The elevator opened on the second floor and she stepped out. Reading directions and following arrows, she was pretending she couldn’t smell death underneath decades of boiled food and antiseptics when she spotted a khaki-colored deputy sheriff’s uniform on a young man down the hall who was bent over the lower wall of the nurses’ station deep in dialogue with the nurse on the other side—they laughed at something amusing and Sophie’s blood pressure shot through the roof.
Who was protecting Lonny?
Her steps quickened and her mind reeled with a scathing lecture for their lack of concentration on their respective jobs, but the only thing that made it to her tongue by the time she reached them was, “Lonny Campbell?”
“Yes, ma’am. Ms. Shepard, right?” The deputy had a thick drawl and a big friendly grin that she couldn’t appreciate at the moment. He turned to face the patient room directly behind him. “Finally got him talked into spendin’ the night. He’s inside there watchin’ Ice Road Truckers and eatin’ rubber Jell-O.”
Her skin cooled as she conceded to his being only eight feet away and in full view of Lonny’s door—plus he’d seen her coming, so he would have seen anyone else in the hallway.
“Thank you.”
“Appreciate you puttin’ your visit off a bit so I kin supper with my wife.” He smiled warmly at the nurse. “We work odd shifts and sometimes we can go a couple days without seein’ each other. She’s done for the day and close to finishin’ up on her notes there, then we’ll be off. Downstairs to the cafeteria, is all. The other nurses know you’re here. So you holler out if you have any problems and I’ll be back in half’er three quarters of ’n hour. That good for you?”
“Yes, that’s fine.” She glanced back at the nurse, whose expression was both curious and pleasant. A cute couple. “Enjoy your dinner.”
Before she could tap on Lonny’s door, she heard the soft ding from her cell indicating she had a text.
Nearly caught up. Let me know when you’re ready.
For my book—how do you like your steak cooked
and how many babies do you want? D
Her head came up quickly to see if anyone took note of her astounded gasp or the happy flush in her cheeks, then dropped the phone back in her big hobo-style purse. Her smile was double wide as she entered Lonny’s room.
“Mr. Campbell? Hi.” She inched farther into the room. He looked well enough despite the clear-tape dressing on his right temple. “You might not remember me but—”
“Course, I do.” His tone was gruff, his voice raspy, as she’d caught him off guard and he was clearly uncomfortable. “Bumped my head—didn’t lose my mind.”
She grinned. “So I see. Did you get stitches?”
“A few.” She watched as he tried to reposition his big body into a more respectable and courteous position for receiving company. But as anyone who knew anything about hospital beds would tell him, comfort—be it physical or psychological—is not what they were designed for. He cleared his throat and said, “Five, they say, and I’m guessing they charge by the stitch ’cause the gash isn’t but an inch long and I coulda laced it up myself with just two. Three at most.”
“Yes, but that would have left a scar and no one would think you were pretty anymore.”
He looked up, taken aback, and coughed out a laugh he hadn’t expected. “Pretty. Ho, that’s fresh. Never once worried about anyone calling me that one before.”
“Really? I find that very hard to believe.” Seeing that he was immensely more relaxed, she settled half a thigh on the end of his bed. “What do they call you instead? Handsome? Good-looking? Cute?”
He snorted a chuckle. “Mean and ornery’s what they call me most days. Rest of the time they don’t bother callin’.” His gaze lowered to the flowers. “Those for me?”
“Yes. Jesse sent them.”
He took the flowers with a grumbled utterance, looked at them in bewilderment, glanced around awkwardly, and then plunged the stems into a carafe. “Tell her thanks.” He settled his hands in his lap and looked back at her.
There might be a thick layer of snow covering the peak of this mountainous man, and the lines in his face deep as rivers, but the life and humor in his clear green eyes was as vivid and warm as his astute intelligence was keen . . . and clear.
“Is it hurting much? Should you be resting? They said visitors were okay, but I can come back another time.”
“No. You’re good. My bookkeeper and Tom Johns, who found me, came by early on when they all thought I was dyin’ but it only took ’em ten seconds to figure out I was stayin’ on, so they left. And it’s boring as hell in here.” And so as not to appear too eager for companionship, he added, “Got some shows I like on the TV, though. And the nursin’ gals are nice.” He curled his upper lip. “But someone in the kitchen’s got somethin’ ’bout boilin’ all the food—it’s disgustin’.”
“I know! What’s that about?” She perked up, preheated on the subject.
“Ain’t a kernel of salt in the place, neither.”
“And it’s all the same color. How do they manage that?”
“Same way they make it all taste the same, I’m guessin’.” He hesitated. “Cake’s good.”
“That’s true. I like the little frosted brownie sort of cake . . . and the coconut-layered cake.”
He nodded. “Ain’t had that one yet, but the bacon was good and crisp this mornin’ when they finally fed me.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty good with bacon. Crunchy. I’m not hot on half-cooked bacon.”
“Nor them fake eggs and mashed patotas. But can you see crackin’ and peelin’ and cookin’ all them for everbody?”
“No, I can’t imagine it’s an easy job. And since it’s basically the same in every hospital I’ve ever been in, they probably have some sort of rules or specific ways they have to follow to make special diets.” Her expression was empathetic. “And they do serve better food to the staff and visitors in the cafeterias.”
He considered her a moment. “You know a bit about hospitals. Are you sickly?”
“No. Perfectly healthy. I don’t even catch colds very often.” Remembering was still an awful surprise followed by an aching pain. “My mom passed away last year. Cancer. My dad and I got to be hospital food experts.”
“Sad. My condolences.”
“Thank you.” Sophie learned quickly that there was a unique bond between people who’d experienced the loss of loved ones. “The other day . . . You’ve lost people, too.”
His nod was slow, thoughtful. “A long time ago.”
“Your wife and daughter.” Another nod, but nothing warning her off the subject. “At the same time? In an accident?”
“No.” There was an odd tone in his voice—a need to speak laced with defiance. “My wife slipped away from us when our girl was but seven—bad heart.” He leaned his head back against his clumsily placed pillow—his scraggly white beard jutting straight out in the air—and closed his eyes briefly as he toppled into his memories. The deep lifelines in his face softened. “Course, we didn’t know about that in the beginning. Ha. In the beginning it was more me with the heart problems than her.” He raised his head. If his smile was a bit stiff, it was from disuse, not the lack of enjoyment. “I was her cousin’s date to a big family reunion picnic after the harvest that year. I didn’t know her too well, the cousin, but she seemed like a nice enough gal. I was twenty-two, fresh out of the navy—that was the Korean War, ya see. Course, I didn’t have much of nothin’ yet, so the family had a wary eye on me; figured I was up to no good with the cousin, so they missed my jaw droppin’ down to my belt and me near fallin’ off my feet the first time I saw my Cora. She was a sailor’s delight with eyes the color of a noon sky in midsummer.”
And he was a bit of a romantic poet. Sophie’s heart melted.
He went on. “She was wearin’ a real pretty yellow sweater with tiny white buttons up the front and a slimish sort of brown skirt—I could tell from across the
way that she was gonna have a time getting’ up off the blanket she was settin’ on—talking’ and laughin’ and lookin’ like God sent an angel to that picnic.” He sighed, as smitten now as he was at twenty-two.
“And was it love at first sight for her, too?”
“Lord, no. Took some other fella’s hand getting’ up off that blanket. Couldn’t stand me. So she said at the time.” He chuckled silently. “Course later, when I thought I’d worn her down by jumpin’ through every hoop she set out like a trained dog, and she says yes at last to bein’ my wife, she tells me different. Says she fancied me from the start but needed to be sure of me and my intentions—since I was there with her cousin and all. I tell her I’d kill a bear with my bare hands if she asked it of me.” He picked an invisible twig off his lap. “Course, she never asked anything of the like from me. Gave me more than she ever got, I fear.”
“Somehow I doubt that.” He caught the gentle smile on her face and looked abroad self-consciously. It made her heady. She sensed he hadn’t talked this much, and particularly on this subject, in a long, long time. He was comfortable with her, trusted her; she was delighted . . . and honored.
“She was special, my Cora. Never had an unkind word for anyone she saw. Couldn’t walk by a body in need of help to save her life. She was a good woman.”
“I believe you. She sounds amazing.”
He nodded affirmative and considered his next words. “It ain’t for me to question God’s ways a doin’ things, but when you get to be an old coot like me, you come to see the plan He’s had for you since you took your first breath. Course there’s them that say we all make our own choices and I ain’t sayin’ we don’t. But it don’t matter if you choose to take the high road or the low road; the rough, windy one or the easy way—you always end up where you’re meant to be, I think.” He made a brief review of his words and gave a single nod. “That’s the way of it, you know. Things happen in life with no rhyme or reason that you can see at the time. Takes time, sometimes your whole life, before you see what good can come of it.”
Instinctively, she knew what he was talking about. Loss. The loss of those you love. They had that in common. They shared that pain; those fragile, aching spots in their hearts that will always grieve even though their lives go on.
“I’ll have to take your word on that one. I’m not seeing it yet. I miss her.” The sting of tears made her blink.
“You should. Means ya loved her; means she was a good mama to you.”
“She was. She was the best. My dad’s terrific, too. I lucked out in the parents department.”
“Good ya know it, too. Too many young people don’t know how good they got it till it’s gone.”
“Is that . . . was . . . What was your daughter like?”
“A good girl. Happy girl.” He said with no hesitation, as if defending her. Instantly, Sophie knew she’d stumbled into a tender territory. She took no offense and was instantly contrite—she’d intruded. But before she could apologize, he said, “Sweet, she was. Had a smile for everyone she knew, and she never met a stranger. Everyone was her friend. Best and brightest thing that ever happened to me and Cora—named her Lonora after the both of us.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
“She was a pretty little girl. Like her mama. Like you.” She let her smile say thank you. His smile was simply a part of his reflective expression. “You see? All part of that plan I was tellin’ you about.”
“In what way?”
“Had we known when we married about Cora’s weak heart; had we known how much worse havin’ a tiny baby would make it, I never would have let it happen. Never. The Lord, He tried to tell us in His mysterious way. Made it good and hard for us to get a child, but we weren’t hearing Him. We wanted a family. We prayed and we begged for years until He caved in and gave us what we wanted. . . . But Cora’s heart, it failed her. And for so long . . . for so long I didn’t understand it. It seemed real cruel of Him to bless us with our sweet baby and then take my Cora away. Real cruel. Hurtful, like I’d asked for too much happiness; so when I got it, I had to pay the consequences.” He barely shook his head. “But He don’t work like that, ya see. He don’t punish people for being too happy. That’s plain crazy. But He knew what was comin’. He knew. And He sent for Cora ahead of me to save her the pain of bein’ here when her baby passed and to be on the other side to welcome her when she did.”
Sophie wasn’t sure if that was the saddest or the sweetest rationalization she’d ever heard. But having trusted her enough to explain it to her, she decided to trust him enough not to question it.
“And Lonora? Why did she have to die to begin with?”
“Choices,” he said simply. “Everybody makes choices—some good, some bad. Some so easy you don’t even know you’re making ’em; some so hard they rip your heart to pieces. Good people make bad choices. Evil people make choices that hurt innocent people. Innocent people make choices that put them in harm’s way. It’s always the choices we make that whittle the life we live.”
“And my mother died . . . why?”
He pressed his lips together and tipped his head to the right. “Don’t know. And if it ain’t plain to you yet, might be it’s too soon to tell. But it will be the choices you make because of it that’ll decide your life from here on.”
He had the eyes of a tired old man, but the light in them gave away his wisdom and the faith he had in his convictions. So much so, she allowed her brain to examine and feel its way through the events and experiences—the choices and outcomes in her life—and slowly, but surely, she began to see a pattern.
A singular love and fascination of young children—possibly due to the fact that she was adopted—made garnering a lucrative babysitting career in high school practically a no-brainer . . . which then helped her select Child Development for college. And while she preferred small children, making a sustainable living in daycare and Pre-K school wouldn’t gel in her predominantly practical mind, so she soon chose Primary and Early Childhood Education as her major.
She elected not to leave Marion because she didn’t want to be too far from her parents and friends even though third grade was the only position available at the time. However, she made it clear and well known to everyone who controlled such things that she wanted the first kindergarten position that opened—and when it did, she did.
It was never something she wanted, nor would she say she had a real choice in the matter, but she did take a nine-month leave of absence to be with her mother last year. She blamed those wretched months for an aversion to doctors, hospitals, and funeral homes that was almost palpable. Was it her newly honed compassion for the dying that tipped the scale in favor of hearing Arthur Cubeck’s deathbed confession? And her impulse to go sightseeing that caused her to miss it? And everything that had happened since . . . ?
When she glanced at Lonny again she must have looked convinced because he nodded and bowed his lips a bit.
“So everything that’s happened to me since the day I was born has led me here, right this second, to the edge of your hospital bed.” His nod was slow. “Why?” He shook his head slower.
“Don’t know. Might be nothin’, might be somethin’. Time will tell, I suspect.”
He had the look of a satisfied man—as if he’d seen a need and done what he could with it. He laced his fingers together and settled them on his abdomen—Done talkin’ serious, it said.
Okay. She had plenty to mull over anyway.
So once again she startled a bark-hoot from him when she grinned and said, “Pretty or not, Mr. Lonny Campbell, you’re an odd old duck.”
“Ho! There you go! Now you’re gettin’ it.”
The deputy returned from his dinner alone, and Sophie left a few minutes later with renewed confidence that he’d be less distracted as he watched over Lonny.
Though, truth told, now that she’d seen him she suspected the only reason he got hurt in the first place was because he’d been ambushed. He�
�d have fought off anyone coming directly at him, and he would have won. Weakness didn’t fit in his vocabulary.
Then again, what kind of coward would attack an old man from behind? And why?
Her mind drew a blank.
It was so blank, in fact, that she couldn’t at first place the soft ping sound from deep in the bowels of her purse. A distinctly dissimilar ping from the ding of an incoming text—she had voicemail.
“Sophie, Elizabeth McCarren calling. It occurred to me a few minutes ago that it might be nice for us to get together alone, before lunch on Saturday with Jesse and Ava. I’d very much enjoy the opportunity to get to know you better. The Crabapple Café isn’t far from the hospital and it doesn’t close until nine o’clock. I have a couple of errands this evening, but I should be finished between seven and seven-thirty if you’d like to meet me there. I have a bit of a sweet tooth, so perhaps we can share a dessert. If you haven’t arrived by then, I’ll simply get something to go and see you on Saturday. Um. Yes. Goodbye.”
She groaned in dread, passing through the visitors exit to the parking lot.
Alone with the fish in the pond, the spoon in the soup pot—the one who kept things stirred up—with no backup, no protectors. She grimaced.
Would her date with Drew, which she deliberately neglected to mention earlier, be a good enough excuse not to go? She twisted to look up at the second-floor windows of the hospital, wondering if a quick call to him would be infantile—or worse, offensive. She was his mother after all.
At her car she leaned back on the door and raised her phone.
Crabapple Café with your mother. Come soon.
About to push send, she changed her mind, went back to erase the second period, and inserted three exclamation marks.
She put her cell back, fished out her keys, and popped the lock with the remote.
The rapid movement in her peripheral vision sent shock and terror to every cell in her body full blast. She panicked. Her hands shook. The keys fell to the ground. Her first thought was to try and beat the odds, go for the keys and the safety of her car. But she wasn’t that girl. In the movies, the only times that girl made it away safely after picking up her keys was if the bad guy was still searching for her elsewhere . . . or momentarily unconscious . . . or superficially wounded— Sophie screamed, bolted for the front door of the hospital.
Something About Sophie Page 17
