Family Matters

by Deborah Bedford

  But Jennie said, “The last time I was in a church was the day we got married, did you know that? Do you remember how pretty that little place was? With all those candles and the flowers and the light streaming in all those colored windows?”

  Michael did remember. He remembered the huge bell hanging in the front steeple. He remembered the redbud trees practically groaning with pink blossoms lining the walk. He remembered the wedding vows he had recited to her.

  How long ago all of that had been.

  “I remember.”

  “Remember your cousin—what was his name—threw the ring pillow at you like it was a football?”

  Michael couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t remember that part. I just remember my brother cracking up because the flower girl picked her nose when she walked up the aisle.”

  She gave him a little slap. “Men and their humor. That part I had forgotten.”

  “That’s the real-life stuff,” he told her. “That’s the stuff that makes everything good.”

  The next Tuesday, while Michael served his on-call at the hospital, he made a detour to the cafeteria. As he slid his tray along the chrome rail and reached for an orange, he glanced across the room and saw Andy buying a copy of the Morning News. She didn’t take a seat; she shook open one of the sections and scanned the pages as if in search for one article.

  When he came up behind her, he saw her reading the sports section.

  “Looking for soccer stories?” he teased her.

  Andy clutched the paper shut. He saw her blushing.

  “The Burn did well last night. They beat the Metro-stars.”

  “So I was reading.” And then she laughed.

  “Andy.” And suddenly Michael didn’t know how to say it, so great was the emotion that settled on his heart. How had so much time gone by, and he had not thought to say this to her? “Andy, I don’t even know where to start.”

  Her brows narrowed. Her smile widened a touch. He could tell she couldn’t guess what he wanted to say.

  “What is it, Dr. Stratton?”

  “I’m just so…grateful.” His throat constricted. He almost couldn’t get the last word out. “For the work you’ve done with my son. For the friend you’re being to my ex-wife.”

  She laid the newspaper aside and, by the smile she shot him, he knew he’d surprised her.

  “Thank you,” he said. “For everything.”

  He could see her looking to wave it off, trying to find a way to say, but it’s my job. It doesn’t matter.

  He said, “No. You have to accept this, my gratitude. It’s important for both of us.”

  So she did. “You’re welcome. People don’t often say ‘thank you’ here,” she said. “They’re so stressed.” She laughed again. “But then, I don’t need to tell you that.”

  Michael picked up the orange and began to peel it, as if he was unwrapping a gift. “Gratitude is a powerful, healing emotion. I’m learning that.” He offered Andy a half, she took a segment of it, before he popped the rest of it in sections in his mouth and made his way back to the E.R.

  Michael’s on-call night was typically eventful. The nurses running triage. The waiting room busting at the seams.

  A man came in for stitches because someone had broken a glass on his face in a nightclub. A man who told his daughter he’d hit himself with a hammer actually had a needle broken off and buried in his arm. A woman had started premature labor and he admitted her to a room right away.

  Then came the teenager who needed wrist surgery because he’d fallen off a skateboard going way too fast and had shattered his growth plate.

  When Michael called the orthopedic surgeon to come in, he got Dr. Phillips. As the surgical tech brought in the sterile instruments Dr. Phillips requested and the two of them washed up at the sink, the woman surgeon asked through her mask, “How’s that boy of yours doing?”

  Michael’s hands paused beneath the stream of water. He didn’t know why, but he felt uneasy. He wanted to focus on the teen with the green hair who was, at this very moment, going under anesthesia.

  He snapped his gloves on and held his hands high and cupped, ready for this next task. “Cody’s making slow progress,” he answered at last. “We’re proud of him. He’s working hard.”

  The patient’s vital signs had steadied to a deep, rhythmic pattern on the electronic monitor. Somewhere in the background, Michael heard the sound of the automated blood-pressure cuff sighing out its air.

  “You know, he got that reprieve from the muscle surgery,” Dr. Phillips said as she examined this other boy under the bright light. “I had the chance to see your son’s chart the other day.”

  Michael couldn’t keep the surprise from his voice. “You did?”

  “Yes. I’ve been keeping an eye on him.” Dr. Phillips held out her hand; the surgical tech placed a knife there. “If you can convince your ex-wife, I’d like to go ahead and loosen that muscle.”

  With that they went into the surgery. Michael assisted Dr. Phillips with a sudden, unexpected anger rising in his veins.

  Michael had never told anyone, but he prayed for his patients as he worked on them. Tonight, while Dr. Phillips opened the boy’s arm and rearranged pieces of ligament and fragmented bone, Michael found himself too out-of-temper to do that. He watched while Adele Phillips’s adept hands positioned a metal plate between two delicate bones.

  When she stepped back to survey her work, she told him offhandedly, “You’ll be looking at some real hip problems for your son later if you don’t take my advice.”

  “If you think we still ought to go ahead with the surgery,” Michael prompted her. “That means…?”

  “I think he’s made all the progress he’s going to make.”

  How could she say that? She hadn’t seen Andy and Jennie taking him through his paces. She hadn’t seen Cody eyeing his wheelchair with fear, Cody asking, Does this mean you’re giving up on me?

  They worked side by side for another hour. When Dr. Phillips stepped back and indicated she wanted Michael to complete the stitches, Michael did so with sharp, terse movements. He felt angrier with himself than he did with Adele Phillips, and he didn’t understand why. When they met again over the sink after the patient had been taken to recovery, Michael said, “We doctors think we have all the answers, don’t we?”

  Dr. Phillips said, “At some point, Dr. Stratton, you’re going to have to accept the fact that your son isn’t going to walk again.”

  Michael halted.

  “Your ex-wife doesn’t know what she’s talking about when she fights against it,” Dr. Phillips continued. “You know, we’re guided by science. She’s letting her emotions guide her instead.”

  Suddenly Michael realized what he had been wrong about, wallowing every day as he had been in his own indecision and his hurt. He had been living in his own power, in his hopes for himself and Jennie, in his own need to stay in control.

  Help me, Father. Show me the next step.

  He turned to his colleague and, when he spoke, his words came in an angry growl. “I know the power of words, Doctor,” he told her. “Believe me, I’ve spoken them over plenty of folks, too.

  “Believe me, I know the power of spoken destiny. Tell me it’s going to be a battle with Cody—I already know that. But don’t tell me the end result because that’s up to God.”

  Oh, Father. I wanted You to work in Jennie’s heart. When all the time, You wanted to work in mine.

  Michael yanked off his protective cap and took off his protective booties.

  The next steps—the words came into his heart, seemingly put there the way someone places a clock on a shelf—are Cody’s steps.

  Michael straightened, gripped on to those words with joy. “I stand behind Jennie’s decision,” he told Dr. Phillips. “We have heard your opinion and we respect it. The next thing we’re going to do is pray.”

  Bill Josephs sat on the examining table and bit his lip while Michael listened to his chest. “There’s not any
thing wrong with me, Doc,” Bill said finally. “I know those pains came from something I ate for dinner last night.”

  “You can’t be too careful,” Michael told him as he moved around to his back and listened to a different area.

  “Marge keeps sending me over here. I hiccup and she tells me I need to see you. Frankly, I think she has a crush on you. That’s why she always insists I come to this place.”

  Michael stood up and let his stethoscope drop to his chest. He couldn’t hear Bill’s heart anymore anyway; he couldn’t listen to the thumping of a patient’s heart and the patient’s opinion about things all at the same time. And Bill Josephs had plenty of opinions about everything. Instead, Michael smoothed his hair back exaggeratedly. He knew exactly how to get his old friend’s goat.

  “You think Marge really likes me, Bill? Is that why she had me out for breakfast? You know, if it wasn’t for her bringing you in all the time, I wouldn’t have a practice at all. You and Marge are the only reason I can pay all my bills.”

  “I’m that way to everybody,” the old guy said, winking. “That’s why my momma named me Bill. You should see all my bills. During my lifetime, I’ve kept half of this country in business. I’ve got this nightmare I get to heaven and an angel hands me a list of all my charges. Please pay in advance.”

  Michael chuckled. “It could happen.” He flipped Bill’s chart open and made several notes.

  Bill grinned. “Let’s hope not. If it was that way, I’d never get in up there.”

  “Well,” Michael said, as he clapped his friend on the back. “You go back and tell Marge you aren’t going to have to worry about angels for a while, anyway. From what I could hear, your heart sounds fine.”

  “I’m going to let Marge pay the bill for this,” Bill said, chuckling.

  “You do that.” Michael smiled as he scribbled the charge on the business form and handed it to his receptionist.

  “No matter what’s wrong with this old body,” Bill said. “I always feel a little bit better after you’ve checked it over.”

  “Bill—wait—” All at once, he knew what he had to do about Jennie.

  No matter what’s wrong with this old body, I always feel a little bit better after you’ve checked it over.

  Bill’s words had just given it to him right between the eyes. Bill trusts me. I know what to do to show Jennie I trust her this way, too.

  He had been praying about it for days, just the way he’d promised Dr. Phillips he would. And he couldn’t erase the nudging in his spirit now, telling him exactly the right thing to do.

  “What can I do for you, Doc?”

  “I’ve got a favor to ask. A big one.”

  “I’m good at favors,” Bill told him. “What is it?”

  “Can I borrow your horses? Dan and Kimbo? I’d like to take somebody riding.”

  “Your boy?”

  “No. My—a friend.”

  Bill raised his eyebrows. “A woman friend?”

  “You might say that.”

  “You takin’ my advice, Doc? You going out and lookin’ for a good woman to take care of you when you get old?”

  Michael laughed and nodded his head. “You might say that, too.”

  “You’ve got those horses any time you want them. You can borrow the rabbits, too, if you think they’ll impress her. And I’ve been thinking about getting one of those potbellied pigs.”

  Michael’s grin broadened. “No potbellied pigs or rabbits. All I want is the horses for one afternoon. I’ll call you and set it up. You tell Marge this office visit is on me. No charge.”

  “No charge?” Bill practically guffawed. “You mean you aren’t gonna send me a bill later?”

  “Nope. You’re free and clear. Use the money and take Marge on a date.”

  “That’s the best idea you’ve had all day,” Bill said, pulling on his battered tweed hat and shaking Michael’s hand. “I’ll do that.”

  Art Sanderson studied the sports page with the trained eye of a perfectionist, making certain the layout looked clean, that none of the headlines bumped together, and that everything made sense.

  With his red pencil, he circled two things. One, a headline that bumped against another one so it looked as if it read: “Local runner takes first in 100 mph plunge off hillside.”

  The second item he circled was a small box on the third page. “Swim team for special kids makes waves with water therapy.” He was glad to see they were already running promotional articles for the fund-raiser. He wanted this group to have good play in his pages. The article should have been given better placement. He wanted Jennie’s stuff closer to page one. He’d talk with his layout staff about both this afternoon.

  He picked up the phone and called Jennie. When she answered the telephone, he could tell something was wrong. She sounded subdued, not like herself at all.

  “How are the fund-raiser plans going?” he asked.

  “Going really well. I’ve got several celebrities but I need more.”

  “You ought to sound more excited about it than you do.”

  “I’ve had a thousand things on my mind. The fund-raiser’s been on the back burner during these past few days—” she paused, knowing full well that the best thing for her mental fatigue right now would be to jump headfirst into this project “—but it’s coming along. I need two more famous people and I’ll have it.”

  “Jennie. Are you okay? You don’t sound like yourself. Maybe you need to come back to work.”

  She had to smile. Subtlety was not Art’s strong suit. But when she spoke, her words were serious. “Cody’s having a tough time at therapy. He’s reached his breaking point, I think.” He had reached a plateau and had started acting sullen and distant. “He was doing so well for a while that he got all our hopes up.”

  “Jennie,” Art said suddenly. “Do you know anything about Buddy Draper?”

  She gave a little start and then grinned. “The Dallas Burn’s new coach?” She knew a good deal about Buddy that other people didn’t know.

  “What do you think about getting him involved in this project? I’m betting he’d do it,” Art commented. “Considering what he went through himself. You know. Special kids fighting to be winners. Buddy Draper fighting to be a winner. That sort of thing.”

  It fits right into place. Jennie put a hand on her heart. Why hadn’t she thought of it? It seemed like more and more pieces of her life were fitting together, now that she’d started going to a small group study at Andy’s church, now that she’d asked everyone to pray with her so she could trust God more, so she could ask Jesus into her heart.

  Andy was going to kill her. But fairy tales came true all the time. So, Jennie asked herself, what are good friends for? To give fairy tales a little push start.

  “I like it, Art,” she told him, trying to sound composed and professional when what she really wanted to do was jump up and down. “I’ll let you know when I get something put together with him.”

  She hung up the phone, buoyed once again by the plans for the show, and carried Lester the cat back to see Cody. “Hi, Bear,” she said gently, her eyes sparkling as she laid the purring cat in his lap. “What are you doing?”

  “Sitting around,” he said. He didn’t even look at her.

  “Darling,” she said, kneeling down beside him. “I don’t know what to say or do to make it better.”

  “There isn’t anything.”

  “I’ve got some great ideas for the swim team fund-raiser today. Let’s work together. Why don’t you come in here and do your book report while I make phone calls?”

  He’d started back at school just two days before, not to his old school but to a special school in Plano. The teachers there helped kids who had been out of school for a while to catch up with their studies. “Has something happened at school? Are you wishing you were back in Mrs. Bounds’s class?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. His nose started to turn red and she knew he was about to cry again. “I don’t m
iss my friends. I talk to Taylor all the time.”

  It was time to take a different tack. This gentle pleading hadn’t worked with him at all. “I’m tired of the way you’re acting, Cody,” she told him, standing up abruptly. He started at the change in her voice.

  “I’m acting fine,” he retorted.

  “No, you’re not. You’re making me feel bad because you won’t try. Well, I refuse to feel bad anymore, young man. You aren’t being fair to yourself or to me. You just think about it. You sit there and figure out what’s so wrong you have to give up. Then you figure out how to tell me, Cody. Because that’s what you’re going to have to do before anything gets any better around here.”

  She turned on her heels and left him sitting there in his wheelchair, with Lester the cat still purring in his lap.

  “You should do it,” Marshall Townsend told Buddy as he stepped out of the shower in the locker room and toweled himself off. “This swim team sounds like a great cause to support.”

  “They should have asked you,” Buddy replied. “You’re the star player these days.” But there was more to it than Marshall knew. Much more. They were talking about Mark Kendall’s swim team.

  At first, when Jennie Stratton had phoned him this morning, he’d actually wondered if Andy had engineered the whole thing. But he’d quickly realized Andy wasn’t involved. And suddenly he’d found himself wishing that she was.

  “I just don’t know if I have the time, Ms. Stratton,” he’d told her. “I’m honored to be asked. I’m honored to be included with a list of guests this impressive. I know the swim team is a worthy group. I’ve heard Mark Kendall works wonders.”

  “I just don’t know if I want any more media attention,” Buddy told Marshall now, trying to cover for himself. “Things have finally started dying down.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve gotten tired of media attention,” Marshall said wryly, running the towel wildly over his head. “You’ve always thrived on it.”

  “Nah. Not so much anymore.”