At his words, Jennie’s face went ashen. And here, Cody buckled his knees up beneath him—a very promising movement as Andy saw it—buried his face against his legs, and continued to wail. “It’s you who won’t try. It’s you. And it’s Dad. So if you two won’t try to be together again, I’m not going to try, either.”
Andy sat beside him, holding him as he hollered with frustration. But there was nothing she could do. At last Cody was voicing his frustration.
“Oh, Cody,” Jennie whispered, devastated. “Is that it, then? But it’s such a different kind of trying.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mom,” Cody told her. “It doesn’t matter that it’s different. Because it’s what I want more than anything else in the whole world.”
On the afternoon of the fund-raiser, Andy stood backstage at the gigantic pavilion where the show would be held, directing five little girls from Mark’s team and putting the finishing touches on a routine Jennie had suggested. They were doing a funny skit in which they all wore bright yellow leotards and danced with soccer balls.
The show was only hours away. The Times-Sentinel had yet to announce who the master of ceremonies would be. The newspaper had billed him all week as a “local celebrity” and a “must-see attraction.” Even Jennie was keeping it a secret.
“We decided that would be part of the fun,” she explained when Andy questioned her for what seemed like the ninety-ninth time. “Everybody will come to see who the mystery celebrity is. I guarantee they won’t be disappointed.” She shook her head and gave Andy a little grin. “You won’t be disappointed, either.”
Now, as Andy worked on the dance with the kids, she pushed a bright red headband up over her bangs, readjusted her own black leotard and motioned for them all to follow her. “Vanessa. When you kick, turn just like this, okay?” She couldn’t tell them to point their toes. They hadn’t yet mastered that skill. “Now. Let’s try it again. One—two—”
Just as the music began, one little girl lost control of her soccer ball. It rolled across the stage before anyone could grab it, and it disappeared into the wings.
“Oops!” Andy stopped the routine and ran to get it. “Hang on, you guys,” she said, laughing as she fumbled around in the dark. “We can’t go on without our props.”
Suddenly, a big hand reached out of the darkness and handed the ball to her. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yes.” The ball rolled into her arms and she clasped it to her chest. Her eyes tried to focus in the darkness.
“Didn’t know there would be soccer balls in the show tonight,” he commented offhandedly. “Must have something to do with the master of ceremonies.”
Andy’s eyes adjusted. She caught her breath.
“Buddy?”
She couldn’t believe he was standing there, this close, chuckling and talking to her.
“Buddy.” She said his name again just to convince herself he was real. “What are you doing here?”
“This is where they told me to come. I’m in the right place, aren’t I? For the swim team fund-raiser?”
“You’re coming to the show? Then you’re supposed to be in the audience.” Her heart was pounding and she couldn’t think. “And you’re early. It doesn’t start for another hour.”
He chuckled again, a warm, melodious laugh that brought back a thousand memories. “No. I’m not early. I’m in the show.”
“You’re in the show?”
“Yeah. Is that okay? Are you going to kick me out? No pun intended.” As he eyed the soccer ball again.
She still couldn’t believe it. At that moment Jennie walked up to them. “Oh, good, Buddy. Here you are. I’ve been waiting for you. Do you have any more questions about the script?”
“One or two things.” They talked briefly. Jennie answered his questions and told him when to introduce everyone and in what order. “We’re opening the show with the soccer ball routine,” Jennie said, glancing at Andy for the first time, as if Buddy’s presence meant nothing to either of them.
When she caught the glint in Andy’s eyes, she grinned back, hoping Andy wasn’t making plans to strangle her. But from the way Buddy kept glancing away from the script and gazing at Andy, Jennie was willing to bet things were going according to plan. “At the end of the routine, Buddy will run out on stage and we’ll introduce him. That’s how everybody will find out that Buddy Draper is our ‘mystery master of ceremonies.’”
“Even me?” Andy asked her pointedly. “Is that how I’m supposed to find out, too?”
“No. Of course not you,” Jennie said, laughing. “Because you’ve found it out now.”
But Andy didn’t even hear that last remark. She was looking at Buddy and he was looking at her as if they were the only two people left in the world.
“You let Jennie talk you into this,” Andy said, half accusing him, half teasing him, after her friend had walked away.
“More or less. But I thought it was a good idea, too.”
“You—”
“Yeah,” Buddy said. “Me. You remember. The one who’s a coward. The one you never wanted to see again. Well, tough luck, sweetheart,” he drawled in his best Bogart imitation.
“Show time! Thirty minutes!” somebody shouted. And, all around them, lights began to come on and the girls in little yellow leotards started to jump up and down. “Come on! We’ve got to finish our dance or we won’t remember how to do it at all!”
“I’ve got to go.” She clutched the ball tighter and gave him a sad little smile. “I’m sorry for so many things, Buddy. I was wrong to think I knew what God’s calling on your life was. I should have been willing to stand beside you on the journey.” Then, “Good luck.”
But he touched her arm before she could turn away. “This has nothing to do with luck, you know. It took a lot of fighting. And, looking at you, I don’t believe I’m finished. Fighting, I mean. For what I want.”
Out in the audience, at five minutes before seven, select members of the Dallas Symphony struck up a rousing rendition of a calypso song and the lights began to fade. “I’ve gotta go, Dad!” Cody told Michael. “They told me I had to go backstage when the music started.”
“You’d better get back there then. I’ll be watching you.”
“I’m in the second song. I’ll be the third one on the right.” It would be his only appearance in the show. He just hadn’t been ready to try some of the harder numbers. “Be sure you find me. In the first song, be sure to find Megan and Vanessa. Mom will point them out to you. They’re on my swim team, too.”
“I’ll show him,” Jennie promised. “Now get back there. Andy’s going to kill me already. I don’t want you to hold up the show.”
Michael and Jennie watched as he wheeled his wheelchair up the front aisle away from them. He turned and waved once just before he started up the ramp to go backstage. “Don’t forget to watch me, Dad!”
“I won’t!” Michael called back. “I promise.”
After Cody left, Jennie squeezed Michael’s hand. “He’s so proud and excited.”
“I know,” Michael said softly. “It’s terrific to see him happy and enthusiastic again the way he’s been this week.” He squeezed her hand back. “It’s amazing how it helps to get something off your chest.”
“I know that.” They sat together in the front row, not quite so afraid to be beside one another any longer. “He’s done so well at the rehearsals because he knew we’d be here together.”
Really, Jennie should have been backstage with Art and Andy and Buddy running the show. But everything had been practiced and polished what seemed like a hundred times over. Art was pleased with the newspaper’s involvement and he was taking full advantage of it. He’d requested specifically that he be the one to introduce the mayor. It was easy for him to cue Buddy, too. So, despite all the work she’d done, there was really nothing more Jennie could do than sit beside Michael, two proud parents side by side in the front row, as the lights faded to total darkness, and A
rt Sanderson stepped out on stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Art said, the lights glinting on his gray hair. He spread his arms wide, looking spectacular in the black tuxedo and bright red cummerbund they’d rented for him. “The Dallas Times-Sentinel and the North Dallas Swim Dream Team want to welcome you to a spectacular evening, an evening of frolic and special guests….”
She leaned over and whispered to Michael. “The swim team’s never had a name before. They had to come up with something so they could welcome everybody like this.”
She was thrilled by the turnout. Several large corporations, one major downtown bank and several well-heeled individuals had supported the event. She’d seen Harv Siskell and Marshall Townsend take seats not ten minutes before.
Suddenly the spotlight wheeled around toward Jennie and, before she knew what was happening, the light was shining right in her face. Art was saying, “Ms. Jennie Stratton. A woman with foresight and guts, a woman with the know-how and the audacity to think a dream like this one could actually come true.”
Strange, she didn’t feel like a woman with foresight and guts, a woman who thought dreams could come true. She only felt herself like someone who had been led on a journey…someone who had been wooed…someone who God loved.
With this new certainty in her heart, she felt as if everything…everything…was possible.
“Jennie,” Art said from the podium. “Stand up so we can show you our appreciation.”
She did as told, waving at the crowd as the hall filled with thunderous applause. As she sat down, the music began to swell again and Art bid his farewell. It was time for the show to begin.
The curtain rose to Andy’s seven dancers, all clad in sunny yellow leotards and grappling with the black-and-white leather balls, spinning them this way and that, behind a huge piece of green-blue cellophane that made it look as if they were dancing underwater. “Buddy’s coming out at the end of this one,” she leaned over and whispered to Michael. “Then after Buddy talks a while, it’ll be Cody’s turn….”
“Shh,” Michael said, leaning toward her and grinning, then unable to ignore the urge to kiss her on the nose. She was so enthusiastic, almost childlike. She reminded him of the way she’d been years ago when they first met. Yet, beneath it all, he knew there was something more, something different, something strong about her now. She’d grown up during the past months and so had he. “Don’t tell me any more. This is all supposed to be a surprise, remember?”
She covered her mouth with her hand and looked apologetic. “Sorry! I forgot. I really forgot. I’m just so excited about it all.”
He draped one arm around her shoulder and snuggled close to enjoy the performance. And, at that moment, his pager went off.
It sounded loud enough to make people around them notice. He turned to Jennie, knowing how upset she would be.
“I have to call the hospital,” he told her. “I’ll go outside and use my cell. Maybe I can get somebody to stand in for me.”
“Oh, Michael. See if you can.”
He rushed out to use his phone. When he came back moments later, his face was pale. “I have to go. It’s Bill Josephs. He’s gone into cardiac arrest and they’re bringing him in.”
On stage, Buddy Draper ran out amid the girls’ bouncing soccer balls and, around them, everyone was applauding again. Buddy was going to be the hit of the night.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” a voice from nowhere shouted out over the sound system. “Coach of the Dallas Burn, Mr. Buddy Draper!”
Cody’s number was the very next one.
“Jennie,” he said, taking both of her shoulders in his firm grip, desperate to make her understand. “If I had any choice—any choice at all—I would stay with you. You are the most important thing in the world to me.” Gently, ever so briefly, he touched her lips. “I never want you to question that again.”
She nodded, not saying anything, tears streaming down her face, tears she never bothered to hide or wipe away.
Chapter Nineteen
With a chilled heart, Michael raced toward the emergency room at Parkland Hospital where they’d brought Bill.
As he ran toward E.R.’s cardiac room two, Michael saw Marge in the waiting room. With overflowing eyes and a streaming nose, she told him she’d asked for him immediately when the ambulance arrived to pick them up.
“You did the right thing,” he told her now as he squeezed her tightly and handed her a handkerchief. “Dr. Rosenstein’s one of the best in Dallas. And I’m going to do my best for him now, too.”
“You do that,” she said, her voice still wavering as she released him.
Within seconds Michael was beside Bill and getting the rundown from Rosenstein. “What’s been done, Mitch?”
“Patient found at home by spouse,” Rosenstein told him. “Time of collapse unknown, approximately ten minutes. EMTs started resuscitation en route. First rhythm transmitted was V-fib. No blood pressure en route.”
They’d gotten Bill in quickly but Marge had been on the telephone talking to their daughter when it happened. She hadn’t heard him cry out. No one knew exactly how long he’d been unconscious before she found him. Add that to the time it took to get the ambulance out to their farm and back.
“Patient was defibbed times three,” Rosenstein continued. “An amp of Epi was given. Patient then received into the E.R., was defibbed again. Pushed Lidocaine, 85 milligrams. As you can see—” Mitch Rosenstein gestured toward the monitor and at the eight other people in the room working frantically “—still no response.”
“Fine,” Michael told him. “I’ll take over, Mitch.” He stood only feet away from his friend, a man he felt he had known forever. He knew he couldn’t make emotional judgments now, yet he had to make the correct decisions and make them without feeling. “Defib with 360 joules.”
“All clear,” the paramedic warned.
The jolt of electricity lifted Bill’s body clear up off the table. Michael checked the monitor. Still no response. The steady hum of the machine continued mercilessly. Michael felt as if it were shouting at him.
“Come on, Bill,” he whispered as nurses and paramedics and EMTs performed their duties in a frenzy around him. “Come on.” Father, help him. We don’t want to let him go yet.
He had a decision to make. He gave the command loudly. “Administer Lidocaine, 43 milligrams.”
A nurse ran to carry out his orders. He checked the clock on the wall. Time was of the essence. He looked at the monitor, waiting for a certain sign, anything, that he was getting somewhere.
The monitor hadn’t changed. “Defib again,” Michael commanded.
“All clear,” the paramedic shouted.
Again the jolt. Again the lifting. Again no response on the monitor.
Bill. Come on. You’ve got a wife who loves you waiting out there.
And a friend who cares about you in here, too, he might have thought. Only he didn’t dare. He couldn’t equate the motionless man on the stretcher with the man who’d given him a tour of his barn and had constantly chided him about his bills. And, now, it had come to this.
Michael was getting desperate. “Give him Bertylium, 425 milligrams.”
The line on the monitor continued. The evidence of any heart impulses was growing fainter.
“Defib.”
“All clear.”
No response.
“Let’s go with more Epi.”
No response.
“Defib again.”
“All clear,” the paramedic repeated.
No response.
“I want double the Bertylium. 850 milligrams this time.”
The monitor continued to hum ominously. He didn’t even have to look up and check it this time. He knew what it was going to tell him.
“Defib again.” It seemed to go on forever, these electrical jolts and all of his choices of magic medicine.
One of the nurses was keeping track for him or he’d have no idea now how many times they’d gon
e back and forth trying to save his patient. He did everything by the book, alternating between Atropine and Epinephrine, feeling as if hours had gone by while he sweated as though he were running a marathon.
“Bill,” he said aloud. “Hang in there, Bill. You’ve got to.”
“Michael,” Mitch Rosenstein said from behind him. “You’ve got to think about calling the code.”
“I know that, Mitch,” he said calmly. “I’m not ready to do that yet.” Louder. “Defib again.”
“All clear,” said the paramedic.
“Come—on—Bill,” Michael whispered from between gritted teeth.
A jolt. Bill’s torso practically went flying off the table.
Another buzzer sounded. The line on the monitor had gone totally straight. “Doctor,” the EMT said. “We have asystole.” No heart response at all.
Father, no, Michael thought. I’ve lost him.
“Administer Epi,” he ordered frantically. But in his heart of hearts, he knew it was over. He’d done the best he could do. And it hadn’t been good enough. After everything, he still had no response.
“What’s our pressure?” he asked futilely.
“We have no BP.”
“I’m going to try one more time,” he told them all. And after that, he knew he had to stop. He owed it to Bill to stop. “Defib again.”
“All clear.”
To Michael, the very last time seemed as if it happened in slow motion, the nurses clearing away, the EMT climbing off the stool away from Bill’s chest, the electrical jolt surging through the man on the table. But, again, nothing happened. Father, all this letting go. I give him over to Your hands.
He said almost beneath his breath. “Let’s call it.”
No one stirred.
He hadn’t said it loudly enough. “What did you say, Dr. Stratton?” someone asked him.
“I said—” this time his voice was clear and firm and loud “—let’s call it.”
The frenzy had ended. Nurses silently went about turning the machines off one by one.
“You did a good job, Doctor,” Mitch Rosenstein said. “You did everything you could do and then some. I’ll write that in my report.”
Family Matters Page 18
