Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  She thought of Jess, that day she’d come late to work, giggling and giddy after running the beach for hours, blistering her feet. And how quickly she’d moved to biting sarcasm, finally to holing up in the weather room with the blinds closed. Depression, shown so graphically in that black-and-white photo, was the equally dangerous flip side of bipolar disorder. She thought of what Eli said last night about Jess’s angry early morning call the day she disappeared with the sleeping pills. Though her parents hadn’t given voice to their fear, Lauren had seen it in their eyes: was she planning to harm herself? They found no comfort in knowing Jess was prone to impulsive whim, that she always leaped first and asked questions later. In the past few years, they’d all lived in fear of the next what-if.

  Another leaf fell from the peace lily, missed the table, and hit the floor. Lauren winced at an image of Darcee’s body lying on the hospital patio. She closed her eyes, took a slow breath.

  “I trust you, God. I know you’re watching over my sis—”

  Her phone rang on the table. An incoming call from . . .

  “Eli?”

  “I wondered if we could get together. Talk for a few minutes.”

  Lauren bit into her lower lip. “I . . . I’m busy taking care of some things. Over at my place.”

  “I’m near there, maybe a mile or so from your apartment complex.”

  Her eyes widened. “But how did you know . . . ?”

  “You mentioned where you lived a few weeks back. Then last night you said something about being there today. So I took a chance. Hoped I might catch you.”

  “Where are you exactly?”

  “At a Starbucks.”

  “I don’t know, Eli . . .” Lauren’s pulse quickened. She didn’t want to see him, did she? “Talk about what?”

  “Last night . . . I don’t think I handled it right. I thought if you’d let me come to your apartment . . . Or maybe you could come here, if that’s more comfortable for—”

  “I’m in the back building. Upstairs. Apartment 715.”

  - + -

  “Looks like I should be grateful.” Eli stepped back in from the balcony. “You could have changed your mind and dropped one of those potted plants on my head.” He was lucky she’d asked him up at all; this time he had to get it right. She handed him a cold bottled tea. Snapple raspberry. “My favorite—thanks.”

  “There’s not much here.” Lauren moved to the table and closed her laptop. “No food. Only the tea . . . and plants that have seen better days. I’ve been staying at my folks’ place for almost two weeks now. In the Fairwinds subdivision, near—” She glanced away. “I’m sure you’ve been to the house.”

  There it was again: the elephant in the room, even seven stories up. It was time to send that animal to someone else’s circus. “Once. And only in the driveway.” Eli shook his head. “My chance of being welcomed in by your folks wasn’t too good. I got the feeling all that hardware on the roof was more threat than decoration.” He saw Lauren start to smile.

  “Don’t ask Fletcher Holt about that.” Her eyes warmed as they often did when she mentioned the police officer’s name. “Long story.”

  “I’ve seen him at the hospital a lot. Not always in uniform.” Eli watched as she sank onto the brick-colored corduroy couch, tucked up her legs. He considered things for a moment, then settled on the ottoman in front of her. “You said you were neighbors. Guess it makes sense Holt would come by to see you.”

  “He’s in love with Jess.”

  Relief washed over him. Jessica, not Lauren.

  “I mean, that’s what I think,” she clarified. “He’s never admitted it to me. Or to her, as far as I know. But I recognize it. I always do.” She grabbed a pillow and hugged it to her chest. “All Jess’s life it’s been like that—people being drawn to her. She was beautiful even as a child. But it was more than that. It was like she was . . . magical. That’s how it felt to me when I was a kid. Even when she aggravated me the most, I still knew she was special. Shiny, almost . . . and impossible to hold on to. Like a shooting star.” Lauren shrugged. “I’m not explaining it right. But I think Fletcher’s always been attracted to my sister. A year before the Holts moved to Houston, they lost a younger daughter, hit by a car. She was only three.”

  Eli winced.

  “I think having Jess tagging along was good for Fletcher—for all of them, maybe,” Lauren continued. “But it’s easy to see that his feelings are much deeper now.”

  “Makes sense.” Eli wished he could tell Lauren to look in the mirror if she wanted to see special. To recognize the “shiny” in her own beautiful eyes, see herself the way he did right now.

  “He seems like a decent guy,” Eli added. “And he went out of his way to help me that night when you had Shrek.”

  “He did.” Lauren stretched her legs to the floor and leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “When Emma was asleep in the car at your parents’ house. And your father accidentally shot that gun.”

  “Yeah.” Great. The circus had come to the elephant. “It’s complicated with my father and me. Because of Drew. And a lot of other things, including Emma.” His daughter’s name slipped out before he could stop it.

  “Emma?”

  “I wasn’t married to her mother,” Eli told her, knowing it had to be said at some point. “We met in Germany when I was in the service. Things moved faster than they should have. I was crazy about her—maybe just crazy, now that I look back at it. But Trina wasn’t interested in a serious relationship. She was . . .” The words shooting star came to mind. “She was always looking for a new adventure, the next ‘perfect taste of life,’ she’d say. Maybe an acting career someday. A relationship didn’t fit into that. And a baby . . .” Eli shook his head. “I’d say I made a stupid mistake, but my daughter is no mistake. I’ll never let anyone say that.”

  Lauren nodded, encouraging him.

  “Trina wanted to end the pregnancy,” Eli continued, words he hadn’t said aloud in nearly a decade. “I’d never given much thought to having a child, but knowing there was one and that Trina might . . . She wouldn’t consider marrying me. She’d made an appointment at a clinic. I had to stop it.” Eli saw Lauren’s brows draw together. “My father called in a favor, flew over in a senator’s jet. He offered her a choice: a messy lawsuit to claim my paternal rights or a check big enough to fund years of ‘perfect tastes.’ All she had to do was have the baby and sign away her rights. She did. . . . And then Landry money put her on that motorcycle in France.”

  “Eli . . .” Lauren touched his hand. “Emma doesn’t know?”

  “That her mother didn’t leave us for her ‘art’?” He heard the old bitterness in his voice and wished he’d never brought this up. It wasn’t what he came here for. “No. Emma knows that Trina died in an accident, but none of the rest of it. Someday she’ll ask. Maybe I’ll figure out an answer by then. Meanwhile, I just—”

  “Love her,” Lauren finished, barely above a whisper.

  “As best I can.”

  “I see that.” Her fingers brushed the back of his hand.

  Eli stayed quiet, acutely aware of Lauren’s touch. He didn’t want to say or do anything that would cause her to move away. But . . .

  “I don’t know why I told you all of that,” he said finally. “Except maybe it explains why I hadn’t been diving into any complicated relationships. Very few of any kind,” he amended, knowing he was treading a fine line. “I haven’t even been much of a friend, I guess.” He told himself he might as well say what he’d come here to say; there was nothing to lose at this point.

  “I wanted to apologize for last night,” he started, not at all encouraged by the fact that she’d slid back on the couch. Then reached for the pillow again like it was some kind of shield. “When I asked you where we go from here, it sounded like I assumed you wanted that too.”

  “And that I’d risk upsetting my family.” Lauren’s grip on the pillow looked far too much like she wanted to hurl
it at his head.

  “I don’t see it that way.”

  “I know you don’t. But it’s all I see, Eli.”

  - + -

  But it wasn’t really true. Lauren saw so much more now.

  She hugged the pillow close, thoughts reeling from all he’d told her. How he’d fought for Emma and quite obviously felt partly responsible for her mother’s death. Complicated didn’t begin to describe that. Or what Lauren was feeling either.

  “I came back home,” she explained, “because my parents were worried sick about Jess. The financial problems, her health, and that issue with the drug test.” Eli’s dark eyes met hers; he knew how she felt about his unwillingness to help in that situation. “I’ve always looked out for my sister. My parents count on that. It’s what I do.”

  “Even if Jessica fights you every inch of the way?” Eli bridged his fingers. “And takes unfair advantage of your generosity?”

  “I don’t see it that way.” Lauren bit back a groan, hating that she’d parroted his words. And that with his next breath, he’d probably start talking about “enabling.” Please, don’t—

  “I think . . .” Eli hesitated as if he was being careful. “We want to jump in, do everything we can to fix it when we see someone hurting. It’s human and an even stronger instinct for us because we’re medical people. Give us electricity, drugs . . . a fiberglass cast, and we’ll patch it up, make it good. But when it’s personal, someone we care for, it gets harder.” His eyes met Lauren’s. “I’ve tried most of my life to fix my brother. I know now that it’s not going to happen. I’ve faced that.”

  “I’m not trying to fix Jess. If that’s what you’re implying. She doesn’t need to be fixed. She’s just—”

  “A shooting star. I got that.” Eli glanced at his watch. “And I need to get going.” He stood.

  But I don’t want you to.

  Lauren pushed the pillow aside, scrambled to her feet. She followed him, confusion swirling. He was right; he should go. She was crazy to want him to stay. He was wrong about Jess. And Lauren was right that it was impossible for a relationship with Eli to go anywhere, but—

  “Thanks for the tea.” He turned toward her as he reached the door. There was an unsettling blend of warmth and regret in his eyes. “And for not bombing me with a potted plant.”

  “Sure.” She smiled, too aware that he was close enough to . . . “I meant what I said last night. At the coffeehouse. That I admire what you’re doing with your daughter. Even more now after what you’ve told me. She’s lucky to have you, Eli.”

  “She might not agree after tonight if I can’t make her look like that girl in Pirates of the Caribbean—Elizabeth something.” Eli shook his head. “Swords I get, and I can row a boat, no problem. But women’s makeup is a complete mystery.” He laughed at Lauren’s confusion. “Kids Day—boat races tonight.”

  She choked on a laugh, imagining him fumbling with all those girlie things. “Where?”

  “Buffalo Bayou. I need to have her there by six thirty. Mom rented the costume and planned to come with us. But she’s down with a migraine now, so . . .”

  “You’ll need lipstick or gloss, eye shadow, and blush. Really subtle; she’s only eight,” Lauren advised, making a list in her head. “Maybe some eyebrow pencil to make a beauty mark. A temporary tattoo would be cute. And glitter. Lots of glitter . . .”

  “Not happening.” Eli held up his palms. “I wasn’t going to hang around the Walgreens makeup counter. I bought the first lipstick I saw and jammed out of there.”

  “I’ll do it.”

  “What?” He lowered his hands. “You’ll come?”

  “We’ll meet there.”

  His brows scrunched. “Right—that ‘awkward’ thing.”

  Heat crept up Lauren’s neck. “I’m helping your daughter, not dating her father. Awkward doesn’t factor in.”

  Eli’s lips twitched. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

  “Meaning?” She wished her heart would stop doing what it was doing.

  “She wants Shrek to be a pirate too.”

  “CAN’T YOU FIND someplace better to be on your evening off?” Jessica glanced from the visitors’ table toward the hospital doors, heaving a melodramatic sigh. “If I had a choice, I’d be . . .”

  “Where?” Fletcher was struck once again that this intelligent, quick-witted woman could be so clueless. For so ridiculously long. He didn’t take a leap off her roof because he wanted to fly. “Where would you be if you had a choice?”

  Her expression turned wistful, then impossible to read. He told himself he was the clueless one. And a fool to be here.

  “The beach, I guess.” Jessica sank her fingers into her hair and slid them through, frowning as she reached the ends. “You know how I am about the ocean. It suits me. More than that—the ocean is like me.”

  Beautiful, restless, always changing . . . unpredictable, risky . . .

  “Probably not a good idea to go to the coast anyway,” Fletcher told her. “Not with Glorietta heading our way in a couple of days. The Gulf’s battening down the hatches.”

  “Oooh, I love it when you talk sailor!” Jessica pressed her fingers to her heart and fluttered her lashes.

  “Quit it. I’m serious.” Fletcher feigned irritation, trying to ignore the heat flooding into his face. “Police, fire, rescue . . . all services are prepared for the worst-case scenario. Hospitals, too; Lauren’s on the Grace Medical response team. I’m sure you know that.”

  “What I know is that my worst-case scenario is having Gayle Garner breathe down my neck.” Jessica bit at the edge of a fingernail. “It’s like a stroke of mercy that she didn’t pick up any overtime tonight. If I didn’t know for sure that God doesn’t give two hoots about me, I’d say it was a miracle.” She caught the expression on his face and frowned. “Don’t do it, Fletcher.”

  “Do what?” He knew full well what she meant.

  “Go all ‘Jesus loves you’ on me,” she explained. “You know better.”

  “Right.” He knew much better. And wouldn’t give up hope that someday she would too. Now wasn’t the time to push, but Fletcher allowed himself a short memory of a towheaded girl sitting next to him in Sunday school. Not that she wasn’t as unpredictable as a shore-bound hurricane even back then. “What’s the deal with this nurse manager anyway? Why is she giving you a hard time?”

  “I don’t know. Probably the Lauren factor.”

  He raised his brows.

  She tossed him a wry smile. “Don’t pretend you don’t see it. Or agree with it. I’ve heard it all my life: Lauren’s smarter, kinder, harder working, better mannered. And far holier, Lord knows.” Something close to sadness flickered across her face. “Boy, does he know. I do my best to remind him every day. Disappointing God. It’s my strength.”

  Jessica . . . It was all Fletcher could do not to move close, take her in his arms. “I don’t agree,” he ventured. “With any of that. And I think there’s a lot more to your strength than you even realize.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then wrinkled her nose. “Too serious, neighbor boy. I like it better when you stick to sailor—”

  “Excuse me,” a woman interrupted, arriving at their table. She was carrying a plastic drinking cup crammed with garden roses, and her shoulder sagged with the weight of a bulging Kroger market tote. An adolescent boy wearing earbuds stood beside her. By their facial features, Fletcher guessed they were mother and son. The woman looked at Jessica’s name tag. “Where do I go to find the security office?”

  “Basement. Is there a problem, ma’am?”

  Fletcher glanced toward the parking lot, aware of the bulk of his off-duty weapon at his waist. But there was no trouble that he could see.

  “Not a serious problem,” the woman answered. “As far as I know. We’re here to visit my mother. She was admitted from the ER up to the fifth floor. Today I got a call from the hospital pharmacy asking about Mom’s medicines. In the rush, with the ambulance wait
ing outside, I just scooped up everything from her medicine cabinet. I knew they’d want to see her prescriptions. But I never know which is which.” She shrugged. “I guess there were some old, outdated medicines. Mom asked that they be disposed of. It’s hospital policy, they said, to send them to the pharmacy. A request was made. But . . . it seems the pharmacy never received some of them them.”

  “Security’s involved?” Fletcher asked, though it was none of his business. Still, it sounded suspicious.

  “We brought everything,” the woman repeated. “Cleaned out her medicine cabinet. Her pills, Dad’s—he passed two years ago—anything that was there. Mom said there were some pain pills and muscle relaxers in there too. ‘Controlled substances,’ security told us. That’s the problem: they’ve gone missing.”

  Fletcher caught the change in Jessica’s expression, her posture.

  “Oh,” she said, offering a tight smile. “What a nuisance. I’m sorry you have to deal with all this. I work at the ER registration desk. What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Adele. Adele Humphries.”

  Fletcher heard Jessica’s breath catch.

  “I hope Mrs. Humphries is getting better,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

  “She is.” The woman smiled warmly. “And please know we’re completely happy with her care in your emergency department.”

  “Thank you. I’ll pass that along.”

  “Yes, do that, please, and—” The woman pressed the roses into her son’s hands and began digging through her tote. “Ah, here it is.” She presented Jessica with a ziplock bag. “Pecan brittle. I make it myself—light on the salt, but plenty of butter. Paula Deen’s recipe with my own twist. You tell the staff that our family appreciates all they do to help so many folks.” She patted Jessica’s shoulder. “God bless you, dear.”

  “Uh . . . sure. Thank you.”

  Fletcher watched them walk away, thinking of what Jessica had said a few minutes back: “If I didn’t know for sure that God doesn’t give two hoots about me . . .” A blessing and pecan brittle. He smiled. That beat sailor talk any day. But when Jessica turned his way, her expression looked angry and . . . anxious, too?