by Patti Berg
“The PICU and a new children’s ward?” Elena asked. Both had been on her mind since Anabelle had overheard the discussion in human resources.
“I’m for a PICU and a children’s ward. Unfortunately, the majority of the board members feel it’s frivolous to include those items in our budget, when there are perfectly good ones in Peoria and Chicago.”
“Well, they’re out of their minds.”
Mr. Varner laughed. “Maybe, but they make the final decisions.”
“What about all the arguments that were presented at the board meeting last year, that many new families are moving to Deerford and that many of those families have children who could benefit from a PICU and children’s ward? That must have had some impression on the board.”
“It did at the time, Elena, but the financial woes we had a few months ago caused the board to take another look at a new five-year plan, and they didn’t feel the need for either unit.”
“And you tried to change their minds?”
“Actually, I told them I’d quit if they took those two items out of the budget.” He laughed. “They didn’t even blink an eye. I was fired. End of story.”
“It doesn’t have to be the end of the story,” Elena said, folding her arms atop the table and looking Mr. Varner straight in the eye. “Just tell me one thing. Are you happy being away from Hope Haven, or do you want your job back?”
“Retirement’s not my cup of tea, and Hope Haven’s been my life for a long time. I miss it. I miss the people.”
“Good, because there are a bunch of us who are ready to fight. And—good Lord willing—we’re going to win.”
At noon that day, when Elena was officially at lunch, so no one could accuse her of interfering in hospital business when she was supposed to be working, she typed a quick e-mail note to Anabelle, Candace and James.
Cuppa Coffee
6:00 am Wednesday
Important!
She hit Send just as Frederick Innisk and Keith, the man she’d seen in Zane McGarry’s office, the man who might be in line for the CEO job, walked around the corner. Elena quickly made a wish for them to keep on going. She didn’t want them stopping in the ICU. She not only had too much to do—even though it was her official lunch hour, a lunch hour she rarely, if ever, took—but she was in a fighting mood, and she might make some wisecrack to Scrooge if he looked at her funny.
“And this is the ICU…”
So much for wishes coming true.
“Keith Bancroft, I’d like to introduce you to Elena Rodriguez, one of our registered nurses.”
Elena was sure the words “and a thorn in my side” were on the tip of his tongue.
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Bancroft.” Somehow Elena managed to smile, then wondered if she might be all wrong about Keith Bancroft. She didn’t know for sure if he was the man who might take Albert Varner’s job. “I’m sorry—is it Mr. Bancroft or Dr. Bancroft?”
“Mister,” Innisk said, frowning at Elena as usual. “You’ll probably see a lot of him in the next week or two as we discuss his coming to work as our new CEO.”
She should have trusted her instincts. “Hope Haven’s a wonderful hospital, Mr. Bancroft.”
“Did I see you in Zane McGarry’s office yesterday?” he asked, offering her a quick, very perfunctory handshake.
Elena nodded. “Mr. McGarry’s assistant, Quintessa Smith, is a friend of mine.”
“If there’s a cause to be fought for,” Mr. Innisk said, grinning at Keith Bancroft, “Elena’s your go-to girl and Quintessa is often her backup.”
There was obviously a backhanded slap behind Mr. Innisk’s words, but Elena refused to let him get to her.
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Mr. Bancroft took a quick walk around the already cramped nurses’ station. “I’ll be back next Monday. If you’re here, perhaps you could show me around the ICU. I’d like to get to know the hospital inside and out.”
Smile, Elena. Keep smiling. “I’d be happy to.”
Without another word, Frederick Innisk and Keith Bancroft moved on, heading for some other department to make someone else uncomfortable.
She’d always considered herself a good judge of character. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was about Keith Bancroft that put her on edge. Maybe it was the fact that he was not just good-looking, but too good-looking.
Superficial. That sounded about right. A man of very little substance.
If he became CEO, she hoped she’d be proven wrong, because that could be very bad for Hope Haven Hospital.
Phyllis Getty was sitting at Mrs. Ackland’s bedside when Elena came into the room. She had a Bible propped up against Mrs. Ackland’s side and was holding one of the elderly woman’s frail hands, reading a Psalm Elena knew well. Psalm 96 had always made Elena smile, and she did now, as she checked Mrs. Ackland’s vitals.
Let the heavens rejoice, let the earth be glad;
let the sea resound, and all that is in it;
let the fields be jubilant, and everything in them.
Then all the trees of the forest will sing for joy.…
Mrs. Ackland had slipped in and out of consciousness all morning, barely aware of her surroundings. With each passing hour she grew more and more weak. Her daughter had been with her all night, afraid to leave, to not be with her mother when she closed her eyes for the final time.
Elena listened to her heart and lungs, even though she doubted there’d been any change in the past hour. Now she only hoped that Mrs. Ackland’s daughter had received the voice mail message Elena had left and that she’d return to the hospital in time to say good-bye.
Phyllis closed her Bible, gave Mrs. Ackland’s fingers a little squeeze and whispered, “See you later, Mrs. Ackland,” then offered a knowing smile to Elena. Phyllis Getty had been volunteering at Hope Haven longer than Elena had worked there. She might not be a doctor or nurse, but she knew how to comfort the patients, knew when it was time to whisper a few last words.
Mrs. Ackland turned her head, her cloudy eyes following Phyllis out of the room, then turning them to Elena. “I was hoping you’d come by.”
“You’re my favorite patient,” Elena said, smiling as she held Mrs. Ackland’s hand. “Coming by to see you and taking care of you is a pleasure.”
Mrs. Ackland gasped for air. Her oxygen count was low; her blood pressure much lower than it should be. At this point, all they could do was keep her comfortable. Mrs. Ackland winced in pain, and Elena increased her morphine drip. There was no need for her to suffer. Not now.
“Would you like me to call the chaplain?” Elena asked, as she opened one of the drawers in a cabinet next to Mrs. Ackland’s bed and took out a soft hairbrush.
“Pastor Tom was here not long ago.” Mrs. Ackland grasped for Elena’s hand. “If I go, you won’t resuscitate me, will you?”
They had a Do Not Resuscitate order on Mrs. Ackland, and when she’d signed it, she’d been very adamant that her time had come and she didn’t want to be kept alive only to prolong the inevitable. There was no way to sugarcoat the answer. “No, Mrs. Ackland. We just want to keep you comfortable.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m going to see my Charles, you know.”
Elena brushed a bit of snowy white hair away from Mrs. Ackland’s face. “Yes, I know.”
For the past two days she’d wanted to go home, wanted to see her husband—her Charles. She’d missed him so. That was one of the blessings of faith—knowing that you’d see your loved ones. Elena hadn’t always believed it was possible. Not that she’d disbelieved, she simply hadn’t had enough faith.
Finding it again had made moments like this so much easier to accept.
“Would you like me to put the oxygen mask on you, Mrs. Ackland?” Elena upped the concentration of oxygen. “I know it isn’t all that comfortable to wear, but it’ll make it easier for you to breathe.”
“No. I just want to see my daughter again, and then I want to be with Charles.” Mrs. Ackland struggled to
swallow. It became increasingly difficult for her to breathe.
Please, Lord, let Mrs. Ackland’s daughter get here soon.
Again Elena upped the morphine drip, and within moments, Mrs. Ackland’s breathing seemed to ease.
“What do you think heaven is like?” Mrs. Ackland’s eyes closed, the thin, almost translucent lids fluttering.
“What was it the Apostle John wrote in Revelations?” Elena said, remembering the verses so well. “One of the angels came…‘And he carried me away in the Spirit to a mountain great and high, and showed me the Holy City, Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God. It shone with the glory of God, and its brilliance was like that of a very precious jewel, like a jasper, clear as crystal.’ That’s how I see heaven.”
Mrs. Ackland attempted a feeble smile. Her chest rose and fell heavily, and then…Thank heaven! Mrs. Ackland’s daughter came into the room, looking harried and worn.
“Mama.” She walked slowly to the side of the bed, taking her mother’s hand. “I’m here, Mama.”
Mrs. Ackland drew her daughter’s hand to her mouth and kissed it. “I love you, so much,” she whispered. “So much.”
“I love you, too, Mama.”
And Mrs. Ackland closed her eyes, peacefully letting go.
Chapter Twenty-Three
ANABELLE FLEXED HER FINGERS, DESPERATELY trying to work out the pain as she got up from the quilting machine and let Genna Hamilton take over. Another hour, maybe even less, and the art quilt for the Harvest Festival auction would be finished. It had already been decided that Genna, Anabelle and Ainslee would pose with the quilt when the photographer from the Dispatch came to snap pictures.
“Looks terrific,” Ainslee said, taking a photo of Anabelle with her own digital camera.
“That picture you just took of me isn’t going to look all that terrific.” Anabelle scowled at her daughter. “My hair’s a mess, I don’t have any lipstick on and I don’t want people seeing me massaging my hands. Someone might get the wrong impression, think I’m getting old.”
“Oh, Mother, if anyone’s thinking that, it’s you. And you’re the last person on earth who needs lipstick. You were blessed with perfect skin, great hair, and I think I heard Pop saying more than once that he liked your lips just the way they are.”
Anabelle rolled her eyes at her daughter’s ridiculous comments and tucked her hands into the pockets of the wine-colored sweater she was wearing with jeans and tennis shoes. They were warm there and hopefully the pain would ease up.
“What are you going to do with all the photos you’ve been taking?”
“Didn’t Elena tell you? We’re going to have a page on the Harvest Festival Web site showing the creation of the quilt, from your initial design, to you cutting fabric, the women from the guild working together that first night, picking out the pieces they wanted to appliqué…right up to the auction. A picture of the winner, a picture of the check that’s going to help pay for the Habitat for Humanity furnishings and then the quilt hanging on the new owner’s wall.”
Anabelle smiled at last. She loved everything about quilting. The stacks of fabric, the spools of colorful thread, learning a new technique or discovering an old one written down in an antique quilter’s diary. But most of all, she loved seeing the finished pieces hanging on a wall, spread out over someone’s bed or tossed over a chair or couch. There were so many memories in quilts, especially the time spent making them, especially when you had a loved one at your side, as she’d had Ainslee.
“We are going to teach your child—my grandchild—how to quilt, aren’t we?”
Ainslee laughed. “If I have a girl, definitely; if I have a boy, Doug would have my head.”
“Well, of course, I was thinking about a little girl. Your father would have had a conniption fit if he’d seen your brother sitting at a quilting frame with a needle and thread in his hand. Of course, Evan was all boy, and I would have had to drag him kicking and screaming to even touch a sewing machine.”
“Aren’t you glad you had two girls?”
Anabelle smiled. “I thank the good Lord every day.”
“Done!” Genna’s shout of joy echoed around the room, as she stepped back from the longarm quilting machine. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m anxious to get this off the frame and hung up in the living room where it’ll look beautiful for the newspaper photos.”
“I’m thinking we should hang it in here,” Anabelle said. “Your living room is gorgeous, but don’t you think it would be nice for the people in Deerford to see where this was created?”
“I don’t know, Mother.” Ainslee crossed the room and snapped a photo of Genna with the newly finished quilt. “I think Genna’s right. It will look beautiful in the living room, and there won’t be stacks of fabrics, tables and sewing machines around to distract the reader. We want them to see the quilt in all its glory.”
Anabelle shrugged, moving to the frame to start unrolling the quilt. “Sure, that’ll be good.”
Of course, it would have looked really good hanging in Genna’s workshop, but it seemed that she and Ainslee were at odds all the time lately. Where a quilt should be hung, whether or not she should wear lipstick, the colors for the baby’s room and even whether or not she should retire from the job she loved.
Maybe she was overreacting, but lately she just didn’t feel like she was part of her daughter’s life anymore.
And she was afraid of being pushed away.
Of course, as Cameron often reminded her, she was the one who’d taught her children to stand up for themselves, to be strong, assertive and independent.
It wasn’t long before the quilt was off the machine and six women from the guild were heading down the stairs to hang the finished product in Genna’s elegant living room.
“Slow down just a bit,” Ainslee called out from the top landing. “Turn around and smile up at me so I can take your picture.”
Anabelle stood at the front of the group, her hair mussed, lipstick long ago chewed off and her hands aching, but still she managed to smile for Ainslee’s camera. “Be careful up there, Ainslee,” she called out, being a fussbudget once again, something she just couldn’t help.
It was a mother’s prerogative.
“Oh, Mother. I’m not three years old any longer. Just smile for the picture.” Ainslee aimed the camera. “Say cheese!”
It seemed as if it took forever for the flash to go off, and once it did, the women were heading off to the living room.
“Should we drape it over the sofa?” Genna asked. “Or figure out a way to hang it above the fireplace?”
Glass shattered somewhere in the house, the crash reverberating through Anabelle’s ears. Her heart raced.
“Ainslee!”
Anabelle ran back to the home’s massive entryway. Ainslee lay on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, her hands clasping her belly. All around her were the broken remains of a tall crystal vase, water, flowers, a camera and the overturned console table that had once sat against a wall near the bottom of the stairs.
Anabelle went to Ainslee’s side, not worried in the least about stepping on shards of glass. Ainslee was all that mattered.
“I’m okay, Mother. Really I am,” Ainslee said, sitting up. “I’m just embarrassed.”
Anabelle knelt down beside her daughter. “There’s no need to feel embarrassed. Accidents happen.”
“I think the bottoms of these shoes are a little too slippery for skipping down stairs.” Ainslee was laughing lightly, while Genna picked up pieces of glass and Jane DeVol cleaned up water with a roll of paper towels, but Anabelle’s concern hadn’t ebbed.
“Did you stumble? Slip? Or what?” Anabelle asked, worried by the way Ainslee was holding her stomach, afraid that Ainslee might be in shock, not yet realizing what had happened.
“I think I slipped, landed on my bottom and slid all the way down. Probably a very mortifying picture if someone had caught it on camera.”
“Doe
s anything hurt?” Anabelle asked, trying not to come right out and ask if she had any abdominal pain. The last thing she wanted to do was frighten her daughter.
“I’m fine, Mother. But…” Ainslee reached out and stroked a tear away from Anabelle’s face. “Don’t cry. Please.”
Anabelle bit her lip. She hadn’t even realized she’d been crying. “You just scared me.”
“It was just a little fall, on my bottom, not my abdomen. My ankles don’t hurt. My knees are fine.” Ainslee smiled. “My pride’s a bit bruised, but that’ll go away, and that vase had to be horribly expensive—”
“I was getting tired of it anyway.” Genna grinned as she held a hand out to help Anabelle up. “Now I have an excuse to go out shopping tomorrow.”
“The only thing I want to do right now,” Anabelle said, “is take Ainslee to the hospital and get her checked out.”
“We don’t need to do that, Mother.” Ainslee was adamant. “Besides, the photographer will be here pretty quick, and you worked too hard on that quilt not to have your picture taken with it.”
“I have hundreds of photos of me with hundreds of quilts. I only have one pregnant daughter.”
Ainslee smiled and Anabelle was sure she was going to laugh at her, tell her she was a silly old fool for worrying so much.
Instead, a tear slid down Ainslee’s cheek. “Do you want to take your car or mine?”
Elena was right. He was a chicken.
James sat on a barstool at the kitchen counter, watching Fern move slowly from refrigerator to counter to stove, fixing dinner herself for the second time in a week. It took her longer than it would take him and dinner had been an hour later than usual last night, but she’d been not only proud of herself, but exhilarated too.
“Cooking dinner—no matter how long it takes me—is a heck of a lot better than sitting around being bored,” she’d said, and then she’d kissed him. It had been a very good night.
And he had to admit, he liked watching her. He’d married one really pretty woman, and, man, how he loved her.
Which made the decision he was about to reveal a whole lot easier.
“The brisket’s been cooking on low almost all day,” Fern said, resting her arms on the countertop, taking a deep breath. “I cooked up a Bobby Flay barbeque sauce, the yams are baked and ready to be doused with butter and cinnamon and I’ve got honey butter for the rolls that’ll be ready to take out of the oven any minute. Not quite the Deerford Roadhouse, but close.”