Counting Stars

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Second floor. This way!” Jane yelled. “There’s a locked door.”

  The two firefighters followed her upstairs, a paramedic right behind them, and another unloading a gurney from the back of the ambulance.

  Jane took the stairs two at a time and arrived out of breath at Paul’s door a few seconds later. On the other side, she could still hear Madison crying. Jane spoke to the firemen as they worked.

  “The baby is only ten weeks old—and a preemie. She just came home from the hospital last week. I left her sleeping in her car seat, and her dad was in the other room. He wasn’t feeling well. He’s got cancer.”

  Jane watched as the clawlike tool took hold and had the door open in less than a minute. Practically jumping over one of the firemen, she pushed the door open and ran straight to Madison, who lay exactly where she’d left her over an hour ago—strapped, thankfully—in her car seat on the couch.

  “Oh, Maddie. Come here, sweetheart,” Jane crooned as her trembling fingers undid the buckles. From the corner of her eye she saw the paramedic’s bag as he rushed past.

  “The kitchen is to the right. The bedroom on the left,” Jane said as she picked up Madison. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Just take care of the baby,” the medic called as he disappeared down the short hall. One of the firemen headed for the kitchen.

  “No one in here,” he shouted a few seconds later.

  “Got him.” Jane heard the call from the bedroom.

  Jane scooped up Madison, who was beyond hysterical, her face red and blotchy, her body tense and shaking. Jane sang softly, to calm both herself and the baby as she walked toward the bedroom. One of the firemen stood at the door, blocking her.

  “It’s best to let the paramedics work alone,” he said.

  “But—”

  “Doesn’t she need to be fed or something?” the fireman asked, looking at Madison.

  Jane swallowed, then nodded. She looked past the fireman, toward the bedroom once more. “His name is Paul. You’ll get me if you need anything?”

  He smiled kindly. “Of course.”

  Reluctantly, Jane went to the kitchen to make a bottle. Her attention felt divided. She should have been in the bedroom with Paul, but Madison was starving, and her crying would probably make things more difficult for the paramedics.

  Jane held the baby in the crook of her arm as she filled a bottle with warm water and measured the formula. Instead of being relieved at not finding Paul passed out on the kitchen floor, she found herself even more scared of what might have happened to make him ignore Madison’s cries.

  She knew he’d had a rough couple of days, but what did that really mean? He still hadn’t told her much about his cancer—his treatments, his prognosis, how serious it really was. She assumed he meant to, but there simply hadn’t been time. It seemed every moment they were together revolved around taking care of his newborn children—a daunting task for a normal married couple. It was proving an overwhelming one for a widower with cancer and a single, working woman.

  Jane screwed the lid on the top of the bottle, shook it several times, then gently nudged the nipple into Madison’s open mouth. It took Madison several seconds before she realized she was finally being fed and stopped her screaming enough to latch on.

  “Poor, Maddie,” Jane whispered. “I’m so sorry.” What she felt was so scared. She leaned forward, peeking over the counter into the living room. It was empty, and she couldn’t hear what was going on in the bedroom. Oh, Paul, she thought.

  Madison hiccuped and began to cry again. Jane hummed a lullaby and rocked her as she worked the nipple into her mouth once more. Madison latched on, sucking greedily.

  “I know, I know. You’re hungry and you had to wait,” Jane said. “But your daddy’s sick.” She walked out of the small kitchen just as the gurney bearing Paul was rolled through the living room.

  Jane gasped. His eyes were closed, and he looked deathly pale. “Is he—?” The words died in her throat as she noticed the IV pole and the tubes running down to Paul’s left hand. He’s alive. Relief flooded her as he was rolled past and out the apartment door.

  “Wait,” Jane called. “What happened? Is he going to be okay?”

  “Brad will speak to you, ma’am,” one of the paramedics said as he walked by.

  The fireman standing next to her nodded to him. “Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  The gurney wheels clicked as they hit the concrete and rolled down the hall. She turned to the lone fireman left in the apartment. “What happened?” she repeated.

  The man looked her straight in the eye, his expression grim as he held up a plastic bag filled with prescription bottles.

  “It looks like a drug overdose.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  The door closed softly behind the fireman, and Jane sank to the couch, her emotions in turmoil as she continued to feed Madison. A drug overdose? Paul? True, she’d only known him a few weeks, but he just didn’t seem the type—no matter how bad things got—to try and take his own life. He loved his children too much. Jane would bet her own life on that. So what had happened?

  She’d given Brad, the fireman, what sketchy information she could. Even to her own ears, it had sounded like a soap opera. Man’s wife is killed by a drunk driver, his babies are saved, albeit delivered two months early. One of the babies has a critical heart condition, the other is sent home for the man to care for while he deals with his own serious illness. She supposed for some people that would be cause enough to attempt suicide. But not Paul. She was sure of it. During her internship she’d counseled enough seriously depressed people to recognize the warning signs, and Paul had none of them. He was sad. He was worried too, but he was also a fighter. There had to be a mistake. All those pills he took—she’d seen them lined up along the bathroom counter—they were all part of his treatment and nothing more.

  The bottle went slack in Madison’s mouth, and Jane looked down to find the infant sleeping, her eyelids closed, her breathing slow and steady. Tiny as her features were, Jane thought she could already see signs of her father. The father who just had to be okay. Jane kissed the top of Madison’s head, then eased her onto her shoulder and began to rub her back while she contemplated what to do next. She ought to be at the hospital with Paul. She wanted to be there when he woke up. Brad had warned her there was a chance Paul would not come out of the drug-induced coma. Jane pushed the thought aside. She would not even consider it.

  She continued to rub Madison’s back until the infant burped, then Jane lay the baby gently in her car seat, buckled her in—thank goodness she had last time—and went to retrieve her phone. Someone had put her bags and purse just inside the door. As Jane dialed her sister’s number, she realized belatedly that she hadn’t even thanked the paramedics or the firemen. She made a mental note to do that later, then picked up the grocery bags in her free hand and carried them into the kitchen. It took five rings before Caroline answered.

  “Hi, Jane. Long time no talk,” Caroline said brightly.

  No kidding, Jane thought as she rinsed out a bottle. You have no idea. “I’m sorry. I’ve been kind of busy.”

  “Mom told me about your big sale. That’s great.”

  “Yeah, well there are a few other things going on right now, too.”

  “Like what—? Oh just a minute,” Caroline said. “Jason! Close that freezer right now. Finish the carrots from your lunch if you’re hungry.”

  “Caroline?”

  “Sorry. I’m back. Jason thinks he can skip the healthy foods at lunch, then come home and eat ice cream every afternoon.”

  Jane shoved four diapers and a change of clothes for Madison in the diaper bag. “I need a favor.”

  “Is your weed eater broken again?” Caroline asked.

  “No.” Jane thought briefly of her usually immaculate yard—the yard she’d barely had time to walk through, let alone mow during the past two weeks. “Actually—” She half laughed, half sobbed into
the phone. “I need a babysitter.”

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this,” Caroline scolded as she looked down at Madison asleep in her car seat.

  “Well, it was kind of sudden,” Jane said. “You never know what might happen when you answer a personal.” She gave Caroline a sad smile and handed her the diaper bag. “Listen, I’ve got to go. There are diapers in here and a fresh bottle, plus a whole can of formula. I just fed her about—”

  “Go,” Caroline ordered, shooing Jane toward the door. “I can handle this. I’ve got a few of my own, remember?”

  “Yeah, but keep those few of your own away from Madison, okay?” Jane asked, looking back with concern. “The last thing Paul needs is for her to get sick.”

  “Don’t worry.” Caroline bent to pick up Madison’s car seat. “I’m going to lock her in the bedroom with me while I watch Oprah and fold laundry. She’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks,” Jane said. “I really appreciate this. I don’t know how long I’ll—”

  “Go,” Caroline ordered again, and this time Jane complied. A quick wave of her hand and she was running toward her car, all of her thoughts at once channeled on the man who had come so suddenly into her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  . . . During those times I think of you—your loss and how you must have felt . . .

  * * *

  Hearing the soft knock on his hospital door, Paul opened his eyes and saw that the room was dark. Someone had turned the light off, and the daylight had faded outside. Either it was raining or he’d slept away the afternoon. He looked toward the door just in time to see yet another doctor walk in—the fifth one since yesterday when they’d moved him from the emergency room to a room upstairs. The doctor switched on the light and walked toward the bed. Paul stifled a groan as recognition dawned. It wasn’t another doctor—it was the grief counselor.

  Unexpected anger welled up in Paul. They thought he was crazy—like some psyche patient on an ER episode.

  “Hi, I’m Collin.” The man stepped farther into the room. “May I?” He indicated the chair next to the bed.

  “Sure.” You will anyway. Paul took a sip of water from the paper cup on his bedside tray as Collin launched into his speech.

  “I’m a counselor here at the hospital, and I thought it might be helpful if we talked about some of the difficulties you’ve been having.”

  Difficulties? Now there’s a word, Paul thought. He didn’t feel like talking—least of all to this guy. He wished he could say, Just give me your dumb pamphlet again and let’s get this over with.

  Collin settled back into his chair. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

  “Shoot,” Paul said.

  Collin’s brow furrowed.

  Oops. Poor word choice. Paul found himself holding back a grin. If he didn’t feel so lousy, he could probably have some fun with this situation. Tami certainly would have. But she wasn’t here.

  “Have you been feeling depressed, Mr. Bryant?”

  The question was so absurd, so idiotic, so completely ridiculous, that for several seconds Paul stared at the counselor and said nothing.

  Collin leaned forward, concern on his face. “Have you been experiencing feelings of overwhelming sorrow, despair, hopeless—?”

  “My wife is dead,” Paul said, interrupting him. “My son has a life-threatening heart condition. I have terminal cancer. Last week’s CT scan showed it’s spreading.” He sat up taller in the bed, wincing as he did so. “I’m in constant pain. I can barely take care of my daughter. I’m unable to work, and my lease is up next week. Of course I’m depressed! I’d have to be insane not to be.”

  “Yes,” Collin said in a tone meant to soothe. “You’re right. Any one of those things alone would be difficult enough. Together they must—”

  “Must be enough to make me think about taking my own life,” Paul finished for him.

  Collin rose to the defensive. “I wasn’t going to say that.”

  “But it’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

  “I—”

  “Don’t bother,” Paul said. “I’m well aware that’s the rumor going around here. Mr. Bryant tried to kill himself by overdosing on his pain meds. Well I didn’t. Depressing as life may be right now, it’s still mine to live, and I’ve got an awful lot of things to take care of before I’m done with it.”

  Paul lay back on the pillows and closed his eyes, wishing Collin would disappear.

  He didn’t. “If you could explain what did happen then, Mr. Bryant?”

  Paul opened one eye. “You have any kids?”

  Collin shook his head.

  “Well then, you probably won’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  Paul sighed, but after a minute he looked at Collin. “Okay. I’ve got a ten-week-old daughter to take care of. She needs to drink a bottle or have her diaper changed about every two hours around the clock. I’m not particularly fast at either one of those things, so I’m pretty much up most of the night. Combine that with the pain I’m in, and I’ve had—oh maybe six hours of sleep over the past three days. Take fatigue, plus stress, plus not wearing my contacts, and I took the wrong medicine. I’ve only got a dozen or so prescriptions on my counter, and yesterday morning . . .” He shrugged. “Well, believe what you want, but it’s the truth.”

  Collin looked skeptical. “You took the wrong medicine twice?”

  “Obviously I didn’t realize it was the wrong one. I got two new prescriptions last week. Check with my doctor if you’d like.”

  “I believe you,” Collin said, surprising Paul.

  “Good. Can I leave then? I’d like to see my son today, and I’ve got a ton of packing to do.”

  Collin held up his hand. “Not so fast. Unfortunately, you’ll also need to speak with a social worker.”

  Paul scowled. “Social worker?”

  “About your daughter,” Collin said as he rose from the chair.

  “My daughter is well taken care of. I have a friend . . .”

  “I know, Mr. Bryant. But it’s routine.”

  “You’ll explain to them what I just told you, right?” Paul asked, trying not to sound panicked. Though he’d briefly considered putting Mark and Madison up for adoption, it had never occurred to him they might be taken from him.

  Collin, his expression serious, spoke quietly. “I’ll tell them that I don’t think you’re suicidal.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said, though he didn’t feel relieved.

  “I’ll tell them,” Collin repeated as he pulled a paper from his pocket. “But I want you to take this pamphlet. There are some numbers on the back. You really should be seeing someone. What you’re going through is incredibly difficult, and it wouldn’t be out of the realm of normal to have feelings of—”

  “I don’t have time to see anyone,” Paul said curtly. “I’ve either got to be here at the hospital with my son or at home taking care of my daughter. If I’ve got to see a doctor it’s to keep me alive a little longer. And I barely have time to get myself to the doctor for that, let alone to lie on a couch discussing Freud’s theories.”

  “There are people who can help, you know,” Collin said.

  Paul nodded. “And I’ve met one of them. Jane’s upstairs with Mark right now, and she’s been a lifesaver helping me with Madison.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Collin said. “There are agencies that watch out for children when their parents can’t. You shouldn’t be worrying about your children’s care when you’re so sick yourself. It might be better for your kids if you got healthy first and then took care of them.”

  Paul swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m not going to get any healthier than I am right now,” he said angrily. “And I’m not letting some agency take my children away.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting that, Mr. Bryant.” Collin placed his hands on the back of the chair and leaned forward. “You’d have visitation whenever you wishe
d, and if you’re truly not going to recover from your illness, it might be better for the children to become established somewhere else—somewhere permanent,” he added softly.

  Paul sat on the edge of the bed trying to calm his emotions. Losing his temper with the shrink certainly wouldn’t help his case. “Look, I’ve got a plan for my children’s future. I just need some time to work it all out. I’m not going to leave them without care, but until I go, it’s my care they need—as much as I can give.” Paul looked up at Collin, trying to read his face. “Do you believe in life after death?”

  Collin nodded. “I do—sort of.”

  “So do I,” Paul said. “And when I see Tami—my wife—again, I’m going to have to tell her about our children. What color eyes they have, how much hair—is it curly or straight, a lot or a little. She’s going to want to know how it felt to hold them . . . What I told them about their mother, and who I left to care for them. Anything less than that, and I’m going to be a whole lot more miserable than I am now. You understand?”

  Collin’s nod was accompanied by a slow grin. “Yeah. I’ve got a wife too.” He crossed the room to the door. “I’ll tell the social worker,” he paused, “that you need some sleep and you’ll be just fine.”

  * * *

  Jane stepped onto the elevator, her heart feeling lighter than it had in the past two days. Paul was coming home today, and after seeing Mark permanently off the ventilator, she felt he’d be joining them soon too. She smiled as she rubbed his beanie between her fingers. Paul would be so relieved to hear her news. Relieved and happy—she hoped.

  Her smile faded as she thought of the realities of caring full time for not one, but two infants. It was going to be a demanding, around-the-clock job—one she knew Paul wasn’t up to. But she had a plan; she just hoped he’d let her go through with it. Determination in her eyes, Jane got off the elevator and headed for Paul’s room.

  When she reached his door, she knocked softly, then pushed it open. He was awake, sitting up in bed, with a notebook in his lap and a pen in his hand.