Janet nodded. “Wise idea.”
With a heavy heart, Candace turned and followed her daughter upstairs. She had been reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe aloud with Brooke. It had been one of her own favorites as a child, and she was enjoying becoming reacquainted with Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy Pevensie and their fantastic adventures. But this evening, she was hard-pressed to keep her mind on the story. After their nightly chapter, she listened to her elder child's prayers, kissed her and turned off the light as she left the room.
Instead of returning to the family room, Candace walked to the end of the hall and entered her own bedroom. Quietly, she closed the door and simply stood at the edge of her bed as the tears began to fall. The bed was a beautiful queen-size, cherry sleigh bed that matched the dresser, end tables, and chest of drawers in the room. She and Dean had picked the entire suite out together. It had been their first purchase of brand-new furniture, and Candace still loved the cherry-wood pieces and the comforting memories they brought back.
Tonight, however, there was little comfort to be had; and she couldn't hold back the flood any longer. Collapsing onto the bed, she picked up the small stuffed bunny Dean had given her for Easter when they were dating and buried her face in a pillow to stifle her sobs.
She tried to never cry in front of her mother or the children. It frightened the children; and although her mother was a tower of strength and dependability, Candace sometimes felt that her mom watched her too closely for signs of grief. She supposed she couldn't blame her. Her mother loved and worried about her and the children.
It was so hard. Would Brooke ever recover from her father's death? Or would her little girl go through life fearing that she would be left again? What kind of man would Howie grow up to be without ever knowing Dean? Didn't a boy learn how to be a man by emulating his father? Dean had been one of the best men, one of the most principled, kindest men she had ever known. Living the rest of her life without him, trying to raise their children alone, even with her mother's help, felt like the harshest punishment ever devised.
After a few moments, the intensity of her grief began to dissipate. Exhausted, she rolled onto her back and reached for a tissue, mopping her tears and blowing her nose. If she had learned anything in the past three years, she’d learned that crying jags might help to relieve stress temporarily, but they weren't good for much else.
There was an intercom in the hallway, part of a system she’d installed after Dean's death so that if one of the children became upset when she wasn't upstairs with them, she’d be able to hear them from other parts of the house. Walking to the unit on the wall, she pressed the button and said, “Mom? I’m pretty tired. I think I’ll just go to bed.”
A moment later, her mother's voice responded. “Good night, honey. Everything all right?”
“Yes. Brooke's okay now. Good night.”
It wasn't a lie. Brooke had turned off her light and appeared to be sleeping peacefully, and Candace herself was no longer crying. Sometimes, she thought sadly, no longer crying is as okay as I can be.
The thought of crying reminded her of Robin. Candace realized the younger woman's day had been far more upsetting than her own. On impulse, she took her cell phone from her pocket. She had the numbers of all the expectant mothers in her current childbirth class, and she quickly pulled up Robin's number and hit SEND.
After two rings, a recorded message invited her to leave her name and her reason for calling. Candace hesitated, fearing she might be intrusive. Finally, she cleared her throat. “Hi, Robin and Andrew. This is Candace Crenshaw. I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can while you figure out how you’re going to deal with your diagnosis. Also, I will pray for both of you and for your baby.”
She ended the call and pocketed the phone. Returning to her room, she kicked off her shoes and picked up her Bible. Reclining on the bed, she began her nightly study and prayer time.
Chapter Four
ANABELLE STEPPED DOWN OFF THE LOW STOOL and stood back to examine her work. “How do these curtains look?” she asked her daughter, as she wiped her hands off on her denim pants. She had spent the last thirty minutes hanging pinch-pleated draw drapes over the double window in the living room of Kirstie's new apartment while Kirstie hooked up her computer, television and DVR.
“They look great, Mother. Thanks,” Kirstie said. A pretty girl with long, dark hair and her father's blue eyes, she put her hands on her hips as she studied the drapes. “I can do the rest another day.” She picked up the stool and folded it, leaning it against a stack of boxes yet to be unpacked. “You should be getting home. Don't you have to work tomorrow?”
Anabelle nodded. “Yes, but this is no problem. You know I’m happy to help. I’ll put up your kitchen curtains too.”
“We can talk about that tomorrow.” Kirstie began to pick up the packaging from the curtain hooks and tidy up. “Really, Mother, you should go. I’m going to bed soon myself.”
“Honey,” Anabelle said, “this place is still very rough. Why don't you come home tonight? You should get everything completely shipshape before you start living here.”
Kirstie shook her head. “No. I have enough stuff unpacked to get by until tomorrow evening. After school, I have the rest of the day to unpack.”
“I can meet you here as soon as I get off work. Maybe Ainslee can come over and the three of us can make a night of it,” Anabelle told her, volunteering Kirstie's older sister.
“I’m not sure when I’ll get here. You know, grading papers, after-school meetings, that kind of thing. Plus, some of the other teachers offered to come over and help put things away. So I won't need you tomorrow night.” Kirstie smiled. “You’ll get a night off.”
“All right,” Anabelle said reluctantly. “Maybe Wednesday evening.” She warmed to the idea. “I could get started on the painting. Didn't you say you wanted to do this room?”
“I’m not sure when I’m going to start that.” Kirstie yawned widely. “Not that soon.”
“You look tired, honey.” Anabelle immediately was concerned. “You know you shouldn't let yourself get too exhausted or you’re just asking for trouble. Every teacher I know catches all kinds of bugs from the students. And how is your le—?”
“I’m fine!”
Anabelle stopped abruptly, mouth open midword. Since Kirstie had lost her leg more than a decade ago in a bicycle-automobile accident, Anabelle constantly fretted about it, often frustrating her daughter. “You don't have to shout,” she said with dignity.
“Sorry.” Kirstie made an obvious effort to smile. “I’m just really tired. I’ll talk to you in a day or so, all right?”
“All right.” Anabelle allowed her daughter to pass her handbag to her. “You can come over for dinner later in the week.” She smiled. “At least I can make sure you occasionally eat right.”
“I can cook, you know.” Kirstie's tone was wry, but good-humored again. “I promise I’ll get three squares a day.”
Anabelle smiled and reached for the doorknob as she extracted her keys from her handbag. “Good.” She reached for Kirstie, feeling all the tension drain away when her daughter's strong, young arms came around her in a tight hug. “I love you, honey.”
“I love you too.” Kirstie pulled back, and there were tears in her eyes. “It's time for me to be on my own, but I hope you know how much I appreciate everything you and Daddy have done for me.”
“We do know.” Anabelle sniffed, her own eyes filling. “And remember, if this living situation doesn't work out, your room at home is still waiting for you.”
Kirstie burst out laughing. “Okay, Mother. I won't forget.”
Candace always packed her children's lunches herself. She took the time to write little notes on their napkins each day, a ritual both children seemed to love. Candace had feared Brooke might not appreciate it as she got older, but so far, so good.
Already showered and ready for her day, she awakened the children
and got them started dressing before walking downstairs to the kitchen. Howie's lunch box and Brooke's backpack both lay on the counter. She opened Howie's lunch box and put yesterday's containers in the sink to be washed. Then she reached for Brooke's backpack to find her lunch sack.
Unzipping the book bag, she withdrew a pink jacket, two textbooks, a school letter about the upcoming book fair, and Brooke's gym sneakers before she came to the lunch sack. When she pulled it out, a small envelope came with it. Curious, Candace turned it over, but it wasn't addressed to her. All right, so it wasn't school correspondence.
Brooke's name was written on the envelope in childish cursive, but the little missive clearly had been opened already. Candace debated for a second before deciding that since it was open, it was fair game for a mother to read.
She flipped up the envelope flap and found a little bifold card that clearly had been made on someone's home computer. It was a birthday invitation. Oh boy. Candace smiled. She hoped it was for a girl. She often had a terrible time helping Brooke buy gifts for boys.
She opened the little card that announced, “It's a Birthday Party!” on the front. Inside was an invitation to Brooke's friend Tiffany's birthday party. But as Candace's eyes skimmed the little card, her brows drew together in a frown. The date was for the previous Saturday. The party was already over!
At that very moment, Brooke walked into the kitchen.
“What,” demanded Candace, “is this?” She wagged the invitation beneath her daughter's nose, taking deep breaths to control her exasperation.
Brooke shrugged, appearing supremely unconcerned, although Candace noted that the girl would not look directly into her eyes. “Tiffany's birthday party invitation.”
“And when did you intend to tell me about this?”
Brooke shrugged again. “I didn't want to bother you.”
“Bother me!” Candace huffed out a breath. “Brooke, you can't just ignore invitations.”
“I didn’t,” Brooke protested. “I told Tiffany I couldn't be there.”
“Because?”
“I just didn't really want to go.”
“Did you tell her that?”
“No.” Brooke was blinking rapidly, as if she was trying not to cry.
“So you lied. Because you certainly didn't have any other plans.” Candace crossed her arms, although she made an effort to soften her tone. “Honey, even if you choose not to attend a party, you still should send a gift if you were invited.”
“I should?” Her daughter's voice was very, very small.
Candace nodded. “Yes. Remember that little book of etiquette I gave you at Christmas?”
Brooke nodded.
“I bet this situation is covered in there. We still need to give Tiffany a gift.” She paused a moment, at a loss to understand her daughter. “Why didn't you want to go? I thought Tiffany was one of your good friends.”
“She is.” Brooke let one shoulder rise and fall. “I guess we’d better give her a gift.”
“Yes, we should.” Candace noted that Brooke had detoured around her question, but she let it rest for the moment. “How about tomorrow evening?”
Brooke's head came up. “Why can't we do it right after school one day? I don't want to go in the evening, Mommy.”
“All right.” Candace didn't really care when they went, as long as the mistake was rectified soon. “Honey, is there something wrong between you and Tiffany?”
“No.” Brooke sounded definite. “When can we go shopping for Tiffany?”
“How about today, right after school? I’ll bring along a gift bag and a card. Then we can take it straight over to Tiffany's house.” Even more puzzled, Candace stared after her daughter as the child walked out of the room. What was going on in that little blonde head?
Perhaps it would be a good idea to request a conference with Brooke's teacher, since Brooke appeared reluctant to explain. Maybe the teacher had noticed something. Brooke had seemed to be dealing with her grief better—until recently. Candace thought of the episode with Brooke's friend's kitty passing away. Brooke's grief had seemed a little outside the bounds of normal for a pet she had met once. And her initial reaction when she’d overheard Candace talking about the pregnant breast-cancer patient had been startling.
Candace sighed. Yes, it might be time for a teacher conference. And it definitely was time for a call to Brooke's counselor.
After she arrived at work, Candace began reviewing paperwork for her shift. She glanced up automatically when the elevator doors opened, and she saw Anabelle Scott and James Bell coming in for their own shifts. “Good morning,” she said. “How are you two doing now that you’ve had the night to reflect on the letter?”
Anabelle snorted. “As you’d expect. I’m anxious, upset, apprehensive….”
Candace nodded. “Same here.”
“Hi, gang!” The perky voice belonged to Elena Rodriguez. “I have to talk to you guys,” she said. “I had an idea last night that I want to run by you. Can we get together at noon in the courtyard?”
Anabelle glanced at her watch. “That works for me.”
“Sounds good,” James put in.
Candace nodded. “Count me in.”
The four nurses separated, each moving off to his or her unit. As Candace walked briskly into the labor and delivery area, the phone on the counter rang. No one else was close by, so she picked up the receiver. “Birthing Unit, this is Candace.”
“Candace? It's Robin Overing. Do you have a moment to talk?” The young woman's voice was hesitant.
“Good morning, Robin. Of course I have time. How are you doing?”
“I’ve been better,” the young woman said honestly. “We got your message. I wanted to thank you for your prayers. That means a lot.”
“You’re welcome. Have you heard from the oncologist yet?”
“Yes.” Robin hesitated. “We have an appointment at one thirty Thursday afternoon. Candace, I know it's an imposition, but would it be possible for you to go with us? I would feel much better with you there to ask any questions I might not think of.”
“Of course,” Candace said. “That time works fine for me. Where should I meet you?”
“Do you know where Dr. Prelutski's office is? He's going to be my oncologist.”
“I do,” Candace assured her. “I’ll meet you there a little before one thirty on Thursday, all right?”
“Thank you so much.” Robin sounded as if she was fighting tears. “We’ll see you then.”
Candace replaced the receiver slowly. Robin had been a darling little girl, always so sunny and sweet, always eager to please. It was hard to remember that child, full of life and promise, and see what she was going to have to deal with now as an adult. She thought of Brooke, whose childhood security had been shattered when her daddy died. Every child should have the luxury of innocence for that short, magical time during childhood.
Confusion and pain welled up. Why, God? If she had a dollar for every time she’d asked that futile question, she’d never have to work again.
Candace was busy all morning, and she got off a few minutes later than normal. When she stepped into the sunny courtyard for the second day in a row, the three other nurses were already there waiting. Elena had soup and a sandwich from the cafeteria, while Anabelle and James both had packed lunches spread out in front of them.
“Candace! Hi!” Elena's voice was enthusiastic. “I was afraid you might not make it.”
“I got held up for a few minutes. What did I miss?”
“Nothing yet,” Anabelle assured her. “Elena was just about to tell us about an idea she had.”
“What sort of idea?” Candace took a seat on the picnic bench and began to unload her lunch items from the insulated bag in which she kept them.
“I was thinking about it last night,” Elena said, “and I realized that we—all of us who are employed here—are just sitting around waiting to see what will happen to Hope Haven. But what if we get involved? Maybe
we need to pitch in instead of expecting the board of directors to fix it. What would you think of that?”
“Involved how?” Candace couldn't see how the employees could help if the board hadn't been able to come up with the money.
“It's obvious,” Elena said. “A fund-raising campaign. Get the community involved. Everyone in Deerford should be concerned about this.”
“I agree with you,” Anabelle said, “but being concerned and actually getting involved are two entirely different things. And even if we could raise enough money to keep the hospital going for, say, another year, what happens the following year? Remember when the oncology unit was updated a few years ago?”
“They raised millions of dollars,” James supplied glumly, “and even then, it wasn't enough to do all that they wanted, so they had to scale back their plans.”
Anabelle nodded. “Right. So we raise the money. What happens when it's gone? We’d be right back in the same pickle.”
Candace sat up a little straighter. “Not necessarily. My husband Dean was an accountant—”
“Was?” asked Elena.
Candace's throat tightened, as it still did so often, and she couldn't speak for a moment. “He passed away.”
“I’m so sorry,” Elena said sincerely. “Both for your loss and for my nosiness. I have a bad habit of speaking first and then wishing I’d thought about it before I opened my mouth. This definitely qualifies as one of those times.”
Elena's frank words made Candace smile. The lump in her throat eased, and she was able to go on. “I know what my husband would have recommended. A trust or endowment is the way to go, with the principal staying untouched and the interest being used to supplement the hospital budget.”
James was nodding vigorously. “If enough is invested, it could become an annual subvention.”
“Subvention?” Elena asked.
The Best Medicine Page 4
