Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  That left Sullivan to make the choice, because Sunday didn’t have a living will.

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate on what the surgeon was telling him. Mostly he heard disparate words. Skull. Section. Replaced. Expand.

  He might have heard more if he hadn’t been watching Moisey watch Sunday. She was leaning toward the bed, her hair a mass of wild curls, her hands resting on the rail. She’d painted her nails. Or someone else had. They were bright green and red. Christmas colors, maybe.

  “Do you have any questions, Mr. Bradshaw?” the surgeon asked.

  He did, but he doubted a doctor could answer them.

  He wanted to know why a kid like Moisey, one who’d been born into abject poverty, who’d lost both birth parents to famine, was having to face the possibility of losing another set of parents. He wanted to know what he could say to make things better, what he could do to keep Sunday around for her kids.

  “No,” he responded.

  The doctor nodded as if she understood.

  “I’ll have you sign the forms electronically.” She moved to the computer that sat on a rolling table. “We’re readying the OR. The sooner we get started”—she glanced at Moisey—“the better the chance of a good outcome.”

  Moisey turned to look at them. There were circles beneath her eyes, dark smudges against her coffee-colored skin.

  Had they been there that morning?

  Had he looked?

  “Is she going to die?” she asked bluntly, her voice falling into the silence and filling it.

  “We’re going to do everything we can to make her better,” the surgeon responded, all business as she typed something into the computer.

  “Everything you can do might not be enough,” Moisey said.

  That got the doctor’s attention. She stopped typing, her gaze going from Moisey to Sullivan. It settled there. As if she expected him to say something, maybe expected that he’d have a better response than anything she could come up with.

  He should have.

  He was an adult, for God’s sake.

  He’d lived through a lot of tough times, faced a lot of tragedy. He worked with angsty teens and young adults, kids who were worried about grades, about the future, about relationships. It wasn’t his favorite part of the job, but there hadn’t been a time yet when he hadn’t known what to say.

  Now he was struggling.

  Afraid to overstate things or understate them. Afraid whatever he managed to come up with would only fan the flames of Moisey’s fear.

  “I think your time is up. Your siblings are going to put up a fuss if they think you’ve gotten an extra minute when they didn’t,” he said. It was a total copout. Absolute evasion at its finest.

  He wasn’t proud of it, but it worked.

  She leaned forward and kissed Sunday’s cheek, avoiding the fading bruises and finding one tiny spot of unblemished flesh.

  “I love you, Mommy,” she whispered.

  The door opened before she moved away, and Rumer peeked in.

  “Moisey?” she said quietly. “It’s someone else’s turn.”

  “Who’s someone? I’m the youngest kid here, and I was last to see Mom, so no one should be waiting,” Moisey responded.

  “Your pastor. He wants to pray with your mom before her surgery.”

  “She can’t pray with that tube down her throat.” Moisey sniffed, and Sullivan had the horrible feeling she was about to cry. He could handle her spunk and her backtalk a lot more easily than tears.

  “We don’t have to speak out loud for God to hear,” Rumer said, holding out her hand.

  To Sullivan’s surprise, Moisey crossed the room and took it. She looked tiny, her legs sticking out from beneath a bright orange skirt, thick purple tights pulled up over shins that he knew were covered with scrapes and bruises. She’d dressed for the weather because Renee had insisted, but she’d chosen her own color scheme—fuchsia snow boots with faux fur trim that had once been white but was now dotted with colored marker, grape-colored gloves, spruce-blue coat. He couldn’t see her shirt, but he’d lay odds it was as bright as the rest of her outfit.

  She looked back at Sunday, a single tear sliding down her cheek.

  And, God! His heart hurt for her, for her siblings, for Sunday, who’d have given anything to keep them from ever being hurt again.

  “It’ll be okay,” he said.

  She met his eyes, and he saw a world of maturity in her gaze, a lifetime of knowledge she shouldn’t have. She knew it might not be okay. She knew Sunday might die. She knew how fragile life could be.

  “I think I’ll have a cookie and hot chocolate,” she said, her voice wooden and raspy, the tear still damp on her cheek.

  Then, she bounced out of the room as if none of it had happened, and there was nothing left for Sullivan to do but sign the online forms and pray things really would be okay.

  Chapter Four

  The cafeteria smelled like overcooked broccoli and fried eggs.

  Not something Rumer would have noticed if Heavenly hadn’t been mentioning it incessantly for the past twenty minutes.

  “It really does,” she said, her nose wrinkling, her attention darting from Rumer to the table next to them to the doorway and then, to the line. Restless. Unhappy. Sure as heck not afraid to show it. “It’s the most disgusting smell in the world. Like dog sh—”

  “Don’t,” Rumer warned, and she scowled.

  “Dog poop on hot cement.”

  “I wonder if they’re cutting her skull open right now,” Maddox said, stabbing his grilled cheese sandwich with a fork. “Or maybe they’ve just started shaving off her hair. I asked the doctor, and she said they were going to do that. All of it. Off.” He touched his head, his eyes wide.

  “Poor Mommy,” Twila said with a sigh. “She’s going to be sad when she wakes up and her hair is gone.”

  “Dweeb,” Heavenly growled, “that is the last thing Sunday is going to be worried about.”

  “If she were conscious enough to worry about anything,” Milo agreed, “it would probably be about the fact that Dad is dead and we’re all acting like hooligans.”

  It was the first time Rumer had heard him speak.

  Surprised, she turned her attention away from Heavenly and her cornrow hair and skin-tight shirt and eyed the little boy. His brother wore a look of perpetual anger: furrowed brow and flashing eyes. Milo’s expression was softer, his eyes wide as if he were in a constant state of curiosity or fear.

  He met her eyes and just . . .

  Watched. As if he were waiting for a reaction.

  “You’re not acting like a hooligan,” she finally said.

  “One of us has to behave.”

  “And, Mr. Perfect has to be the one. Just like always,” Heavenly snapped, her cornrows nearly shaking with frustration.

  “I’m not perfect. I just know how to follow the rules.”

  “Because you’re a kiss-up who wants to be the favorite. You’re not going to be. Ever. None of us are. Our own damn mothers didn’t want us. Do you really think someone else actually does?” Heavenly nearly spat.

  “Our parents do too want us!” Maddox bellowed, lunging across the table, obviously not quite getting the gist of what Heavenly was saying. Not that Sunday and her husband hadn’t wanted them. That their biological parents hadn’t.

  Rumer grabbed him by the back of the shirt and hauled him away before he could do any damage.

  “You two obviously have too much time on your hands,” she said, her focus on Heavenly. She’d known the girl was trouble. She’d obviously been right. But, she couldn’t help feeling sorry for the tween. This was a tough situation, and she seemed new to the family. Not quite in sync with the rest of the crew, not quite jibing with the way the others interacted.

  “And?” Heavenly stared her down, muscles tense, posture combative. She was itching for a fight, but Rumer had given up on those a few years after she’d moved in with Lu.

  “I
have some jobs you can do at the homestead. That should keep you occupied on the weekends and after school. I’ll talk to your uncle about it and see what he thinks.”

  “He’s not my uncle,” Heavenly said, some of her defiance slipping away. “And, this”—she waved her hand in a wide arc that encompassed everyone at the table—“is not my family. So, I really don’t care if you send me to some kids’ ranch.”

  “Kids’ ranch? The homestead is where I live,” Rumer said gently, because she suddenly realized her mistake. She’d forgotten Heavenly’s past, her worldview, the secrets she hid from everyone.

  And, she did have secrets.

  Rumer understood that the same way she understood the defiance, the cavalier attitude toward her siblings, her mother, her family.

  “You live on a homestead?” Twila asked. “That’s what they did during westward expansion. Do you have an outhouse? Do you have to pump your water and cart it inside in a big tin pail? Is it like in Little House on the Prairie?”

  “No. Nothing like that,” Rumer said. “It’s a small farm with a few barns and a big stable. We train horses so that they’re gentle enough for kids with disabilities to ride.”

  “You have horses?” Moisey jumped out of her seat, her upper lip smeared with hot chocolate. “Can we see them?”

  “I’d be happy to have you visit, but we have to check with your uncle first.”

  “Check with me about what?” Sullivan asked, and Rumer swung around, the chair scraping the floor as she stood.

  God, he was handsome!

  Even tired. Even with a stubble on his chin and shadows under his eyes, he looked good enough to kiss.

  Whoa!

  No!

  He did not look good enough to kiss.

  And, if he did, she was definitely not going to notice.

  “We don’t have to check with you about anything,” Heavenly muttered. “And, if we did, it wouldn’t matter. I’m too young to work.”

  “What work?” he asked, meeting Rumer’s eyes.

  “Lu could use some extra help in the stables. We have several volunteers who come a couple of times a week, but we don’t have anyone on the weekends.”

  “Volunteer? I only work for money,” Heavenly muttered, but she looked intrigued.

  “That’s pretty mercenary of you,” Sullivan said. “Volunteer work is about others. Not ourselves. And, you’d be doing it for a good cause.”

  “What? You getting rid of me for a while on the weekends?” Heavenly snorted. “Because, I know that’s what you’re hoping for.”

  “That has nothing to do with it.”

  “I’d like you better if you weren’t such a liar,” she spat.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re sure as hell not the kind-hearted uncle who is happy to take on childcare duty. And, before you try to say anything different, I’ve heard you talking to your brothers about us.”

  His jaw tightened, and Rumer was certain she was about to witness a shouting match of epic proportions. Sullivan denying. Heavenly insisting. All of it playing out in the middle of the hospital cafeteria.

  “You know,” she began, hoping to distract them, “this is a really stressful time, and—”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about any of you,” Sullivan interrupted, surprising the rest of what Rumer planned to say right out of her head. “This is a big job for one person. Especially a person who has no experience with kids. It’s not easy on you guys, either. I understand that. We’re all just going to have to make the best of it for however long your mother is in the hospital.”

  “What if she . . . ?” Heavenly’s gaze cut to her siblings, and she pressed her lips together. “Fine. I’ll take the stupid volunteer job, but nobody better expect me to like it. Now, if you don’t mind, I need a smoke. See you around.”

  She turned on her heels and sauntered away like she was a twenty-year-old with every right in the world to take a cigarette break.

  Sullivan just stood there and watched her go.

  “Aren’t you going after her?” Rumer prodded. “Because, if you don’t, I will. She can’t smoke. Even if she could, she shouldn’t. Not to mention the fact that she’s got no business wandering around on her own at twelve years old.”

  “She’s not smoking. She’s crying,” Twila piped up, her hair still in perfect plaits, her face clean of crumbs or cocoa. No stains on her shirt, coat, or knee-length skirt. No rips in her tights.

  “Why do you say that?” Rumer asked, tracking Heavenly as she continued across the cafeteria.

  “That’s what she always does. She says she’s smoking, but Mom says she’s never smelled one bit of cigarette smoke on her, and she’s never found cigarettes, either. Heavenly just says that so she can be alone and cry.”

  “She can be alone at home. Here, she’s sticking with us.” Sullivan finally moved, following Heavenly across the room. He caught up with her before she reached the door.

  He touched her arm, and even from a distance, Rumer could see her flinch, the reaction saying a lot about the tween’s background.

  Whatever Sullivan said, it seemed to do the trick. She went from angry, to frustrated, to resigned, the emotions flashing across her face one after another until she finally nodded.

  They walked back together. Not touching. Not speaking. Both tense.

  “Come on, dweebs,” Heavenly said as she reached the table. “Pastor Mark is waiting in the lobby. We’re going home with him.” She grabbed Milo’s hand, and he stood, sidling up close, his shoulder bumping her side. Maddox scowled but followed suit, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes flashing with irritation.

  “What about Mom?” Moisey asked, swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. All she managed to do was smear the chocolate more.

  “She’s in surgery,” Sullivan said, grabbing a napkin from the chrome dispenser and wiping her mouth. He did it gently. As if she were a porcelain doll and he was afraid of breaking her.

  She was probably more of a rugby player—tough and invincible—but the gesture was still sweet to watch.

  “Here,” Twila said, dipping a napkin in her cup of water and dabbing at Moisey’s face, probably mimicking what she’d seen her mother do.

  Rumer looked away.

  She didn’t want her heart softening toward this family.

  Didn’t want it softening?

  Who did she think she was kidding?

  It had softened.

  But, that didn’t mean she should get more involved.

  Sure, the money was good.

  Sure, she needed it.

  Taking the job would mean paying off Lu’s medical bills well before it was time to return to Seattle in the summer.

  The thing was, she didn’t want to witness the downward spiral of this patchwork family. She didn’t want to watch as the stitches that held it together came apart. She sure as heck didn’t want to be the one trying to stitch it back together.

  She’d seen Sunday, though.

  Lying in that hospital bed. Breathing tube down her throat, ventilator forcing air into her lungs. IVs and tubes and beeping machines, her kids all waiting and hoping and praying that she’d wake up.

  And, maybe she would.

  Maybe what they were believing in would happen, and Sunday would recover and return to them.

  In the meantime, they needed someone.

  That was as obvious as sunrise on a cloudless morning.

  What wasn’t obvious was who that someone would be.

  She followed the group as they walked to the exit. Pastor Mark was waiting near the door. Very tall and a little stooped as if he’d spent most of his life ducking to avoid low-hanging light fixtures and short entryways.

  He met Rumer’s eyes and smiled. “I only have enough room in my Chevy for the crew. I’ll bring them to the house and then come back and bring you home,” he offered.

  “There’s no need. I can get a ride,” sh
e lied. No way was she calling Aunt Minnie. The woman might be an ace at naturopathic medicine and bookkeeping, but she couldn’t drive to save her life or anyone else’s. She was fine close to home. On clear days. With full sunlight. Having her make the forty-five-minute drive to Spokane during a snowstorm was like asking her to jump out of an airplane without a parachute. It would end badly. No doubt about that.

  But, she didn’t want the pastor making the drive again, either. From what she’d gathered, he was married and had a couple of kids. They needed their dad around more than she needed a ride.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, his dark eyes looking straight into hers.

  “Positive,” she lied again, and immediately felt guilty about it.

  She’d spent the last half of her teenage years attending church. Lu might be a hermit, but she didn’t believe in hiding from God. Sunday morning meant dress clothes, makeup-free faces, and a half-hour drive to the little chapel on the hill. It meant hard pews and old organ music and a pastor who preached fire and brimstone and eternal damnation. It also meant women’s auxiliary on Tuesday night, stew and home-baked bread brought to shut-ins. It meant a tiny community of people who’d cared about one another.

  She’d loved that part of it.

  Even if she hadn’t quite appreciated the pastor’s sermons.

  “All right. If you can’t find someone to come out here, give me a call.” He handed her a business card and turned his attention to Sullivan. “Keep me posted on things, okay? I may be able to come back once we figure out who’s going to stay with the kids tonight.”

  “Don’t risk the roads,” Sullivan responded. “I’ll call you once she’s out of surgery. I’m thinking I’ll be home in the early morning. It could be sooner or later depending on how things go.”

  “Sunday is strong, and the Lord is stronger. She’ll get through this. Ready, guys?” He opened the door, and all five kids filed out without a word of protest or a wave good-bye.

  “That’s sad,” Rumer said, watching as they disappeared into the swirling snow.

  “Yeah. It is. Their dad is dead, and they need their mom, but she’s probably . . .” Sullivan didn’t continue. Maybe he was afraid to speak it aloud, afraid that giving voice to the fear would make it a reality.