. . . Ate pancakes. Love u.
Maybe that was it: true happiness boiled down to . . . love.
After all, it was one of God’s greatest commandments: “Love one another.” Yet it was the one almost everyone botched. On all levels: families, neighbors, communities, churches, governments, nations. One glimpse at the TV news proved that. There should be a storm map for the global breakdown of love. Commandment or not, it was complicated, frustrating, hard. Especially romantic love; Lauren doubted she’d ever figure that one out. Really feel it. Though maybe, just for a moment—
She inhaled a speck of cinnamon and coughed, stunned at what she’d been thinking. Remembering. Those confusing, pulse-quickening moments with Eli. When she’d gone to find him after Jessica was safely home. Gone to thank him. And then broken down again in the wake of such incredible relief. She’d found comfort, safety in his strong arms. He’d offered tender words that completely surprised her. Almost as much as his kiss.
- + -
“He loves it when I do this.” Emma drew her Little Mermaid hairbrush gently over Shrek’s broad, furry forehead. His brows lifted alternately over his sightless brown eyes, tongue lolling in drooly bliss. “If Shrek was a cat instead of a dog, I bet he’d purr.”
Eli smiled, thinking he might purr himself. This was the closest he came to pure happiness. This hour before Emma’s bedtime when work, carpools, last-minute forgot-the-milk treks to the grocery store, dinner dishes, and bath time had all been accomplished. And the family room was a minefield of books, LEGOs . . . and that remnant of a giant soap bubble still glistening on top of the darkened TV. This precious time when his pajama-clad daughter smelled of shampoo and her delighted chatter gave way to reluctant yawns.
“Here,” she said, moving a book so she could join him on the couch. “Dip your head down here a minute, Daddy.” She raised the hairbrush. “I’ll show you how this feels to Shrek.”
“Okay,” he obliged, glad their Newfie was on flea control.
“Now, hold still.” Emma stroked the brush over Eli’s forehead, brow, snagged the soft bristles across the stubble of his jaw. Then she moved the brush slowly upward again. “How’s that?”
“Great.” He peered at her, one eye closed to avoid a corneal abrasion. “Lucky, spoiled-rotten hound.”
“Yes, he is. Because we love him.” Emma sighed, lowering the doll brush. Her expression took on a seriousness he recognized. The look that preceded questions about her mother or a problem or a painful slight at school.
“Parrish Donnelly’s dog got put to sleep,” she told him. “Oscar. The little dachshund they dress up in that foam hot dog bun for Halloween.” Her brows bunched. “I don’t know why they call it ‘sleep.’ The vet gave Oscar a shot so he’d die. Mr. Donnelly took him there on purpose. For that.”
Ah, no. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not yet. “Was Oscar really sick?”
“Old, I guess. Not eating good.” Emma shrugged as she buried her thumbs in the brush bristles. “They told Parrish it was because they loved Oscar. And didn’t want him to suffer anymore.”
Eli cleared his throat. An ache was choking him senseless. “It’s hard when you see someone you love suffering,” he tried to explain. “Sometimes you have to make decisions you don’t want to. Because in the end it’s . . . kinder.” It sounded ludicrous out loud. And saying it to his innocent child made Eli feel old himself.
Emma stared at him for an endless moment, unblinking. Then she ran the soft brush bristles against Eli’s arm. Her eyes brimmed with tears and she glanced down, turning the brush over in her hands. “Shrek is old. I don’t know if being blind and having diabetes means he’s really sick. But I see him every day, Daddy. I don’t see any suffering. He’s happy. He loves to eat. He loves it when I brush him. He wags his tail all the time, and—”
“Hey, hey. Hold on.” Eli tucked his fingers under her tiny chin, desperate to ease her fears. “Listen, sweetie, Shrek is fine. Don’t worry. Of course he’s happy. He’s loved by the most amazing little girl in the whole wide world. Who wouldn’t be happy about that?”
“He’ll stay here with us, no matter what?”
Shrek was seven; Emma was eight. The life span of a Newfoundland dog was . . . Eli wasn’t going to do the math, wouldn’t let himself imagine a worst-case scenario. Right now he only saw his daughter’s hopeful eyes. “No matter what. Cross my heart.”
“I love you, Daddy!” She flung her arms around his neck and snuggled close. “Shrek and you and me, Grams, Yonner, and Uncle Drew—we’re a family team. The best team ever!”
Drew . . . my parents . . . Eli’s heart gave a dull thud and he hugged his daughter closer, inhaling the sweetness of her. “You betcha, punkin. I love you too. Big-time.”
“Oh!” She leaned away, tears gone and eyes lighting. “Parrish invited me for a sleepover on Sunday. She wants me to bring Shrek. It’s okay with her parents.” Emma’s expression was far wiser than her years. “Parrish needs us, Daddy. She misses Oscar. She’s my best friend and I don’t want her to suffer. Is it okay if I go?”
He wasn’t sure his chest could contain the rush of pride. “Of course it is. We’ll load up Shrek and maybe stop at Hank’s Ice Cream. Buy Parrish’s favorite. I’ll get you there, Emma. No problem.”
“But what will you do, without me here?”
“Sunday? I’m working at Houston Grace. And after that, I’m going to a party.”
She shot him a dubious look. “You’re not a party guy, Dad.”
He laughed. “I’m making an exception this time,” he explained, remembering Drew’s request that he attend. Lauren planned to be there too. Unexpected warmth flooded through him, triggering a memory of how she’d felt in his arms all those long months ago. Eli smiled, pointed to the hairbrush in his daughter’s lap. “Sometimes a party is almost as nice as having your head brushed.”
Emma giggled. He joined her. Shrek added a deep woof.
Mardi Gras in June. It didn’t make sense, but not many things in Eli’s life ever had. Why start now?
THERE WAS A LADDER pushed up against the side of Mimaw’s. With a man on it. One of the burly Fruge cousins, wearing work overalls, boots, and a chin-deep layer of glimmering gold, green, and purple beads. His party mask rested atop his head, feathers lifted by the late-afternoon breeze. Lauren chuckled, watching in disbelief. Somehow he was able to hammer at the roof’s fascia board while dancing in place to the lively music spilling through the screen door below.
“Cyril,” she called out, hands cupping her mouth, “wouldn’t it be safer to dance inside, with two feet flat on the floor?”
“Ha!” He turned and grinned at her, feathers rising like an exotic bayou bird. “I’m guessing you never danced to swamp pop music, then. No such thing as two feet flat down anywhere, not when you’re doin’ the Cajun jig.”
“Swamp . . . ?” Lauren raised her hands in surrender. “Got me on that.”
“I’ll show you, once I get this board tight.” He glanced at the sky. “Doesn’t look like much now, but that third storm’s building out there. I’m praying it’s not so but can’t help feeling Glorietta’s fixin’ to flirt with Houston. That means wind and water. And we’re not far enough away to be spared.”
She looked over her shoulder, certain she felt a raindrop on her cheek even though the sky was fairly clear. “I saw shovels and wheelbarrows in the parking lot. And that dump truck.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cyril nodded. “I believe God listens to every prayer, but I don’t expect him to fill the sandbags.”
Lauren had a sudden thought of her mother’s weather alarm system. Had Jess turned the volume down or completely off?
She waved to Cyril. “See you inside.”
“You bet. Wouldn’t miss Odette’s party.” He pointed toward a plastic tub on the porch. “Don’t forget your bling.”
Lauren grabbed a necklace and opened the door to find festivities in full force, despite the fact that several partygoers’
dancing skills were hampered by canes, walkers, and wheelchairs. One wheelchair held a young woman with two leg casts and a halo brace bolted to her skull. Lauren waved to her and she grinned back, then tooted her kazoo.
The air smelled of gumbo—chicken, smoky sausage, shrimp, tomatoes, peppers, garlic—spicy and pungent, but there was a bakery scent too, yeasty and sticky-sweet like frosting. The king cake, Lauren would bet. She stood in the doorway, trying to take it all in. The Viettes had done an amazing job turning the homey great room into Mimaw’s version of the French Quarter in New Orleans, featuring a huge vinyl mural complete with brick walls and triple-story ironwork balconies, street signs, and even the gaudy likeness of costumed dancers and musicians. Green, purple, and gold streamers hung from the overhead beams. An elegant sequined mask was affixed to Auntie Odette’s smiling portrait.
To say that there was music was an understatement.
The hardwood floor thrummed from speakers offering blues and jazz—saxophone, trumpet, piano—alternating with an upbeat blend of accordion and washboard: zydeco. More than enough to make any able foot tap, even on a ladder. And they were indeed tapping and clapping along. Staff, family members, and all fourteen residents—even their one bedridden gentleman, on a padded gurney now—were gathered together, most in masks, all wearing beads, and every one of them smiling.
“You’re here!” Vee arrived alongside Lauren. Her braids glittered with Mardi Gras beads. “Did you see that we got everybody here?”
“I’m stunned—it’s great.”
They walked farther into the room, and Vee smiled and pointed discreetly. “Even the Champ is partying.”
It was true. Drew Landry was in a wheelchair, and though his weight shifted a little toward his weak side, he was wearing multiple strands of beads and a grin on his face.
“What’s that thing he’s waving? That plastic deal that lights up when it flaps?” Lauren asked.
“A noisemaker. My idea.” Vee smiled like she’d invented penicillin. “Three plastic hands that make this great clapping sound when you shake it. Solves that pesky problem of having one uncooperative arm when you want to clap along with the music.”
“It sure does.” Lauren thought of Jess, wishing there were as easy a way to make her smile. At least she was at work tonight, not holed up in the weather room.
Weather . . .
“I saw Cyril on the ladder,” she told Vee. “And the dump truck with the sand.”
“Precautions. Auntie chose this site because it’s not in the mapped floodplain and it sits high. But the roads getting in and out can be a problem. We’ve had to stay put a few times in bad storms. Not for long.”
Lauren glanced toward the window. “Cyril said he has a feeling Glorietta will head this way.”
“I tend to trust his feelings. He’s had some up-close experience. Like most of my family.”
Hurricane Katrina. Even the name chilled Lauren. And she’d only watched it on TV.
“I hope Cyril’s wrong,” Vee added. “And I’m praying.”
“But you can’t expect God to fill the sandbags. Cyril’s words.”
“My cousin the philosopher. He’s right. You need to be prepared. And sometimes that means stepping up . . . even if it’s the hardest thing you’ve ever done.” Something that looked like sadness flickered across Vee’s face.
Before Lauren could say anything, Vee’s radiant smile was back. She bobbed her head to the washboard-and-accordion beat. “You gotta love that look on Drew’s face.”
“The clapper’s a big hit.”
“Right, but—” Vee nudged Lauren and glanced toward the door—“that smile’s for his brother.”
“He’s here?” She turned to look.
Cyril must have caught Eli at the door, because he wore a trio of bead strings around his neck, a complete style clash with the pale striped shirt, jeans, and running shoes—all of it so different from the white coat and scrubs he wore at Houston Grace. His hair looked damp. Rain maybe, or more likely he’d showered after leaving the hospital. But even beyond the beads and casual clothes, he seemed more than a little out of his element. His dark eyes were serious as he scanned the room, taking in the decorations and the crowd.
Oh, dear . . . Lauren’s stomach did a foolish somersault as their eyes met.
- + -
Eli caught Lauren’s gaze, relieved there was finally someone he recognized. Everyone else seemed to be hidden behind feathers and masks, but she looked everyday normal.
Normal? No, not even close to that. She looked . . . amazing. Long hair in loose waves around her shoulders, a simple blue T-shirt that fit like it was made for her, khaki shorts, tanned and athletic legs, sandals. He swallowed, glad she’d looked away. Enough staring; time to remember why he came. He stepped farther into Mimaw’s transformed great room, planning how he’d get through the crowd to the hallway, toward his brother’s room.
“He’s over there.” Somehow Lauren was beside him. Hand on his arm, fingers warm even through his sleeve. “In the wheelchair,” she continued, pointing. “Somebody talked him into a mask, looks like.” Her smile bloomed. “He’s been waiting for you.”
Right this moment, Eli knew the feeling.
“Great,” he told her, wishing she hadn’t taken her hand away. He watched as a fellow resident leaned down to say something to his brother. Drew lifted his hand in a thumbs-up. “I can’t believe it. It’s been so long since he’s shown an interest . . .” Eli’s voice threatened to break. “This is great.”
“I think so too.” The compassion in Lauren’s voice was audible, even over the strains of saxophone and piano. And as warm as her fleeting touch. “Go on. Make his day.”
Eli caught hold of her hand without thinking. “Come with me.”
“I . . .” Her fingers moved inside his. The incredible blue eyes looked hesitant, uncertain.
He wished there were some way to erase their complicated history but knew he was as much a fool now as he’d been that spring Jessica ran away. Any moment, Lauren would pull her hand from his, and—
“Okay. Let’s go,” she told him, leaving her hand right where it was. “Your Champ’s waiting, and I really need to see that kind of happy today.”
- + -
Gayle hesitated outside the door to ER registration, trying to calm the anxiety that rose without warning these days. She probably had a virus; she’d run a fever last night and slept poorly, awakening over and over drenched in sweat with her heart pounding. But while exhausting, the hours of insomnia helped her to finally formulate a plan, accept what she had to do. Things couldn’t go on this way. She and Leo were both suffering. The future looked like a gaping black hole. Right or wrong, there was no other choice.
“Where’s Jessica?” Gayle glanced around the registration office.
“On her break.” One of the clerks nudged a half-eaten Butterfinger candy bar behind a stack of forms. “You need help with something?”
“An ER patient has some additional insurance information. A card she forgot to provide. Mrs. Adele Humphries. Jessica registered her.”
“No problem; I’ll go talk with the patient.” The clerk tapped her computer screen. “Humphries . . . still in room six?”
“Yes, but this patient asked for Jessica specifically. I need her to do this. Mrs. Humphries is elderly and anxious,” she explained, irritated that she had to. “Jessica reminds her of her granddaughter.”
“Well . . . okay then.” The clerk shrugged. “She’s due back from her break in—”
“No!” Gayle snapped. She crossed her arms to still a vicious rush of chills. “Where is she right now?”
Both clerks stopped typing and stared. “Staff lounge,” they said in unison.
“Thank you.” Gayle gave a curt nod. “I’ll get her myself.”
- + -
“You think,” Lauren whispered, pointing at the tiny plastic baby in Eli’s palm, “the fix was in for your brother to get the king cake prize?”
; “I had a strong hunch.” Eli nudged the toy. “Especially when Vee handed me the slice and said, ‘Y’all be careful and cut that piece up reeeal small. Might be something special to find in there.’”
Lauren laughed at his imitation, close to perfect minus the micro braids. Actually, right this moment everything felt close to perfect. Drew’s frosting-sticky smile and gold paper crown, the tender and protective look on Eli’s face as he watched him clap, the laughter in this room mixing with hearty praise from guests enjoying second helpings of gumbo. And mostly . . . Lauren sighed. What felt most close to perfect was her rare absence of worry.
“Loook!” Drew’s clapper flapped, lighting like captured fireflies. He pointed it toward the dancers.
“That’s right.” Eli leaned down closer to the wheelchair. “It’s a Cajun jig. Here . . .” He knelt, waggled his brother’s laced sneaker side to side. “See if you can dance that foot around a little, Champ.”
Lauren’s throat tightened and she glanced away toward the dance floor. It was true: the “swamp pop” music had ramped up, and Cyril and Vee, Florine, and the family member of a resident were out there kicking up their heels. Literally it seemed. Feet sort of springing up and down, hands clasped with arms seesawing back and forth. The dancers were bouncing and moving along . . . kind of half Irish clog, a quarter Texas two-step, and maybe a dash of German polka. With twirls and hip bumps and—
“Let’s go,” Eli said to her, pushing the king cake prize into his pocket.
“Go where?”
“There.” He pointed to the growing crowd of feathers, beads, and thumping shoes in the middle of the room. “To dance.”
“What? No way. I’m adding swamp dancing to kazoo playing on the list of things I don’t do. But you go ahead. I’ll wait right here.”
“Nice try, but no cigar.” Eli pointed at the wheelchair.
Drew smiled up at them, purple sugar on his cheek, crown tipped over one brow. His shoe tapped ever so slightly against the metal footrest. He pointed the green plastic hands at his brother.
Life Support Page 12
