Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  “C’mon.” Eli held his hand out to Lauren. “By royal command of the Mardi Gras king.”

  - + -

  “You’re doing great,” Eli assured Lauren, mesmerized by a wavy tendril bouncing over her forehead. Her brows pinched as she struggled to mimic the other dancers and follow the push-pull motion of his lead. This was probably an idiotic idea; he was beyond rusty himself. The last time he’d danced the Cajun jig was with his toddler daughter in his arms. “Don’t be so serious,” he said over a crescendo of washboard and kazoo. “This isn’t a disaster drill.”

  “Oh yeah?” She grabbed tighter to his hands, casting a wary eye toward the festooned ceiling. Her flushed cheeks showed a faint sheen of perspiration. “I’m not sure if that ominous rumble is Glorietta blowing in or my heart pounding in my ears. This is more Zumba than jig.”

  “Cajun cardio.” He smiled, glad she couldn’t know his pulse was faster too and it had everything to do with the feel of her hands in his. “You haven’t seen anything yet,” Eli told her, raising her hand high and guiding her into a twirl.

  Lauren looked panicked, but she moved into the turn gracefully, anticipating the second twirl, laughing at a third, and—

  “Hip-to-hip spin,” he announced, pulling her close enough that their sides touched. “And this step . . .” He lifted Lauren’s hand high, then captured her closely in both arms, leading her into a slow backward spin. She felt incredible against him—berry-scented warmth, softness, and—

  “Good going.” Cyril grinned, shuffling close with Vee. “The ‘sweetheart.’”

  “What?” Lauren’s eyes widened. “No. We’re just—”

  “The dance step,” Eli explained quickly. “It’s called the ‘sweetheart.’”

  “I get it.” Her flush deepened. The music ended and she stepped away, sweeping stubborn tendrils of hair from her damp forehead. “Well,” she said, avoiding his eyes, “I guess I survived the Cajun experience.”

  “Right.” Eli already missed holding her. His arms felt oddly awkward, dangling empty at his sides. “Thanks for being a good sport.”

  “No problem.” She took a half step sideways to accommodate a couple leaving the floor, then lifted her gaze to his at last. The flush was still there. She shrugged, a smile teasing her lips. “Might have been worse. You could have asked me to bite the heads off a platter of boiled crawfish.” She laughed at the immediate insulted pinch of his brows.

  “Great.” Eli shook his head. “I guess I’m flattered then.”

  “No, really.” Lauren touched his arm. “The dance wasn’t that bad. And if it made our Mardi Gras king happy . . .” She glanced toward Drew’s wheelchair and gasped. “He’s having trouble breathing.”

  “WHAT ON EARTH?” Gayle’s eyes widened as she brushed through the exam room curtain. Mrs. Humphries was sound asleep on the ER gurney, and—“What are you doing there?”

  “Uh . . .” Jessica Barclay drew her hand back from the plastic patient-belongings bag perched atop the bedside stand. “Getting that insurance information. You sent me in here, remember?”

  “Of course I do. But you know full well that you can’t go poking around in a patient’s personal property.”

  “She told me to find her coin purse.”

  “Mrs. Humphries is asleep.” Gayle gestured toward the elderly woman beneath a double layer of cotton blankets. “I would think you could recognize snoring when you hear it.”

  “Excuse me.” The clinical coordinator slipped through the curtain, taking in the scene with an expression of concern. “Is there a problem?”

  “Apparently.” Gayle shook her head. “Maybe you can explain to our clerk that policy prohibits staff from handling a patient’s personal belongings. Especially when that patient is sedated.” She frowned, her frustration underscored by a wave of dizziness. “I do not need this today!”

  “Huh . . . what? What’s wrong?” Mrs. Humphries’s eyes jerked open, and she struggled to sit up.

  “It’s okay, dear,” the clinical coordinator assured, hurrying to her side.

  Jessica stood frozen in place, the lovely eyes narrowed to mere slits.

  “Get back to your desk, Jessica,” Gayle ordered. “Now.”

  Gayle snatched the curtain aside and strode away, aware that several staff members were staring. She took a deep breath, told herself to get a cup of decaf and calm down.

  Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. Gayle retrieved it, grinding her teeth together at the sight of her husband’s ID. She made a beeline toward the corridor before answering.

  “Leo . . .”

  “Been listening to the news?”

  “No. I’m working.”

  “TV’s saying that storm’s got her sights set on Houston later this week,” he reported with a grim laugh. “Howard next door said he bought himself some plywood and plastic tarps.” Leo snorted. “I told him I was stocking up too. On beer and Jack Daniel’s. Who gives a rip if my feet get wet when I’m crippled up with a bum back and my whole life’s gone to—”

  “I did it, Leo,” Gayle broke in. “I got the pills.”

  - + -

  Drew wasn’t dizzy anymore. The breathing treatment made a fizzing sound, like Mountain Dew bubbles, only louder. And even if the plastic mask smelled bad and tasted bad against his lips, it did help him get more air. That’s what his brother always said: “Gotta take the bitter with the sweet, Champ.” Drew would rather skip bitter and have blueberry pancakes. But he was better now. Not having enough air made him dizzy, like when you dive down too deep in the water. And you don’t think you’re going to make it back up to the top.

  Drew touched his tongue, just a little, against the plastic, then looked up at the lady with blue eyes—Lauren. Her hand was soft and cool on his forehead.

  “He doesn’t feel feverish,” she said, looking at his brother. “And his respiratory rate’s down to 22. Pulse ox is 96 percent.”

  “Asthma. This is his typical mild attack. The nebulized albuterol does a good job if we catch it early. The wheezes are all but gone now.” Eli bent low, gave Drew’s shoulder a squeeze.

  Even with the oxygen clip on his finger, Drew could hold the plastic clapper; he was glad they let him take it back to his room. With the baby toy from the cake. And his crown.

  “You feel better, Champ?”

  Drew shook the plastic hands enough to make them light up.

  “We’ll take that as a yes, then.” His brother smiled at him. At Lauren, too.

  “A lot of excitement today.” She petted Drew’s hair like his mother did. He wondered if she was a mom; she seemed like one. “He looks tired. Maybe if we put his music on . . .”

  His earphones, his music. On and going now. With songs about heaven, lambs, love, glory . . . rainbows. Drew looked up at the drawing on the wall, at all the colors Emma had drawn just for him. And at the cross she made out of leaves. Then, even though it was hard to keep his eyes open, Drew looked at his brother and Lauren. Maybe they’d dance again. Or eat cake. He didn’t know. Drew was just glad he could get enough air now. And that he had music that made him know he was someone special. No matter who he was, what he did . . . or couldn’t do. And he was glad his brother didn’t look worried anymore. Eli was smiling at Lauren. Like the bitter was gone. And he’d found the sweet part.

  - + -

  “No wheezing; breathing slow and easy. Sound asleep with that clapper in his hand,” Eli reported, the tenderness in his expression touching Lauren. He glanced around the empty great room—residents and families gone, a few staff members putting away the food in the kitchen. The Cajun music had been replaced with gospel, turned way down low. Odette smiled at them from her portrait, sans mask. “Barely five and they roll up the sidewalks at the Nest.”

  “Mm-hmm. Wild bunch.” Lauren noticed Eli’s shirt was untucked, his hair rumpled. A toss-up whether it was from the Cajun jig or being his brother’s keeper. “I tried to get them to let me help with the cleanup, but Vee kicked me out of the kitc
hen.” His eyes met hers and her heart hitched. “Are you going to stick around?”

  “Probably. Emma’s at a sleepover.” Eli scraped his fingers along his jaw. “She and Shrek are trying to cheer up a friend. So I don’t have a curfew. I’ve seen enough of Drew’s asthma to know this isn’t a bad one. The staff seems . . .”

  “They can handle it. Florine and Renee will be on duty tonight. They’ll be checking him frequently,” Lauren assured him. She stopped herself from saying they’d call 911 if things got worse. “He has the nebulizer and plenty of albuterol doses.”

  “I’ll probably still stay for a while . . .” Eli covered a yawn. “Excuse me. Cajun cardio. I’m out of shape, I guess.”

  Lauren remembered the feel of his arms and felt her face flush. Out of shape? Not even close.

  “Anyway,” Eli continued, “maybe I’ll go grab some coffee while the staff gets everyone settled.” His brows rose. “Come with me. I know a great little place.”

  “No. I shouldn’t.”

  “Why not?” He obviously wasn’t going to let her brush him off that fast. “It’s coffee. Not a platter of crawfish. Promise.”

  Could Eli promise he wouldn’t confuse her again? That she wouldn’t revisit the regret and sleepless nights?

  “I have things I need to do at the house,” she told him, praying he wouldn’t ask faster than she could come up with a plausible excuse. “Hannah. And getting things ready in case the storm really does hit. And—”

  “Your cell phone is chiming.”

  “I heard it,” Lauren acknowledged, planning her exit.

  “Aren’t you going to check it?”

  “Right.” She felt his eyes on her as she fished the phone from her pocket and silenced the insistent alarm. Read her stupid mistake:

  Jess. Physiology Lab

  She’d set the reminder for the wrong time. And swore she heard Eli’s accusing whisper in her head: “You’re enabling . . .”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Perfect.”

  She was surprised by a memory of her humiliating search for the bottle of brandy. How she’d stood in the pantry eating that cinnamon cracker and wondering how it would feel to be truly happy. Not certain she ever would be—even accepting that. And in an instant Lauren was angry. It was coffee, for goodness’ sake! Not happily ever after. Coffee. What was wrong with that? She’d cooked Hannah Leigh two chicken breasts, painted over the scratch marks on the guest room door, and put Tupperware bowls under every drip spot just in case. Jess was safe and secure at work, and—

  “I can’t tempt you?” Eli asked one last time.

  “I need to return a jacket for Jess. I have it in the car.”

  “We could do that on the way, no problem—I’m a free man tonight.”

  Breathe.

  “Could that coffee include something chocolate?”

  Eli smiled. “Of course.”

  “SUMMER IN HOUSTON . . . You can drink the air.” Eli raised his voice as two METRORail trains—separated by a cement-lined ribbon of water—passed each other in a rush over streets inlaid with red brick. Past palm trees, restaurants, upscale shops, and world-class museums. They sped like sleek glass-and-metal caterpillars, following some seven miles of electric wires north to University of Houston–Downtown and south to Rice University and Reliant Park. “Your sister couldn’t have bought that whatever-it-was at the Galleria mall? I could have waited facedown on the ice-skating rink.”

  “It was a jacket,” Lauren laughed, grateful for the tease in Eli’s voice. And more grateful that he hadn’t pressed for details. It was a ridiculous, six-hundred-dollar jacket bought nearly four months ago, tags intact, never worn. One of seven in Jess’s closet, according to Lauren’s last covert count. Jess had promised their parents she’d return them all and lessen her credit card debt, in exchange for their gracious free room and board. The ending return date for this purchase was coming up fast, so Lauren was getting the job done. “And you, Eli,” she added, sitting down beside him on a Main Street Square bench near rows of animated fountains, “are a good sport.”

  “I’m practicing.” He shrugged, his handsome face glistening with equal parts perspiration and fountain spray. “I have a daughter. I’m guessing I’ll be dragged to malls, expected to whip out the plastic, then tote packages like a dutiful llama. Hopefully that’s a few years off yet.”

  “Hopefully.” Lauren smiled at a sudden image of little Emma twirling in a prom dress. She drew in a breath of air city-scented by asphalt, car exhaust, and faint whiffs of an enticing mix of Tex-Mex and curry. Her stomach rumbled. “I’m holding you to that dessert. You think we can make it back to your car without IV fluids?”

  “No problem.” Eli blinked up at the towering glass skyscrapers that reflected the sun like a kid terrorizing an insect with a magnifying glass. “But I’m thinking our coffee should be iced.”

  Lauren raised her hand. “I second that.”

  - + -

  “The building’s a hundred years old,” Eli said as Lauren gazed around the downtown coffeehouse, Ben’s Beans. Once a historic but decaying print shop, it had been renovated a few years back; Eli had watched it come along. The still-narrow space—wedged between a law office and the House of Blues—had been on Houston “best of” lists more than once. It was definitely one of his favorites. Always busy, but Southern friendly, colorful, and cozy despite the crowd. Cement floors, potted plants, warehouse lights and fans hanging from the high ceiling, a veritable herd of leather couches, red lacquered walls boasting contemporary art, and huge chalkboards announcing both menus and live entertainment.

  “The owner, Ben, is originally from Louisiana and proud of his Cajun roots,” Eli added, breathing in the aroma of his freshly brewed and mercifully iced coffee. “He’s an anesthesiologist.”

  “Really?”

  Eli tried not to stare as Lauren’s tongue caught a dark crumb at the corner of her mouth. She’d finally chosen a cherry-chocolate scone over the cake balls, and by the look on her face, it was a big hit. Smiling, he read the words stenciled on the wall behind her: Harmony, Happiness.

  “An anesthesiologist. That seems strange somehow,” she mused. “I mean, his day job is putting folks to sleep, and here it’s all about caffeine. I think Gayle Garner is the biggest consumer in Houston.” There was the smallest hint of a wince in her voice as if she knew that he knew . . . this was all nervous small talk.

  “Yeah, good point.” He was willing to agree to anything as long as she didn’t bolt. Being with Lauren, away from the hospital and the care home, almost felt like a fresh start. Maybe it could be. As long as he steered the conversation away from everything they butted heads over. Or his monumental mistakes. He’d keep things simple, light. He pointed to Lauren’s plate. “The scone is Emma’s favorite too.”

  Lauren stilled the fork. “It must be hard raising a daughter alone.”

  So much for simple.

  “My parents have been a big help. My mother, especially. Diapers, formula, colic . . . You could have written everything I knew about babies on the head of a pin.” Eli saw the inevitable question in her eyes. “Emma’s mother left not long after she was born.”

  “And then . . . I heard that your wife passed away?”

  My wife? Jessica would have assumed he’d been married, of course. He’d told her next to nothing. Never discussed that part of his life with anyone. And sure wasn’t comfortable doing it now. “Yes, Trina died. When Emma was nine months old. I was still in the Army. She was killed in a motorcycle accident. On the French coast.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He was too. About that and about so many other things. Including the way he’d messed things up with Lauren. He’d been a fool. And was kidding himself that there was any hope of—

  “I admire that,” she said, surprising him by reaching across to touch his hand. “How hard you work at being a good father to Emma. And how you are with Drew. Even though he can’t say a lot, it’s there in his e
yes: your brother loves you, Eli.”

  He struggled to find the right words . . . any words.

  “But still . . .” A smile tugged Lauren’s lips as she slid her hand away. “You’ve got a long way to go to make up for that hip-to-hip spin. And the dog slobber on the passenger seat of my Beetle.” She pointed her fork at him, eyes teasing. “Although this scone’s a great start.”

  - + -

  “If chocolate could really do it, make it all good, I’d melt that Hershey bar down and shoot it directly into a vein. Trust me, Fletcher.” Jessica’s frown gave way to a grim smile. “Sorry. That was supposed to come out, ‘I appreciate the offer, Sir Knight. But not right now.’”

  “No problem,” he told her, setting the candy down on the hood of his patrol car. “Save it for later.” Fletcher saw Jessica’s shoulders sag in a deep sigh. “Rough shift?”

  “You could say that.” She leaned against the patrol car’s fender, gazed out across the hospital parking lot. The deepening sunset tinted her hair with splashes of color like the fairy-tale drawings she’d make on his driveway using those fat pieces of chalk she carried in an old Folgers can. “I wish I could just beam myself out of here. You know?”

  He watched the pink light turn her eyes from gray to lavender. And wished he could do something to make their sadness go away. Please, Lord. Tell me how to do that. “Another run-in with that manager, Gayle?”

  She closed her eyes for a moment. “A lot of stuff. I won’t bore you.”

  He wanted to say that never once—not since the first spring day when she met his family’s moving van, barefoot in that princess costume—had Jessica Barclay come even close to boring him. Worrying him, absolutely. Making him crazy, giving him a concussion . . . The words slipped out before he could stop himself. “I saw Angela at church. She wants to meet you. I think you’d have a lot in common.”

  Jessica peered sideways. “I’d have a lot in common with a religious shrink?”