by Loree Lough
Then she saw that it wasn’t a snake at all, but Reece’s tie, puddled on the floor. Laughing at the silliness of her reaction, she picked it up, remembering how he’d draped it over the back of the chair to keep it out of the gravy. Eyes closed, she pressed it to her cheek and inhaled a scent she could only describe as manly.
The teapot whistled, opening her eyes and her mind: she’d included snippets of Margo’s wedding gown and Eliot’s pleated tuxedo shirt, the pocket of her grandmother’s calico apron and the bow tie her grandfather wore as president of the Parrott River Savings and Loan. Why, she’d even included a scrap from her prom gown. All that and more, yet she’d forgotten to stitch pieces of Reece’s past into the story of Eli’s life!
Taylor took care to fold the tie and tuck it into a plastic zipper bag. On his way out the door, he’d told Eli that he’d see him tomorrow. So once the dishes were done and Eli was tucked in for the night, she’d see how he felt about contributing the tie for inclusion in Eli’s quilt.
The invitation was sure to raise questions in his mind, such as why she’d decided to make the quilt in the first place, and why she felt it necessary to hand-embroider descriptive captions on every square.
Their every-other-weekend exchanges hadn’t exactly been warm, but thankfully, it had been months since he’d aimed that icy green glare in her direction. And since Millie’s attack, things had gone from good to better, and polite cordiality now felt more like affection—strictly of the family kind, of course!
She’d probably never fully understand the reasons for his former crusty behavior, but did it really matter, now that it seemed he’d buried the hatchet?
Then, as she stirred honey into her tea, a thought that was anything but sweet popped into her head: would he dig it up again once she admitted the reasons that had inspired Eli’s gift?
The question shadowed her as she fed and watered the horses, while she cooked and baked casseroles for the church social on Saturday, and added another square to the quilt. It was a risk she had to take, Taylor decided as she set the table for supper, because how could she call Eli’s gift complete without a few contributions from his uncle!
The jangling of the phone startled her so badly that she dropped a handful of silverware.
“It’s me,” Reece said when she picked up.
That he’d been calling enough to expect she’d know who “me” was sent a tremor of joy through her.
“Got an emergency call, and I’m on my way to the hospital. ‘Fraid I won’t be able to make it for supper.”
“Oh. Sorry to hear that.” And hearing the strain in his voice, she added, “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Me, too.”
Did the edginess in his voice mean the emergency involved someone close to him? Maybe Annie, the elderly neighbor Eli talked so much about, or Maureen or Gina, who’d become far more than mere employees over the years.
“It’s Randy,” he said, answering her unasked question. “His mom was a mess when she called me, so say a prayer for her, will you?”
“Of course I will.” And one for you, too, she thought, so you’ll know how to help Randy once you get there.
She heard the blare of a car horn and the wail of a distant siren. “I’d better let you go.” The last thing any of them needed was for Reece to get into an accident because he was distracted by a cell phone call.
“I was hoping to talk to Eli, just long enough to explain—”
Another horn blast silenced him.
“Maybe you’re right,” he continued. “I’d better concentrate on getting to the ER in one piece.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of a way to explain why you can’t be here. But I won’t tell him about Randy … yet.”
“Good. Good. No point getting him upset until we know more. Call you when I can.”
She was still staring at the receiver when Eli darted into the room.
“Won’t tell me what about Randy?” he asked, plopping into his chair.
Help me, Lord, to divert him from the truth.
“I’m going to have to put a bell around your neck, young man,” she said, collecting Reece’s plate and silverware. “You scared me half to death just now!”
Grinning, he folded his paper napkin, accordion style. “Next time,” he said, opening and closing the imaginary bellows, “I’ll say ‘jingle jingle.’ ”
“Better still,” she said, opening the fridge, “pay attention to the …”
“…‘no running in the house’ rule,” they said together.
Laughing, Taylor said, “Chocolate milk or white?”
She’d made his favorite: Hot Dog Surprises—baked wieners, sliced long ways and topped with mashed potatoes and sliced cheese. Maybe that would dull the sting of missing out on another evening with Reece … and further distract him from questions about his buddy.
“Chocolate.” And then he sat back and crossed both arms over his chest. “Randy is in the hop-sital again, isn’t he?”
“Yes, I’m afraid he is.” The poor kid had been in and out of LewisGale a dozen times in the past year. Taylor could only imagine how it must be for his mom, wondering every time the ambulance sped toward South Main if this would be Randy’s last trip. While pouring syrup into Eli’s favorite Snoopy mug, she asked God to watch over Mrs. Clayton and her fragile little boy.
She put supper on the table, and as she cut his hot dog into bite-sized chunks, her own little boy sat up straight.
“Is it okay if I say the blessing tonight?”
“Of course it is!”
The minute she took her seat, he bowed his head and folded his hands. “Dear Jesus, thank You for this food, and the stove where Taylor cooked it, and for giving us a house to keep it in. Please don’t let that ol’ raccoon have made Millie sick, and don’t let anything bad happen to Randy either. And thank You for loving us, ‘cause we love You, too, lots. Amen.”
Frowning, he picked up his fork. “How was that?”
“It was perfect. Beautiful, in fact. So what’s up with that sad face?”
Shoulders drooping, he shaded his eyes. “Just …” Sighing, he speared a bite of hot dog. “Just … there’s a lot of bad stuff happening these days.” He looked at Taylor. “What’s up with that?”
What possible answer could she give to explain what she didn’t even understand! “I know, and it can be troubling and sad, can’t it?”
He gave a lazy nod and poked at his mashed potatoes.
It wasn’t like him to dawdle over this meal, and she read it as proof that hearing about Randy’s hospitalization had upset him more than he’d said. “See, the upsetting things of the world … they’re just some of the reasons we’re so blessed to have God in our lives,” she said, blanketing his hand with her own. “He promised always to watch over us.”
His hand felt limp. And warm. Far too warm, even for the sticky late-June heat. Besides, the air conditioner was humming efficiently, and she’d set the thermostat at seventy-two degrees, just this morning.
Taylor gave his hand a little squeeze. “You feelin’ okay, little man?”
“My head hurts.” Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. “My tummy, too.”
Last night in the barn, the sounds of tossing and turning crackled through the baby monitor, causing Millie to bob her head. But because he quieted down so quickly, she’d dismissed it as the after effects of too much ice cream after supper. Now she wasn’t so sure.
Taylor scooped him up and held him close. “What say we tuck you in a little early tonight?”
The fact that he didn’t utter a word of protest scared her, but not half as much as the way he begged her to turn off the light, then flopped around like a rag doll while she changed him into his PJs.
She took his temperature, not to find out if he had a fever—because his hot, clammy skin had already made that evident—but to help her decide whether or not to give him a children’s dose of acetaminophen. By itself, the 102.1 reading wouldn’t ha
ve worried her all that much, but combined with the sleepiness and head-and stomachaches …
If only she’d paid more attention to the news story she’d heard day before yesterday!
She’d been on her hands and knees in the rose garden when the rich-bodied voice of the DJ spoke of several Virginia Tech students who were in serious but stable condition at area hospitals after being diagnosed with bacterial meningitis. Authorities were urging anyone with similar symptoms to see their doctors, immediately. And while she tried to remember if the illness was a cold-and-flu season disease, Taylor had missed the warning signs. Not a really big deal, she’d told herself, since the campus was a good twenty-minute drive from the inn.
She left his door ajar and tiptoed to her room across the hall. It took less than a second to locate and punch the key that automatically dialed the pediatrician’s number. During the first ring, she remembered how Isaac and Tootie had teased her, saying that only obsessive-compulsive types wasted their time on things like alphabetizing their spice racks and pantries, color-coding their closets, and storing every number in her personal directory into every phone in the house. As she listened to the second ring, Taylor thanked God. If not for her worrywart tendencies, she’d be in the kitchen right now, unable to hear if Eli’s uneven breaths calmed … or grew more ragged.
“I don’t mean to sound like an overprotective fusspot,” she said when he answered, “but Eli has a fever.” Taylor added the rest of his symptoms and wondered aloud if Eli might somehow have been exposed.
“He’s a healthy kid,” the doctor assured, “so that isn’t likely.”
More to quell her fears than for any reason, he rattled off a list of things to watch for: a sharp rise in temperature, vomiting, confusion, a rash, seizure. “Any of that happens, don’t hesitate to call me,” he said before hanging up.
Taylor sat on the edge of her bed and clutched the phone to her chest. “He’s such a sweet little boy, and he’s already been through so much. So please, please Lord, don’t let him—”
The phone rang, startling her so badly that she nearly dropped it on the floor.
“Me again,” Reece said.
She’d heard him angry and sad and tense, but this? “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Randy. Makes no sense. For a dozen reasons. And I have no idea how he was exposed, but …”
Taylor gripped the phone so tightly that her fingers ached. No, she prayed, please, Lord, not—
“… meningitis. Meningococcal meningitis. He’s burning up with fever and talkin’ out of his head.”
“The poor kid,” she said. “As if he doesn’t have enough to contend with.”
She heard Reece’s ragged sigh. “No kidding. The Duchenne’s is already complicating things.”
Taylor had read up on Duchenne’s Dystrophy as soon as he and Eli met, to make sure that when Randy was visiting the inn, she’d know the difference between normal little boy silliness and the spasmodic characteristics of the disease. According to her research, Randy’s type of Muscular Dystrophy made him far more vulnerable than other kids to everyday maladies … one of many reasons why kids with MD rarely lived past twenty.
“But he’ll be okay, right? You can prescribe antibiotics and—”
“We’re doing everything we can, but I don’t know, Taylor. I really don’t know.” Another raspy sigh.
“How awful,” she whispered. “His mom must be out of her mind with worry.”
“Oh, she’s beyond out of her mind. I had to talk the ER doc into giving her a mild tranquilizer.”
“Poor Randy. And Eli …” She stepped into the hall to listen. Sure enough, his breathing sounded more labored than before. “And Eli isn’t feeling well tonight either.”
“What do you mean?”
A statement, she noted, not a question. In other words, he expected a detailed explanation.
“I called Dr. Sanders, and he doesn’t think there’s reason to believe it’s—”
“Wasn’t Eli over at Randy’s, day before yesterday?”
“Yes.” And Randy was here the day before that. Taylor closed her eyes, terrified that Reece would confirm her worst suspicions.
“Tell me exactly what you told Sanders.”
She told him about Eli’s headache. The upset stomach. How he’d asked her to turn out the lamp on his nightstand because the light hurt his eyes.
“You’ve gotta get him over here, right now,” he said. “I’d come get the both of you, but that’s a waste of time.” He cleared his throat. “You know where LewisGale is, right?”
“I think so.”
“Just off South Main.”
This calm, no-nonsense tone must be his “doctor’s voice,” she thought, but because matters of law and ethics prevented him from treating Eli, she’d never heard it.
“I’ll use my GPS,” she said. Then, “Any guesses as to how long it’ll take? I mean … would it make more sense to call an ambulance?”
“No. That’ll only scare the poor kid half to death. This time of night, shouldn’t take you more than twenty minutes. I’ll meet you at the ER entrance.”
It felt so good, so reassuring to know he’d be there, waiting for them, that she hardly noticed that he hung up without saying goodbye.
12
Reece stood in the hall and held onto Mrs. Clayton, mostly because he knew if he let go, she’d crumple to the floor like a marionette without her puppeteer. She’d been a widow for most of Randy’s life, so this latest scare was tough on her. He got that. But she had a waiting room full of concerned relatives right down the hall, whose very presence indicated their willingness to dispense physical and verbal comfort like medicine. So why had she chosen him for this?
He held her at arm’s length and said, “Waiting is the hardest part, I know, but you’ve got a big, loving family.” Then he took another step back, pulled the stethoscope out of his lab coat pocket, and draped it around his neck … a subtle reminder that he was a doctor. With other patients to see.
Thankfully, she got the message. Nodding, she said, “You have my cell number, right?”
“I do.” Beyond that, what more was there to say? Get some rest. Get something to eat. Get back to your family so I can get to my son.
Reece hurried toward the elevators, checking his watch as he went. He punched the down arrow hard enough to make him wince. Penance, he decided, for not staying with Mrs. Clayton longer.
The doors hissed open and he stepped into the empty car, thumbing the number 1 as they hissed shut again. Would it be nice if his bedside manner included hugs and pats on the back? Probably. Would he be a better surgeon if he took time for long, personal conversations with his patients and their families? Probably not. If an activity or discussion didn’t help him zero in on a problem or a solution, what was the point?
He’d just turned eleven when his parents volunteered for their first missionary trip to Rwanda. By the time he was eleven and a half, their angry landlord informed Reece that the rent money was gone. The news, together with final notice envelopes the mailman had been delivering, made it clear who was in charge now. A few shattered plates, a thousand bellowed curse words, and two sleepless nights later, he came to the conclusion that only three things were important in life: keeping up his grades, keeping food in the fridge, and keeping a roof over his and Margo’s heads. His grueling schedule helped him reach those goals, year after year. Helped him earn full scholarships to the University of Virginia and the Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, too. But working two jobs—sometimes three—left barely enough time for sleep, let alone the “warm fuzzies” Margo seemed to need so much of.
He checked his watch as the elevator delivered him to the first floor. If he knew Taylor, she’d kept the pedal to the metal all the way from the Misty Wolf to the center of Blacksburg. He’d promised to meet her at the ER entrance; for all he knew, making nice-nice with Mrs. Clayton had cost him that chance.
Jaws clenched, he stomped up to the reception counter.
You catch more flies with honey, he reminded himself. Forcing a smile, he said, “Has anyone checked in a boy named Eli Montgomery?”
He watched the clerk’s gaze flick from his face to his ID badge to the name, embroidered in red script on his breast pocket. “Sorry, Dr. Montgomery, not here at my station,” she said, standing. “Let me check with the other girls.”
While she was gone, Reece faced the wide bank of sliding doors. In the distance, the flashing strobes of an ambulance sliced through the darkness. Then a squad car screeched up to the curb, its passenger door open. The cop’s feet hit the pavement before the car stopped. In his arms, what looked like a load of dirty laundry turned out to be a tiny, bloody girl.
“We need a gurney!” he shouted. And spotting Reece, he said, “Hey, doc, this kid’s in bad shape.” With a jerk of his head, he indicated his partner. “More on the way. Bad pileup on 460.”
He said more, lots more, but Reece only heard 460, the route Taylor would have taken to save time.
Another two more cops raced inside, both carrying kids. The flashing lights of additional emergency vehicles lit the parking pad like the Fourth of July. Sirens wailed. People shouted. The glint of fluorescent light sparked from IV poles. Sheets fluttered and lab coats flapped as doctors and nurses ran toward the doors. Sweet mother of God, he thought as he moved toward the first cop, let her be here already. Heart hammering, he peeled back the bloody blanket and pressed two fingers against the child’s aorta. “She’s breathing,” he said, waving a nurse over.
“Right here, officer,” she said, pointing at her empty gurney. She shot an angry glare in Reece’s direction, then faced the cop again. “Would you look at that? All gray-faced and weaving.” She clucked her tongue in disgust. “Fat lotta good he’ll be in this mayhem. Bet he’d measure one-point-four on a Breathalyzer.”
Reece had put in his time as an intern, as a resident, as an attending, so he was no stranger to chaos like this. He’d encountered nurse-to-doctor resentment before, too, and blamed that for her attitude. Because no way his concern for Eli and Taylor could have made him look that bad.
