Cover Image © iStock Photo. www.istockphoto.com
Cover design copyrighted 2007 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2007 by Michele Paige Holmes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. This work is not an official publication of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real.
First Printing: June 2007
978-1-60861-801-9
Acknowledgements
My critique group will naturally expect that I wax long here, and I cannot disappoint as they and so many others have helped with this manuscript.
Many thanks to Shauna Andreason for introducing me to Annette, and for a long-ago conversation about your degree in landscape design. Little did either of us know how pertinent that would be to Jane’s story!
Many thanks to Heather Henrie for years of friendship and for sharing your knowledge and experiences as a newborn-nursery nurse. I am also grateful to my sister-in-law Danna for her willingness to read manuscripts and for supplying Jane’s psychology jargon. Great appreciation goes to Leland and Hilda Gamette for filling their suitcases with all manner of Seattle memorabilia and toting it back to me. In addition, I’m ever so grateful to DJ Johnson for the hours spent keeping our computer limping along. Kerry Blair was extremely kind and helpful in getting me firsthand (from her son) information about life in Iraq. And finally, Angela Eschler has been the epitome of patience in guiding me through the editing process.
A simple acknowledgement will never be enough to express the gratitude I feel for my critique group—seven of the most talented, generous people I’ve ever had the privilege to associate with. Annette, Stephanni, LuAnn, Heather, Lynda, Jeff, and James, thank you for your patience with me. Thank you for sharing your talent, skills, and inspiration and teaching me how to get the stories in my head down on paper. I owe all of you so much.
I am also grateful for an amazing family. My parents have supplied me with a wealth of experiences to draw from (gotta love remembering those Tin Man tights, Dad!), and my mother especially has been a great example of developing talent and reaching for the stars—no matter how far away they may seem.
My children will likely say they suffered long while their mother pursued publication, and I am thankful for their sacrifices. Even moms have dreams, and Spencer, Carissa, Alyssa, and Hannah have helped me to reach mine.
But certainly that never would have happened without my wonderful husband Dixon. Thank you first, dear, for not rolling your eyes out of your head all those years ago when I announced I was going to write a book. Instead, you were my instant champion, and then my hero—taking our children to dozens of Saturday movies by yourself so I would have time to write, using your vacation days so I could finish a manuscript, understanding that printer ink has a place in our budget somewhere between tithing and groceries, and arranging a romantic week in Seattle for the two of us. The list could go on and on. How fortunate I feel to have your love and support. I thank my Father in Heaven daily for the life we share and for the imagination with which He has blessed me.
To Dixon.
For more romance than I could ever begin to write about.
Prologue
Seattle, Washington, July 2003
Seventeen minutes.
Paul pulled his eyes from the dashboard clock and swung into the nearest parking stall. His seatbelt already unfastened, he leapt from the Jeep and ran toward Swedish Medical Center’s emergency entrance. His mind raced. Seventeen minutes had passed since he’d seen Northwest Airlift flashing across the screen of his cell phone.
Seventeen minutes since they’d life-flighted Tami.
He ran through the automatic double doors, just clearing the glass as they slid sideways. Ironic, he thought as he scanned the signs, that in all of his hospital visits over the past year and a half, he’d never been here. Following the arrows, Paul turned left and found himself in front of a stout woman seated at the central desk of the ER. She was on the phone, but he made eye contact.
“I—”
She pursed her lips and used the end of a pencil to point to the sign on the counter.
Please be seated. We will be with you in a few moments. Seated? A few moments? What if he didn’t have that long?
“My wife was life-flighted here,” he blurted and glanced at his watch again. “About twenty minutes ago. She was in a car accident. She’s pregnant.”
The woman’s expression softened. “Mr. Bryant?”
Her tone was not as stern as he’d expected.
“Yes.” He nodded.
“Please hold,” she said into the phone, then dropped the receiver on the desk.
Something told him that wasn’t a good sign.
She spun her chair around and stood.
Paul met her at the other end of the U-shaped desk. She glanced at him once as they marched briskly toward the stainless steel doors at the end of the hall.
The pity he saw in her eyes terrified him. “My wife’s carrying twins. Do you know if—?”
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to talk to the doctor.”
“Hey lady,” called a youth with spiked hair and multiple piercings. He sprawled across two of the waiting room chairs. “Glo–ri–a,” he said, grossly exaggerating as he read her name tag. “I got a busted arm and I been here two hours. How come this guy gets right in?”
Gloria turned her head as she marched past the young man, her earlier matron-like discipline returning. “If you had been hit by a truck, Mr. Stone, I would be glad to see that you’re next.”
Truck? Paul’s heart lurched. The medic hadn’t told him that. He reached the doors, his hands cold on the metal as he pushed them open.
* * *
Jane Warner shoved her purse in a cubby and walked over to the sink. Stepping on the foot pedal, she activated the spray of warm water across her hands. A couple of squirts of the gritty soap and she began scrubbing up, remembering to wash all the way to her elbows and in between her fingers as the nurses had instructed.
Last time here, Jane thought as the warm water ran over her hands. She was not surprised at the accompanying pang of sorrow. Beginning tomorrow, she would have free time again. Time for really important things, like working late, ordering takeout, reading books, and renting movies.
To watch alone.
Jane sighed as she pulled a paper towel from the dispenser. A glance at her watch prompted her to hurry. It was 2:20—nearly Andrew’s feeding time, and like all infants, he didn’t like to be kept waiting. Grabbing a smock from the pile on the counter, Jane pulled it over her arms, reaching behind to fasten the Velcro closures. Taking a mask from the box, she picked up the cylindrical container of breast milk, her sister Caroline’s, and walked to the door and pressed the buzzer.
Less than a minute later, Amy, one of the nurses often working Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, opened the door to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—or NICU, as those who frequented it called it.
A cacophony of sickly cries came with the open door. Jane felt another pang of sympathy for the infants. Maybe she should have been a nurse. Was twenty-nine too late to start yet another career?
“Here you go,” Jane said, handing Amy the container of milk.
“Great. He’s ready for it,” Amy said. “I think Lisa’s just about finished doing his hourly. I’ll be back in a second.” She carrie
d the milk off toward the prep counter, and Jane headed toward Andrew’s bassinet.
“Hey little guy,” she said, smiling down at her nephew.
“So he’s going home tomorrow?” Lisa asked as she held the stethoscope to Andrew’s chest.
“Yep.” Jane nodded. “All healthy now, aren’t you, buddy?”
In answer to her question, Andrew hiccuped, his slight body lurching against Lisa’s hands.
“There,” she proclaimed a minute later. “All done. Now you can have your lunch.” She stepped aside, and Jane reached down to pick up Andrew. Carefully cradling his head, she crossed the room and settled into one of several rockers while she waited for Amy to bring his bottle.
As she rocked, Jane discreetly watched the woman at the end of the row struggling to hold her daughter despite all the tubes and wires attached to the child. Jane ran her finger across Andrew’s cheek, grateful his lungs were better, that his illness had not been nearly as serious as those of so many babies here.
Lisa brought a pillow for her arm. “So are his parents going to come and get him—or are you going to continue as substitute mom awhile longer?”
“No,” Jane said sadly. “My job’s about finished. Caroline is taking the other kids to the doctor today to get the all clear.”
“Mmm. I imagine that’ll be a relief,” Amy said as she walked toward them, bottle in hand. “What a nightmare—delivering your fourth child and three others at home with the chicken pox.”
Jane nodded. “Yeah, but the worst of it was Caroline getting it too.”
“She’ll never forget this,” Amy said with a laugh as she handed Jane the bottle.
“No,” Jane agreed as she nudged the nipple into Andrew’s mouth. “It’s definitely been a month to remember.”
“I’d say your sister owes you big-time,” Lisa said.
“I suppose she does,” Jane agreed quietly.
The nurses went to tend the other babies in the NICU while Jane rocked Andrew contentedly, wondering for the thousandth time what it would be like if he was her son and would be coming home with her. She was going to miss being here, caring for him every day. She loved all of her fourteen nieces and nephews, but she and Andrew already had a special bond, one she hoped wouldn’t change when she didn’t see him every day.
“Hey, Lisa,” another nurse called as she stepped into the NICU.
“Over here.” Lisa waved her hand from behind a monitor and the tangle of cords attached to it.
“Who’s charge with you today?” The nurse moved quickly toward a row of empty bassinets.
“Heather, but she’s with a mom right now,” Lisa answered.
“Page her.” There was tension in her voice.
Lisa walked toward the phone. “If you need someone, I’ve got eleven nurses on this side and only nine babies. We’ve sent four home today.”
The nurse shook her head. “I need Heather. We’ve got new patients.”
“Patients?” Lisa asked, emphasizing the s as she punched in Heather’s number.
“Twins,” the nurse confirmed as she rushed through loading up the bassinets. “Probably about thirty weeks. Their mother arrested on the way—lung punctured—a car accident.”
“Did they get her back?” Lisa asked.
“No. They were headed to Harborview, but . . .”
Lisa nodded somberly. “Now the babies are priority.”
The nurse rolled the first bassinet out and returned for the second. “They’re delivering right now. Respiratory’s already down there. Tell Heather I’m—”
Heather ran through the door, a frantic look on her face. “Who’s coding? Is it Patrick?”
“Everyone here is fine,” Lisa quickly assured her.
“But we’ve got twins,” the other nurse explained as she ran past, grabbing Heather’s arm. “Been without oxygen approximately—” The door swung shut behind them, and Jane forced her attention back to Andrew. She felt the sting of tears as she hoisted him gently to her shoulder and began patting his back.
“Poor babies,” she whispered.
* * *
Patricia Neilson paced the emergency waiting room. It was after eleven, and her back and shoulders ached. There was no logical reason for her to continue waiting and yet . . . She stuck her hand in her jacket pocket, fingers closing automatically around the paper there. She had to stay. Perhaps it was just morbid curiosity, perhaps it was the need to keep the promise she’d made to a dying woman.
Or was it because she worried the car wreck she’d responded to earlier was not simply an accident?
Whatever the case, she determined to wait it out and watch Paul Bryant’s face as she handed him the note from his wife.
What kind of a creep leaves his wife when she’s seven months pregnant with his children? she wondered again. A pretty average one, came the answer. She’d known her share of low-life guys, but today was the first time she’d felt the urge to do something about it.
Patricia sank into a nearby chair and closed her eyes, remembering Tami Bryant’s gasping breaths and her last words. God must have known I couldn’t live without you. What could that mean except that her husband was abandoning her in her time of greatest need? And Find our babies a mother. How heartbreaking. Patricia clenched her fists, thinking that she couldn’t wait to give Paul Bryant a piece of her mind—at least. And if there was any indication her hunch about the accident was correct, any at all . . .
She looked up as a man stepped off the elevator. His head was downcast and he looked extremely tired. He adjusted his Mariners baseball cap, and in that second she glimpsed a completely bald head. The man came nearer, heading for the exit. As he walked by she noticed the pallor of his skin—a sickly yellow. Immediately, her years as a nurse on the oncology floor came to mind. This man looked sick. A patient maybe? Leaving this late at night? Possible in the ER, but—
Patricia’s heart lurched as she watched him bend over the drinking fountain and she saw the unmistakable bulge of a port-a-catheter beneath his shirt. This man was sick. Her heart sank, and her previous judgments fled as a new possibility entered her mind.
* * *
Paul stopped at the water fountain and drank for a long time, trying to soothe his raw throat. He straightened and felt for the candy bar in his pocket. A kind nurse had handed it to him hours before, but until now he hadn’t been able to think about eating. Now he knew if he didn’t, he’d never make it home.
Does it matter? The thought came to him as he tore the wrapper and bit into the chocolate. What reason did he have to make it safely home?
Two of them, upstairs.
With difficulty Paul swallowed and started walking again. He’d almost reached the exit when a woman called to him.
“Mr. Bryant?” Her voice was tentative.
“Yes?” Turning, he glanced back in the direction he’d just come. His eyes flicked to the double doors. “Has something—?”
“No.” The woman shook her head quickly, then walked toward him. “I’m not a nurse here. I’m a paramedic. I work for Airlift.” Her hand went automatically to the symbol emblazoned on her jacket.
“Oh, I see.” Paul shoved one shaking hand in his pocket and tightened his grip on the candy bar.
“I came to—I waited to—I was with your wife,” the woman said. Taking a deep breath, she continued. “She was alive when we got to the accident. She asked me to tell you something.”
Paul felt like he’d been punched. He exhaled sharply. “You spoke with Tami?”
The woman nodded and took another step toward him. “I’m so sorry.” She held out an unopened sterile bandage. “I didn’t have anything else to write on, and I wanted to remember what she said. I knew it was important.”
Paul blinked twice and looked up at the ceiling, but he pulled his hand from his pocket and his shaking fingers took the bandage. “Thank you,” he said when he trusted himself to speak again. He clutched the bandage in his hand, knowing he didn’t dare look at it until he wa
s alone.
“I’m so sorry,” the woman repeated.
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “Me too.” He met her eyes briefly and saw pity there. “Thank you again—for waiting so long. It was very kind.” He turned toward the exit. As he left, he felt the woman’s eyes on him.
He stepped into the cool night air, his fingers still trembling around the bandage in his hand. Tami’s last thoughts. Her last words. A wave of nausea washed over him, and he willed his body to make it to the car. He needed to get home—needed to shower, get something to eat, get some measure of control back. Then he would read Tami’s note.
He unlocked the door as a tear slipped down his cheek. He opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat, leaning forward, his hands and face over the steering wheel.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
After several anguished minutes, his tears and shaking stopped and he found the willpower to sit back. Slowly, he opened his fingers and smoothed the bandage flat. He flipped on the dome light and began to read:
God must have known I couldn’t live without you, Paul. Find our babies a mother. You know who their father should be. I’ll be waiting.
I love you.
Tami
Part One
Then Come the Babies in the Baby Carriage
Chapter One
Six weeks later . . .
Jane turned into the ferry parking lot. Unbelievable.
“Does that guy camp here or what?” she mumbled to herself as she nudged her Corolla into lane three behind a green Ford Taurus. Never mind that they were the only two cars in the lot. She wanted lane three, and Green Taurus had beat her. Again.
“Oh well,” Jane said aloud, then stuck a straw through the lid of her University of Washington mug. She picked it up and enjoyed a taste of her First Friday breakfast special—a homemade smoothie replete with strawberries, raspberries, bananas, sherbet, vanilla ice cream and real whipping cream. Not exactly a dieter’s delight, but it was the first Friday of the month, her ritual time for indulgence.
Counting Stars Page 1
