Hope for Tomorrow

by Patti Berg

  “The man spent a good half hour loitering around the ward, listening to every conversation I had with my patients and looming over my shoulder while I changed IV bags. I wouldn’t be surprised to find him checking the staff lockers to see if any of us are absconding with cotton balls or tongue depressors.”

  “We’ve already had one fiscal scare this year. I don’t want to go through another one anytime soon.”

  James shrugged, and as if the thought of another financial crisis didn’t bother him, he took a gaudy black felt hat covered with purple sequined orchids off its stand. He held it over his head, checking himself out in the mirror.

  “I hate to tell you this, James, but that hat doesn’t go with green scrubs.”

  “Think Fern would like it?”

  “No,” Elena said flatly. She knew James’s wife too well to think she’d go for that hat or any other.

  James put the flashy hat back on the stand. “You know, if the hospital ended up in another monetary mess, I wouldn’t send out résumés again. Instead”—he grinned—“I think I’d stick around and give Frederick Innisk a hard time, plotting an intrigue here, a mystery there, little things to make his head spin.”

  James wrapped a blue feather boa around his shoulders. “There was a big part of me that wanted to stick around the ward this afternoon, maybe lead Innisk on a wild-goose chase, making him think I’m doing things I shouldn’t be doing, just to get his goat. But my shift was over, and Innisk would probably frown on my putting in for overtime. Besides, I really do need to get something for Fern.”

  Elena tried on the tacky black hat, checking it out in the mirror. “Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like to get her?”

  James leaned his tall, solid body on the glass display case, looking totally out of place in such a kitschy shop. “Not a clue. Something to make her smile,” he said, removing the feather boa. A multicolored rhinestone peacock brooch caught his attention. “Gideon said her physical therapy was a bear this morning. She’s sick and tired of using the walker, which is the only way she can get around right now, and…” He sighed heavily. “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”

  “I’m a detail person. You know that.”

  Elena flicked a speck of dust off the hat and put it back on its stand, probably the only place it would ever look halfway good.

  The Veronica Lake look-alike stepped behind the counter. “Why don’t I show you that brooch?” she said to James.

  It was probably just as well that she’d interrupted their conversation. James wasn’t one to complain about his job, all the extra work he had to do when he was home or to moan about Fern’s multiple sclerosis, which had to have been a challenge for their family.

  The blonde clerk handed the brooch to James. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Nineteen thirties Art Deco from the estate of Princess Lucinda Alexandrovna. She wasn’t a real princess, of course, but her third husband was an exiled Russian prince who had a title and no money whatsoever.” The girl’s sales pitch was absolutely impeccable, although it was probably going to get her nowhere.

  “Princess Alexandrovna had two more husbands after her exiled prince, and several of them died under mysterious circumstances, but that makes this brooch, which the princess wore in almost all of her photographs, all the more interesting.”

  “And all the more expensive, I imagine,” James added, while studying the peacock’s every nook and cranny.

  Elena watched the way James held the brooch with his big yet gentle hands, before handing it back to Veronica Lake and moving on to the less expensive Bakelite jewelry.

  He was a guy’s guy, who looked like he’d be more at home on the range or chopping trees in the woods than dressed in green scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around his neck. Rugged as he appeared, he could easily get lost in a crossword puzzle. He was a homebody whose wife and sons meant the world to him, who loved cheering on the kids competing in a spelling bee as much as he did playing basketball with the guys.

  Fern, on the other hand, was a petite little thing, standing just a fraction of an inch over five feet tall. She was one of the sweetest women Elena had ever met. Why something like MS had to hit a woman with so much to offer the world was a huge question in her mind. Elena knew God had a good reason for everything, and she tried not to question His decisions, but why Fern? Why the mother of two great sons? The wife of a man who had been a medic during the Gulf War, who’d dodged enemy fire to bring aid and comfort to fellow soldiers and who now gave his all to care for the sick.

  Trust Him, Elena told herself. Have faith and pray. That’s all she could do for James and Fern right now. Of course, she might be able to help James out of his current shopping predicament.

  “You know, James, I saw a fabulous twinset a few minutes ago, one I would have loved for myself, but it’s too small—more Fern’s size than mine. It’s a lovely peach color and has rhinestones sewn into a pattern of embroidered flowers and—”

  She took hold of James’s hand, dragged him across the shop, riffled through the rack of clothes and pulled out the twinset, which she knew would look fabulous on Fern, if James decided to buy it. It just might brighten her spirits too.

  “What do you think?” Elena asked, holding the twinset up for James to see.

  He frowned, deep in thought as he studied it. “I don’t know. I usually buy her jewelry or candy.”

  Typical man, afraid to think outside the box.

  “Trust me, James.” Elena smiled. “She won’t be disappointed.”

  After leaving Once Upon A Time, Elena popped into the Chocolate Garden to buy herself a dark chocolate and raspberry truffle before heading to the hospital parking lot. The clouds had cleared just enough to let a patch of blue show through. She was thinking about the harvest princess costume she was designing for Izzy when she heard the siren. An ambulance raced up Bureau Street. It slowed for the red light at Jeffries. The driver made sure there were no cars or pedestrians to collide with, and then he made a left turn and then another right into the hospital’s emergency entrance.

  Abandoning her plans to climb into her car and head for home, she sprinted across the road as soon as the light turned green, raced across the lawn and made it to the back of the ambulance just as the gurney was pulled out.

  A child, a boy of maybe five or six, lay motionless, his face covered with scratches, his eyes closed.

  If there’d been more than one patient, she would have gone into the ER to see if she could help, but the doctor and nurses who were on duty were some of the best around. They wouldn’t need her. Not this time.

  She stood back as the EMTs wheeled the gurney into the hospital. A moment later, a minivan squealed into the emergency lot and parked cockeyed in a slot reserved for the handicapped. The driver’s door flew open and a young woman, with blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, tore out of the van. Tears streamed down her face as she rushed to the ambulance.

  “Are you Mrs. O’Mara?” the driver asked, slamming the back doors of the ambulance closed.

  “Where’s Caleb? Is he okay? I need to see him.”

  “He’s just been taken into the ER.” The driver touched the woman’s arm lightly, although Elena knew from experience there was no way to comfort the mother of a child who’d been injured, who could be dying. “Come on. I’ll go in with you.”

  Over the years Elena had become accustomed to emergencies, but she wasn’t numb to emotions. Long ago, in her early twenties and fresh out of nursing school, she had believed she’d get used to other people’s grief, but her throat still tightened when it played out in front of her.

  And now, worried about the little boy and his mom, Elena did what she so often did when she was alone. She silently prayed.

  You know, Lord, I certainly understand that You move in mysterious ways, that You have a plan for all of us, but please, with the holidays so close, could we end the year with a miracle or two?

  As she prayed, a mud-splattered police car pulled to a
stop behind the ambulance. The driver’s door opened, and Cesar climbed out. He wasn’t wearing his Smoky the Bear hat, which he normally wore when working. His short black hair was wet, looking like it did when he stepped out of the shower. His uniform was wet too—the navy winter-weight wool sticking to all five foot ten inches of his athletic body. He headed for the emergency doors but then spotted Elena standing beside one of the columns supporting the covered portico.

  Elena hadn’t noticed dark circles beneath his eyes this morning, but they were there now. He looked exhausted as he switched directions and walked toward her.

  “The little boy,” he said, his words choked. “Is he going to be all right?”

  “I don’t know,” Elena said, caressing away a drop of water that had slipped from his hair and ran down his cheek. “The ambulance—and his mom—arrived right before you. Do you want to go inside?”

  Cesar shook his head. “Not right now. I’ll come back later, though, after I change uniforms and get my weapon dried out.” He pressed a kiss against Elena’s forehead. His mouth was cold, and taking hold of his hands was like gripping a block of ice.

  “You’re chilled to the bone, Cesar. Why don’t you let me take you up to ICU, get you some coffee or cocoa and a few warm blankets.”

  “Thanks, hon, but I’ve gotta get back to the station and write up my report.”

  “You’ll catch pneumonia if you don’t get out of those clothes now and get warmed up.”

  Cesar managed to chuckle, even through the anxiety that was written all over his face. “That’s an old wives’ tale, and you know it.”

  “Maybe, but that doesn’t keep me from worrying about you.”

  “I’ll be fine. It’s the boy we should both be worried about.”

  “He’s in good hands, and they’ll medevac him to Children’s Hospital in Peoria, if necessary.”

  “I’d rather he stay here so I can keep an eye on him.”

  Elena wished she could tell her husband that he cared too much, that he’d done his job already—that it was now time to let go, to let the doctors and nurses care for the child. But Cesar didn’t let go, not when it came to kids. That was one of many reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

  “Can you tell me what happened?” Elena asked.

  Cesar leaned against the column Elena had been standing beside, his gaze trained on the Emergency Room door. “He and a friend were playing on the railroad trestle that runs across Lincoln Creek—you know, up near Starvation Point. Crazy kids must have skipped school, thinking they’d have a little fun instead, and then the boy—Caleb—lost his balance, I guess, and fell into the creek.” Cesar shook his head. “I never saw the need for kids that age to have cell phones, but maybe I’ve been wrong, ’cause Caleb’s friend called 9-1-1 just a minute or two after Caleb hit the water.”

  Cesar shivered, and Elena wanted desperately to take him inside, but she knew he wouldn’t go. He was too stubborn, and she could tell that right this moment he simply wanted to talk.

  “I wasn’t all that far away when the call came in on the radio, but the creek was high after the storm we had last month and it was flowing fast and…” Cesar ran a hand through his hair, his gaze darting from the ER doors to Elena. “Took me a good half hour to find him caught in a log jam of downed tree branches. It took a long time to swim out to him, and even longer to get him untangled from the limbs.”

  Cesar inhaled deeply, then let the breath out as a sigh. “He wasn’t breathing, and I had to get him back to the shore when I heard the sirens. I was giving him CPR in the water and…I was never so glad to see the paramedics.”

  “You’ve got to let go now,” Elena said. “Let God take over.”

  “I wish I could, but—” Cesar shrugged. “I can’t put all my faith in God. Not the way you do.”

  “You could if—”

  “Let’s not go there, Elena. You know my reasons.”

  She did know, and it broke her heart. His mother had died when Cesar was just a boy. He’d sat at her bedside, praying for God to make her cancer disappear, praying for a miracle that never came. “I believe in God,” he’d once told Elena, “but if He doesn’t answer prayers, why bother?”

  She’d tried to help him find the answer to his question, but he resisted. He wouldn’t even go to church with her and Izzy. Cesar Rodriguez was a stubborn man. A good man—but tough as nails sometimes. Surely God had a plan, and she’d just have to wait it out.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Elena said, slipping her fingers around her husband’s chilled hand. “I’ll pray and—for now—you can put your faith in the ER team.”

  “I wish I had your optimism.” Cesar gave Elena another quick kiss.

  In twenty-seven years of marriage she’d never tired of his kisses, even when they were fleeting.

  “I’ve got to get back to the station,” he said, heading for his patrol car. He swung open the door and put one foot inside before calling out to Elena, “Don’t forget I’m coaching at the Y tonight, so I’ll be home late.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “I’ll grab a hamburger or something—not to worry.”

  Elena watched Cesar’s patrol car as it pulled out from behind the ambulance. She spotted his pitch-black eyes in the rearview mirror, peering at her as he drove toward the parking lot’s exit. A second later his flashing lights went on; so did his siren, and he was off again to another emergency, still dressed in a soaking wet uniform in forty-degree weather, if it was even that warm.

  She sighed heavily. Worry? Me?

  Always.

  Cesar was a cop, a good cop who did risky things to save the lives of others. Unfortunately, worrying about her husband came part and parcel with the wedding ring and the marriage vows.

  Love and honor through the good, the not so good…and the dangerous.

  Chapter Five

  JAMES FELT LIKE A TEENAGER DRIVING THROUGH town on his way to pick up his date for the prom—the pretty girl he’d been keen on since junior high; the pretty girl he’d vowed to someday make his wife. Instead of a pink carnation corsage, though, he had a fifties twinset wrapped in brightly colored paper sporting pictures of a leather-clad Elvis Presley. And James wasn’t wearing a white sport coat and a black bow tie, just a pair of green scrubs and a red and black Chicago Bulls hoodie.

  No one would ever accuse him of being a fashion plate or ingenious when it came to picking gifts for his wife. Thank God he’d run into Elena. If Fern fell in love with the sweater set, he just might hire Nurse Rodriguez as his personal shopper.

  He turned onto McCleaf Street, where he and Fern had bought and started to remodel an older but comfortable brick home a couple of years before her MS had brought their we-can-do-anything-together life come crashing down around them. Today, he couldn’t help but notice the well-kept lawns stretching out in front of every house but his.

  What was it he’d said to his sons, Gideon and Nelson, when he’d left for work this morning? “Rake the front yard as soon as you get home…then do your homework…after that we’ll shoot some hoops.”

  Obviously his words had fallen on deaf ears.

  Sadly, the Bell front yard was a sea of autumn leaves. Mountainous gold and orange waves washed over the flower beds and crested against the house and pooled beneath the ancient elm that shaded the house in summer, when it was lush with leaves, at least half of which were now obliterating the lawn.

  And then there was the rake. James shook his head, sighing heavily. The lethal tool lay in the middle of the yard, sharp metal tines sticking straight up, ready to massacre the first person absentminded enough to step on it.

  It was time for a little talk.

  Gideon and Nelson were shooting hoops in the drive, oblivious to the fact that their dad had to park at the curb because he couldn’t get to the detached garage that sat at the back of the yard. James wasn’t one to get angry. He wasn’t one to lecture. His own dad, although he was a good man and a hard worker, had been prone to cr
iticizing. He’d pushed and prodded till James knew not to break the rules.

  Gideon and Nelson knew right from wrong. They were great kids. Gideon was a fifteen-year-old freshman; Nelson was thirteen and in eighth grade. They’d more than handled the responsibility thrust upon their shoulders, rarely complaining when they had to help their mom and dad with a lot of chores around the house.

  But they couldn’t ignore simple directions, unless they had good reason—not if they wanted to be successful in life.

  Throwing his battered backpack over one shoulder, and grabbing the gift for Fern, James climbed out of the minivan and slammed the door shut, only then catching his sons’ attention.

  “Hey, Dad!” Gideon shouted, dribbling the ball around his body and between his legs. He was the spitting image of James, with the same blue eyes and wavy brown hair. He might only be fifteen, but Gideon had already shot up to five feet ten inches, just an inch shorter than his dad; and Fern and James fully expected he’d tower over James in another year, if not sooner. That meant, of course, a lot more trips to the mall to buy jeans and sports shoes.

  How on earth could a fifteen-year-old already wear a size 13-D shoe?

  “Got time to shoot some hoops?” Gideon asked, lobbing the ball at his dad, who caught it easily in one large and skillful palm.

  “After dinner and after your mom and I look over your homework…maybe. And”—James nodded toward the leaves shrouding the lawn—“neither one of you are getting a bite to eat until those leaves are raked up.”

  “Aw, Dad,” Nelson whined, “what good does it do to rake them up? They’ll all be back tomorrow.”

  James shot a meaningful glance at the dark clouds above. “And tomorrow they could be soaked with rain, and each rakeful will make you feel like you’re lifting a ten-pound sack of cement. Get to it now, and once that’s done…you might want to give your homework a shot, since I’m assuming you’ve managed to overlook that too.”

  “Good grief, Dad,” Nelson groaned yet again. He was smaller than Gideon, which, thankfully, didn’t seem to bother him a bit. He’d gotten the short gene from his mom, who was a petite bit of a thing. If Nelson grew to be five foot six, they’d all be surprised.