by Janette Oke
“No—I wouldn’t imagine.” Somehow they had fallen into step and were heading toward the cafeteria. “Instead of helping others to prepare for battle, you’ve had a battle of your own to work through.”
Christine nodded.
“How is Henry since his discharge?”
“I don’t know,” Christine admitted after giving her answer some careful thought. “At times, I think just fine. And then he . . . he hits a mood. Henry was never moody. Never.”
“It’s not unexpected.” He sounded all doctor now. “Many people with Henry’s type of trauma go through that emotional crisis.”
Christine was alarmed. They had not been told. “Will it go away?” she asked.
“Usually. Almost always, in fact. But it takes time. Henry took quite a blow to the head. Brain bruise, we call it. There’s a much more technical term, but folks get the idea when we call it brain bruise.”
Christine nodded. She did get somewhat of a mental image of the injury.
“How long—?”
“We can never say. It depends on so many factors.”
They had reached the cafeteria door, and he held it for her.
“The coffee here is a shade better than it is upstairs. But you might like to try the tea.”
“Actually, I was thinking of something cold. Maybe a cola.”
“Cola sounds good.”
He held her chair while she settled at the small table, then ordered two colas from the young waitress in the striped apron and stiff cap.
“Your folks have left the city?” he asked as the young woman—“Molly” from her name tag—placed the frosty glasses in front of them.
“Yes. They went home last Thursday. Dad had to get back to work. He suggested that Mom stay—but she surprised me. She insisted on going home. I guess that means her mind is quite a bit more at ease about Henry.”
“Mrs. Delaney seems to be doing well.”
“Amber? Yes. She was quite cheerful tonight. Counting the days until she is able to be released.”
“I can’t understand it,” he said, throwing up a hand in mock distress. “Here we take such good care of them. Bring them breakfast in bed every morning, rub their backs every night, wait on them hand and foot—and they still can’t wait to check out of our hospital.”
Christine sensed his light banter was meant to help her relax.
“Except one dear old soul,” he chuckled. “We had to practically push her out the door, and every time we turned around she was back in again. Her shoulder ached or her toe hurt— anything. Anything at all. I was told she kept her hospital suitcase packed so she’d be all ready to go should she feel a twinge. Dear Miss Ache-a-lot.”
“That was her name?”
“No—not officially.”
Christine laughed.
He placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Tell me about Hope Canteen.”
“I haven’t been there for so long I feel out of touch,” she admitted.
“Almost two weeks,” he said. “Two weeks tomorrow.”
She was surprised.
“I’ve gone a couple times. Wanted to see it for myself. It’s quite a place. They told me they miss you.”
Christine felt her cheeks flush.
“Do you think you can make it back before too long?”
“I . . . I hope so. Henry spends the days with Amber, but he . . . he likes to have time with Danny in the evenings. So I visit the hospital then. Not that I wouldn’t anyway,” she hastened to add.
She toyed with the glass in her hand. “It’s just . . . well, everything has been so . . . so disrupted. Sort of . . . fallen out of routine. It’s hard to get back in step again.”
He nodded.
“They have a batch of fresh recruits who are regulars now,” he informed her.
“They do?”
“Fresh off the farms. And city streets, too, I would imagine.
Just kids.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Some of them look scared. The cocky ones might be scared, too, but their bluff is better.”
Christine shook her head. “It’s the really young ones that bother me. Sending them off to war like that.”
“I think the day will come when we’ll look back and realize just how much we owe them.” His words were solemn.
“I wish the war was over. I wish . . . I’m so afraid—they won’t come back.”
She was glad he didn’t try to reassure her with empty, foolish words. They both knew many of the young soldiers would not be coming back. The grim reality of war meant someone’s husband, someone’s brother would shortly leave the shores of Canada for the last time.
“Another cola?” he asked.
Christine stirred. “No. Thank you. I must be getting home.”
She stood and he stood along with her.
“I plan on going again whenever I can find the time,” he said softly. It almost sounded like an invitation for her to join him.
“I hope to go back, too, when things . . .”
“Don’t wait too long. They need you.” He smiled. Christine gave a little nod and gathered her purse.
At long last, Amber was discharged and brought to Jon and Mary’s house by a relieved Henry and exultant Danny. “Look,” he cried before he was even in the door. “My mom is here.”
Amber was helped in and led to the couch in the living room. “I’m absolutely hopeless on crutches,” she admitted with a laugh. “I just can’t seem to find the right rhythm.”
“There is no right rhythm for crutches,” Mary responded. “I’m quite convinced of that.”
They celebrated by making ice cream, which they ate with canned strawberries and chocolate sauce. It was still too early for fresh strawberries from the back garden.
“This is the best I ever tasted,” Danny announced. Christine was sure that even spinach would have tasted good to the youngster in his excitement. “Are we going home now, Dad?”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Henry smiled. “We’ll see.”
Henry had a visit to make to the local RCMP office the next morning. After consultations with his doctors, they would decide what would be done with Henry. Christine knew Henry was undoubtedly anxious. She prayed inwardly that things might go well.
Amber retired early after her exhausting day. Christine was sure they were all feeling it. She would have liked to slip off to her room as well, but she did not want to leave Henry all alone.
Mary and Jon had left for a meeting at the church.
“Amber is looking much better,” she noted as they settled in the living room after tucking Danny in.
Henry nodded. “I think she finally has accepted the loss of our child. Pastor Blessing—isn’t that an interesting name for a pastor—has called on her a number of times. It has helped.”
“She told me.”
“For one thing, he told her the baby could have been severely damaged by the accident. It was much kinder of God to take the little one home than for the baby to suffer with some awful handicap.”
“Do you believe that?”
“What? That the baby could have been injured? Of course.”
“That it was kinder to take it?”
Henry shook his head. “I’m not sure. Amber and I would have loved and accepted him—or her—regardless. As to the handicap bringing suffering—it depends. Many handicapped people live a full, rich life. I wouldn’t take that away from them. We just don’t understand their world, that’s all.”
“There’s a young man who helps at Hope Canteen. He . . . has Down syndrome, I guess . . . but he . . . he’s always happy. He pours coffee and passes out sandwiches, and everywhere he goes he is grinning and calling out to people. I sometimes think he brings more joy to others than any of the rest of us do.”
“I guess it would depend on whether the handicap also brought unbearable pain.”
“Yes—but even then, how do we know if the joy of just being alive—of interacting with others—outweighs
the pain?”
“I’m glad the decision is not mine—but God’s.”
Christine let the minutes tick by.
“I met that young doctor again. Did I tell you?” she said eventually.
“Eric Carlton?”
“Eric? Is that his name? Well, I literally bumped into him at the hospital. We had a cola. He’s been going to Hope Canteen some. He’s as disturbed over all those young people going off to war as I am.”
“They’re not all young, you know. Many husbands and fathers are also—”
“I know. But it is basically the young ones whom we see at the canteen. They are the ones who are looking for some way to fill their evenings. Something to distract their attention.”
“I’m glad he’s going over there. He should be good with them.”
“Yes. I think so. He said—perhaps it was just meant as an encouragement—but he said they are missing me.”
“I’m sure they are.” Henry stretched out long legs and leaned back. “Well, your life should soon be able to return to normal.”
“And yours?”
“It depends what they say tomorrow. I do feel a bit better about it all. I seem to be able to concentrate better, and I don’t . . . well, I’ve been able, with God’s help, to work through the anger. I must admit I still worry some. If I’m not seen to be fit for work, I’m not sure what we’ll do. I sure wouldn’t want Amber to have to support the family by cutting hair all her life.”
“Oh, Henry—it won’t come to that.”
He smiled but it looked a bit crooked. “Well, whatever comes, I have finally been able to leave it in God’s hands. I love my work—you know that. But if I am not considered fit enough to continue, I’m sure God, as you said, can work out some good. At least I still have my wife and son. After an auto accident like we had, I am truly blessed.”
The chorus of the song started through Christine’s mind once more.
“You know, Chrissy,” Henry went on quietly, “if I am allowed to continue with the RCMP, I’m not sure how I will ever handle it if I have to walk up to some door and inform parents—or a wife, or husband—that someone they love has just been killed or badly injured. I had to give that awful message to Amber those many years ago. I thought I had empathy then, but being through the accident myself, I know what devastation it brings to so many lives.”
“If that time comes, you’ll find the strength. He’ll give it to you.”
“He’ll have to. I’ll not be able to handle it on my own.”
CHAPTER
Seventeen
The warm June evening did not call for the sweater Christine carried on her arm. But she was bringing it along to the service center to please Aunt Mary, who had suggested she might need it later. Life had indeed returned to normal. Henry and Amber and Danny were back in their own home. Henry was assessed to be physically and mentally fit, and he had been allowed to resume his policing duties. A new officer replaced Milton. The young man decided the RCMP hadn’t turned out to be what he had imagined after all. He joined the RAF and was supposedly on his way to Britain to help rout the Nazis. Laray had been given a promotion for his handling of the office in the absence of Henry. Christine was pleased for Laray. But she pushed thoughts of him aside as she reached for the door handle.
“I shouldn’t be too late,” she called to her aunt.
“Have a good evening, dear,” Mary responded just as the hall phone rang.
“Do you want me to get it? I’m still right here,” Christine called again.
“Please, dear.”
Christine lifted the receiver, hoping to hear her mother’s voice. “Hello.” “Hello. Miss Delaney?”
“Yes?” Christine was hesitant.
“This is Eric Carlton. Remember me? The cola and coffee guy?” There was teasing in his voice.
“Of course. How are you?” Christine was more than a little surprised.
“I’m great. Just great. In fact—I’d like to celebrate. And I thought of you.”
Christine frowned. Did the doctor have the right number? She hadn’t even spoken to him in weeks.
“I’m listening,” she managed.
“I just completed my residency and have been offered a position. Right here at General.”
“That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”
“Thank you. So . . . I know this is . . . rather out of the blue. But I wondered if I could ask you to help me celebrate being a working, full-fledged doctor of medicine.” He finished in rather a rush.
“I . . . I was just going out the door. Down to Hope Canteen.”
“To help out?”
“Yes.”
“Do they expect you?”
“Well . . . not definitely. I mean, I go when I can. We all do.”
“So if you didn’t show up, you wouldn’t be breaking a promise.”
Christine hesitated. “No . . . not really.”
“Then would you mind changing your plans?”
Christine was caught totally off guard. “What . . . what did you have in mind?”
“Dinner.”
“I’ve had dinner.”
“Then would you come with me and watch me eat?” She could tell by his voice he was joking again. “Seriously,” he hurried on, “I will grab a bite here at the cafeteria and pick you up about seven. There is a concert tonight at the Opera Hall—full orchestra. I thought we might catch that if you’re interested. Then pop out for coffee afterward. Promise—I’ll try to find something better than what you’d get here.”
“A concert?”
“It’s billed as a tribute to Mozart.”
“Mozart?” She was sounding awfully dense, she knew.
“How about it?”
“I guess I could. Yes, that will be fine.”
“Thanks. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Christine cradled the phone, still in shock. The call was so totally unexpected. She had almost forgotten that Eric Carlton even existed. Without her daily trips to the hospital, she had pushed all thoughts of the whole experience from her mind. Now she stood dumbly looking down at her skirt and blouse, trying to get through her benumbed brain that if she was going to a concert instead of the service center, she had to change. But she wasn’t moving.
“Who was it, dear? Your mother?”
Christine stirred. “No. No . . . a friend. I’ve been invited to a concert.”
“That’s nice. You need to get out more.”
Christine turned and slowly climbed the steps to her room, her sweater still over her arm. She guessed she wouldn’t be needing that either.
It had been so long since she had gone out for an evening of entertainment that she scarcely knew where to start in getting prepared. At last she shook out her mental cobwebs and headed for her closet. She had the lovely suit from Henry’s wedding. She had scarcely worn it since. It had seemed a bit too dressy for church. She pulled it out and stood looking at it, then one hand reached out and brushed the smooth material. Yes, she would wear it. It should be fine for the concert.
She had showered that morning, but she decided it didn’t seem right to put on the beautiful suit without first bathing.
She sprinkled bath salts liberally in the water as she filled the tub. The pleasing aroma was deliciously jasmine. Not too strong, but rich enough to be noticed.
Once in her suit, she sat down at the dressing table. She would have to do something with her hair. Her usual casual style didn’t go with the fancy suit at all. She wound it this way, tucked it up that way, and liked nothing she tried. At last she picked out some decorative combs Henry had given her one Christmas. She brushed it back and up, pinned it with the combs, then let it fall in a cascade about her shoulders. It wasn’t perfect, to her thinking, but it would do.
She was just patting a bit of powder on her nose when she heard the doorbell. Gathering her purse and her self-confidence, she slowly descended the stairs.
She hardly recognized him as the same man without his st
ark hospital whites. A dapper, black-striped, double-breasted suit included a handkerchief that matched his checked tie tucked in the pocket. The white shirt fairly rustled with crispness. For one brief moment they stood and stared at each other. Then he seemed to recover and smiled. “Miss Delaney.”
He held out a bouquet of flowers.
Christine noticed that Aunt Mary, who had answered the door, had not moved. First looking from one to the other, she then reached out a hand and took the flowers from Christine. “I’ll take care for those for you if you like. You mustn’t be late.”
Christine managed a nod.
“Shall we?” He offered his arm, and Christine accepted it tentatively.
“It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Thatcher,” he said with a nod of his head to Mary.
“Have a nice evening,” she answered, and the door closed behind them.
He didn’t say that she looked lovely. At least not verbally. But Christine got the clear message from his frank approval. He did thank her for accepting his last-minute invitation.
“It wasn’t fair of me,” he admitted as he helped her into the car. “But I just had to try. I thought of you, Christine, the moment I realized I had something to celebrate.”
Christine was surprised. She had hardly remembered their encounters at the hospital.
“In fact, were I to be totally truthful, I’d have to admit that I’ve been doing a good deal of thinking about you over the recent months. But I wanted to get this residency thing out of the way,” he said as he put the car in gear.
Christine flushed, not quite sure what she was to read into his words.
“I haven’t even made it down to Hope Canteen like I’d planned.”
Christine had noticed that—at first. Then it had slipped from her mind, and she’d forgotten all about it. She knew doctors were kept busy.
The concert turned out to be delightful. Christine felt herself becoming totally absorbed by the music. It had been so long since she had been able to sit and thoroughly enjoy something beyond her work and her family. And to be able to forget, momentarily, all the struggles and conflicts of the world. She felt herself relaxing, her mind clearing, her emotions soaring with the music.
Eric caught her eye and gave her a smile. For one moment she wondered if he might reach for her hand and spoil everything, but he did not and she was able to relax again. Soon she forgot everything but the music. The wonderful music that washed over and around her. When they played the slow movement of Mozart’s piano concerto number 21 in C, she closed her eyes and rested against the seat back. That is musical perfection, she mused. Truly Mozart had been a genius. A gift to the world from the Creator of all things beautiful.