Critical Care: 1 (Mercy Hospital)

by Candace Calvert

  Claire stood, brushing the dirt from her jeans and knowing there was another question eating at her as well. A big question. How was she going to stop having feelings for a man so obviously wrong for her and who figured nowhere in the plan?

  +++

  Sarah laughed and gripped the edge of the dining table; she had to hold on to keep from bobbing above it like those balloons . . . a rainbow of shiny colors. And look how the silver one reflected the light from the candles. She laughed again, pinching the edge of the big wooden table as the seat of her angel scrubs hovered above her chair. She was an astronaut at a birthday party. So crazy. Floating and laughing and . . .

  Emily had frosting in her hair and all over her sweet face, pink and sticky and dotted with candy sprinkles. She tried to wipe it away even though stretching her arm out made her side hurt. But it only hurt a little and she didn’t care. She was happy, so happy, because . . . there he was, sitting next to Emily at the table, smiling and still wearing that long bathrobe. A bathrobe at a birthday party—too silly. His hair was long, but he looked familiar and so very dear.

  His eyes reflected the candlelight even more than the silver balloon did, and somehow they stayed focused solely on Sarah. No matter how far she drifted sideways, how many times she lost her bearings and slid completely off the chair, and how foolish and inept she must have seemed, he watched her every move with a loving and gentle expression on his face. And with profound patience. It made Sarah feel as if she were the special child at this table somehow, that she would always be precious to him no matter what. It filled her with an unimaginable joy.

  She smiled and reached toward him, ignoring the pain in her side. “Daddy? Daddy?”

  “It’s me, Sarah. It’s Logan.”

  +++

  Logan lifted himself from the lumpy vinyl chair, realizing he’d dozed off. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at the clock on the darkened wall. Nearly midnight? No wonder his back was sore.

  He glanced out toward the nurses’ station and saw at least three heads turn hastily away. No doubt he’d be the subject of hospital gossip over the next several shifts. “Did you hear how McSnarly spent the night in . . . ?” But he didn’t care. He was here because he had to know the truth.

  Logan stepped close as Sarah finally opened her eyes. “Hi there, sleepyhead.”

  “Umm . . .” Sarah turned toward him, blinking; one eye was swollen closed and purple. “Sorry,” she said after swallowing. “Hard to talk . . . mouth’s . . . so dry.”

  “Well then, I can fix that.” Logan lifted a can of Diet Coke from her bedside stand. “Got the official word from your surgeon that your belly’s good. So let’s party.”

  He popped the pull tab and inserted a flex straw into the can. Then held it while Sarah took a sip, reminding himself of the better times when he’d seen her doing this same thing. Too many times to count. In the ER, taking a quick swig of her cola and hustling to keep things organized, coming in early and working through her lunch break to make certain he had everything he needed. Was Claire right? Am I the reason Sarah’s here?

  “There,” he said, pushing the thoughts aside. He lifted the can away. “Feel better now?”

  “Better but still stoned,” she said, lifting her arm to let the IV tubing dangle. “Morphine. Enemy of caffeine. I can’t stay awake.”

  “You don’t have to. Sleep is exactly what you need.” Logan nodded, trying to forget what Claire had said about that bottle of sleeping pills, that Sarah had been trying to sleep so she could work. All because he counted on her to be there. “Doctor’s orders,” he added. “And it’s working. I saw the latest X-ray; your lung’s expanded nicely, and there was only minimal bleeding into the tissues.”

  “I don’t remember much, but the nurses said you did a needle decompression.”

  “That’s right. To relieve the pressure around your collapsed lung. Then I inserted the chest tube.”

  “I had the needles in stock, the full-size range of chest tubes, at least two water seal units, and . . .” Sarah’s voice drifted off, her eyelids closing.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling with a growing sense of relief. This was proof positive that Claire was wrong. Because he and Sarah—absurd as it might seem—were having the same sort of conversation they’d be having if she weren’t lying in that bed. About equipment, about procedures, about getting the job done. Things they both believed in. They were simply two teammates rehashing a tough shift, logically and unemotionally. Almost as if Sarah hadn’t been the patient and Logan hadn’t had to—

  “You saved my life,” she said softly, gazing up at him again. Her bruised chin trembled. “If you hadn’t found the lung injury so fast . . .”

  “No. Not me. Claire spotted it. We . . .” He hesitated, wondering if thinking of Claire in terms of we was a thing of the past. “Claire and I handled it together. She was sharp to suspect the tension pneumo so quickly and call me in there.”

  “She did great. And it was a good thing she was there.” Her puffy brows drew together under the edge of her bandage. “But she was assigned to urgent care.”

  “Right. And we lucked out that she’d come in early. So when we were short a nurse—” Logan stopped himself but not in time. Idiot. I’m an idiot. For the first time Logan regretted that his favorite nurse could always read his mind.

  “Short a nurse because I was late. Because . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “I set two alarms. I always do. Ten minutes apart, in case one fails. So I can be there early. If I’m early enough, I can check everything—all the stock, all the resuscitation equipment. Have it exactly the way you want it. Ready. No foul-ups, no weak links anywhere along the chain. Like you always say. But . . .”

  Weak links? Logan held his breath, uneasiness rising. “Sarah, I know. I know how hard you—”

  Sarah clutched his arm, stopping him. Tears streamed down her bruised face. “I’m sorry,” she continued, her expression stricken and childlike. “I’ve been so sad lately, and I couldn’t sleep. I took those sleeping pills; then I overslept. I drove as fast as I could to get there so I wouldn’t be very late. So I wouldn’t . . .” She closed her eyes for a moment as a mournful sob rose from deep in her throat. When she looked up, Logan knew she was about to say exactly what he didn’t want to hear. “I did it all for you. Because I know how much you count on me. But now I’ve let you down. I’m so . . . sorry.”

  “Ah, Sarah, hey. Don’t . . . don’t.” Logan leaned over the bedrail, sliding his arms around Sarah as best he could without disturbing the equipment or causing her any more pain. He stooped down and carefully rested his chin against the top of her hair.

  He stood for a long while, silently holding Sarah while she cried. And completely frustrated by a confusing rush of feelings—hating the pathetic part of him that wished he’d never turned his motorcycle around, hoping he could think of some way to help Sarah, and finally realizing that he’d stepped with both feet into the very truth he’d come here to find. This time there would be no easy escape.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Sarah pressed the button on the medication pump, and within seconds a metered dose of morphine began to ease the searing pain brought on by her sobs. Oh, Logan, don’t look at me that way. He’d pulled the chair close to the bed, and she could see his blue eyes in the dim light that spilled through the open door. She shouldn’t have said anything about not being able to sleep.

  “Why were you sad?” Logan asked, his voice low. His dark brows drew together as if puzzling over a critical diagnosis. “You said you took those pills when you hadn’t been able to sleep because you’ve been so sad. Why?”

  Sarah closed her eyes, partly due to the floating effect of the medication but mostly because she could see how tough that question was for Logan to ask. The man didn’t do feelings, not out loud anyway. He fixed things, got it done, all the while avoiding the messy sinkhole of emotion. So for Logan to ask something that personal . . . Tears welled under Sarah’s lashes. He was one of the few peo
ple she had left who cared. I have nothing left to lose—he deserves the truth. Sarah opened her eyes and took a deep breath. Her throat squeezed around words she’d never said aloud before. “Today is my baby’s birthday.”

  “Your baby?” Logan blinked, confusion in his eyes.

  “Emily . . . Emily Grace would have been two today,” Sarah explained, the morphine making her voice sound as soft as angel wings even to her own ears, making her daughter’s name seem to leave her lips and float overhead. Almost like that silver balloon in her dream, the one that reflected all those candles. And she was surprised that saying Emily’s name felt good. Joyful even.

  “Would have been two years old?” Logan asked.

  “Yes. She died. When she was twelve weeks old. SIDS,” she added, feeling a familiar ache deep in her chest, pain that had nothing to do with fractured ribs. “She was perfect. From the moment I first saw her face. Healthy. I watched her so carefully.” She met Logan’s eyes to be sure he understood that. “I tried hard to do everything right. Then one morning, I had to wake her for a feeding. Which was unusual, and then I saw that . . .”

  “And her father?” Logan asked, his voice husky and low. “Your husband?”

  Nothing left to lose. “Husband? No. He had other plans. I knew him for only a few months. I’d barely graduated from nursing school down in LA. First time living away from home. I made a horrible, horrible mistake. So I took my broken heart back home. When I found out I was pregnant . . .”

  Logan raised his brows as if he’d remembered something. “That’s the problem between you and your parents?”

  “My mother threw me out.”

  “But you’re close to your father. You told me you worked at his body shop.” He smiled. “And you always had his tools ready, knew exactly what he wanted, just like you do for me in the ER.”

  Not anymore. Not after I messed things up so badly, caused an accident that injured people. Sarah’s eyes filled with tears again. “I let him down, just like I did you. I did something completely unforgivable and I paid the price. I’m still paying that price.”

  “No,” Logan said, “I can’t believe that after two years, after all you went through, your parents would still—”

  “Believe it,” Sarah interrupted. Her breath stuck in her chest, and she swallowed against a lump in her throat. “When I told my mother about what happened to Emily, she said it was my fault. That my baby was taken away because of my sin. And I would never be forgiven. Ever.”

  Logan’s eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw. “Your father feels that way too?”

  Sarah recalled the strange and wonderful dream she’d had about her father and the birthday party. Her father in the robe with his hair way too long but with all that loving acceptance in his eyes. “No. I’ve talked to him a few times, but it’s hard for him to go against my mother. And since she’s the secretary at his shop, she screens his calls there.”

  “But he knows you’re here now,” Logan said, nodding. “Your father knows about the car accident, right?”

  Sarah shook her head, feeling the gauze bandage brush against her pillow. “I can’t put him in that position. My mother’s not going to change her mind. I gave up hoping for that a long time ago. I gave up praying for it . . .” She paused, the dream image returning even stronger than before. The candles, the sense of joy, seeing her father after so long. “I’ve given up, that’s all. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “But I do,” Logan said barely above a whisper. “I do understand.”

  Sarah turned her head to get a better look at Logan’s face and saw an expression there she’d never seen before. Sadness and pain. Then something that looked a lot like anger.

  “Your mother abandoned you,” he said, his tone flat. “I know how that feels. Mine left when I was only a kid. I’ll bet I could match you prayer for prayer. Didn’t work for me, either.”

  Sarah waited, unsure of what to say. The room was silent except for the hum of the automatic blood pressure cuff as it inflated around her arm and the bubbling of the water seal container attached to her chest tube. “I’m sorry, Logan,” she said finally.

  He shrugged. “It was a long time ago. What matters now is you. Getting you well. Helping you feel better about things. How can I fix it?”

  The lump rose in Sarah’s throat again. “You can’t. It’s something I have to learn to live with. Emily was the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me. I carried her under my heart for all those months.” She pressed her hand to her chest above the bandages. “She’s still here. I loved her and I wanted her from the first moment I knew I was carrying her, even though everyone said she should never have been.” Sarah smiled through a blur of tears. “I had my daughter for only a short time. But she was a miracle, a joy. And to lose her . . .” She felt a tear slide down her cheek. “If you had a baby, you could understand how it feels. How the loss—” Sarah stopped as she saw the pained look on Logan’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “My wife was pregnant,” he said quietly. “She miscarried at five months. A boy.”

  +++

  Claire hit the End button on her cell phone and disconnected from her voice mail. No messages there or on the answering machine. Logan hadn’t returned her call during the twenty minutes she’d wandered around outside, calling for Smokey. She wondered if his phone was still turned off, if she should try again. Claire glanced at the clock. Nearly quarter to one in the morning. She wasn’t going to call him. And after the scene in his office this afternoon, there was every reason to believe he’d turned his cell phone off so he wouldn’t have to talk with her.

  She sank back against the couch. What was she going to say, anyway? The message she left on his voice mail said it all: “Logan, it’s Claire. I don’t feel good about how things ended with us today. Will you call me?”

  Ended with us. Ended. Had they? She glanced at the daffodils sitting on the coffee table in front of her. Hope in a glass vase. It was funny how the sight of those yellow flowers had made her feel hope. Stretching up, lifting their petals to the sun, and swaying in the breeze, they’d seemed like a miracle after so much darkness.

  The daffodils made her feel hopeful for the first time in so long. It had scared her because she couldn’t imagine it, couldn’t trust her heart to ever feel anything more than grief and pain. And she didn’t believe anything could fill the void left after Kevin’s death. So she’d thrown her old vase of dusty silk daffodils away to keep herself from remembering that brief glimmer of hope at Daffodil Hill. Logan replaced them with this bouquet of real ones. Then kissed her, made her laugh, and asked if she could fit him into her life . . . helping her feel better than she had in so long. Until today. When she destroyed all that by letting doubts crowd in about Logan’s compassion.

  Claire’s gaze dropped to the stack of flyers on the table next to the daffodils. The photo of Smokey, who’d finally ventured outside with the raccoons and was gone now. Lost. Or worse. Claire shook her head. They were in the same boat, she and Kevin’s one-eared cat. Both gathering shreds of courage to square off with what they feared most and ending up lost. She looked across the room to the framed photos on the fireplace mantel. “Kevin, your cat’s in the woods and your sister’s wandering aimlessly.” If ever she’d needed his advice, it was now.

  She stared at the hammered tin frame next to Gayle’s cross-stitched Scripture and the leather-strung pewter cross draped once more across the photo. Kevin’s cross. She smiled, her heart tugging as if she’d felt her brother’s big hand lovingly ruffle her hair. Almost as if she’d heard him say what he’d told her a thousand times: “Give it to God, Sis.”

  Claire sat upright on the couch, bowed her head, and prayed for Smokey to come home, for Sarah to be healed, for Logan to find his heart and his faith, and finally for herself. She peeked at the vase of daffodils. Let me find room for hope in my master plan. Amen.

  +++

  Logan regretted saying the words the moment they left his mout
h.

  “You lost a baby too?” Sarah asked, her hand hovering over her heart again.

  Logan glanced toward the door, wishing he were outside it and already past the nurses’ desk and all those curious faces watching his every move. He turned back to Sarah and saw the sympathetic look on her bruised face. “A miscarriage. Not at all what you went through. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I brought it up.”

  Sarah smiled gently, her face reminding Logan of a broken doll. “Because you understand how it feels to lose your baby. And because you and . . . What was your wife’s name?”

  “Beckah,” Logan said, wishing more and more that he could get up and leave. Grab his jacket, head outside to the bike. Today is the wedding.

  “You and Beckah loved that little baby boy. . . .” Sarah’s voice faded, her eyes closing.

  Logan exhaled, aware now that he’d been holding his breath and that his stomach had twisted into a knot. He’d been a fool to mention Beckah’s miscarriage; it wasn’t anything like what happened to Sarah. Even if Beckah had been far enough along to feel movement and had held Logan’s palm against her swelling abdomen so he could feel it too. Even if she’d already picked a name from her endless lists of boys’ names.

  “I was so blessed,” Sarah said, opening her eyes again. “I had Emily for only a few weeks, but I got to hold her, feel her soft skin . . .” Her chin trembled. “I wish Beckah could have held her baby.”

  Ah, no. Don’t. Logan’s stomach wrenched again, and he reached out to touch Sarah’s arm. Stop her. “Hey, shh. Don’t worry. Everybody’s okay. Let’s get you well now. You need to sleep.” He glanced toward the nurses’ station. “And I need to get out of here before I generate any more rumors.”