Strength in Numbers

by Charlotte Carter

  “Fine, I guess.” Brooke’s attention remained focused on the TV screen.

  Candace frowned. “Have you done your homework?”

  Her daughter responded with a noncommittal grunt.

  In two quick strides, Candace reached the television and turned it off.

  “Mo–om!” her child wailed. “I was watching that.”

  “I noticed. Where’s Grammy?” Candace’s mother had moved in with her after Dean died and had been a lifesaver, caring for the children when Candace couldn’t be there.

  “Upstairs, I guess. Fixing dinner.”

  “Fine. Now tell me again, have you done your homework?”

  Her beautiful daughter, who had such lovely lips, pulled them into a classic pout.

  “How about your piano practice?”

  The pout remained in place.

  “I thought as much.” Leaning over, she kissed Brooke on the top of her head. “Upstairs. Now. Homework. Then the piano.”

  “Mommy, everybody watches—”

  “At our house we do homework before TV. Go.” She shooed her daughter off with a wiggle of her hand, knowing Dean would have been even more stern than she ever could be.

  With little enthusiasm, Brooke complied. Unfortunately, she left the dirty plate and glass behind. Something else Dean might not have appreciated.

  Candace felt a certain dread about the teenage years. She hadn’t been a perfect adolescent, and she didn’t expect her daughter to be one either.

  She simply prayed that when Brooke popped out on the other side of those difficult teenage years, that the two of them could be friends.

  Later that night, after the children went to bed, Candace and her mother sat in the family room, Janet tilted back in her favorite recliner. Trim and fit at sixty, only her silver hair and a few laugh lines around her eyes gave away her age.

  “Any more news about the cut in pay?” Janet asked.

  “Just a lot of grumbling, although Elena did suggest we have a gigantic yard sale in the parking lot.”

  “It’s a thought, I suppose.” Using the remote, Janet turned the volume down on the TV. “I’ve been thinking, I have some savings. If you’d let me pay rent—”

  “You earn your keep and more, Mom. Without you around, after-school care for two children would cost me half a month’s salary. You keep your money. You earned it the hard way.” Divorced years ago, Janet had scrimped and saved to raise Candace and her sister Susan, never indulging in any luxuries herself. And she’d done so with grace and joy, never letting the girls know how much she sacrificed.

  Candace wouldn’t think of taking any of her savings now.

  “At least let me pay for some of the children’s Christmas presents you’ve already bought. You shouldn’t have to carry the whole burden.”

  “You’ve always been generous with Brooke and Howie. They may not get quite as much from Santa this year, but I hardly think they’ll feel deprived.”

  Janet exhaled a long sigh. “You’ve always been an independent child.”

  Eyeing her mother with raised eyebrows, Candace produced a teasing grin. “And just where do you suppose I learned that, Mrs. Fuller?”

  “Oh, you…” Janet turned the TV volume up again and settled in to watch the rest of History Detectives. Something about a Civil War sword.

  Sitting on the couch, Candace curled her feet up under herself. She yawned. A long day by any measure. And she still had to get to her nightly Bible study.

  From somewhere behind her, she heard a faint sound. Someone upstairs in the living room of the split-level house? A sleepless child escaping his or her bedroom?

  She turned and called, “Brooke, is that you?”

  No answer. Even so, a column of gooseflesh skidded down her spine. She’d just run upstairs to make sure the children were all right.

  Anabelle was sitting in front of the computer in her husband’s home office. She’d brought up the Web site Diana had recommended about choosing a puppy.

  Cameron had settled in his recliner reading an agricultural supply catalog. Since dinner, he’d already gone through the local paper and a hardware catalog.

  “Cam, dear, if we had a dog, which do you like best, a large dog or a small poodle-sized dog or something in between?”

  “I don’t want any dog.”

  She’d expected that answer. Unfortunately. “Let’s say, theoretically speaking, what kind of dog do you like?”

  “One that belongs to somebody else and stays out of my garden.”

  Anabelle sighed and studied a picture of a full-grown Bull Mastiff on the computer screen. If an animal that big wandered into the office, there wouldn’t be any room left for either her or Cam. Certainly the many houseplants she tenderly cared for wouldn’t stand much of a chance for survival with a Paul Bunyan–sized dog on the loose.

  She didn’t want to think about what a dog like that might do to Cam’s beautifully landscaped yard.

  “I think I like a middle-sized dog,” she said. “I don’t want a lap dog, but not as big as these giant dogs that look like horses.”

  Cam slapped the catalog closed. “What on earth are you looking at, Annie?”

  She pushed her chair back from the computer to face her scowling husband. At sixty-three, he was still the handsomest man she knew, his gray hair and mustache giving him a dignified appearance. He’d be even more attractive if he were smiling.

  “Diana Zimmer gave me the address of a Web site that helps you select the kind of dog that would be best for your family. You have to decide how big a dog you want, short or long hair, child tolerant—”

  “We don’t have any children, at least not little ones.”

  “We are going to have a grandchild soon. We’d want a dog that would—”

  He snapped the recliner’s footrest down and sat forward. “Ainslee’s baby isn’t born yet and won’t be old enough to play with a dog for years. Why now?”

  Anabelle wasn’t quite sure except that it felt right. Especially when she thought of all the dogs that needed good homes.

  The prospect of a grandchild thrilled her. Although Ainslee had made it quite clear that she was not to interfere or take over the preparations for the baby’s arrival. Like buying a new crib for the baby. Which she’d done and then had to return.

  Anabelle fought back a sigh. She wouldn’t think of meddling in Ainslee’s affairs or taking over where it came to her grandbaby.

  Cam leaned back again. “Since we’re not getting a dog, we don’t have to worry about Ainslee’s baby or a dog being child tolerant, do we?”

  A wave of disappointment washed over Anabelle. “A dog would be a nice companion for both of us on these quiet nights. We could take the dog for walks around the neighborhood or teach him to catch Frisbees.”

  “Anabelle, luv, you’re the only companion I’ve ever needed. I’d be happy to take you for walks anytime you want to go. And if you’d like to learn how to catch a Frisbee, we can do that too. But I think you’d look silly trying to catch one with your teeth.”

  “Cameron Scott, don’t you make fun of me.” Tears pressed at the back of Anabelle’s eyes. The sight of those children playing with the puppy had set her off. It couldn’t be as simple as hormones. She was well past that stage. But with Kirstie living on her own, Anabelle had this great hole in her life.

  Cameron was a wonderful husband and a great companion. But he couldn’t fill the sense of emptiness that came from not having her children close at hand to hold in her arms.

  Silly to think a dog could replace them. Nothing could do that.

  But receiving unconditional love from a dog and being needed in the elemental way an animal needed its owner could plug the empty hole in her psyche.

  With a sigh, she clicked off the Web site she’d been studying and exited the Internet. She’d go upstairs and do some quilting until bedtime. Maybe while she worked, she’d come up with a way to persuade her sometimes annoying husband that getting a dog was his idea.


  “Mommy!”

  Brooke’s scream instantly woke Candace. She was out of bed and on her feet almost before her eyes were open enough to see the clock. Three thirty in the morning.

  Grabbing her robe from the end of the bed, she hurried down the hallway to Brooke’s room.

  “Mommy!”

  “I’m here, honey. I’m right here.” She sat on the edge of Brooke’s bed. The bright sunflower quilt had slipped off to one side. In the glow of the night light, Brooke’s curls looked tousled from sleep and her eyes were wide open. “Shh, honey. It’s all right.”

  “No, it’s not, Mommy.” Sobbing, Brooke launched herself into her mother’s arms.

  Her heart aching for her daughter, Candace smoothed her hand over Brooke’s hair. “You’ve had a bad dream, honey. Just a dream. Everything is fine.”

  Another sob racked Brooke’s slender body.

  “Do you remember what the dream was about?” Candace asked in a calm, reassuring voice, one she would use with a frightened woman experiencing her first labor. And just as often with the expectant father.

  Brooke sniffed, her terror easing. “It was Daddy. I wanted him to come home.”

  A stab of grief ripped through Candace’s chest, so painful it took her a moment to catch her breath. “You know your daddy is always with us, looking out for us from up in heaven.”

  “No, he isn’t. I wanted him to come here. Come help you.”

  Candace brushed the tear-dampened curls away from Brooke’s face. After Dean’s death, Brooke had stopped speaking for two months and started having nightmares. Candace had taken her to a counselor, who helped Brooke to deal with her grief. Had those same nightmares returned? Why now?

  “You wanted Daddy to help me do what?”

  “I don’t know. I just knew you needed help.”

  She needed Dean in a thousand ways and always would. But a brain aneurysm had taken him away. Now he resided only in her heart.

  Rocking Brooke in her arms, hot tears edging down her own cheeks, Candace quieted her daughter. “It’s okay now. You can go back to sleep. Mommy will take care of everything.”

  Brooke slumped against her. “I want Daddy back now.”

  “I know, sweetie. I know.” She rocked back and forth, humming a tune she had lulled Brooke to sleep with when she was a baby. Howie too.

  Slowly the child drifted back to sleep in the safety of her mother’s arms. Her breathing became a soft snore, a melody Candace cherished.

  She wished she could as easily alleviate her own fears and grief.

  Chapter Six

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, JAMES ARRANGED AN appointment with Leila Hargrave, the hospital’s nursing administrator. She shared an office on the first floor with Human Resources. Except for a wedding photo of her daughter, there were no personal items on her desk and no sign of the approaching holidays on her side of the shared office.

  In contrast, her office mate had garlands of holly draped above her desk and a childish drawing of Santa coming down the chimney taped to the wall.

  Leila indicated the straight-back chair beside her desk. “What can I do for you, James?” She closed the file folder that had been open on her desk.

  Noted for her no-nonsense style, Leila wore her gray hair in a tight bun at her nape and rarely smiled. Still, she was effective in her job. The nursing staff always knew exactly where they stood.

  “I’m afraid the upcoming pay cuts are going to be hard on my family’s budget,” James said.

  “Your family’s budget and everybody else’s in the hospital. It was Varner’s decision and the board of directors, not mine.”

  “I’m aware of that, Ms. Hargrave.” He tried not to sound defensive or squirm unnecessarily. The chair he was sitting on was so hard and uncomfortable, it seemed designed to minimize the amount of time anyone would want to sit there. “I’m hoping to be able to pick up some overtime to make up the difference. I’ve worked in most of the nursing departments at one time or another.”

  “I’m aware of your résumé, James. You’re an excellent, experienced nurse. Hope Haven is lucky to have you.” She tapped the top of her ballpoint pen on the closed file folder.

  “Then do you think it will be possible—”

  “Authorizing overtime is going to require my approval and Mr. Varner’s. He has already made it clear, unless there’s a major disaster, like another tornado blowing through town, his approval will be very hard to obtain.”

  Disappointment pressed down on him and formed a weighty lump in his chest. “I understand.” Working overtime wasn’t his favorite thing to do. He hated being away from Fern. But the extra pay would have eased the financial pinch of the pay cut.

  “What about switching to graveyard shift?” he asked. “There’s premium pay for that.”

  She cocked her head and studied him intently. “Is that really what you want to do? I’m thinking now of your wife. I understand she’s struggling with MS.”

  Her comment and the flicker of compassion in her eyes surprised James. He didn’t know she was aware of Fern’s illness and hadn’t imagined she’d care. You’ve judged her too harshly, James.

  “Our insurance doesn’t cover all the meds,” he said. “The out-of-pocket expense of those…” He left the thought hanging in the air.

  “I understand completely.” She pulled a file folder from the desk drawer. “You’re about the tenth person who’s asked for more hours or a shift change. I’ll put your name down but can’t make any promises. We’re fully staffed at the moment. We may lose one or two nurses to Peoria or even Springfield hospitals; but I find, on the whole, our nurses want to stay right here despite the cut in pay. Their families are rooted in Deerford.”

  “It’s a good place to live,” James agreed. It hurt to think of leaving Deerford or even working part-time elsewhere. The town was child-friendly, offering lots of recreational activities throughout the year. The schools were excellent, the parents very involved. James and Fern had found a good church home in Church of the Good Shepherd. Both boys had been baptized there.

  But when it came to his family, he’d do what had to be done. Maybe he could find a part-time weekend job at the clinic where Fern used to work.

  He thanked Ms. Hargrave and went back upstairs.

  Anabelle and her daughter Kirstie were talking near the nurses’ station. In her early twenties, Kirstie had black, wavy hair, clear blue eyes and a sparkling personality that attracted people to her. Wearing slacks and low-heeled shoes, no one would know she’d had her right leg amputated years ago.

  “Hey, Kirstie. How’s the teaching world going? And why aren’t you there?” A dish of hard Christmas candies had appeared on the counter. James took one and popped it in his mouth.

  The young woman produced a sparkling smile. “I took a personal day off to get some shopping done. The little munchkins are so excited about Christmas, they can barely sit still. So I’m teaching, but I’m not at all sure there’s much learning going on.”

  “Kirstie has gotten very good reviews from her principal both this year and last,” Anabelle said proudly.

  “Only because he doesn’t know I bribe the kids to behave when he shows up,” she teased. “Third graders can be a handful.”

  “I bet,” James agreed.

  “Mom said you have a patient you wanted me to talk to.” She carried a clutch bag and tucked it under her arm.

  “Right. His name’s Ted Townsend. Seventeen. A soccer star at Lincoln High. Lost his leg in a motorcycle accident.”

  Kirstie winced. “Poor kid.”

  “Yeah. He pretty much thinks the world as he knows it is gone forever.”

  “Well, he’s pretty much right.”

  Her comment and attitude jolted James. “You’ve adapted well to your prosthesis.”

  “Sure I have. When you lose a leg, you pretty much have to adapt. But my life is much different now than it would have been if I still had two good legs.”

  “Except you’d still be
a teacher,” Anabelle pointed out.

  “Probably true. I love teaching and my kids. But when I meet someone new, particularly men, I have to wonder if and when I should tell them about my leg. Before I lost my leg, I used to love to go to the lake and swim. I don’t even own a swimsuit now.”

  Anabelle pulled her lip between her teeth. “It’s still not easy for you, is it?”

  “Oh, Mother, it’s okay. It’s just different.” Kirstie kissed her mother on the cheek, then turned to James. “Lead the way, James.”

  “Stop by when you’re finished, Kirstie, and we’ll have a cup of coffee together,” Anabelle said.

  James took her to Ted’s room and introduced Kirstie. A couple of sports magazines that looked unread were on the bed, the kid’s iPod next to them. Three big vases filled with cut flowers sat squeezed onto a wall shelf and a potted plant was sitting on a pile of get-well cards on the bedside table. The kid had lots of friends, James decided. He’d need all their support as he adjusted to his new reality.

  Wanting Kirstie to take the lead, James stood back away from the bed.

  The boy narrowed his gaze on Kirstie, his missing leg obvious by the way the blanket flattened where his right knee should have been. “Who are you? Some kind of social worker or something?”

  “No. I’m a third grade teacher. Graduated and got my credential from the University of Illinois a couple of years ago.”

  “Well, goodie for you.”

  Ted’s tone dripped with sarcasm, and that annoyed James. The kid’s attitude was really beginning to grate on him.

  “Got good grades too,” Kirstie said, unperturbed, “and did it all with only one good leg to stand on.”

  Ted’s forehead folded into a frown. “Why should I care?”

  Kirstie picked up the bedpan from the table near the sink and knocked it against her right leg. The thud sounded hollow, different than hitting metal against flesh.

  Ted didn’t seem to get the point.

  Dragging a chair up close to the bed, Kirstie propped her foot on the seat and tugged the pants leg up past the calf of her artificial limb.

  “My third graders love to play knock-knock on my leg.” She demonstrated with her knuckles. “Of course, sometimes they knock on the wrong leg, which isn’t so great. Some of those kids are stronger than they realize.”