Читать книгу Maxwell's Smile - Michele Hauf - Страница 10

The rust bucket groaned to a stop in the parking lot outside the local hospital. The small town of Birch Cove, where Sam Jones worked as a handyman, edged the Twin Cities suburbs. He patted the 1974 Ford pickup’s dashboard and then sneezed at the dust that filled the cab.

“You may not be pretty,” he said to the vehicle, which was held together in some spots with a lacing of rust, “but you are reliable.”

Swinging his well-worn work boots out of the cab, he landed on the ground with a purposeful jump. Flakes of sawdust sifted from his shoulders and the creases in his jeans. Best way to shake off the morning’s work. He thumbed the hardened wood glue smeared along the thigh of his jeans, grimaced, then decided he looked better than on the days his face was coated with white Sheetrock dust.

From the truck bed, he grabbed the cardboard box of DVDs he’d cleaned out from the entertainment center in his basement last night. Boots clomping on the pavement, he strode inside the airy lobby of the newly refurbished hospital. The receptionist gave him directions to the patient resources office.

Sam clutched the box a little tighter, feeling a weary sadness spread across his shoulders. His plan was to get in and get out without passing through the children’s ward. Unfortunately that was the straightest path to patient resources. He turned a corner and walked by a room where a young girl sat on a big, imposing bed. A pink bandanna covered her tiny head, and no light shone in her tired eyes.

Sam nodded to her and offered a quick smile, but she merely stared. With a swallow, he shifted the box in his arms and forged ahead. He could do this. He had to do this. For Jeff.

Running the route the receptionist had given him through his mind, he turned left, but instead of walking down a hallway, strode into a patient’s room by mistake. The wood floor gleamed and the walls were papered in subtle stripes. Wood-slat blinds had been pulled, blocking out the bright sunshine, and the chemical smell of disinfectant punched Sam in the gut.

“Uh, sorry.”

He turned to go, then stopped in the doorway. The tousled-haired boy sitting cross-legged on the bed didn’t even lift his head to acknowledge Sam’s presence. He was hunched over what looked like schoolwork, the tip of his tongue sticking out the corner of his compressed lips. An iPad sat next to the notebook he wrote in. An IV drip was attached to his left arm.

“Homework?” Sam asked.

The boy nodded. And frowned.

Sam cast a glance down the bare hallway in search of a parent. It wouldn’t be right to stay without permission, but a niggling impulse to linger struck him. The kid’s messy mop of brown hair reminded him of his little brother. Jeff had never known the real purpose of a comb, preferring to launch spit balls from the end of it—heck, neither of the Jones boys had mastered the comb. And when he was leaning over a bowl of Super Crunchies for breakfast, his brother’s concentration had been as fierce as this kid’s was right now. Jeff had never been into schoolwork, though, so that’s where the similarities ended.

“Hey,” Sam called out, feeling compelled not to leave without at least speaking to the boy. “Who does homework when they’re in the hospital? Shouldn’t this be a free pass to get out of schoolwork?”

The kid sighed, but didn’t look up. Instead, he plucked a colored pencil from the box on his lap and started drawing in the notebook spread out on the movable table that hugged the bed. “Who would have thought getting my work done would be less important than lounging around.”

Okay. The kid didn’t look old enough to have mastered the snarky comeback he’d just flung at Sam, but Sam took the verbal hit like a pro. Besides, if anyone deserved to be in a grumpy mood it was a kid sitting in the hospital. Sam knew that all too well.

“What are you in for?” he asked, then dropped the smile. Stupid, Sam. The kid hadn’t been incarcerated. And if he answered something like “cancer,” Sam wouldn’t know how to respond.

“Appendicitis. They took out my appendix last night.”

Whew. And yet anything that put a kid in the hospital wasn’t to be made light of.

Sam read the chart hung at the end of the motorized bed. “Maxwell, eh?”

“Maxwell McHenry,” the boy stated, as he set the pencil down with a smart snap and finally looked up. “And you are a stranger.”

“Oh, right. I am. Sorry. Name’s Sam Jones.” He offered his hand to shake.

Maxwell ignored the gesture and instead crossed his thin arms over his narrow chest. “A name doesn’t make you any less a stranger. You’re not wearing an ID badge. I don’t think you should be in my room, Sam Jones.”

“Just thought I’d try to put a smile on your face. Hate to see a frowning kid.” Sam tilted the box to display the contents. “I’m dropping off some DVDs to patient resources.”

“Why? Do they spend their time sitting around watching movies when they should be taking care of the ill and infirm?”

Whoa. The kid had a load of attitude.

“No, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. My brother—” No, don’t go there. “Er, I know when kids are in the hospital it can be boring waiting around during some of the treatments. Watching a movie gives them something to do. Makes them smile.”

“I’m not bored.”

“So you’re not. But a little laughter never hurt anyone. In fact, laughter has been proved to help heal. Hey, you want one of the DVDs I brought in?”

The boy feigned extreme interest in what looked like a brain sketched in his notebook. “Not me. I wouldn’t have an interest in some stupid kid movie.”

Maxwell’s frown cut deep into a tender part of Sam’s heart that had been tread on only too recently.

“Oh, these movies aren’t stupid. And I brought in a range for all age groups. From Barney to Ninja Turtles, to family dramas and silly comedies.” Sam set the box on the end of the bed and opened the flaps to rummage through the contents. “I bet there’s a great flick in here you’d love to watch.”

“I have homework,” the boy said. “Of course, you can see that.”

“Sure, Max, but—“

“My name is Maxwell,” the kid corrected tersely.

“Right. Maxwell.” Sam felt as if he’d just been reprimanded by an English teacher with a tight bun and a penchant for rapping the blackboard with her ruler. “How old are you, Maxwell?”

“Nine.” He caught his forehead in a palm, colored pencil jutting skyward. “I shouldn’t have told you that. You’re a stranger.”

Sam sensed the slightest edge of levity in that statement. So the kid wasn’t entirely made of stone.

“I am a stranger, but I promise I only want to see you smile. Then I’ll leave. How ‘bout this one?” He wielded a SpongeBob SquarePants DVD.

Barely flicking his attention to the DVD, Maxwell said, “Cartoons are for kids.”

“You’re a kid.”

“I am not.” Maxwell sighed again, and Sam felt the weighty exhalation in his chest.

This boy was the furthest thing from a happy, carefree kid. Watching Maxwell keep a stiff upper lip made Sam’s heartache, and stirred up bittersweet memories he’d hoped to avoid during what should have been an in-and-out mission.

“I am a kid,” Maxwell suddenly corrected, tapping the colored pencil against his chin, “but I’m smarter than most. And if I don’t finish my homework, I’ll be less smart than required if I’m ever going to become a brain surgeon.”

Sam whistled. “That’s an awesome aspiration. And somehow, without even knowing you, I predict it’ll happen. But still. All work and no play…” Sam tugged out a movie. “How ‘bout this one? The Brave Little Toaster. Yeah? It’s a classic. I love this story!”

Maxwell wedged his cheek into his palm with what seemed to be bored disinterest. “How can a toaster be brave? It’s an inanimate object. That makes no sense.”

Stunned how easily the kid could knock the wind from his sails, Sam lowered the DVD to his side. “You really don’t watch a lot of cartoons, do you, buddy?”

The kid quirked a brow.

Sam tried again. “The toaster’s friends are a blanket, a radio and a vacuum cleaner. After waking one morning to find the house empty—because their owners went on vacation—they go on a quest to find their missing master.”

“Are you kidding me?”

“No, I’m—no.” Never let it be said Sam Jones gave up the good fight. He opened the case and popped the disk into the player beneath the television. “Part of being smart is using your imagination. How else could a toaster, or a big yellow sponge, have a really big adventure?”

“I do use my imagination. Look at this graph I’ve drawn to designate the various lobes of the brain. The pink one is the cerebellum. That part fascinates me because it controls motor skills. Don’t you think the colors I’ve chosen are imaginative?”

“Yep, they are. And very precise. You’ve got mad coloring skills, Maxwell. Bet you’ll get an A on that one. But I still haven’t seen you smile. Give me five minutes with the toaster, and I know you’ll want to watch the whole thing.”

Maxwell slouched against the thick pillow and crossed his arms high on his chest. He glared at Sam. Sam matched the glare, but with a lot less vehemence. He was prepared to leave if Maxwell insisted. He had no right to be bugging some random kid with homework to do, and he’d probably catch hell when the parents showed up.

His brother had used the same pouty stare on him many a time to win an argument. Such tactics had always worked, too, ending up in a treat from the Dairy Queen or a round of Scrabble. Or both. “Both” had always been best.

With a defeated sigh, the boy nodded. He didn’t smile, but Sam felt the same triumph he had a year earlier when he’d finally gotten Jeff to lift his head from the hospital pillow and talk to him—one last time.

“Five minutes,” Maxwell said. “I’m setting the timer on my watch.”

“Deal. But you’d better turn down the alarm, because you don’t want it interrupting your enjoyment of this awesome movie.”

* * *

Rachel McHenry smiled at the nurse she passed on her way to Maxwell’s room. The staff here at the hospital was kind and supportive, but when it came down to it, customer service still didn’t change the fact that her son had been through a harrowing experience. Only yesterday afternoon he’d gotten the worst stomach pains, and she’d had to rush him to the E.R. Half an hour later, he’d been prepped for surgery.

She hated the lack of control she had felt, standing back and watching as Maxwell was wheeled away. At that moment she’d been utterly incapable of making things right for him. But it was a parent’s job to keep a stiff upper lip and smile through it all, which she had done.

Only when Maxwell was taken to recovery had she made a quick trip home to lock up and grab her work files and laptop. While standing in the darkness of her living room, Rachel had finally allowed herself a good cry. Crying always made things better.

The doctor had said Maxwell was doing fine and could be released tomorrow. Rachel had been able to stay overnight because the hospital rooms featured a pull-out sofa bed for parents and family.

This morning she’d had a house closing at a mortgage office just down the street from the hospital, so had slipped out at seven-thirty. Maxwell was an early riser, and probably woke not long after she’d left. She hoped he hadn’t felt too alone without her here, but also knew her son was industrious and enjoyed mornings on his own, puttering about the house, making toast with strawberry jelly for breakfast, doing homework out on the patio, and generally starting the day quietly.

The closing had run an hour longer than she’d expected. Had she really left her son alone in the hospital? Bad mother.

Bad mother who was trying to support a family and pay medical bills, she reminded herself. She forced a smile for Maxwell’s sake. Of course, it wasn’t hard being cheerful around her son. And she had always possessed an innate cheeriness that sometimes drove even her bonkers. She wished Maxwell had inherited that particular gene. He was such a serious child. Not depressing serious, just…astute for his age.

Rachel paused outside Maxwell’s room when she heard sniffling.

“Oh, my baby.”

She had wondered how long Maxwell would be able to hold up without showing some sign of pain or defeat. He’d led an enchanted life up until now. He’d been sick only once or twice, and had never injured himself. The doctor had assured her it wasn’t uncommon for children to undergo surgery once in their lifetime, but she hadn’t wanted it for her son.

It hurt her to know he was crying. He did it rarely, and over the most incredible things, such as finding a dead butterfly in the backyard, or hearing that a friend’s dog had died. Briefly, she wondered if he’d want her to see him crying, but she couldn’t stay outside and let him suffer alone.

Surprised at the sight of the handsome man who rose from the chair beside Maxwell’s bed, Rachel immediately looked to her son, who was wiping a tear from his eye. The television was on, and that, even more than finding a stranger in Maxwell’s room, set her off.

“You’re watching a movie?” she said to her son, trying to keep the accusatory tone from her voice. She turned her frustration toward the adult in the room instead. “And who are you?”

He extended his hand but refused to shake it.

“Sam Jones,” he said. “I was delivering movies when I happened to see your son sitting alone and looking bored. Me and Maxwell found one to watch we both liked.”

“I see. I suppose Maxwell neglected to tell you he’s not allowed to watch movies without my permission?”

“Oh.” The man—Sam—raked his fingers through his sandy brown hair, which Rachel noticed looked even better when tousled, save for the flakes of what she now figured was sawdust that sprinkled the air. He was covered with the stuff. “Sorry. I didn’t know that.”

“I imagine not.” She shot Maxwell the evil eye, but wisely, he avoided looking at her. “So, Mr. Jones, do you often enter children’s rooms and entice them with movies when they should be doing their homework?”

“No, I… Don’t make it sound like that. Maxwell is a good kid. I just wanted to see him smile. Which he did.”

Sam twisted to high-five Maxwell, and her son moved to meet the man’s palm with his, but stopped when he caught Rachel’s condemning glare. Sam slid the offending palm down his sweatshirt, which was splashed with unidentifiable stuff she assumed must be related to the sawdust.

A carpenter? If she wasn’t so angry, she’d consider her luck at meeting the one person she could really use right now.

“Anyway,” Sam said, “the toaster saved the day, and the blanket got back home, along with the vacuum and the radio.”

“I…” Rachel didn’t have a clue what to say. While the man was disturbingly sexy, and certain parts of her were softening and wanting to stand there and take him in, the dedicated mother who protected her son at all costs was outraged. “I think you should leave, Mr. Jones, or I’ll have to report you to Security.”

“Right. Sorry. I didn’t mean any harm.”

“Well, it’s too late for that, isn’t it?”

Sam glanced at Maxwell, and Rachel caught her son’s fading smile. The man had just wanted to see him smile?

“He’s okay, Mom,” Maxwell finally said. “Even if he does have a bad case of dandruff.”

Sam brushed off his shoulders. “It’s sawdust, buddy. Hazard of the trade. I’m a carpenter.”

“You are?” Her son’s own shoulders lifted. “But we need—“

“For you to get some rest,” Rachel interrupted, before Maxwell could explain the disaster in their garage that was in desperate need of elbow grease and new lumber. “I’m sure Mr. Jones has work to get back to.”

“Right. I do have a job this afternoon. Handyman stuff, mostly.”

“Oh.” Now that he’d said the word handyman, she remembered hearing about him. At least, she’d heard about the sexy guy who wielded a hammer and an easy smile. Seemed the entire female population in the neighborhood absolutely hummed when he was anywhere in the vicinity. “You’re Handy Sam? I’ve heard of you,” Rachel said, before she could tamp down her growing interest.

“Really?” He hooked his thumbs in his jeans pockets and straightened proudly. “Good, bad or otherwise?”

She shrugged and made a show of considering the options. “Otherwise. I know some of the neighborhood mothers break things on purpose so they can call you over.”

And she completely understood that wacky compulsion now that her anger had subsided a bit and she could look at the man with a woman’s eye.

“No way. They break stuff?”

“Mrs. McTavish told me she shoved a Reader’s Digest down her toilet just last week, and blamed it on her three-year-old.”

Sam winced. “I thought it seemed a little suspicious when she greeted me at the door with martinis.”

“Yes, well, you said you had work to do,” Rachel insisted.

Sam got the hint. Grabbing the box of DVDs from the end of the bed, he strode to the door. “Nice to meet you, Maxwell. We had a good time with the toaster. And again, I’m sorry, Mrs. McHenry.”

Rachel was about to correct him that it was Miss—always had been—but instead she nodded stiffly and moved to close the door behind him. Sam Jones smelled like sawdust and looked like a man she would love to tuck in her purse and take home with her, just to watch the neighborhood ladies’ tongues wag.

She did have a legitimate reason to invite him over, so why hadn’t she?

“He was nice,” Maxwell commented, his attention focused on his homework.

Rachel made a dismissive, yet slightly positive response.

“You were rude to him, Mom. Do you know he was here to donate movies so kids would have something to do while stuck in these hard, uncomfortable hospital beds?”

“That was very kind, but he shouldn’t have assumed it was okay to invite himself in without first asking my permission. You understand I only want to keep you safe, sweetie?”

Maxwell sighed. “I understand. I should have told him I wasn’t allowed to watch movies. But you know, I was watching him more than the movie. His expressions made me laugh. But watching a DVD once in a while wouldn’t be so awful, would it? It made me forget about this IV I have in my arm. It’s starting to itch.”

“I’ll get the nurse. You shouldn’t have to have that anymore. Oh, Maxwell, how are you?” She kissed him on the eyelid, which always made him grimace comically. “I tried to make the closing quick but the clients wanted to take their time and read everything twice.”

“I’m fine. Got a lot of work done before Sam walked in. But now I think I have some new ideas, after watching the movie. Must have stirred my imagination, just like Sam said it would.”

She closed her eyes and nodded in agreement. Watching a movie once in a while wouldn’t be such a bad thing. She’d made the rule a few years ago, after he’d wanted to see a horror flick that was advertised on television. It was her responsibility to screen what her child watched, and it had been easier at the time to cut out everything.