by Judy Duarte
Hilda tossed him a pretty smile. “Whatever sounds interesting.”
His heart took a spin around his chest, and he couldn’t help feeling like a teenager again. Well, at least an elderly widower who had a lot more life left in him.
“How are Maria and the baby doing?” Hilda asked.
“They’re fine. Maria’s being discharged this morning, but little Walter Carl has to stay for a while longer.”
“Why is that? Is everything okay?”
“Since he was born too early, he’s not sucking as well as they’d like him to. So they’ve been feeding him through a little tube that runs from his nose to his stomach. Once he’s able to eat better on his own, they’ll take it out. And when he gains some weight, they’ll let him go home.”
“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”
“Me, too. Maria wasn’t happy about having to leave him behind, but she knows he’s in good hands. Besides, it’ll give her time to get her strength back, to check on the other kids, and to get the nursery ready for him.”
“Looks like everything is working out for her.”
“Well…” Walter didn’t want to go into details, even if both women had become his friends. If there was one thing he had going for him, it was the fact that he was trustworthy and knew how to keep his mouth shut, but something told him to share a bit of Maria’s dilemma. “She needs to go back to work, but can’t leave those kids with just anyone. I’m not sure where she’s going to find a decent sitter. She can’t afford to pay much.”
“With two youngsters and a newborn, she almost needs live-in help.”
Walter agreed.
“Too bad I can’t do it.”
Yep. It was. If Hilda didn’t have to worry about paying rent and utilities, it would take some pressure off her. But before Walter could give the possibility any kind of what-if thought, Hilda’s phone rang, and she answered.
“Hello?” A smile stretched across her face. “I’m feeling better every day, Mr. Dawson. Thanks for asking. And while you’re on the phone, I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry for the inconvenience my illness has caused you. Hopefully, I can go back to work for you soon.”
Walter watched as Hilda’s smile dimmed and the creases on her forehead deepened.
“Oh, no. When?” She listened intently, then thanked Mr. Dawson for the call. “Of course. Tell her I will.”
She pulled the receiver away from her ear. Instead of putting it where it belonged, she held it in her lap.
Walter got to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“Trevor, the little boy from the park, is downstairs in the intensive care unit.”
Walter’s gut cramped, putting a squeeze on the breakfast he’d eaten earlier. “How bad is it?”
“He’s in a coma, and the doctors aren’t sure if he’s going to live.”
All the fear and discomfort Walter had once felt in a hospital setting came rushing back full throttle, and he feared that his legs would give out on him.
“That poor child.” Hilda slowly shook her head.
She was right. It didn’t seem fair that the little boy was facing death before he even got a chance to live. Walter had half a notion to raise his fist and shake it at whoever was responsible for deciding when someone’s number was up. But he wouldn’t. With his luck, he’d step outside and be zapped by a thunderbolt.
“According to Mr. Dawson, Analisa wants me to pray for the child,” Hilda said, “but I’m afraid I’m not very religious. It’s been a long time since I’ve turned to God.”
It couldn’t be any longer for her than it had been for Walter. God didn’t listen to men like him. Never had. Not even when he’d been a boy like Trevor and was virtually a ward of the streets and raising himself. Nor when he’d hunkered down in a frozen trench at the Chosin Reservoir and held Lonnigan while he died. And certainly not when he’d waited day and night at a hospital just like this one, begging for Margie to be spared.
“Do you go to church?” Hilda asked.
“Huh?” Walter actually glanced over his shoulder to see if she was talking to someone else. “Who? Me?”
She nodded.
“One of my foster mothers used to send me to Sunday school when I was a kid.”
Irene McAllister had been confined to a wheelchair and hadn’t been able to attend too often, but she’d made Walter go and had given him pennies to put in the offering plate. Instead, he’d hung on to them so he could stop by the Kesslers’ store on the way home to buy himself a bag of lemon drops.
“I’m not much of a churchgoer, either,” Hilda said, “although I’ve gotta tell you, Walter. You’ve been such a blessing to me that I may have to start making more of an effort.”
He supposed she deserved a thank-you for her comment whether it was true or not, but the walls of the hospital room were closing in on him, and he feared he wouldn’t be able to catch his breath if he stayed much longer.
“You know,” he said, backing toward the door. “I’d better head to Maternity and make sure Maria isn’t waiting for me.”
“All right. I understand. Will you be coming back to visit me tonight?”
No. Yes.
He didn’t know. “I’ll have to give you a call later.”
She nodded, as he continued to back out of her room and took off down the hall. He didn’t even acknowledge the LVN who looked up from her work and smiled.
The few people he passed on the way to the elevator blurred together with the corridor walls.
It just wasn’t right. And it wasn’t fair.
When Walter arrived at Maria’s room, she was dressed in street clothes and appeared ready to go home. “They’re sending up a wheelchair and someone to take me to the curb out in front. It’s hospital regulations.”
Walter nodded. “I’ll go get my truck and wait for you there.”
“Are you okay?” She reached for his arm, clutching a bit of his sleeve. “You look a little pale.”
He almost told her what had him twisted in a knot, but figured it was best to wait. What if she insisted upon staying and visiting the boy? Walter couldn’t handle that. He needed to get out in the open where he could breathe, where he could look up to the heavens and beg God to take him instead of Trevor.
So he forced a smile and patted the top of her hand, which still rested on his forearm. “I’m fine. But I could use a little fresh air. That’s all. We’ll talk more on the way home.”
As he sat in his pickup, the few minutes he expected to wait for her had stretched out to a half hour, but he didn’t care. He was glad to be outside. Still, he scanned the windows on the east side of the building, wondering if little Trevor was inside any of those rooms and deciding that it wasn’t likely.
About the time he thought it would be a good idea to head back inside and see what was keeping Maria, an orderly brought her to the curb where a sign indicated it was for loading and unloading patients. Walter pulled up and waited for her to get in. Then he began the drive to her house.
“I’ve got some bad news,” he began.
“What’s that?”
Walter stared out the windshield, afraid to catch her eye as he told her what had happened to the lonely little boy who’d reminded him so much of himself.
“Oh, no!” She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “I’ll ask my cousin Rita to take me and the kids to St. Peter’s after I get home. We’ll pray for him and light a candle.”
Walter hoped it would help.
“Would you like to come with us, too?” she asked.
“No, I’d rather not.” Walter suspected he’d be even more uneasy inside of a church than he was in hospitals.
A few minutes later, he dropped Maria off at her house, where Rita, a stocky young woman, met them at the door with a smile and a hug.
It was about all Walter could do to carry Maria’s bag inside and stick around long enough for an introduction. As soon as he could politely tear himself away, he went back to his pickup. But instead of heading
home, he drove to Mulberry Park, pulled into one of the empty stalls and shut off the ignition.
He’d been in a daze ever since hearing word of Trevor’s accident and sat behind the wheel for a while, waiting for his thoughts to clear.
But they didn’t.
Finally, he climbed from the truck and headed toward the mulberry in the center of the park, where Carl’s bench sat empty.
Other than a woman and boy walking a collie mix and a perspiring male jogger stretching after his run, the park was practically deserted.
The midday sun burned summertime bright, but there was a light wind today, one that rustled the leaves in the trees and mussed Walter’s hair.
He took a seat on Carl’s bench, draped an arm over the backrest and stretched out his feet. He wasn’t sure how one was supposed to approach God. Respectfully, he supposed, although he didn’t know the rules or what to say. “Now I lay me down to sleep” came to mind. And “Bless this food which we are about to receive.” Still, he’d never been any good at this sort of thing, even as a kid in Sunday school.
One day, seventy-some years ago, the pinch-nosed lady who led music and played the piano asked if any children had a particular song they wanted to sing. Walter had quickly raised his hand and, when called upon, suggested “Show Me the Way to Go Home.”
The pianist had harrumphed then, ignoring his request, and had chosen a little red-haired girl who’d wanted to sing “Amazing Grace.”
Walter hadn’t meant to be a wise guy suggesting a barroom ditty. He’d just liked the tune.
Still did, actually.
He supposed he’d always been out of step and, to be honest, he wasn’t sure why he’d ever been born.
“Even my own mother didn’t want me,” he muttered out loud. “She just put me in a wicker laundry basket and left me behind the Lone Oak Motor Lodge.”
If ol’ Charlie Klinefelter hadn’t gone looking for his dog before the snow started falling that night, Walter would have frozen to death as a newborn.
“And no one else wanted me, either,” he said, his voice lowering to a drawn-out whisper.
He’d stayed with the Klinefelters for a few years and had taken their name, but by the time he was eight, he’d lived in five or six different homes. He never had understood why no one had stuck him in an orphanage. Instead, for some reason, the folks in the community had just passed him from one family to another.
One home in particular had always stuck out, but Irene McAllister, who’d been crippled when her Ford sedan had stalled on the train tracks, eventually died from complications of the accident.
From the age of thirteen on, Walter had more or less raised himself, and as soon as he was old enough, he’d joined the army. He’d found a family of sorts there, too, but seen some of them killed and others wounded. Eventually, they’d all gone their separate ways.
Walter blew out a bone-weary sigh and glared up at the sky. “What were you thinking when you let me come home from Korea instead of guys like Lonnigan and Schwartz?”
There were others who hadn’t survived either, soldiers who’d been just as brave as Walter—even more so when you considered they’d had more to lose. More reason to come home in one piece—like families who’d loved them.
Nope. It hadn’t been fair.
Then there was Margie, who’d had two boys who weren’t quite raised when she’d died. Boys who needed her even more than Walter had.
“Margie was called home,” the preacher had said.
Home.
She’d had a home—on earth. And it had been the only real home and family Walter had ever felt remotely a part of.
“What’s the deal?” he asked, his voice ringing out louder than before. “Do you have some big set of dice that you shake up and toss?”
The breeze blew a strand of hair onto his forehead, and he raked it away with his fingers. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be disrespectful. But I just don’t get it. You can understand that, can’t you?”
The thumb of his outstretched arm brushed across the brass plate that proclaimed Carl Witherspoon a loving husband and father, which was merely another reminder of how unfair things had been.
The Fairbrook Community Church had been packed the day of Carl’s funeral. If Walter had been the one to drop dead of a heart attack, instead of Carl, they could have just done away with the whole memorial. In fact, they could have just lowered the box into the ground and been done with it. No fuss or flowers would have been necessary, not when there wouldn’t have been anyone to cry or mourn.
“So why spare me, God, and not the others?”
Walter hadn’t really expected an answer. Nor had he expected a memory to surface that triggered the feelings he’d had for the only real mother he’d known.
He’d thought about Irene a lot over the years and realized that she’d probably loved him more than anyone else had. And that she’d been the only one who’d believed he would amount to something.
“Maybe you’ll grow up to be the president of the United States,” she’d told him once.
But when Walter had been about Trevor’s age, Irene’s health, which had never been good after her accident, began to fail.
She’d called him to her bedside and admitted she was dying. Then she’d taken his face in her hands. “But don’t you worry. You’ll be just fine. And you won’t be alone. God will always be with you. And He’s going to use you in a powerful way someday.”
Good thing Irene wasn’t here to see that Walter hadn’t amounted to much. Not that he’d done any serious jail time or been a complete loser.
“God has plans for you,” she’d insisted. “Plans to prosper you and not harm you. Plans to give you hope and a future. All you have to do is believe in Him and trust Him. And He’ll see you through.”
She’d said it like she’d had some kind of word from God Himself. Walter had kind of put it all out of his mind back then. But now, thinking back on it, he wondered if she’d known something he hadn’t.
Was that why Walter had been spared? First from the winter cold? Then from enemy fire? Because God had a plan for him?
If so, it was certainly difficult to see why. Or to understand what that plan was.
Had Walter somehow dropped the ball? Forgotten to do his part?
“You’ll hear God’s voice if you seek Him with all of your heart,” Irene had told him time and again.
Was that what had gone wrong? Had Walter merely asked for things and not stuck around long enough to listen for a response?
At a loss and unsure of what else to do, Walter bowed his head and removed his arm from the backrest so that he could clasp his hands together in his lap. “Here I am, Lord. What you see is what you get. I’ve made a lot of mistakes in the past, and I have no business coming to you at all. But I’m tired of the pain, the sorrow, the loneliness. And I don’t want to go it alone. I’ll give you my heart and my life, what’s left of it anyway.”
The breeze swirled around him, and for the first time in what seemed like forever, Walter sensed a spiritual presence, a connection, and he just sat there, taking it all in.
“Irene said you had plans for me, Lord. So if you’ll just show me what they are, I’ll try to keep my eyes and ears peeled so that I can get the job done.”
Walter wasn’t so bold as to press God into action, especially when he figured the Almighty was smart enough to know He’d better hurry since time was running out—for Walter and for Trevor.
“By the way,” Walter said, his head still bowed, his eyes still closed. “If you can spare a miracle, I’d be eternally grateful if you would heal that little boy.”
Claire didn’t know how Sam or Jake had managed it, but before the end of the day, Russell Meredith arrived at the hospital, accompanied by a prison escort.
In court, he’d worn expensive suits and ties like those of any sharp young executive. But now, dressed in a pair of worn jeans and a white T-shirt, his dark hair long and in need of a trim, he resembled an ordinary
blue-collar worker, a man who did his own yardwork and took out the trash.
He stood in the doorway of the ICU waiting room, pain and worry etched across his face with sharp, bold strokes. His eyes bore evidence of a long, hard cry.
As he carefully scanned each occupied chair, Claire suspected he was looking for Katie.
When his gaze locked onto Claire instead, her heart ached for another grieving parent. Unable to do anything else, she stood and made her way to him. “Katie just took a short break. She’d been here since last night and went home for a quick shower. She’ll be back soon.”
“My attorney said that you stayed the night here, too.”
Claire glanced down at the clothes she’d been wearing for nearly twenty-four hours. A quick trip home and a shower would do her good, too. “Katie is pretty torn up. I didn’t think she should be here by herself.”
Of course, now that Russell was here, Claire had an excuse to leave—if she wanted one.
“Have you been able to see Trevor yet?” she asked.
“I just left him.” Russell’s eyes filled with tears. “Seeing him like that, hooked to a ventilator, his head bandaged, his blood pressure and oxygen levels being monitored…”
“It’s tough.” Claire hadn’t meant to remind him that she knew just how he felt—the helplessness, the worry, the fear…
“Do you mind if I talk to you?” he asked. “Just for a few minutes?”
Her heart skidded to a halt, then started back up again. Part of her wanted to say no, to find an excuse to leave. But she supposed it was time they faced each other. “Sure.”
“Not a day goes by that I don’t think about that accident and wish there was something that I could do to make everything all right. I wanted to contact you a hundred different times, but my first attorney adamantly advised me not to.”
She doubted she could have handled talking to him before. Could she now?
“You have no idea how sorry I am.”
Claire was sorry, too. Yet where there’d once been anger, there was merely shared pain.
“This may not be the best place or time, but if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to explain my side of the story. All of it. Not just the responses my attorney coached me to make.”