URGENT CARE

by Alexander, Hannah

  “Thank you, Helen.”

  “You know, you don’t need to be carrying this whole burden on your own shoulders when God is right there to help you.”

  Don’t start with me, Helen. “I was out searching for Archer.”

  “We were, too, right in that church on our knees. There’s no better way to reach God.”

  “Thank you,” Jessica said. “I appreciate your prayers.”

  “We want to get our Archer back home. Did the doctor say what was wrong with you yesterday? Did you have the flu or something?” Her attention seemed to focus a little too intently.

  Jessica would not lie and she would try hard not to be rude. “I don’t seem to be handling the stress very well right now.”

  “Oh?” Helen waited, expectant, as if hoping for further explanation. When none was forthcoming she said, “You’re going to have to put all your trust in God to bring Archer back home again.”

  Jessica couldn’t swallow her irritation. “Are you trying to tell me that if I lack faith that means God’s going to let Archer die?”

  There was a hush in the room. Jessica felt the chill of humiliation.

  Helen looked stunned and Jessica remembered what Archer had said about the Netzes losing two children years ago. Did Helen feel that her own lack of faith had somehow caused those deaths?

  Mom Pierce turned to Jessica. “Honey, that’s a question I’ve asked myself and God from time to time over the years but I’ve discovered that line of thought is simply self-destructive. I’m sure that isn’t what Helen meant at all, is it, dear?”

  “I...”

  “Of course it isn’t,” Mom continued. “For me, faith isn’t something I do, it’s something God gives me when I ask and when I keep the communication lines open to Him. Over the years, especially through the hard times, I’ve found that all the faith I need is the faith to pray. I give voice to my needs and let God take it from there.”

  “I’ve been doing that constantly,” Jessica said softly.

  “Of course you have,” Mom said. “But you know what? When you’re struggling I need to know how to pray for you. When I’m struggling you need to know how to pray for me.”

  “Are you struggling, Mom Pierce?”

  Those beautiful eyes filmed with tears. “You’d better believe it,” she whispered. “I have to keep giving it to God every few seconds.”

  The doorbell rang. One of the neighbors came in carrying a pot roast. Mom got up to take the roast and thank the neighbor and invite her to have some tea and a piece of pie that someone had brought to the house sometime during the afternoon.

  Jessica had lost track of the number of people who had come through the front door in the past few hours bringing food and offering help, loving hugs, a prayer or two. Mom Pierce had taken it upon herself to keep a list of visitors.

  The house smelled richly of fried chicken and baked ham and liver and onions and apple cobbler. Any other time, Jessica would have tasted a little of everything. Today she had to force the bites down, reminding herself she was feeding the baby.

  The baby... Archer should be here right now to share the joy with me.

  She wanted to go into their bedroom and look at his picture and smell the scent of him in the room. If she could just open the closet door and inhale and close her eyes, she could imagine for a few seconds that he was nearby. If she didn’t have all these witnesses in the house she would talk out loud to him and give him the news and imagine his response.

  Oh, Archer, where are you?

  And yet she knew these dear people also felt the impact of the horror. They needed to feel as if they were doing something. She couldn’t turn them away. She could, however, escape for a few minutes—if Mom Pierce and Mrs. Netz and the rest of the visitors would let her get out of the chair. How did they spell overprotective?

  The front door opened once again. Jessica looked up expectantly, as she did every time someone new arrived; Archer could be the very next one to cross the threshold.

  This time it was her father, his jeans and chambray shirt and well-worn work boots covered with grass from mowing the lawn—he’d obviously finished the job in the dark.

  He looked straight at her over the heads of the company. “Heard anything, punkin’?”

  She took comfort from the earnest compassion in those shy hazel eyes. Her father hadn’t always known how to express his gentler feelings when she was growing up, but lately she had been able to understand the meaning behind his awkward gestures. “Not yet, Daddy. Why don’t you come on in and—”

  “Mr. Lane, why don’t I get you a tall glass of tea?” Mom Pierce strode across the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know you must be hot and tired after chopping down that forest out there.”

  Daddy looked down at his clothes again, dusted his hands off on his jeans. “Naw, I can get a drink from the spigot out back. Don’t want to track grass all through—”

  “Nonsense, this house has had plenty of grass tracked through it.” Eileen gently drew him toward the kitchen archway. “I tell you, lawn mowing was almost a full-time job when we lived here. I like living in a townhouse and letting someone else do the yard work for us.”

  “And how about some cake.” Helen Netz jumped up and followed her friend, obviously eager to be of service to somebody. She turned to include the rest of the visitors in her invitation. “The Amish family down the road from us brought a gallon of their rich whole milk, straight from the cow. I swear that’s the best stuff I’ve ever tasted, like pure cream, and if someone else doesn’t drink it I’ll have to take it home with me and down the whole gallon myself, and then John’ll make me go with him on his exercise excursions all over town...”

  While Dad protested about leaving grass stains on the carpet and Helen and Eileen assured him they would clean it up, the majority of the visitors either made their farewells or drifted toward the kitchen and dining room for an evening snack.

  Jessica sat back in relief. Mom Pierce had taken Jessica’s unspoken cue and easily settled into the role of hostess once again.

  ***

  On impulse, Mitchell made a small detour and drove past Archer Pierce’s house on his way home from the clinic. He counted seven cars parked along the street and two more in the driveway. He drove past without stopping, frowning at the incongruity. A local pastor turns up missing and everyone in town—probably everyone in the Ozarks—knows about it. A local physician’s daughter comes home after being gone for years and not a word is said.

  Would anyone care if they knew?

  It was possible that the one person who might have cared was the person they were searching for.

  Irritated by his own thoughts, Mitchell made a U-turn. Time to get home.

  He couldn’t help wondering how Archer’s wife was taking the pressure. Was she experiencing that perfect peace that he’d heard Christians claim to have?

  He doubted it. Nothing could ease the pain of loss he had felt when Trisha ran away from home. Both times.

  Perhaps if he were to speak with Jessica, maybe let her know he understood what she was going through... He touched the brake pedal as he thought about it but when he passed the house again and saw those cars parked along the curb he hit the accelerator and drove past. She certainly didn’t need more company.

  Not only had the news of Archer’s disappearance been announced at least ten times over the course of the day on the radio—the secretary insisted on keeping it on all day—but the announcer who came on at noon kept referring to the search for “the body” of Archer Pierce

  As if he was already dead.

  Something about that offended Mitchell. How dare they assume such a thing?

  And then tonight Grant ruined what was left of the day. It must take a special type of self-control to be so polite when you’re thrusting a knife blade into someone’s back.

  Would the hospital try to alienate Mitchell’s patients from him? Would they even call him if one of his patients needed treatment for
any reason? He’d had no experience with this kind of thing before. Of course he’d had no experience—it wasn’t as if he were an alcoholic or a drug addict!

  He pulled the Audi into the rear garage and pressed the remote to close the overhead door.

  He walked from one garage to the other and switched on the light. He had not removed the dented, muddy brush guard from the Envoy, and as he looked at the SUV he felt a subtle tightening along his neck and shoulder muscles, as if a weight were pressing down on him.

  What was he missing?

  When he walked into the rear foyer of the house from the garage, the lights were on in the kitchen and great room but all was silent. No radio. No television.

  “Trisha?”

  He checked the guest bedroom, which he hoped would be her bedroom for quite some time. The door was open, the room empty.

  After a few minutes of searching he realized Trisha wasn’t in the house. But what did it matter? The girl was past the age of accountability even if she did look like a starving waif. If she stayed home long enough he hoped to feed her back to health.

  What he didn’t want to think about was where she had gone. Was she meeting someone? Was she looking for a meth fix?

  If not, then how long would it be before she did so? He knew the statistics. Every time a meth addict took the drug that dose would make it more difficult to break the cycle. If he continued he could expect the habit to last about eight years. Then he died. She’d been at this for how long? Nearly four years?

  He didn’t know how to help her. She probably wouldn’t stay home long without her mother. Without Darla here, he didn’t even know how to pretend to be a family.

  He sank down onto a living room chair and cradled his forehead in his hands, feeling as if his own life were being stolen from him. He’d been taken off the call list. He’d been taken off the ER schedule.

  Perhaps if he called Grant at home they might talk.

  But who was he trying to convince? Would he be able to give a better explanation about his activities? How could he do that if he didn’t understand them, himself? Maybe he should put out some feelers to see exactly what Grant meant by “help.”

  Or maybe, if he kept his mouth shut and stayed away from the hospital for a while except to make rounds, all this would blow over. All he had to do was make sure he always waited until he got home to take the Tranquen. Simple. Any brainless idiot could figure that out.

  So why couldn’t he wait?

  Perhaps a few sleepless nights would be preferable to this nightmare.

  ***

  “I’m gonna take off now, punkin’.”

  Jessica looked up to see her father pulling on his bill cap and hunkering down beside her chair. “Okay, Dad. I guess you’ve got some animals to feed at home.”

  “Got a couple of cows getting ready to calve. Hounds’ll be hungry.” He looked down at his work boots, his weathered face lined with worry. “Guess you got plenty of people here to watch out for you. Everything looks up to snuff outside, I think.”

  She eased down the footrest of the recliner. “I’ll be okay, Daddy.” Daddy. She longed to be able to tell him he would be a granddaddy in a few months. There would be time after they found Archer.

  She eased up from the chair and stood. She didn’t feel dizzy. She felt strong enough to go searching for Archer again.

  “Guess I’ll be back up tomorrow,” Dad said. “I’d like to help more with the search. Don’t know what good I’ll be but I’ve hunted down a few cows in my time. Might be an extra pair of eyes when they’re needed.” He paused. “Besides, I need to make sure my girl’s okay.”

  “Oh, Daddy.” Jessica laid her head against his shoulder and let the tears come while he patted her awkwardly on the arm. “I know he’s out there somewhere and I don’t believe he’s dead. I can’t believe that.”

  “Well, might be you oughta keep believin’ he’s hangin’ on. I might bring Coot with me tomorrow. He’d be more likely to sniff Archer out than those other dogs. He already knows the scent.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.” She gave him a final hug and let him go. As she watched him drive away she placed a hand over her abdomen.

  Under cover of the chatter in the kitchen she stepped down the hallway into the master bedroom, switched on the lamp, and closed the door behind her. Their wedding picture graced the bureau beneath the mirror on the far side of the room. She walked over to it and picked it up, and reverently caressed the carved wood frame. She gazed into those precious blue eyes of her husband for a long moment.

  “How I love you, Archer,” she whispered. “Now more than ever. I can’t wait to tell you about the baby. When we find you I hope no one lets the news slip before I have the chance to tell you about it. I want to see your reaction, to watch your face, to see your happiness.”

  Holding the picture against her chest with one arm, she strolled over to the framed miniaturized sheet music of a song she had written a few months after she first met Archer. “Diamond in the Rough.” She sang it in her show. She had never won an award for it, as she had some of the others. It had never hit the charts. But it was one of her favorite songs and one of Archer’s. For her birthday last year he had surprised her with this framed copy of the complete song. He was always doing things like that. It was one reason she loved him so much.

  She closed her eyes and softly whispered a few lines from the song. “Don’t forget, when times are tough, you’re a diamond in the rough. He wants you to reflect His light, like a jewel glowing in the night.” Archer had been the one to convince her that God had all the power necessary to use the pain in life for goodness.

  She opened the closet door and allowed the familiar scents to waft across her. She could almost feel his presence.

  There was a knock at the door. “Jessica?” The familiar female voice startled her from the bittersweet drift of imagination. Helen.

  “Yes?”

  “You okay in there?”

  “I’m fine.” Keep the voice pleasant. “What can I do for you?”

  “I was just checking on you.”

  Jessica knew the lady was hovering at the other side of the door and she finally relented and opened it. Helen stood there with her hands clasped together in front of her.

  Patience, Jess. Got to have patience. “Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Netz.”

  “I certainly didn’t intend to be hurtful earlier. I just felt I might be able to help you see the importance of faith and faithfulness, the way I see it, anyway.”

  “Thank you for wanting to help,” Jessica said. “I agree that I probably have a lot to learn about faith in God because I haven’t been a Christian for very many years. I don’t feel that my doubts or my fear for Archer’s life will end his life.” Just as you didn’t cause your children’s deaths because you couldn’t work up enough faith to protect them, Helen.

  “Yes, but the Bible says if we don’t have faith—”

  “Jessica?” Eileen came walking down the hallway toward them. Her face had lost its healthy color. Her steps were unsteady.

  “Mom? What is it?”

  Eileen reached for her, gripped her hands hard, drew her into a tight embrace. “Oh, honey, Dwight just arrived. They’re pulling a body from—”

  “No!” Jessica screamed the word. “Oh, God, no, no. Please!”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Lauren covered her right ear with her free hand and placed the receiver over her left as she waited for someone at the Sheldon household to pick up while trying to ignore the tension behind her in the Pierce kitchen. She would have used the extension in the den but there were people everywhere. Her cell phone was at home where she usually left it.

  Word had obviously spread that Archer’s parents were in town—some twenty visitors were congregated in tearful prayer groups around the house.

  Eileen Pierce sat with both arms around Jessica at the kitchen table while John Netz prayed aloud, voice filled with tears. Helen cried with heartbroken sobs.

/>   All they could do was wait for further word. The rescuers were having a difficult time getting the body out of the water, according to Dwight, who was pacing in front of the living room door with his cell phone in his hand, as if his diligence would prevent more bad news from entering the house.

  Nobody knew the identity of the victim yet but no one else had been reported missing in the county.

  “Hello?” Brooke answered the phone.

  “Brooke, this is Lauren.” She spoke as softly as possible. “Is your dad there?”

  “He’s outside tending the barbecue grill. When are you coming over? We thought you’d be here an hour ago. Beau’s fixed your favorite barbecue sauce.”

  “Well, something has come—”

  “I told Beau specifically not to fix chocolate cake but he’s making your favorite fruit salad.”

  “Oh. Brooke, I’m so sorry about this, but—”

  “Lauren, don’t you dare tell me you’re going to stand us up.”

  At the table behind her, William Butler took up the thread of prayer.

  “Lauren?” Brooke said.

  “I’m sorry honey, I’ll explain later. Why don’t you go ahead and start without me.”

  There was a long silence.

  Lauren cleared her throat. “Brooke, I—”

  “You’re not coming, are you?”

  “Probably not tonight. I’ll have to talk to you later, okay?”

  A long silence, then a heavy sigh. “Oh.” There was definitely hurt in Brooke’s voice. Until they knew for sure the identity of the victim she didn’t want to say any more and she was secretly furious at Dwight for barging in with the awful news without waiting to see if it was Archer.

  “Thanks for at least calling,” Brooke said.

  “I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Yeah. Sure. Bye.” The line disconnected.

  Lauren joined the others at the table as Muriel Stark’s quiet entreaty to God filled the silence.

  ***