“Are you okay?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Except I think I’ve got a charley horse in my throat. Or a frog—I always forget which. Anyway, it’s from singing so long. That’s the only way to keep these two from being scared.”
“YOU TALKED WITH HER?” Eli asked.
“Only for a minute.” Lauren cradled the phone, glancing from her little balcony to the city lights beyond. Dark spots showed where power outages continued. Her parents’ neighborhood among them. “And then I went into the house to get some things. When I got back, she was asleep in the back of Fletcher’s patrol car. Otherwise I would have volunteered to drive her to your folks’ house myself.”
“I gave Fletcher permission.”
“He told me that.” Was she imagining Eli’s cool distance?
“She was fine,” Lauren assured him. “The medics looked her over. She didn’t have any problems. Not even a nip from Hannah—they seem to have become friends. Bonding through the storm, I guess.” She fought a shudder, thinking of the destruction to her family’s home. A few other homes in the neighborhood had sustained similar damage. “Apparently Emma heard the tornado warning on TV. She’d seen the instruction list my mom posted in the pantry. It says to take refuge in the guest bath—safest because there aren’t any windows. So Emma took the dogs with her and climbed into the tub. She kept singing to them. Show tunes and worship songs and—”
“I know. I talked to Fletcher. And I just got off the phone with Emma.”
She wasn’t imagining it. There was so much distance in Eli’s voice that Lauren could have been phoning from Austin. Right now, she almost wished she’d stayed there.
“I’m sorry, Eli,” she whispered, tears choking her. “I’m so sorry this happened.”
There was a long silence.
“She tried to use the kitchen phone, but the lines were down.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t have let something between us influence my caution regarding Emma. I never would have said yes to Jessica’s offer if . . .”
“If it weren’t for me?” She hated where this was going.
“I don’t know. Maybe. I told you at the beginning that I don’t share my daughter. This proves why. It was my fault for forgetting that I can’t trust anyone.”
“Even me?”
“Look . . . Jessica is who she is. You’re who you are. And I’m me—for better or worse. I get it that you want to believe your sister doesn’t have serious problems. Potentially dangerous problems. I get that your family will hire a therapist for the dog, but pointing their daughter in the direction of real help is some sort of . . . taboo.”
Lauren stiffened.
“I even accept that you want to place everything in God’s hands. Trust completely in that kind of hope. My daughter does. Drew too, I suspect. But she’s eight. He’s brain damaged. And I . . .” Eli’s voice broke, ragged, raw. “I can’t believe what I don’t see, Lauren. I have to do what I can. Me, myself. In real time. Now.”
“Okay . . .” Lauren brushed a tear from her cheek, torn between sadness and anger. “But how’s that working for you? Living without trust? Without hope? From what I see, it’s making you anything but happy, Eli. And it’s tearing your family apart. I’d say your restraining order is proof of that.” She was sure she heard him groan, but she kept going. “Yes, I believe my sister can get past her problems, change her life for the better. Yes, I trust God to make that happen. And that’s an amazing gift. A relief. You should try it sometime. Instead of stepping in and firing from the hip whenever trouble comes. Like a one-man army. I think you must be pretty tired by now.”
Eli was quiet so long that Lauren was sure he’d disconnected.
“I am tired,” he said finally. “But I’m used to that. I can handle it. I appreciate your checking on Emma. And calling to tell me. But I need to go. Drew’s not so good right now. I’m going to stay here tonight, do what I can to help him.”
“Oh, Eli . . .” Lauren pressed a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry.”
“You said that already. I should go.”
Eli disconnected without saying good-bye.
How had this all gone so terribly wrong? Lauren looked toward the lights of Hermann Park, where Fletcher had found Darcee. The same day Drew was brought into the ER. An ache crowded her throat. It seemed like it had begun with those two things—a sunburned young woman dancing in a park and a disabled man struggling to breathe. Separate tragedies. Yet somehow they’d combined like the air masses that sent that freak tornado. It had affected them all: Fletcher, Jess, Emma . . . and most certainly Eli and Lauren.
She squeezed her eyes shut, turned away from the cityscape. But she couldn’t stop the memory of Eli’s eyes in the candlelight. Or his voice telling her that she was his music. Only last night they’d held each other, shared, talked, laughed—looked forward to much more of that. She’d heard Eli pray with his daughter, felt her heart tug toward something solid and wonderful. And now, not even a full day later, that hope felt as ravaged as her parents’ home. How on earth could this be?
Lauren walked back inside and sank onto the couch, hugging a pillow against her. Hannah snored softly, curled up on an old beach towel on the hardwood floor. She’d become amazingly docile and compliant after her brush with the storm and the forced evacuation to Lauren’s apartment. No toys here, no bribe treats; the firefighters had allowed Lauren only a moment to take a few items from her parents’ house. The home she’d felt secure in all her life was now a safety hazard. Her parents were expecting her to call again. She’d promised to do that after she checked on the temporary measures taken to secure the property. Jess would be coming here as soon as she left Houston Grace. That much, at least, was settled, but . . .
Lauren’s gaze fell on her Bible. She’d begged a firefighter to let her into the weather room to search for it. He’d found it on the floor beside her mother’s shattered Galileo thermometer. Its worn cover had been splattered with soggy drywall, but the pages remained dry, the purple ribbon marker still in place. She’d opened it last night after she’d come home from dinner with Eli and Emma. Reread her favorite verse, underlined so long ago: Jeremiah 29:11.
“For I know the plans I have for you . . . plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Last night she’d been certain of those plans. Tonight she had nothing but doubts.
Lauren closed her eyes, the ache in her throat spreading to her chest, stealing her breath. “Why?” she whispered. “I’ve always trusted you. You promised. And now nothing is right. My sister, our home . . . and with Eli. Aren’t you hearing me, Lord? I’ve always put everything in your hands. What more do you want?”
- + -
“He’s worse.” Eli held the misting treatment mask to his brother’s face, seeing his eyes flicker open for a moment, then roll upward ominously. “Breathing too shallowly to pull the albuterol into his lungs. And he’s more tachypneic. Taking about—”
“Thirty-six breaths per minute,” Florine reported, concern on her face. And fatigue, though she’d probably refuse to admit it.
It was nearing 3 a.m., and the rest of the residents were long asleep. Only Vee, Florine, and Eli were awake. Maybe Cyril, too; Eli knew him well enough now to believe he’d be quietly watching things from the window of the loft above. Watching and praying.
Eli had made a nest of blankets in the room’s overstuffed recliner, pulled it close to his brother’s bed, thinking it was almost like the twin beds they’d had for years. Except now the roles felt wrongly reversed—he was the big brother.
“What’s the pulse oximeter reading?” He glanced toward the probe taped to Drew’s finger. “Any better?”
“Still at 90 to 91 percent. He’s had three doses of the antibiotic now. The two by mouth and that last one IV.” Florine glanced at the normal saline IV she’d started by phone order just after midnight. For the meds and hydration. Drew was no longer able to drink. “I put a call out to his physician to se
e if he wants to change it or add another. Or if he wants us to try to arrange transport to the hospital.” She frowned. “Roads are still closed. Only way out of here is by helicopter.”
No. There’s one other way. . . . Florine knew it as well as he did—probably the reason she’d lit the candles in the small makeshift chapel. And left the Bible on the table next to his brother’s iPod and the fishing photo.
“Does Drew’s doctor know I’m here?”
“Yes. He’s glad of it. Regardless. Not only because of your training, but because you’re family,” Florine said. “It’s a blessing you got here before the storm closed the roads.”
Eli was certain the judge wouldn’t agree. He’d likely dismiss that physician from his brother’s case. Eli wasn’t going to ask Florine if she’d talked with their father. He didn’t want to know.
“If you bring me a pan of tepid water and some washcloths, I’ll sponge him.” Eli rested his hand gently on Drew’s flushed forehead. “It may help with the fever, but mostly it will feel soothing, I think.” His thumb traced Drew’s dark brow. “Our mother used to do that when we were sick.”
“I’ll bring it.” She glanced toward the table. “And maybe you could turn that music up a hair? I think some soul soothing would go nicely with that sponging.”
Eli was surprised by the sting of tears. “Right . . . I’ll do that.”
It was Vee who brought the water basin and the compresses. And then a mug of herbal tea for Eli. She’d shed her storm gear and was dressed in her usual festive work garb: a flowered skirt, tie-dyed tee, and a polka-dot scrub cap pulled over her braids. Her crystal earrings were like that rainbow maker Emma had hanging from the window in her bedroom. Eli wished his brother could see her.
“Call me if you need me to spell you,” she said gently as Eli dipped a terry cloth into the barely warm water. “It’s still several hours till dawn. You might want to catch some sleep.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d say you’re much more than that. And I have no doubt your brother would agree.” Her amber eyes held his for a moment. “I’ll be praying for you both.”
Eli swallowed. “Thank you.”
He squeezed water from the cloth and pressed it to Drew’s forehead, sweeping his hair gently back and getting it damp too. Evaporation—Eli knew the science. But at this moment, he cared more about easing his brother’s discomfort. Bringing some kind of peace to him—without a helicopter. He dipped the cloth again, wrung it out, and pressed it over and over against Drew’s forehead, face, and neck. A few minutes later, he realized he was sponging in rhythm with the music.
- + -
Lauren jerked upright in bed, stared at the clock, confused. Four in the morning and she was . . . at the apartment. Yes. Because a storm tore off the roof, trapped Emma . . . and took Eli away. The painful reality returned, pulling at her sleep-dulled senses like gauze stuck to a wound. She’d fallen asleep praying, with no clearer understanding of why her world had been tossed upside down. The only miracle in this mess was Hannah Leigh. Her parents should have hired Emma and Shrek in place of that pricey dog therapist. The scrappy little dog had been transformed; she’d even climbed into Lauren’s lap last night, burrowing close in what appeared to be a sweet attempt to offer comfort.
Lauren grabbed her scrub jacket in place of the robe still at her parents’ house and walked barefoot toward the living room. She’d check on Hannah, get a drink of water. Try to catch more sleep, if that was at all possible. She squinted around the living room, dark except for the electric glow from the stove-top light in the adjacent kitchen. The black-and-white bump on the floor was undoubtedly shih tzu in origin; the sofa bed had been pulled out, meaning Jess had arrived at some point after calling to say she was going to hang around with Darcee’s mother.
Lauren’s breath snagged as she saw the open balcony door.
“Jess!”
She jogged toward the glass doors, her pulse hammering and eyes on her sister. She was leaning too far over the—
“Jess! What are you doing?”
JESS WHIRLED AROUND, hand on her chest. “You scared me.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “Oh, Lauren . . .”
“Here.” She took hold of Jess’s hand. “Come in. Please.”
Lauren led her to the sofa bed, went back, and closed the door. Halfway to the sofa, she retraced her steps and locked it. She switched on a single small lamp, just enough that they could see each other. The pain in her sister’s expression made Lauren want to turn it off again.
“What is it?” She settled cross-legged on the mattress across from Jess, took hold of her hands. “The house? Emma? Darcee?”
Jess shrugged, her bare arms looking scarecrow thin in the baggy tank top Lauren had snatched on her foray into the wrecked house. “All of it, I guess. Darcee’s doing better, though. Her mother said they think the danger is past. I just . . .” A tear slid down her cheek. “I feel . . . bad. About everything. Like I’m drowning in it. I can’t make it go away this time.”
This time. Because there had been other times. Lauren knew that, but hearing Jess admit it was—
“That night,” Jess continued, “when I went up to check on Darcee . . . That first time, when Gayle chewed me out for disappearing?”
Lauren nodded.
“We did talk about her baby. She was worried that her daughter would be taken away.” Jess swallowed. “Because she has that chemical imbalance—bipolar disorder. I googled it.”
Oh, honey, so have I. . . .
“I think . . .” Jess’s voice broke. “I think maybe it was my fault.”
“What?”
“The roof. That night before, Darcee was telling me about how it feels to have that disorder. The highs—she loves the highs—and the lows. How awful the lows are.” Jess took a slow breath. “I told her I understand all that. That I’ve felt it—that I still feel it. Then Darcee said she’s tried to kill herself before. I said I understand that, too.”
Lauren’s throat closed.
“She said if they took her baby away, she couldn’t go on. That the only thing worse was if her ‘crazy’ made her a truly bad mother, caused harm to her daughter. She said she’d rather step in front of a bus than let that happen. Or . . .” A sob tore free from Jess’s lips. “Or jump off a building. She said that. I should have told somebody.”
“Jess . . . ,” Lauren breathed, still rocked by what her sister had revealed about herself. “You didn’t cause that. We don’t even know if—”
“If it was the wind that blew her off.” Jess sighed. “Darcee doesn’t remember, either. She told me that yesterday. She still can’t believe it happened. She can’t even remember being up there. If there really is such a thing as God’s mercy, maybe that’s it.” Her lips twisted into the saddest smile Lauren had ever seen. Jess slid her hands from Lauren’s, swiped at her eyes, then dragged her fingers through her hair. The dim light played over a cluster of dark lines on her inner forearm. A tattoo?
“What’s that?” Lauren reached for her sister’s arm, held on to it as Jess tried to pull away. “Hold still. What are those?” Her eyes widened. “Scars?”
“They’re old.”
Dear Lord . . . Lauren stared at what could be a dozen gray-pink scars, almost parallel to each other, marring the skin on Jess’s forearm. She fought a sickening wave of dizziness. “You . . . did that to yourself? That spring when you ran away?”
“Then. And other times.”
“But . . .”
“Why?” Jess supplied the word. Then crossed her arms, the scars hidden as effectively as they had been under the long sleeves she wore regardless of the season. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the same reason they did those things to Darcee when she was in the coma—the pinches, pressing on her fingernails, all that. Because pain can be good. Something physical you can bandage . . . and heal up. Maybe that’s why.”
“That . . . cutting . . . was easier than the pain you were feeling inside?”
; “I guess so. Sometimes.” Jess shook her head slowly. Her breath shuddered. “I don’t want to be like her. Like Darcee. I don’t want to ever feel as bad as I did that time I ran away. I can’t stand hearing some of the things I say to people . . . wanting them to notice me and then hating when they get too close. Hating everybody sometimes—mostly myself.” Fresh tears came. “I don’t want to make you and Mom and Dad worry all the time. I can’t stand hurting you that way. I can’t keep making the kind of mistakes like I did yesterday with Emma. And I don’t want the kind of joy that makes me run till my feet blister . . . until I vomit or believe I can actually fly. I don’t want to try to do that someday.”
“What do you want, Jess?” Lauren realized she’d never asked that before.
“I’m not sure. Except that it’s not this.” Jess spread her palms, and the scars on her arm showed again. “I can’t do this. Nothing makes me feel better anymore. Not food, not exercise, not alcohol, not—”
“Drugs?” The truth hit Lauren like a fist to the gut. “You took them. Those painkillers from Mrs. Humphries.”
Jess’s lips tensed, a bare hint of defensiveness coming and going as fast as a blink. And a look of misery replaced it. “I swallowed a couple of them right there at work. Then I freaked out about what I’d done, ran to the bathroom, and stuck my fingers down my throat. I flushed the rest of the meds down the toilet—except for the hair ball junk. Whether you believe me or not, it’s the truth. I threw those pills away.” Her shoulders sagged. “What are you going to do? Now that I told you?”
“I don’t know.” Lauren didn’t have a clue what to do. How did she protect Jess? From any of this? “I only know that right now . . . I just need to hug my sister. Please.”
“I think . . . I can deal with that.” Jess’s chin trembled.
“Come here.”
Lauren pulled Jess close, hugging her like she hadn’t done in years. She petted her hair, rocked her as if she were that Camelot princess again. Held her so close that she had no idea whose tears she felt, her own or her sister’s. She only knew that when this long-overdue moment ended, she was going to need to lean on God harder than she ever had in her life.
Life Support Page 28
