

  And it was right. Claire did know what to do.

  She reached for her cell and dialed Sam’s number. Then she stepped into the hall to speak to him in private. As she apologized for the late night call, the emotion she’d been struggling with all evening bobbed in her throat.

  “Don’t worry about the time,” Sam said. “What’s up?”

  “You know the boy I told you about? He’s Russell Meredith’s son. He’s just had surgery, and they don’t know if he’ll survive.”

  Sam didn’t respond immediately, and she suspected it was because he was sorting through the news just as she’d had to.

  He finally asked, “Are you okay, Claire?”

  She pressed her lips together, then cleared her throat. “So far so good. But you have to do me a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “Pull strings, make calls. Do whatever it takes. I want Russell released from prison.”

  “The parole board hearing isn’t until Thursday.”

  “That could be too late. Surely there’s something else you can do. Trevor is in a coma and on life support. He might not make it through the night.”

  And if that were the case, Russell ought to at least have a chance to say good-bye.

  Sam stood barefoot in the kitchen and watched the morning coffee dribble into the carafe, waiting to hear from Jake.

  After Claire had called last night, Sam hadn’t given the time any thought at all. He’d quickly contacted his friend and colleague. Jake had been too concerned about his client to care about being awakened from a sound sleep.

  When Sam had shared the tragic news and Claire’s request, he and Jake had put their heads together, agreeing to do whatever they could to facilitate Russell’s release, even if it was just a temporary furlough that would allow the father to visit his comatose son.

  Sam had just begun to pour himself a cup of coffee when the phone rang, and he snagged it immediately. “What’d you find out?”

  Instead of Jake’s voice, it was Claire’s. “Trevor’s still alive. That’s about all I can tell you.”

  “I’m sorry. I thought you were Jake Goldstein.”

  “Russell’s attorney?”

  “Yes. He and I talked last night, and he’s doing what he can. He plays golf with a retired prison warden who has connections. And a family that attends his temple has a relative who’s on the state parole board. So that’s another route we can go. I also have a call in to a friend of mine who works at the governor’s office. We’re trying everything we can.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Sam, more than anyone, knew just how difficult this situation had to be on Claire. “How’d you sleep last night?”

  “I didn’t. I’m still at the hospital. I couldn’t leave Katie alone. She’s falling apart, and I can understand why. She’s young and feels as though she’s let Russell down by not watching Trevor closely enough. I was wrong about her, Sam. She’s been pedaling as fast as she can to stay on top of the rent and the day-to-day living expenses. Neither she nor Russell wanted to apply for state aid, even though that stupid civil suit nearly bankrupted them.”

  It had been Ron’s decision to sue Russell for wrongful death, and Sam had merely done his job. The jury had been sympathetic and awarded the Harpers over four million dollars. Now, Sam suspected, Claire was also struggling with the result of that ruling, as well as everything else.

  “You know,” Claire said, “for the first time in ages, I prayed last night. And it felt good. Right.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “I just wish I had Analisa’s faith,” she added.

  “Speaking of Analisa, don’t worry about her today. I’ll take her to the office with me.”

  Claire caught her breath. “Oh, no. I completely forgot…”

  “Hey, it’s not a problem. I’ll just pack her coloring books and crayons. She can pretend she’s the assistant receptionist. And if I can get away for a while, I’ll come by the hospital a little later. This has got to be tough on you, Claire.”

  “It is, but I can’t seem to imagine myself being anywhere else right now.”

  “Trevor is lucky you came by and found him.”

  She paused. “Maybe. But on the other hand, if he didn�
�t think God answered letters that were placed in trees, he wouldn’t have been out at night.”

  “Trevor’s accident wasn’t your fault, Claire.”

  “Intellectually, I know that.”

  “I guess that’s the first step.” Sam glanced up and saw Analisa standing in the doorway, Lucita in her arms. He offered her a smile, then returned to his conversation with Claire.

  “Keep me posted about Russell,” she said. “All right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  When the line disconnected, Sam felt a tug on his bathrobe and glanced down to see Analisa looking up at him, her eyes glistening with apprehension. “What happened to Trevor? Is he okay?”

  That wasn’t something Sam wanted to discuss with her. What had she overheard? Claire had done most of the talking, but he must have said something.

  While Sam tried to choose an appropriate response, his niece pressed him for an honest answer. “I heard you say Trevor had an accident.”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  Sam’s old man hadn’t always been truthful, and both Sam and Greg had sworn they’d never lie to their kids when they became parents. But what about in a case like this? Under the circumstances, would Greg still feel the need to be honest with her?

  And if not, what if the boy died? Analisa would not only lose a friend, but she might think Sam had betrayed her by keeping the seriousness of the injury a secret.

  “Trevor fell off his skateboard,” Sam admitted. “And yes, he was hurt badly.”

  Analisa drew Lucita close, like a mother cradling her child. “Is he going to die?”

  “I hope not. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

  “But sometimes doctors can’t fix people. You and me better pray right now.”

  “I’ll listen while you do it. God doesn’t know me very well.”

  “He knows everyone, Uncle Sam. Even you. But I’ll pray and show you how. It’s really easy.” Analisa slipped her hand into his.

  Sam had never understood his brother’s faith, so it was a bit staggering to see his niece take the lead. It was a bit surprising, too, especially when God had failed to heal her mother or to spare her father.

  Analisa led him to the kitchen table, where she took a seat and waited for him to join her. “Let’s hold hands.”

  Surely hand-holding wasn’t a prerequisite, although what did Sam know? Either way, he complied.

  Analisa bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Dear God, please make Trevor get better right away, just like Mrs. Richards did. But if you want him to go to Heaven instead, will you show him my mommy and daddy? They’ll be nice to him.”

  Sheesh. Sam didn’t know what to say.

  When she said, “Amen,” Sam opened his eyes, thinking it was all over.

  Instead, Analisa tugged on his hand. “You have to say ‘Amen,’ too, Uncle Sam. It lets God know you were praying, even though I said the words. And it lets Him know we’re all done.”

  “Sorry. Amen.”

  “Can we call Mrs. Richards at the hospital and tell her about Trevor? That way, she might want to go see him. And she can pray, too.”

  Sam doubted the child would be able to have visitors, but Hilda ought to be told. He glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It’s too early now. I’ll call her around eight.”

  “All right.” Analisa slid off her chair. “Me and Lucita are going to go back to my room and color a picture for Trevor.”

  As she padded out the door, Sam poured himself a cup of coffee, grabbed the portable phone, and took them both out on the deck. The sun had only been up an hour or so, but the birds, a couple of red-breasted robins, were awake, chattering in the branches of the fruit trees that lined the rear of the yard. The neighbor’s cat, an orange tabby, slunk along the top of the wall that separated the properties, its ears alert to the sound of breakfast.

  Sam sat there for a while, one with nature. Or so it seemed.

  Out here, it appeared as though a new day had dawned and life was going along just as it should. But in Sam’s corner of the world, that wasn’t the case. Russell was still behind bars, his son was lying in the intensive care unit, and Analisa just might be facing another loss that would break her heart.

  While she believed that everything would work out, whether on earth or in Heaven, Sam feared her faith—as innocent and pure as it was—would crumble if Trevor didn’t pull through.

  How would her father have handled this situation?

  Sam owed it to Greg to do right by Analisa, but how did a guy go about getting advice from someone who was dead?

  Yet even if Greg were still alive, the brothers had grown so far apart that it would have been tough to talk about a subject like this anyway.

  Sam had blamed their differences on opposing world views, but it had been more than that. They’d each blamed the other for their mother’s death.

  In the end, Greg had found peace through God and prayer, but Sam hadn’t wanted him to.

  As much as he hated to admit it, there were times when he vaguely remembered Greg telling him about a church event going on that night, but as long as Sam could blame his brother for not being home, it had eased his own sense of responsibility.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” Greg had told him about a year ago in an e-mail Sam hadn’t thought to save. “Mom’s at peace. You’ve got to believe that.”

  Sam had chuffed when he’d read that part, disregarding his brother’s faith, just as he’d always done.

  “Talk to God,” Greg had gone on to say. “He’ll reveal that to you, just as he has to me.”

  Yeah, right.

  Go peddle that spiritual mumbo jumbo elsewhere, Sam had wanted to tell him. And he might have, if he’d actually responded to Greg’s e-mail.

  Yet, deep inside, Sam had wanted to believe he could find inner solace and comfort. Maybe that’s why he’d been drawn to the beauty of the outdoors, to the calming breeze. He’d found only a hint of what he’d been seeking, though.

  Maybe Greg had been right. Maybe the only way Sam could find lasting peace was through the Creator Himself. But Sam hadn’t been kidding Analisa when he’d said he didn’t know how to pray.

  Should he bow his head and fold his hands? Should he kneel?

  Instead, maybe he ought to find the nearest church or confessional with a minister or a priest ready to listen to the burdens on his heart—burdens that now included Claire, Russell, and Trevor in addition to the other worries and guilt that had plagued him.

  As it was, Sam placed both hands on his coffee mug and peered beyond the steam that snaked into the morning air, hoping to find some common ground on which he could communicate with his Maker.

  Once, when Greg and Sam had been teenagers, Greg had talked to Sam about prayer. “Sometimes,” Greg had said, “when I’m out fishing by myself, I use the quiet time to lay my heart before God. Then I listen. It’s hard to explain just how it happens, but we share a conversation like two good friends.”

  Sam had scoffed at his brother’s words back then, but maybe it was time to seek that personal relationship Greg had often talked about.

  “Okay,” Sam said out loud. “I believe you’re up there. Somewhere. And I’ve got a lot of things to talk to you about.”

  A stillness fell over the yard.

  Using his foot, Sam pulled out the empty chair and nodded toward it. “This could take a while, God. So maybe you ought to have a seat.”

  Chapter 18

  Everything seemed to be falling nicely into place. Last night, after Walter had visited Hilda, he’d gone upstairs to see Maria and the baby. A nurse had shooed him out of the hospital around nine-thirty, but not before he learned that Maria was being discharged the next morning. He volunteered to provide her a ride, and she seemed very appreciative when she accepted his offer.

  On the way back to his place, he stopped by Hilda’s apartment to check on her cat and birds. Then, feeling more useful than he had in ages, he’
d gone home and fallen into a deep and restful sleep, which was a nice change of pace.

  He woke well after dawn, showered and fixed himself his usual breakfast fare, a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal—both instant.

  Now, after parking his truck in the visitors’ lot at Pacifica General, he strode through the lobby, whistling a carefree tune. It was just after eight, which was earlier than the nine o’clock time he and Maria had agreed upon, so he stopped to see Hilda first.

  He was becoming an old hand at hospital visitation, and as he passed the third-floor nurses’ desk, he nodded at a blond LVN before making his way to room 311, where Hilda sat in bed drinking a glass of juice with a straw.

  “Good morning,” he said from the doorway. “Is this a bad time?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  He eased into the room. “How are you feeling?”

  “I can’t complain. I’m just eager to go home, and the nurse said it would be another couple of days yet.” She pointed to the chair that sat adjacent to the foot of the bed. “Have a seat.”

  “Okay, but just for a little while. I really can’t stay long.”

  “I don’t blame you for wanting to get out of here. I sure wish I could, but since I don’t have anyone at home to watch over me, they’re insisting I stay longer.”

  “I can do that. Take care of you, I mean.” The offer had slipped out before Walter could give it any thought.

  “You’re a good man, Walter.”

  No, not really. But he was trying. “Next time you see the doctor, tell her you’ve got someone who’ll look out for you. I can sleep on the couch at your place or just come by in the morning and stay until dark.”

  “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

  With his courage bolstered, he decided to get a little bolder. “You know, I was thinking. Maybe, after you recover, we can go out to dinner and see a movie some night.”

  One of her eyebrows arched at the datelike suggestion, and he got the sudden urge to reel the words back in.

  “We can go as friends,” he added. “Or whatever.”