Читать книгу Wish Me Tomorrow - Karen Rock - Страница 10
ОглавлениеCHAPTER ONE
ONE EMPTY FOLDING CHAIR. Christie Bates stared at the vacant seat then checked her iPhone to make sure the wall clock was accurate. Yep, still 6:35. Everyone in the cancer support group she led was here except one, the one who’d been coming the longest. Her insides twisted. He hadn’t missed a meeting in three years.
And the sight of an empty chair in a room like this was always...ominous.
She exhaled slowly and squashed the negative thought as her eyes roamed over the chatting group. The world needed positive energy. And they needed it most of all. She jumped when a hand squeezed her shoulder.
“Would you like me to close the door so you can begin?” asked Anne, the West Side YMCA’s receptionist. Pool-bound children shrieked in the stairwell outside.
“No!” Her voice sounded more forceful than she’d intended. It carried over the noise and quieted her group. Seven pairs of concerned eyes turned her way. So much for keeping things upbeat.
She pinned on a bright smile and patted Anne’s hand. “We’re not quite ready to start yet, but thanks.”
Anne studied her for a moment then shrugged. “I’ll be out front if you need me.”
Her heels clicked across the wood floor and echoed in the high-ceilinged room. Overhead fans stirred the muggy June air, the humidity so thick Christie felt as though she wore it. At least she’d had time to change out of her nurse scrubs and shower before the meeting. After a twelve-hour hospital shift, the mini-break had made her feel human again.
“Why are we waiting?” a newer member asked around a mouthful of chocolate-chip cookie.
Another pointed at the clock. “We always start at 6:30.”
“You’re right.” Christie swallowed her fear and widened her smile. Her clients had enough stress to handle. They didn’t deserve more. “But let’s give it a few more minutes in case someone’s late. You know how hard it is to get a taxi in the rain.”
The group nodded sagely then resumed their conversations. She sagged against the back of her chair. Phew. Her quick excuse worked. It was a logical reason for the delay given Manhattan’s traffic issues and she wouldn’t imagine another possibility. There was power in positive thinking. She shredded a napkin in her lap. Not that it had saved her brother. If only she’d been there when... She shook her head. Nope. She wouldn’t get on board that dark train of thought.
She bent to pick up her juice cup and discreetly knocked on the wooden floor, no-bad-luck, an Irish superstition passed down by her gran. She’d witnessed enough medical miracles to know that science couldn’t explain everything.
Christie crossed her legs, smoothing her gray pants and rumpled white blouse. Forcing her eyes from the empty chair, she surveyed the assembled group members for changes in skin color, weight and discomfort levels. Everyone seemed stable. But where was her absent client? Perhaps she would ask Anne to call and check on him. She might be overreacting, but knowing he was okay would help soothe her nerves.
Before she could stand, a tall stranger wheeled the missing man through the door. She drew her first easy breath of the night. He’d come after all. The group called out greetings to John, relief evident in their voices.
“Hello. Hope I didn’t hold everyone up,” the latecomer declared, as his helper—a very handsome helper, Christie noted—wheeled John into the spot beside the empty chair. Where were John’s canes? Her heart sank. His condition must be deteriorating.
“Lousy weather out there, huh? My neighbor brings his kids here a couple of times a week, so I asked him to help me catch a cab.” He gestured to the dark-haired gentleman wearing a navy polo shirt, jeans and a polite smile. “Eli Roberts, this is Christie Bates and—” he waved a veined hand “—everyone. You’ll like them. Oh. And would you get me one of Christie’s raisin-oatmeal bars? Been craving one all week.”
The man nodded then helped John out of his coat, shook the rain from it and placed it on the back of the chair. His face reminded her of a Roman soldier on one of her father’s ancient coins—he had a powerful jaw, straight, prominent nose and a strong brow.
“May I get anyone anything?” he asked once he’d locked John’s wheels in place. After taking a few requests, he strode to the snack table. It was a good night when the group ate. Sometimes the number receiving chemo was so high the side table went untouched.
She noticed that he grabbed John a napkin and a cup of juice along with the snack. Thoughtful.
After giving John a quick hug, she straightened and looked up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Her grin faltered at the man’s piercing stare.
“Eli. If you’d like to join us—” She extended a hand to guide him to the seat, but he jerked back. Caught off balance, Christie stumbled, her black Keds trampling each other. Heat flared in her cheeks.
“Sorry,” he muttered, righting her with a quick, efficient hold on her elbow before seating himself.
O-kay. Not a touchy-feely guy. Heard and understood.
She sneaked another glance at him, registering his tense shoulders along with his guarded expression. He’d done a nice thing by bringing John in, but cancer support groups were a lot for healthy people to handle. She should give him a graceful excuse to leave.
“The Yankees’ pregame coverage is playing on TV in the lounge down the hall if you’d like to wait there, Mr. Roberts.”
“Call me Eli,” he said in a gruff voice, his eyes inscrutable. “And I promised John I’d stay.” A look passed between the two as he took his seat.
She forced a welcoming grin and nodded. If John wanted him here, that was fine. But if he didn’t lighten up soon, she’d send him on a coffee run so he wouldn’t put a damper on the meeting.
When she got back to her seat, she glanced his way and caught his intense gaze again. What was it about his stare that flustered her? She was a twenty-eight-year-old professional, not a schoolgirl sneaking peeks at the cute new kid. Time to get a grip.
She looked at the clock and grabbed her clipboard. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. A first. Eli was throwing her off her game, but at least John was here and the seats were full.
“Today’s inspirational quote is by George Herbert,” Christie began. “‘Storms make oaks take deeper root.’ Let’s practice our relaxation breathing as we contemplate its meaning and how it applies to our lives.”
Her bowed head snapped up at a muffled snort. While everyone else closed their eyes, Eli stared at the ceiling and shook his head.
“Do you disagree, Mr. Roberts?” she burst out before she could think better of it.
“I do,” replied the impertinent outsider. Shooting to his feet again, he circled the group, gathering their garbage and carting it to the wastebasket. “No matter how deep trees dig, bad storms can knock them down anyway.”
Well, sure. Of course they could. Although she’d spent her early childhood in Woodlawn, an Irish-American neighborhood in New York, her family had eventually relocated to Kansas—one of Tornado Alley’s hardest-hit states. There, she’d learned to weather storms, not dwell on them. When tempests hit, neighbors pitched in to put back the pieces of shattered lives.
A high-pitched sound rattled through a nearby client’s tracheotomy tube. Christie grabbed the woman’s shaking hand and squeezed. Elizabeth had Stage IV esophageal cancer. She didn’t need a reminder of the dangers she faced.
“We focus on the positive, Mr. Roberts.” She laced her fingers with Elizabeth’s, relieved when the woman’s trembling eased.
His square jaw clenched. “And ignore reality? That seems a bit misleading, doesn’t it, Miss Bates?”
“It’s Ms.,” she corrected, mostly because she was getting good and riled now. What did this man think he was doing? These people lived with far too much reality as it was. They came here for fellowship and support, not a lecture.
“Well, Ms. Bates, the truth is that all trees want to live. It’s just the luck of the draw that some make it and others don’t.”
Heat spread up her chest and rose to her neck. She glanced down. Darn. Those red splotches betrayed her at the worst times. If only she looked as cool and controlled as Eli. She forced herself to meet his eye and caught a brief, tortured look before he averted his face. Interesting.
A ruckus in the corridor distracted her, reminding her that they hadn’t shut the door. A pack of kids rushed past on their way from one activity to another.
“Daddy, Daddy.” A young escapee wearing wet swim trunks raced inside. He launched himself onto Eli’s lap, the smell of chlorine clinging to him.
“I swam without my floaties today.” With his missing front teeth, the child’s grin was irresistible. Christie joined in the group’s chorus of oohs and aahs.
Deep dimples appeared as Eli’s face relaxed into a broad smile. Where was this side of the man moments ago when he’d rained doom and gloom on her meeting? His joyful expression and the affectionate way he ruffled his son’s hair did something strange to her heart. She checked out his ring-free left hand. Had his wife died? That could explain some of his behavior, as well as why John wanted him to stay at the meeting. But he looked young to be a widower, no older than his early thirties.
“Sorry,” an older woman called from the doorway. “I went to get Tommy a towel, and when I came back, he was gone.”
She barreled into the room and gave Christie an apologetic wave.
“It’s all right, Mary,” Eli said. “He does that to me, too.”
Tommy squirmed at his father’s stern expression. “What do you say to Mary?” he prompted and took Mary’s proffered towel.
Tommy studied his swinging flip-flops. “Sorry, Mary,” he said, a lisp turning his s into a th. “I won’t do it again.”
“Right.” Eli hugged Tommy then began drying him.
Tommy pointed at Christie. “That’s how I met her.”
With his hair no longer plastered to his face, the youngster looked familiar. She took a moment to recall how she knew him. Since her meeting was so off track, she couldn’t see the point in forcing the group back into meditation anytime soon. Besides, Elizabeth was smiling and happy, clearly enjoying their energetic visitor.
Eli’s face tightened once more. “You know Ms. Bates?”
The towheaded dynamo wriggled off his father’s lap and scampered over to her. “She gave me an oatmeal bar with raisins.” He scanned the treat table and turned from his father to Christie, face bright and expectant. “Can I have one?”
“If your father says so.” Why hadn’t she recognized the adorable imp earlier? A couple of months ago, he’d burst into their meeting and wolfed down half the pan. She matched Tommy’s grin. “But be careful—last time you almost took out a tray of Jell-O.”
“You stopped me before I crashed.” Tommy flapped the sides of his towel and jumped up and down. “But that lady with the blue hair was mad. She said I had to leave.”
Christie stifled a laugh. Tommy had a point. The former receptionist had been a bit of a grump. “Not to worry. She was angry at everything.”
Tommy’s blue eyes grew round. “Even Jell-O?” He lowered his terry-cloth wings. “But it wiggles.”
Elizabeth’s tracheotomy made a humming sound, her warm smile about to steal Christie’s heart. No way she was letting Tommy out the door yet. Kids had a more positive effect on people than a whole book full of inspirational quotes.
“Exactly.” She nodded solemnly. “Now hold on to one end of the towel. I’m going to show you something grand before you get your dessert.” She sent Eli a questioning look. Tommy had been very patient waiting for his answer.
“How did you two meet?” His light tone held an undercurrent of tension. “And, yes, Tommy, you can have the oatmeal-raisin bar.” He held up his index finger. “Just one, though.”
Christie pulled the other end of the towel, spinning Tommy free of the absorbent cloth.
“Again!” Tommy shouted when he rewrapped himself.
“Answer your father first, Tommy.” She turned him to face his parent.
“I ran away from Mary ’cause I wanted to show Becca my drawing of Scout. Only I got lost and came here instead.” Tommy scratched his freckled nose before turning back to her. “Please spin me, Miss—” He shook his small head, brow furrowed. “Miss—”
“It’s Christie. Hey, everyone.” A preteen girl with brown hair in a tight bun wandered into the room and returned the group’s waves. She wore jeans over a black leotard and had a bag embroidered with sequined ballet shoes slung across her shoulder. “I met her when we picked you up, remember? So why did you run away? Again. You know how much it upsets Dad and Mary.” Despite her admonishment, her tone was mild.
“Becca!” The boy wrapped his arms around his sister’s legs. “Did you see me swim without my floaties? Do you want an oatmeal bar? It’s healthy and Dad said we could.”
“I didn’t see you because I was still in dance. But that’s awesome, Little Man.” Becca fist bumped Tommy. “And, yeah. I’ll have a snack. So starved.”
“How was dance, Becca-Bell?” Eli’s arms opened wide, his gaze expectant.
Some members of the support group began speaking in low-pitched voices, the word Yankees punctuating their discussion. No doubt they were debating the team’s chances tonight. It was a crucial game that Christie was interested in herself. Yet this family fascinated her, as well.
“The same,” Becca mumbled, fidgeting with the latch on her bag. “And please don’t call me that anymore. Remember?”
He slowly lowered his arms, a crease appearing between his brows. “Does that fastener need to be fixed?”
Becca shrugged before she turned away.
Christie glanced between the two; their tension was palpable. Although it could be a teenage thing, it seemed deeper than that.
Elizabeth stood and brought treats, another member following with Dixie cups of juice. After taking the proffered snacks, Becca said, “Thank you,” nudging Tommy to do the same.
“All right, kids.” Eli rose to his imposing height. “Time to go.”
He held out his arms once more. Tommy flew into them while Becca hung back and tightened her shoelaces. “I’ll be home in a little bit,” he promised.
“Sure,” Becca replied, her voice flat. She gave Christie and the smiling support group a small wave, wrapped a protective arm around her brother and followed Mary through the exit.
“That was nice, Mr. Roberts.” Christie’s smile faded at his glower. She cleared her throat. “Does anyone have something they’d like to share?”
She looked pointedly at Eli, who stared back, arms crossed over his broad chest.
Why the sour mood? Even though there didn’t appear to be a woman in his life, and his relationship with Becca seemed strained, he still had what was most important—his health and family. But his bleak expression made her wonder.
Perhaps he didn’t have everything after all.
* * *
ELI FORCED HIS eyes away from Ms. Christie Bates as everyone in the group took turns recounting their week. He knew his staring bordered on rude, but something about her fascinated the photographer in him.
She wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense. Her nose had a slight upward tilt that spoiled its classic lines. Her green eyes, his favorite color, were set too deep, the dark circles under them belying her carefree attitude. Her forehead was a finger’s breadth too high and her delicate, pointed chin reminded him of old-time movie stars, not modern-day bombshells. Her hair, a shimmering auburn waterfall, would meet the fashion industry’s standards, though.
Despite the imperfections, or perhaps because of them, her face captivated him. Even the splatter of freckles across her nose made him long for his Nikon, something he hadn’t picked up since— He forced his mind away from that memory. It was one he wanted buried, cremated, even.
He peeked at Christie once more and met her jewel-toned eyes. Busted. But the quick glance confirmed his instincts. All her flaws added up to an arresting face. It was a shame her personality was so over the top. All that phony stuff about cancer making you stronger, giving people false hope. It bordered on criminal. He hated to call her out on it, but these people needed to know the truth, to be prepared.
“Elizabeth, that is a lovely scarf. Is it new?” he heard her ask the woman beside her. Her soft voice had a unique, musical lilt. Where had he heard that accent before?
The woman lowered the silk paisley covering her tracheotomy and reminded Christie she had bought the scarf for her last Christmas. Christie laughed, her bowed lips curling. He dragged his gaze away and bolted down a cup of lukewarm juice. Why was this woman getting under his skin?
“Well, then, that was grand of me, wasn’t it?” Christie asked.
His mind clicked. Irish. The accent was subtle, as though she’d grown up around people from the old country. No wonder she bought into all that hope and faith stuff. Maybe she believed in rainbows with pots of gold, as well.
Her white teeth flashed at a man with an oxygen tube. “That’s wonderful,” she responded to something he’d said. “You’ve nearly doubled your white-blood-cell count.”
Eli glanced at the clock, glad to see that there were only twenty minutes left. With any luck, they’d get a cab and be home in plenty of time to relieve Mary. She’d been a loyal friend and employee through these difficult three years.
No matter how much John nagged him to go to the White Horse Tavern, he’d be home by eight. Mary had been telling him for the past two weeks that she and her husband had reservations at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants to celebrate their anniversary.
“And, John, I’ve noticed you’ve got some new equipment. How is that going?” asked Christie. Eli glanced down at his buddy. John’s head rested sideways and back against the chair, his eyes closed. That figured. John dragged him to this meeting, made him promise not to leave—as if he would—and then fell asleep.
Christie rushed toward them, her face creased in concern. She grabbed John’s wrist and held up her watch, checking his pulse with a medical professional’s efficiency.
“Someone get Anne,” she called, all business. “Everyone else, stay seated.”
Eli dashed out into the hall, his heart thudding. Why had he assumed John was sleeping?
He skidded to a stop before a woman whose desk nameplate read Anne Cartwright.
“Come quick,” he urged. “Christie needs you.”
Despite his long strides, the diminutive woman kept up with him.
“John. Blink if you can hear me,” Christie was saying when they returned. “Good. Now, can you squeeze my hand? No. Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll get you fixed up, good as new.” She looked relieved at Anne’s appearance.
“Anne, call 911. Tell them we have an ependymoma patient who’s had an arrhythmia-induced stroke that’s affected the left half of his body and speech. He’s conscious but in atrial fibrillation.”
Anne rushed off, phone already in hand. She stopped at Christie’s next words.
“Where is the center’s AED Unit?”
After spending hours in medical clinics, Eli knew these were machines that used electricity to jump-start failing hearts.
Anne whirled, her face ashen.
“It’s down the hall near the gym.” Her voice was a notch above a whisper. She turned back to her call for the EMTs and hurried out of the room.
“Mr. Roberts,” she began, but he cut her off.
“Got it.” Eli bolted for the door. After scouting the hall, he spotted a couple of guys leaving what looked like the gym and raced that way. In a locked cabinet marked AED he saw a gray plastic box. But where was the key?
“Hey,” Anne called from down the hall, the phone pressed to her ear. She threw a set of keys to him. His hands shook as he tried three before finding the right one.
Back in the meeting room, he passed the AED to Christie. She thanked him with a faint smile before turning her attention back to his friend. Who was this capable, take-charge woman?
“Would you lift him to the floor?”
Eli scooped John from the chair and laid him down, sliding his jacket beneath his friend’s head. Christie pulled up John’s shirt and pressed two adhesive pads to his chest while the rest of the support group sat in a worried huddle. An automatic voice rang out that it was assessing the patient. Eli’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.
After a moment, the voice warned all to stand clear; a shock was advised. Christie pressed an orange button and stepped back, her eyes meeting Eli’s. Her calm expression slowed his racing pulse. Clearly, she knew what she was doing.
A jolt shuddered through John and his lids fluttered open. “Wharrrr—” he slurred.
She smoothed John’s glistening forehead then pressed her fingers to the base of his throat. Behind them, seats shifted and creaked as the group strained to see what was happening.
“Is he going to be okay?” someone whispered.
“John, stay with me. The ambulance will be here any minute,” she said, but John’s eyes closed once more.
“No!” Eli burst out. This was not happening.
She took her fingers off John’s neck. “No pulse. Starting chest compressions,” she announced to no one in particular. “The AED needs two minutes to recharge.”
He scrambled over to John’s other side and grabbed his friend’s limp hand. Hang on, buddy, he pleaded silently. You can do this.
Christie began rhythmically pressing John’s chest. “Is he breathing?”
Eli gawked at her. If John wasn’t breathing, that meant he was—
“Put your ear next to his mouth.”
He bent toward John and felt a faint rush of air against his cheek. “Yes. Still breathing.”
Thank you, God.
She checked his pulse again. “Still no pulse.”
The whimpering behind them gave way to all-out crying as she resumed her chest compressions with cool precision. A minute later, the AED announced its readiness. She hit the button and they moved away before it zapped John again.
Eli and Christie exchanged a worried look. She probably felt as scared as he did, but she hadn’t panicked under pressure. She was a competent professional and he’d made all the wrong assumptions about this strong woman.
After the unit completed its round of electricity, Christie felt for John’s pulse. His breath caught when her eyes squeezed shut, a tear slipping through her lashes. He rubbed a hand across his eyes. No. No way. Not now, John.
“Pulse is faint, but it’s steady,” she whispered and opened moist eyes. Suddenly, she rocked back on her heels. Without thinking twice, he ducked over to her side and slid an arm around her waist for support.
She’d saved John’s life.
Christie blinked up at him but made no move away from his touch. “Thank you,” she said, a blue vein standing out on her pale forehead. “I’m not usually so...” Her voice trailed off as she looked over at John again.
She really was something—unflappable when it counted most, when he could hardly see straight. Eli’s fingers tightened around her slender waist.
“Coming through,” hollered one of the two men pushing a stretcher. She gave herself a small shake then took off the AED unit before he helped them lift John onto the lowered gurney. While they checked vitals, Christie summarized what had taken place.
“Good work.” An EMT nodded to her before tucking a chart under his arm. “Who’s coming with John?”
“Me,” Eli and Christie said.
“Only one rider, up front with the driver. Decide fast and meet us outside in thirty seconds.”
Eli’s shoulders drooped. Without a babysitter he’d have to renege on the vow he’d made John to stay with him, see him through whatever happened. But asking Mary to stay was out of the question. She deserved this special night with her husband.
“I guess it’s you.” He folded John’s wheelchair and picked up his coat. “I promised John I’d be there if the end came, but I don’t have child care.”
She studied him for a moment then surprised him. “Obviously you and John are close. If you feel comfortable with it, you could give me your address and I’ll watch Tommy and Becca.”
“You would do that?”
She nodded. “But I’d want an update every half hour. Deal?”
The children had met her twice. And he’d seen her in action. They couldn’t be in safer hands. Besides, Mary would give Christie the third degree before she’d even let her into the apartment. Mary would make it work. “Thank you. It means more than you know.”
When he rattled off the address, she pressed something furry into his hand and closed his fingers around it. “Trust me. I know how important it is to be there for your friend. And that’s for good luck.”
He called Mary from the ambulance then unfurled his other hand to reveal a rabbit’s foot. Seriously? He tucked it into his pocket, wondering how someone who dealt with loss all the time could believe in something like that.
“Lucky for this guy a nurse was there. She saved his life,” the EMT said.
Eli peered out of the ambulance’s passenger window at the disappearing YMCA. He imagined Christie in full-on pep mode, offering hope and comfort. The platitudes hadn’t been an act. And the EMT was right—she did save lives.
But as his fingers dug into the lucky rabbit’s foot, he knew firsthand that no amount of comfort, luck or medical skill could rescue some people.
