“I heard.” Taylor battled a chill despite the warmth of the skinny cinnamon latte in her hands. “I can’t understand that. To knowingly inflict such terror and pain . . .”
Seth was quiet for a moment, then met her gaze with compassion in his eyes. “How are you doing, Taylor?”
“Good—better.” Her quick smile was followed by a more honest shrug. There was a good reason Seth had been appointed “chaplain to the chaplains”—or C2C, as the senior chaplain liked to say. This coffee date was Seth’s way of checking Taylor’s emotional pulse. He’d been a rock for her after Greg’s death, and many times since. And would occasionally stop by the hospital when he was in the area, prompting one of the high school volunteers—perhaps because Seth’s hair had a hint of red too—to ask the chaplain if he was Taylor’s father. Ridiculous since he was only seven years older than she was. But he’d handled it with gracious humor.
“I’m hanging in there,” she assured him. “Work helps. The chaplain work too.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
When she’d applied as a volunteer, Seth expressed concern that she was opening herself up to too much stress. That it was too soon. “There’s a big difference between a scab and a scar, Taylor.” From the look in his eyes right now, he still wasn’t convinced.
“Really,” Taylor assured him. “It keeps my focus off myself. It makes me feel needed. And if I’m busy, I don’t worry that something will make me slide back into—” She stopped, swirled the stir stick in her coffee, irked at herself for giving him an opening.
“What does that?” Seth asked gently. “Makes you feel like you’re ‘sliding back’?”
She wasn’t going to cry. “Random things—ridiculous things. I mean, I can look at our wedding photo and be okay with that. But hearing some great news, like a friend who’s expecting a baby . . .”
“Those emotional trip wires.” Seth nodded. “At home, we know where the land mines are buried. We can avoid them, learn to dismantle them, even. At home we’re wearing full body armor. But out here—” he glanced around the Starbucks—“in the real world, we can’t control things as well.”
We. Meaning me. But then Seth would understand. His wife had died of ovarian cancer several years ago.
“I suppose it’s the things that come out of the blue that shake me the most,” she admitted. “Like getting that letter from the Sac Fire human resources department last week—addressed to Greg.” Her lips tensed. “You know how many times he was in and out of that office over the years? He coached two of those women’s sons in Little League. They knew him, Seth—they know what happened. How could someone make a thoughtless mistake like that?”
Seth stayed quiet; it wasn’t a question that needed an answer.
“And the label,” she added with a sigh. “That’s hard too.”
Seth’s brows rose a fraction.
“Widow. It’s like I’m not Taylor anymore, I’m ‘Greg Cabot’s widow.’ You can’t imagine how many times I’ve been introduced like that at department functions. To the new hires, new spouses. I either need a name badge or an exit strategy.” Taylor took a slow breath. “I guess it’s time to wean myself away.”
“Hard to say good-bye to family. Firefighters, cops, medical people, chaplains—we hold on to each other. Tight knit to the last stitch.”
Taylor nodded; words were too much of a risk. It was so true—and another loss.
She was relieved when Seth’s phone buzzed with a text.
“Titus is out of surgery,” he reported. “The officer’s kids are there, and if there’s bad news, I should be with them.”
“Then you’d better go.” Taylor began rising from her chair. “I wanted to check on Charly again anyway.”
He stood, waited while she gathered her things.
“Thank you for the coffee,” she told him. “And the ear.”
“Two ears.” Seth tugged at an earlobe. “My knee may be shot for basketball, but God made sure this man is fully equipped for listening.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“And we’ll do this again. You’re a good excuse to feed my Starbucks habit.” Seth’s eyes softened. “Greg was a great guy. He’s missed by a lot of people. But you’ll always be Taylor to me—no labels. Except friend.”
Taylor made it into her car before the first tear slid down her face. She smacked her palm against the steering wheel, anger warring with sadness. The insensitivity of a letter addressed to Greg had sickened her. Anonymous neglect from trusted “family.” And any day now Taylor half expected to log on to her computer and see one of those intrusive Facebook pop-ups prompting her to change her status from “married” to “widowed.” The combination of all that—plus what was going on with Charly Holt—had almost made her cancel her coffee with Seth.
No. That wasn’t the truth.
Taylor swiped at the tear and stared across the street at the patrol cars parked at the veterinary hospital. The chaplain’s SUV was among them now. The reason she’d almost canceled on Seth Donovan was because she was afraid she’d be tempted to revisit the questions that refused to stop replaying in her head, even after two years. Taylor didn’t want to press that good man for answers he didn’t have, draw him into her . . . obsession? Had it become that?
On the night Greg was killed, he’d told Taylor he was going to help a buddy install a home theater system. In Roseville. Why would she question that? Trust was at the very core of their relationship. But the rural road where he was struck by that car was several miles south of Elk Grove—not even in the same county as Roseville. In the painful aftermath, Taylor had endured raw, guilt-ridden condolences from the family Greg had stopped to help that night—as well as the retired teacher who’d accidentally run him down. She’d struggled to accept it all. But no one ever explained what put Greg in that place at that moment in time. Somewhere he wasn’t expected to be. She’d asked and asked—expressed her concern to Seth, too—trying to understand even one small part of her husband’s horrific and senseless death. But no one had an answer. Or a new home entertainment system.
“It’s done.” Fletcher rolled his sleeve down over the cotton ball the lab tech had taped to his forearm. “We’re good to go. Though they said it could be a couple of weeks before we get the official results from the HLA testing.”
“There’s no certainty of a match.” Charly held his gaze as she smoothed the hospital blanket across her hips. “Even with a parent or sibling, it’s only a one in four chance of being a marrow donor, at best.” She watched as he settled onto the visitor’s chair, close enough to take hold of her hand. There was a small, uncharacteristic quaver in her voice. “You shouldn’t count on it, Fletcher.”
“We don’t even know if you’ll need a transplant,” he reminded her, reassuring himself that the tiny red spot—“a superficial hemorrhage”—marring the white of his mother’s eye hadn’t grown larger. It was a common occurrence, the nurse told him, though he’d found no comfort in that. “I only did this because the doc said it’s advisable to have family members tested to stay ahead of the game. There’s no evidence you haven’t responded to the chemo. And even if that changes, they sometimes start off with a transplant of a patient’s own stem cells.”
She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Someone’s been studying.”
“I’ve been doing some reading.” He couldn’t let her see how much it disturbed him, every word and each statistic. But the bleeding had responded well to the packing and cautery. His mother’s anemia wasn’t critical. She’d been given a transfusion of platelets—cells that helped blood to clot. And there had been no new bleeding. She was being discharged home in the morning. All of that was encouraging. “You know me. Got to stay on top of things.”
“Yes. I know you, Son. And how hard you try to fix things. I don’t want you to pin your hopes on being a match.” She wiped an eye, tossed him one of her teasing smiles. “We should leave a few things on that to-do list for God. It’s his job, after all
.”
“Right,” he told her, knowing with certainty that his prayer would be answered this time. If his mother needed a transplant, it would come from her son. He hadn’t been able to save his sister’s life or fix his mother’s heartbreak all those years ago. But this time things would go the right way.
Fletcher’s cell phone buzzed. He slipped his hand away from hers, read the text. And frowned.
“Something wrong?”
“Good and bad.” He slid the phone back into his pocket. “They recovered the bullet from that grammar school. Passed right through the dog and lodged in a fence post.”
“And Titus? Wasn’t he having another surgery today?”
Fletcher wanted to lie, spare her . . . “He had to be put down.”
16
“THE SANE NURSE IS ON HER WAY,” Macy assured the social worker who stood alongside the exam table.
“Good.”
Their patient, a fifteen-year-old assault victim—and presumed runaway—lay faceup and shivering despite a triple layer of warmed blankets. She’d covered her eyes with a skinny arm, hand dangling, nail polish a chipped, desolate black. Her burgundy hair was littered with leaf debris from the park bushes where she’d been found by an elderly woman walking her dog. Since then the girl had breathed barely a handful of words, each accompanied by uncontrollable shaking. Her lower lip was swollen, split by a small laceration. One earlobe trickled blood. A hoop earring had been viciously torn free by her assailant—the least by far of her traumas. The sexual assault nurse examiner couldn’t get here fast enough as far as Macy was concerned. Everything about this was bringing back memories of Leah’s trauma.
“Make sure the hospital chaplain is coming too,” Dr. Carlyle told the social worker. She tucked the warmed blankets under her patient’s back and bent low to whisper, “We’re going to help you get through this, Sonya. You’re safe here.”
Safe. Macy closed her eyes for a moment, remembering the click of Nonni’s door latch.
“Is everything ready?” Andi Carlyle kept her voice low as she glanced at the metal instrument stand. “The exam equipment, evidence kit, and—”
There was a knock at the door.
“Excuse me, Dr. Carlyle.” The door opened a crack and a registration clerk’s face peeked through. Her expression seemed anxious. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”
“Unless it’s urgent, I really can’t leave right now.” Andi took a step toward the door, and Macy noticed that her flowered T-shirt, tucked into the faded-blue scrub pants, made the doctor’s blossoming tummy visible. “Is it something PA Koenig can handle?”
“It’s that Mr. Harrell,” the clerk whispered. “He says it’s urgent that he speak with you personally. He’s insisting.” The look on her face said demanding was more accurate.
Their patient turned onto her side with a small groan, exposing a glimpse of an amateurish tattoo on her pale shoulder—a painful and permanent typo: Beleive.
“Tell Mr. Harrell—” Andi pressed her fingers to her forehead—“that I’ll be with him in five minutes. He can wait in my office. Show him where the coffee is.” Discomfort flickered across her face. “This has been a rough day for his family.”
“Okay.” The clerk’s brows pinched. “He doesn’t look like he would want coffee. But I’ll tell him.”
Bob Harrell. Macy thought of the day they’d lifted his unconscious mother from the backseat of his car, how agitated he’d been. She’d hoped that having his brothers here would make it easier for him. But then there was nothing at all easy about losing someone you love. The ICU team had discontinued life support on Darlene Harrell an hour ago. The family was keeping a painful vigil—except for Bob, who apparently handled stress by pacing the halls. Miles of them over the past week. Macy had seen a member of the chaplain staff following a discreet distance behind, just in case he wanted to talk. But it seemed that the only person he wanted to talk with was Andi.
“The SANE nurse is here,” the clerk added as she slipped out of the exam room.
“Thank you.” The social worker patted their patient’s arm. “I’m going to go speak with our nurse specialist for a few minutes before she comes in, Sonya. And then we’ll both be back.”
“And I think I’ll slip out now too. I need to give a status report to the oncoming physician.” Andi bent low in an attempt to make eye contact with the girl. Impossible since she’d drawn the blanket up high enough to cover her brows. But at least she’d stopped the terrible trembling. “You’re in good hands, Sonya. We’re going to do everything we can to help you.” She glanced at Macy. “And my nurse is going to wait with you until we’re ready to start your exam.”
“Absolutely.” Macy grabbed a rolling stool, straddled it, and moved close to the exam table. “Not going anywhere.”
In a moment it was only the two of them, Sonya lying so still that Macy suspected she’d fallen asleep. Merciful, considering that in a short while she’d need to answer a list of excruciatingly personal questions. Things no fifteen-year-old should have to address. Then give permission for an intimate probing of her body, collecting evidence designed to build a case against her vicious attacker. All of it would be performed by a skilled and caring professional. But to a frightened child, it still might seem far too close to a second assault.
The girl pulled down the blanket, met Macy’s gaze. Tears welled in her red-rimmed eyes. Her voice emerged in a husky, raw monotone. “That . . . man . . .”
Oh no. Macy wanted to interrupt, advise her that she should wait to talk to the sexual assault expert or the waiting female detective.
“I heard . . . ,” Sonya continued, fighting another involuntary tremble. “That man, that sniper out there . . . shot a dog.”
The shooter? Macy’s thoughts staggered. This battered and violated child was worried about the dog?
“Is it true?” Sonya asked.
“I’m afraid so.” Even if this girl asked, Macy wasn’t going to reveal the final outcome of that senseless attack. At least she could spare her that. But Sonya closed her eyes and went quiet again. Macy scooted closer, trying not to imagine Leah’s experience in that exam room years back; she’d been even younger than this girl.
“I have . . . I had a dog. Back in Pocatello,” the girl whispered, a sad smile teasing her lips. “Tater always liked to sleep at the end of my bed. She’d scratch my quilt and turn and turn . . . like she was making this perfect little nest for herself.” Sonya grasped the hospital blanket to her chest, exposing that misspelled tattoo. A tear slid down her face. “Maybe . . . it’s not too late. Maybe I could . . .”
Macy waited.
“I want to go home.” The girl’s eyes found hers. “Can you all help me with that?”
Macy nodded, an ache crowding her throat. “We’ll try our best.”
A few minutes later, the SANE nurse and the social worker returned, and Macy headed back to the nurses’ station. Andi was at the doctors’ desk, her homely Keebler elf mug—an anonymous gift from last year’s Secret Santa—in one hand. The other hand rested protectively against her growing tummy.
“How was Mr. Harrell?” Macy asked after glancing toward the assignment board.
“Changed his mind apparently. Not in my office or anywhere in the department.” Andi shrugged. “I’m hoping that means one of the chaplains got through to him. Truthfully, I’m relieved. Besides prayer, there’s not a lot I can do for him at this point. And—” she glanced at her watch—“as soon as I finish this tea, I’m on my way. I’m meeting my guy at Babies & Beyond.” Her dimpled smile appeared. “The new date night.”
Macy smiled back. She could only imagine what that kind of happy felt like.
Andi drained the last of her tea, reached for her backpack, then glanced toward the doors to the corridor. “Oh, dear, I forgot.” She turned back to Macy. “Did he find you?”
“Who?”
“Fletcher Holt, the deputy. He was waiting outside to talk with you.”
Clearly Macy
was busy, Fletcher told himself as he reached the exit doors to the hospital parking lot. He’d find another opportunity to talk with her. Excuse? Yeah, probably. But—
“Fletcher. Hey, wait up.”
Macy jogged toward him, stethoscope bouncing around her neck. Different scrubs today, green like that dress at the gala.
“I’m sorry,” she told him, coming to a stop. “I didn’t get the message until just now that you were out here.” Her gaze skimmed his off-duty clothes. “Visiting Charly?”
“Right,” Fletcher confirmed, amused to hear his mother’s nickname—of course she’d insist. “I was on my way out and thought I’d let you know how she was doing. That’s all. I can see that you’re busy.”
“It’s okay. I want to hear about your mother. I’m good for a few minutes.” She nodded toward the doors. “Let’s step outside. Otherwise I’ll start believing it’s normal for air to smell like iodine, rubbing alcohol, cold pizza, and things you probably don’t want to imagine.”
“You’re right.” Fletcher pushed the door open before Macy could reach for it. He agreed with her completely. Fresh air, a few minutes’ respite . . . some peace. He hadn’t realized until just this moment how much he needed that.
“Ah, heaven,” Macy said almost immediately. She backed up against the stucco wall, lifted her face toward the sun, and closed her eyes. The breeze, scented by eucalyptus trees, played with her dark ponytail. Then her eyes met his. “So how is your mother doing?”
“Much better. The packing is out—no more bleeding. Doctor thinks I can take her home in the morning.”
“And her blood work?” Macy tilted her head. “The leukemia?”
“Better than they expected. I don’t know the numbers—how that all goes. But her oncologist said we could still be ‘cautiously optimistic.’” He rubbed his fingers against the shirtsleeve where the cotton ball was still taped to his skin. “The lab drew my blood for HLA testing. I’ll donate marrow if she needs it.”
By Your Side Page 9
