He paused at the top of the stairs as he heard the first several notes of Nelson’s scales. Oh, how he wished it wasn't necessary to have the conversation he was about to initiate.
As he started down the steps, Fern called from the kitchen, “Honey, would you like a glass of lemonade?”
“Sure. I’ll get it.” He walked hastily toward the kitchen. Fern liked to do things for herself, but he’d noticed the heavy pitcher had been a problem for her lately. His train of thought was interrupted by a loud crash. The sounds of splashing liquid and hard plastic hitting the floor told him what had happened.
James ran the last few steps. “Are you okay?”
Fern was standing near the open refrigerator in a lake of lemonade. She nodded, then put both hands to her face. “I’m sorry.”
“You don't need to apologize.” James slipped off his shoes. He scooped up the pitcher and tossed it in the sink before grabbing several dish towels to spread over the liquid on the floor. Then he set his hands at Fern's waist and lifted her out of the moisture, setting her on a tall chair at the bar. “Just give me a minute to wipe this up, and then I’ll clean off your feet. Mine too,” he added, forcing a grin, trying to get her to smile.
“Thank you,” she replied in a small, sad voice.
James knew she needed to be reassured, but he also needed to clean up the mess, while he figured out how to tell her about the job offer. He’d thought about it the whole way home, but he still hadn't come up with any brilliant ideas.
Quickly, he sopped up the lemonade, then washed and rinsed the floor so it wouldn't be sticky. Next, he tackled his feet and Fern's, and finally he wiped down the cabinets and the refrigerator where the liquid had spattered as it hit the floor.
When everything had been cleaned, he looked up at Fern. “How does iced tea sound? I’ll make some more lemonade tonight.” He wanted to tell her not to try to lift something as heavy as a full pitcher anymore; but he knew it would upset her, so he bit his tongue.
Fern sighed. “I’m not thirsty. You go ahead.”
James didn't respond, but he poured two glasses of tea anyway, then perched on a bar stool next to her at the counter. He realized she was trying not to cry. “Hey,” he said. “This was no big deal. Nothing was damaged, and you weren't hurt. I’ll take an accident like that any day.”
“You had a long day, you came home and dealt with the boys, and I made more work for you.” She sighed. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. Let it go.”
“I’m having more muscle spasms than I used to,” she said. “I really did have a pretty good day, but mid- to late afternoon seems to be my worst time.” James put a hand over hers, and she turned her palm up and laced her fingers through his. “I really thought I could lift that lemonade from the fridge to the counter,” she said. “Guess I won't be trying that again.”
A small wave of relief rolled through James. He hadn't been looking forward to trying to talk her out of lifting heavy pitchers and containers. “A good idea,” he commented. Then he had an idea of his own. “I could put several glasses of water or juice, whatever you like, in the fridge for you in the morning, so you wouldn't have to try to lift anything during the day. I could use those tall Tupperware cups with the lids.”
Her eyebrows rose as she considered the idea. “I wonder if I could get the lid off without spilling the drink.”
He hadn't thought of that, and his shoulders sagged. “It's worth a try.”
She nodded. “It's a good idea, honey. I’ll go you one better. What if we got lidded cups that a straw will fit into? Then it would be even easier, and I wouldn't have to try to take off the tops at all.”
“Good idea.” He knew his response was flat; he was trying to figure how in the world to open the conversation. No point in tiptoeing around it. He might as well just say it.
She reached over to rub his back. “What's wrong? You seem preoccupied. Did something bad happen at work?”
He dropped his head forward and let her continue to massage his neck and his shoulders. “No,” he said, “but something did happen that involves work.”
Her hand stilled. “Did you hear something from one of your interviews?” she asked.
James nodded, although he didn't lift his head, loath to discontinue the soothing massage.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry,” Fern exclaimed after waiting an expectant moment. “There will be other jobs. I’m sure that—”
“Whoa, whoa.” James sat up straight with a resigned smile. “No, it's not bad news. Fern, I got the job.”
His wife's pretty brown eyes lit up. “You did? Congratulations, honey!”
James smiled. “Thanks. Although you may not be as delighted when I tell you the whole story.”
As Fern's smile faded and a questioning expression took its place, James went on to explain the position and the new location. He couldn't look at her, but played with a spoon lying on the counter while he spoke. She asked a few questions, but for the most part she didn't say much.
When he had finished, there was a large silence. “The benefits and the salary sound excellent,” she said quietly.
James nodded. “They really are. But there are also some cons we need to discuss.”
“We don't have to make a list, honey. We both know what they are.”
“But—”
“If we have to move away from Deerford, I’ll manage,” Fern said before he could list his concerns. “I know it won't be easy. I do depend on my family, our friends and our church a lot. And I’ll be honest. The thought of having to ask a whole group of strangers to step up and help out is daunting. But James, we can't afford for you to be out of work. I know that. So if you want to take this job, I’ll make the best of it. The important thing is that we are together enjoying raising our sons.”
He smiled at her and wrapped an arm about her shoulders. His heart felt at least twenty pounds lighter. “Every day, I find another reason to be glad you married me, you know that?”
Fern leaned over and lifted her face for a kiss. “I feel the same way. And after twenty years, that's a lot of reasons!”
The little chapel in the hospital was packed two weeks later. Every pew was filled to bursting, people sat in the aisle and others stood around the edges of the little room.
In the front row, Elena whispered to Candace, “Wow! I never expected so many people to show up for this prayer service.”
Candace looked around at the crowd. “It's amazing. And what a lovely testament to the power of prayer.” Her eye was caught by the sight of a tall blond man near the very back of the chapel. Heath Carlson.
He was watching her, his blue eyes intense. When he realized he had caught her eye, he winked and smiled.
She lifted a hand in a brief wave and smiled. Then she quickly turned around again.
Pastor Tom rose from his seat at one side of the front, wearing his customary navy slacks with a matching navy clerical shirt and a detachable white collar. The Hope Haven Hospital chaplain was a man of deep, quiet faith. Warm and personable, he could be found more frequently at a patient's bedside than in the chapel. His neatly combed brown hair was frosted with silver and his eyes were a striking light blue, nearly the color of a summer sky. “Good afternoon, friends,” he said. “Welcome, and thank you all for joining us. This might be the first time I have ever wished for a larger chapel in this hospital.”
Laughter ripples through the room.
“We are gathered here today,” he continued, “to lift up the future of this hospital in prayer, to ask God's blessing on our efforts here. We will lift up both the medical miracles that so many of these extraordinary caregivers administer every single day as well as the efforts to raise funds to keep this very special place of healing open for many more years. This is a nondenominational chapel. Our services are available to anyone seeking dialogue with our heavenly Father. Will you please pray with me?”
After the prayer, a young African-American man with a guitar rose from
the front pew at the other side of the room and took a seat on the steps. Candace recognized him from the lab. He was Quintessa Smith's twin brother, Dillan, who was one of the lab techs. She hadn't known he played guitar.
He began to play, nimble fingers flying over the strings. In a clear, perfectly pitched tenor, he started to sing “Shine, Jesus, Shine.” Candace had heard the popular song on the radio and in her own church many times, and she hummed along under her breath. Then she felt a motion at her side as the first chorus began.
Elena popped up out of her seat and faced the crowd. She began to sing, waving her hands to indicate that everyone should join in. Candace began to sing, and from James's place on the other side of the aisle, she heard a strong baritone. Within moments, the little room was filled with the sound of many voices worshipping together.
When the song concluded, Pastor Tom rose, beaming. “Thank you, Dillan, thank you. What an inspiring way to share our faith.” He scanned the congregation. “Now I’d like to introduce to you the woman who has been instrumental in organizing a fund-raiser for your hospital. It includes a Wall of Hope to be constructed in the courtyard. Friends, this is Elena Rodriguez, an LPN in the Intensive Care Unit.”
Elena rose, blushing, and thanked the pastor. In short, concise sentences, she shared the idea for the courtyard, the fund-raiser with the bricks and her hopes that it would result in a significant contribution to the financial crisis. She concluded by encouraging everyone present to donate a brick and to share the project with their families, friends and churches.
When she had finished, the pastor rose again and offered the Lord's Prayer. Dillan's guitar provided accompaniment for the doxology, and finally Pastor Tom offered a benediction:
“Throughout the journey of your life, may you reach out to those in need of comfort, share God's blessings with those who need to hear His voice and offer care and comfort to those in need of your healing grace. Let your love touch the least as well as the first. Let God be your teacher, the answer to the questions in your heart, the wisdom in your thoughts and the example you show to all those around you. Do these things, and know eternal life.”
Dillan began to play a simple instrumental postlude, and the buzz of conversation filled the air as people began to depart. There was a buoyant energy in the air.
Elena's eyes were shining as she turned to Candace. “Wasn't that terrific?”
Pastor Tom joined them. “It was, indeed,” he said, catching Elena's question.
“I was rather surprised by the size of the crowd,” Candace said honestly.
“As was I,” the pastor concurred. “However, I found it enormously encouraging to think of all the faithful people that make up the staff of this place of healing.”
Candace nodded, smiling; but as she opened her mouth to respond, her beeper alerted her to a message. “Excuse me,” she said, checking the small device. “Gotta go,” she told Elena. “Patient in labor—oh no!”
“What's wrong?” Elena asked with concern.
“It's my patient with breast cancer,” Candace said as she turned and began to rush away. “Pray for her,” she tossed over her shoulder. “She's only thirty-five weeks along.”
Chapter Twenty-One
RIEY HOHMANN, CANDACE'S SUPERVISOR, WAS IN the hallway preparing to go back into one of the two birthing suites. She wore a stylish set of light blue scrubs with clouds and tiny angels scattered over the top. It had been a busy morning and her blond hair, usually so sleekly styled, was falling out of its once-elegant french twist.
“Riley! Where's Robin?” Candace asked.
“She hasn't arrived yet,” Riley said. “She called Dr. Carpenter a few minutes ago and said she is having contractions. Dr. Carpenter told her to get in here right away.”
“She's still got five weeks to go,” Candace said. “She's not due until mid-August. I was really hoping she wouldn't deliver for another few weeks.”
“How long has it been since her surgery?” Riley asked.
“Not long enough,” said Candace darkly. Then she stopped and thought about it. “Actually, it's been close to a month.”
“Oh, good. That shouldn't create any special problems,” Riley said, clearly relieved. “We should have a birthing suite opening up in an hour or so. I’ll reserve it for her, since she's the next incoming,” Riley promised in a soothing tone. “One of our moms just delivered, so we’ll get it ready as soon as she's transferred to a room.” She rubbed Candace's arm. “Calm down. You’re as nervous as if this were your labor and delivery.”
Candace relaxed and chuckled. “No, not quite that nervous, believe me. Sorry,” she said sheepishly. “I’m a little personally invested in this case.”
Riley grinned as she stepped back. “I have to get in there. This mom is going into transition, and she's liable to get panicky.” Riley was referring to the shortest but most intense stage of labor during which a woman's body suffered through a variety of physical changes as it prepared for delivery. Many women needed extra reassurance during this time, others felt like giving up and still others became belligerent and aggressive.
Candace could already hear the woman's voice rising. “Go, go!” she urged.
She turned and walked back to the nurses’ station more calmly. There was no one on the computer so she was able to call up Robin's chart and review everything yet again. She’d looked at that chart so many times she probably could have rewritten it in her sleep.
Thirty-five weeks, she thought. A thirty-five-week delivery was considered a preterm baby. There could be untold complications, or it could go as smoothly as a full-term one. Troubled, she leaned back in her chair. It really would be best if Dr. Carpenter was able to postpone the delivery for at least a day, preferably more. Candace hadn't talked with Robin yet, so she didn't know how intense or frequent her contractions might be. Perhaps it wouldn't be difficult to settle her down again.
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. Anticipating Robin, Candace glanced up; but it was Dr. Carpenter approaching, a white lab coat flapping around her as she trundled down the hall.
Dr. Frances Carpenter was one of three OB/GYNs in the Deerford Mother & Child medical practice and the only woman. She was in high demand because many women preferred female obstetricians.
Short and undeniably stout, Dr. Carpenter had black hair with dense spiral curls, which tended to stick out wildly in all directions, and black eyes set a little too close together. When she drew her thick eyebrows into an annoyed line, she could look quite forbidding; but normally she was exceptionally pleasant and surprisingly soft-spoken.
“I bet I beat her here, didn't I?” she said, laughing. She lived just two blocks from the hospital. It was quite practical, since OB doctors were sometimes woken from a sound sleep and asked to get to the hospital within minutes.
Candace nodded. “If you’re talking about Robin Overing, yes.”
The obstetrician nodded. “Got her records handy? I want to look over them.” She sighed. “How long ago was her surgery?”
Candace reviewed the record with her, giving Dr. Carpenter her own observations.
The physician scanned the record. “Hmm. Thirty-five weeks. Let's see what she looks like. If the contractions are mild and she's not far along, I might try a tocolytic to postpone labor for a day or so. If that works, we’ll administer corticosteroids to allow the fetal respiratory system to develop more.”
Dr. Carpenter was hoping to keep Robin from delivering her baby for at least twenty-four hours so that she could receive shots of a special drug designed to speed up the development of the baby's lungs. It was a tried-and-true approach that had helped preemies for many years.
Candace clasped her hands together beneath the desk and said a brief prayer. Her prayer was aimed at Robin and her infant receiving the best possible care and being as healthy as possible postdelivery.
Candace paced for twenty minutes. Since it was early afternoon, she called her mother because she expected she might be at t
he hospital for quite a while yet. Her mother was excited when Candace explained that it was her breast-cancer patient.
“I’ll pray for a short and swift delivery,” she said. That was Janet, ever-practical.
True to her word, Riley got the newborn's family out of the birthing suite and they began their cleanup protocol. Candace smiled wistfully as the beaming new mother came down the hallway in a wheelchair, her husband at her side and their new baby in her arms.
She should be used to the sight, but every single time she saw a new family, she still immediately thought of Dean. He’d been so thrilled when Brooke was born. When they had come out of the delivery room, a nurse had pushed Candace down the hall while Dean carried Brooke. Every time they passed someone—usually a perfect stranger—Dean had announced, “We have a daughter!” The memory still made Candace chuckle even when she couldn't stop the tears.
She took a moment to carefully wipe her eyes with her fingers, blotting incipient tears without smearing the touch of mascara she wore. When she glanced up again, Robin Overing was waddling down the hall with her husband Andrew at her side.
“Hi, Robin,” Candace called. “How are you doing? Are your contractions strong?”
Robin smiled, and Candace could see both excitement and apprehension in her expression. “No.” She shook her head. “I called as soon as I realized what was happening because I know it's too early.”
“It's a little early,” Candace admitted. “But we are going to take excellent care of you. Let me get Dr. Carpenter to talk to you right away.”
As it turned out, Candace didn't have to get the doctor. Riley had notified her as soon as she saw Candace and her patient coming down the corridor.
Quickly, Candace ushered the pair into an exam room. Dr. Carpenter came in; and after a moment of small talk, she performed a pelvic examination on Robin as Candace watched and Andrew held his wife's hand. Afterward, the physician seated Robin in a rocking chair in the birthing suite and pulled a stool over.
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