Life Support

by Candace Calvert

  “EVEN THOUGH we’ve seen each other at church, I didn’t know you were a family counselor until . . .” Lauren hesitated. She’d come to the chapel to offer that promised prayer for Gayle. Not to talk about . . . “My sister mentioned it to me.”

  “Jessica.” Angela nodded, a spiky thatch of her short hair bobbing over her brows like a quail’s plume. “I know your sister’s name, but I don’t think I’ve seen her at church yet. I’m relatively new there.”

  And completely gracious. Jess hadn’t attended services in nearly a year.

  “Fletcher mentioned Jessica to me.” Angela held out a container of oatmeal raisin cookies. Grace and baked goods—the woman was firing on all cylinders. “He’s been concerned about her and thought it might be a good idea if we met, talked.”

  Lauren decided taking a cookie wasn’t a family betrayal. “I’ll be honest with you, Angela. She’s not willing to do that. Not even close. Jess was fairly incensed that Fletcher talked with you at all.”

  “I promise you, he didn’t reveal anything personal. Only that she was a member of the church and he wanted to help her.”

  “That sounds like Fletcher.”

  Lauren glanced across the small chapel toward its nondenominational altar. A chrome-and-glass podium on a raised, carpet-covered platform. No cross, no displayed Bible. The only adornment was a large piece of artwork hanging on the wall behind the platform. A painstakingly handcrafted mosaic, donated some forty years ago by a patient who was a commercial fisherman. Recessed lighting in the chapel ceiling set off the man’s handiwork, caught the jewel-bright colors of the glass: red, gold, green, purple . . . and so many shades of blue. He’d captured the ever-changing shades of the ocean—and its turbulent waves—so perfectly. A fragile boat, the men’s fearful faces . . . that breathtaking moment before a miracle saved them. Jesus calming the storm.

  “Fletcher is the best kind of friend,” Lauren continued, turning her gaze back to the chaplain. “But Jess isn’t willing to consider any kind of counseling. And my mother would be mortified if neighbors, friends, people at church thought someone in our family was under treatment for mental problems. I realize in today’s world that probably sounds archaic, but . . .” Lauren looked at her lap, brushed at some crumbs.

  Angela handed her a napkin, the discreet movement accompanied by a dip of her quail thatch. “I assure you I haven’t said anything to anyone, Lauren. I’d never do that.”

  “You should know that to my mother . . . to both my parents,” Lauren continued, needing to make this chaplain understand, “it would be like admitting they failed, made some awful mistake that harmed their child. Or that their faith isn’t strong enough. It would be saying they don’t trust God’s ability to handle problems.”

  Angela’s gentle silence was more encouraging than words. Lauren couldn’t seem to stop.

  “You need to understand that it feels like pointing Jess toward those things—psychotherapy, especially medications—would be giving up on her, telling her she’s flawed. It feels like . . . giving up hope.” Lauren swallowed against an embarrassing threat of tears. “For my parents, I mean. Maybe Fletcher doesn’t get that. Maybe you don’t. But that’s how it is. For them.”

  “I do get it, Lauren. It’s not only your family who feels that way. I hear it almost every day in my practice. And I believe with all my heart that those concerns spring from love. A sincere desire to protect. Love is powerful medicine. As a believer, it helps me to remember God also created the human brain. Amazing medical advances have come from that gift and continue to come every day. Some of those advances include targeted medications. I’m sure you agree we’ve made great strides in the treatment of cancer, cardiac conditions, diabetes . . .”

  Lauren nodded. Of course that was true. Still . . .

  “Would you feel comfortable telling a diabetic patient that medications shouldn’t be considered?” Angela glanced toward the hallway leading back to the ER. “Did you ‘give up’ on your nurse manager when you started therapies to combat her life-threatening thyroid condition?”

  “Of course not.” Lauren saw where this was headed. She wished she’d never come into the chapel; she could have prayed for Gayle in the Beetle on the way home. Though Angela sincerely denied it, she was as bent on painful intrusion into Jess’s life as Eli was. “Those are all medical conditions.”

  “From chemical imbalances. Which are sometimes at the root of mental health issues. A reason I always encourage people to begin any evaluation process with a thorough medical workup.”

  “Ah.” Lauren sighed, reached for her phone. “Which reminds me: I should get back to the ER. I’m in charge today.”

  “Of course. I didn’t mean to keep you. Or intrude. Honestly. But when Fletcher and I talked today—”

  “Fletcher called you?” Lauren’s chest tightened. After being with Jess last night.

  Angela smiled. “I called him. I’m trying to con him into fostering one of my rescue dogs. I told him I was coming here today. And promised to touch base with you if I could. Now I did.”

  “You did.” Lauren dredged up a return smile. “I’m sorry, Angela. I hope I don’t seem ungrateful for your concern. Or Fletcher’s. My sister did have some problems. But she’s doing better. I’m keeping an eye on things.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Angela handed Lauren the box of cookies. Her business card was lying on top. “Do me a favor and take the rest of this batch to the ER team. They’ve more than earned them today.” She rolled her eyes. “I’d have to jog too many extra miles if they came home with me. Easier to apply them directly to my thighs.”

  Lauren laughed. “I hear you.”

  Angela extended her hand. “A pleasure, Lauren. Fletcher was right: I do like you.”

  “Ditto.” Lauren clasped the chaplain’s hand. “Well, I’m back to the trenches. Another hour and I get to climb into my little car and go home.”

  “Sounds good. Be careful—and stay dry,” Angela added. “From everything I’m hearing on the news, we’re in for some really rough weather.”

  “Well . . .” Lauren raised her voice over the drumming of rain on the hospital porch overhang. She pointed to the blue tent a few yards away in the parking lot, a newly erected structure covering a mound of neatly stacked sandbags. “Looks like the building maintenance team has joined the engineers. A duet of doom.”

  Vee nodded. “These storms have been teasing us for weeks, but Glorietta’s looking mighty serious. They’re predicting she could be a cat-1 sometime tonight.”

  The breeze wasn’t even close to cool, but somehow Lauren felt chilled. Vee was right. They had been teased by storms—too many lately, on all levels. The last time Lauren stood out here in the rain was the day she’d been so worried about Jess being late to work. She’d confronted Eli in the urgent care . . . where Fletcher had brought Darcee Grafton after he found her in that reflecting pool.

  “Gayle doesn’t have any local family. Except for her husband.” Vee tugged on a braid, frowning. “It’s a time when she should be able to count on her friends. I hate to think this tragedy might fuel more whispers about those missing drugs. I can hear it now: ‘Poor thing. Her thyroid made her do it.’”

  “Let’s hope not.” Lauren felt a nudge of discomfort, recalling Gayle’s words in the trauma room. Something about pills and then “I shouldn’t have done it.” Gayle had been feverish still, somewhat confused. It probably meant nothing.

  “I wouldn’t say anything to anyone,” Vee continued, “but between you and me, I was very relieved to see that her drug screen was negative. Gayle is in a world of hurt right now; she doesn’t need that added to her plate.”

  “No.” Lauren’s shoulders rose and fell with a sigh. “In the trauma room, when we were alone, Gayle asked me to pray for her. She never once came to any of my chapel meetings. We never talked about faith.” She shook her head. “She must have been so desperate, frightened . . . or felt completely threatened to do something that violent.” />
  “Yes.” Vee was quiet for a long moment, that familiar faraway look in her eyes. Insistent rain and the distant wail of a siren filled the silence. “In that emergency shelter in New Orleans, there was a lot of praying going on,” she said finally. “I expect for a lot of those folks it might’ve been the first time. No lights, hot as hell itself . . . stink like you couldn’t believe. The fear in the air smelled a lot worse. There was plenty to be afraid of.” Vee drew a halting breath. “That storm wasn’t close to the scariest part.”

  Lauren stayed silent. It was the first time Vee had shared details about what she’d endured when she was only twelve.

  “The Viettes are a prayin’ family—always have been, always will be. Nothing will change that. And those nights, when I was in that shelter with my cousin Florine, I think I prayed nonstop. Prayed I’d see my mother again. Prayed I still had a house and that my little dog Bebo had figured out how to climb onto the roof and hang on. I even prayed I could cross my legs tight enough not to have to use those filthy bathrooms in the dark.” Her braids swirled with the shake of her head. “I asked the Lord to keep the crazy man sleeping next to us from firing that gun he had under his pillow. Even a kid like me knew he was tellin’ everybody about it over and over—as many times as I prayed to God—because he was as scared as we were.”

  Lauren moved closer, wanting to say something to ease the memory but knowing there were no such words.

  “It was on the third night, I think, that I learned there was something a lot worse than the nasty, fly-infested bathrooms—and having a crazy man with a gun huddled close enough that I could smell his armpits,” Vee continued. “Something worse than never seeing my house again. Or even finding out my dog drowned.” She swallowed. “Florine told me to stay on our cots when she went to the bathroom. The crazy man was snoring, so I said okay. But she was gone too long. I think maybe . . . I heard her screams.”

  Lauren’s stomach twisted.

  “When she came back, she said she was okay, not to worry. Told me to go to sleep. I couldn’t. I heard her crying.”

  “Vee . . .” Lauren reached out, touched her hand.

  “I prayed harder than I’d ever prayed in my life,” Vee continued, grasping Lauren’s fingers. “I begged God to help us. I asked him to keep us safe—to stop that awful thing from ever happening again.” She drew a slow breath. “It wasn’t two hours later that the man came to us. Grabbed hold of Florine’s hair, dragged her onto her knees.”

  “Oh, Vee, no . . .”

  “I don’t know how it happened, but the gun was in my hands.” A tear slid down Vee’s face, but she didn’t flinch. “I’d never touched a gun before. But I fired it that night. I killed that man so he couldn’t hurt my cousin. Then some of the other people . . . they just dragged him off somewhere. Everybody said they didn’t know anything about what happened. But I knew. I still know . . .”

  Lauren stretched out her arms and her friend filled the space.

  “I don’t know what happened with Gayle.” Vee’s breath warmed Lauren’s ear. “But I can tell you this: I will never judge anyone. I can’t. I still believe, with all my heart, that God is my strength . . . my only true shelter. And my hope, always. I will pray to him for the rest of my life. And I’ll always wonder if I did the right thing that awful night.” She leaned back, holding Lauren’s hands, the expression on her face impossibly serene despite her tears. “Sometimes you have to take action—step up. I don’t pretend to know everything, but in my heart I do know that much.”

  - + -

  He had to catch her. Please don’t be gone.

  Eli jogged into the storm-darkened parking lot, wind in his face and rain splashing his hair and scrubs. He squinted, searched . . . There, the green VW. And a glimpse of Lauren’s face between rapid swipes of wiper blades. He picked up speed, hit a puddle that drenched his pant leg.

  “Lauren, hey.” Eli bent low and rapped his knuckles against the fogged driver’s window, rain sluicing from his hairline to his nose. The window slid down. “Caught you. Oh, sorry,” he apologized, seeing the phone in her hand. “I’m interrupting.”

  “No,” she said, beginning to smile. “I’m finished. But you’re washing away. Get in.”

  “Definitely better,” Eli admitted, settling into the bucket seat beside her. He had to be imagining that her car smelled of berries too. Music blended with the scrunch-scrape of the windshield wipers—a song he recognized from Emma’s Christian collection. That one about blessings coming from raindrops. He stared at Lauren, trying to remember what he’d come out here to say.

  “Aren’t you working for another hour?” she asked.

  “My relief came in early. I still have to finish up some records, but . . .” Eli reached for her hand. “I don’t like how we left things this morning. I wanted to say I’m not going to tell you how to handle things with your folks or Jessica . . . regarding us. I don’t want seeing me to feel like some kind of added conflict. I think we’ve both had enough of that—still do.”

  Lauren nodded. Her fingers moved against his.

  “Which reminds me . . .” Eli unclipped his phone from the waist of his scrubs. “Look what I found in my messages.” He scrolled, then opened the text for her to see.

  My music makes me smile.

  “Drew. And . . . Florine.” Lauren’s eyes shimmered with tears. “Oh, Eli . . .”

  “Hey . . .” He set the phone down, cradled her cheek in his palm. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just been such an awful day. So hard.”

  “I agree. Gayle, her husband, the media. All of that.” He traced his thumb across her tear-dampened cheek. “The only good thing for me—the only reason to smile—was you. It’s sort of like you’re my music.” Eli grimaced. “I can’t believe I said something like that. I sound like Andrew Lloyd Webber. Your fault. See what you do to me?”

  “Yes.” Lauren pressed a hand to her mouth, failing to hold back a giggle. “But don’t stop. Please.”

  He smiled. Well worth making a fool of himself to see her tears gone. “I thought maybe tomorrow night I could take you out to dinner. If this storm hasn’t shut things down. I want to do it right this time. Skip the hospital coffee, pirate gear, and flying pigs.” He raised her hand, kissed her fingertips, and swore he saw the windshield’s raindrops reflected in the blue of her eyes. “I want to spend more time with you, Lauren. I know you need to be home for your sister tonight, but—”

  “I don’t. Jess agreed to come in and work the night shift. Overtime pay and tomorrow off. I’d just talked to her when you walked up. She’s going to try to get some sleep before coming to the hospital. Told me not to wake her up.” Lauren rolled her eyes. “With her usual tact.”

  “So . . .” Eli’s mind ticked in time with the wipers. “That means . . .”

  “I’m free for dinner. I’d have to run home, get out of these scrubs. Shower. I know you have Emma, so I’m game for whatever she wants. Really. Maybe Jus’ Mac or Amazón Grill or even Chuck E.—”

  “My house. I’ll cook.” Eli shook his head. “Don’t get your hopes up. I can’t even come close to competing with Rainbow Lodge.” Lauren’s brow arched, and he made a mental note that Houston’s most romantic restaurant would be their official first date. “But at least we won’t have to shout over shrieks from the toddler zone and sing with a giant mouse. Although I did promise Emma we’d watch Annie so she could practice.”

  Lauren’s immediate grin warmed his heart. “I’ll bring the popcorn.”

  “YOU HAD ME AT THE CANDLES,” Lauren said, glancing around the cozy, contemporary family-room-and-dining combination. Several of the flames still flickered—on the breakfast bar, table, and faux mantel—in a sort of casually romantic single-father LEGOLAND ambience. They cast a golden glow against a teal-and-gray color scheme that harmonized with the Berber and Corian practicality of the space. Pumpkin orange in the couch pillows and in a few pieces of nondescript wall art were the only warm match for the flam
es. He’d said they’d moved in last summer; this wasn’t the same house Lauren had visited after Jess ran away. She was glad—and she liked the feel of this place. Overall the look was comfortable and probably light-years from what Eli had grown up with at the Landry estate. Lauren suspected he’d consulted a decorator, but minimally—told her to do what she thought was best as long as it was kid-proof, dog-friendly, and incorporated as many of Emma’s artful offerings as possible. The framed Thanksgiving turkey handprint in the kitchen proved it.

  Everything pointed to the fact that this man’s priority was his daughter. Eli had admitted he was protective of her when it came to relationships. And had shared very little about her with Jess. But even that was more than Lauren had shared with her sister about her new relationship with Eli. The prickle of anxiety came back. Eli didn’t understand that Lauren had to be careful when it came to Jess. Do everything possible to keep her from going off the deep end again. The littlest thing could set her off. Their parents counted on Lauren to keep that from happening. She pushed aside a new, intruding memory of her conversation with the chaplain and thought instead of what Eli had said in the hospital parking lot this afternoon. That in all the troubling chaos, Lauren was his “music.” Right now, she needed to hang on to that.

  “The candles are a very nice touch,” she told him sincerely.

  “And practical. They’re from our disaster kit. Emma said ladies must have candles.” Eli smiled. “She’s the only reason we had cloth dinner napkins. With rings—Emma made them for me last Christmas. Those were holly leaves with berries, in case you couldn’t tell. Summer holly tonight. She said you’d be fine with that.” There was pride in his voice.

  “I am fine with it. And she’s very thoughtful.”

  “Yes.” Eli lifted the curly red costume wig from where it lay between them on the microsuede couch. “For a wannabe stage star who fell asleep before her big solo.”