Jenna groaned. “Is she mad?”
“Working at it.”
Jenna moved her head around to pull out the kinks. “What time is it?”
Heather leaned forward to see the digital clock on the nightstand. “Noon.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes. I was hungry.”
For a change. Thanks to the life-giving blood. So her mother was ticked off that she hadn’t called back. Well, Jenna was ticked off too. Her mother could have managed to be here for Christmas if she’d put her foot down. Now, that would be a miracle indeed. “What did you have?”
“A waffle in the toaster.”
“Good thing I froze the rest, huh?” While Heather had been sleeping yesterday, she’d baked and frozen the remaining waffles. “That sounds good. Put one in for me, will you, please?”
“Are we making fudge and divinity today?”
“Fudge for sure. You feel up to making Rice Krispies cookies?”
Heather snorted and laid the back of her hand against her forehead, drama-style, mimicking a television ad. “I think I can, like, manage. Divinity?”
Making divinity always made Jenna think of Arlen. It was his favorite. She’d mailed a tin of divinity to more than one far-flung base those early years. “I guess so.”
When Jenna finished her waffle, Heather handed her the phone. “Call your mother.”
Jenna hit three on the speed dial and waited for her mother to pick up. Four rings and the answering machine clicked on. Relieved and feeling guilty about feeling relieved, she left a message, including “Now it’s your turn.” After clearing off the breakfast things, she wandered into the living room, where Christmas music played softly. Heather and Elmer had taken over the couch again, both sound asleep. He had the grace to open one eye.
Jenna left the room and went back to the kitchen to toss a load in the washing machine. She eyed her to-do list. Heather’s handwriting made her smile. “Number one: grocery shopping. Number two: pay the bills. Number three: take a nap.” Maybe that wasn’t such a bad idea. An afghan and the recliner?
She made the marshmallow crème fudge recipe, easy since she’d bought walnut pieces, put the square pan of fudge in the fridge to set up and took the mixing bowl and a spoon into the living room. There was something extra good about licking the utensils.
“You brought that for me?” Heather was awake again.
Jenna handed her the bowl. “I’ll be right back.” She returned with another spoon and the two of them scraped the bowl clean. Watching Heather lick the last smidgeon off her spoon struck Jenna a blow to the solar plexus. She’d better file this memory away with all the others. A possible last-time event. Such a silly thing, making fudge. Would it help in the years ahead to beat off the loneliness? Would she work all the holidays so that those who had families could be home with theirs? Hard work was a fairly effective antidote for painful memories. Faith, sister. You got to have faith, she ordered herself. But she had to turn away so Heather wouldn’t see the tears.
“Mom, it’s okay.” Heather leaned against her mother’s back. “I know you are thinking ‘last-time, build a memory’ thing because I do that so often too. But you are so strong and I don’t want to bring you down.”
“So neither of us say what we really want to—need to—say to each other, huh?” Jenna turned and wrapped her arms around her daughter. “Okay, here goes. Ah, Heather, I can’t bear the thought of you leaving me. But I can’t stand to see you suffer like this either. I pray and pray for God to heal you and He hasn’t.”
Heather wiped her tears on her mother’s shirt. “Now, it’s my turn. Don’t freak, Mom, but sometimes I lay in bed and think of heaven. It has to be a wonderful place. And when I can’t get enough air, I think about running through meadows there, singing and twirling. I can breathe.”
“But I want you healed this side of heaven. I want to see you run and laugh and twirl myself, here on earth. I want you to fall in love and get married and have children. At least one daughter, because I want you to have the same joys I’ve had.” Jenna reached for the box of tissues on the end table.
Her daughter’s gaze was shy. “I’ve wanted to talk about these things with you. Here’s more. Sometimes I think I see Jesus standing at the foot of my bed. But He hasn’t said ‘Come with Me’ and so I know it isn’t time yet.”
Oh, God, I can’t endure this. Jenna blew her nose and mopped her eyes. “I think I’m drowning.” She blew again. “Do you think of dying a lot?”
“No, but when it comes, I am ready.”
Jenna clutched her daughter more tightly. Lord, take me instead. Let her have a life. Quiet stole around them, until Elmer inserted himself into their tangle of arms, his purring bringing even more peace. “Heather, I want you to know that I will fight for your life to the very end, but if you can communicate, even if only a squeeze of the hand, I’ll know you know and you don’t have to wait around to take care of me.”
“And you won’t stay mad at God?”
“Not forever.”
“I get mad at Him once in a while.” Snuggled in her mother’s arms as if she were three instead of twenty, Heather’s voice took on a dreamy quality. “Not as much now as I used to. I wanted to get out there and play with the other kids, but I couldn’t. It just wasn’t fair.”
“No, that’s one thing I’ve learned, life is not fair.”
“But you and I do things, you know, like cooking and making cards. I love making cards, and if I had all the other stuff, we might not have had that.” She glanced over at the wall cabinet, which housed all their supplies. “We almost need a separate room for our stuff.”
“I know.”
“I just wish you didn’t have to work so hard.”
Was there gentle judgment in that comment? Jenna’s ever-present guilt sniffed for it. As she watched Heather gather her long hair into her hands and then let the gold cascade, she recalled the other small form with gilded hair. Had the child made it to surgery? Made it through surgery? She hadn’t even opened the paper, not that there had been much time. She stroked Heather’s hair, hair soft and fine, like when she’d been little. A few years earlier, they’d tried a perm on it, since Heather had always wanted thicker hair. What a disaster, but it hadn’t held. Most likely due to all the meds she was on. “But you do know that I love my job.”
“I know.” Silence again.
Jenna leaned her cheek on Heather’s head. They sniffed in unison.
“Okay, as long as we’re sharing, you know what I want for you?” Heather asked.
“No, what?” Jenna stared at the lighted tree. If she didn’t get up, she’d fall asleep. Yet she couldn’t move.
“I want you to get married again. I’ve been praying for a man for you to love and who loves you as much as Daddy did.”
“Well, don’t go trying to set me up, okay? I’ve had enough of that through the years.” One blind date after another. Too many.
“I won’t. But keep in mind that I’m praying for that.”
The way God answered prayers for them, she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Jenna sighed. “How about a piece of fudge?”
Chapter Seven
Nora
We have to talk with them.” Gordon had just returned to the ICU from filling out and signing all the forms. He brought some back up with him. They stood sentinel around Charlie’s bed. He looked no different than the first time she had seen him. Wake up, Charlie. You’ve got to fight. Nora’s eyes were scratchy. If she closed them, they would flood with tears. Gordon, on the other hand, was a mess. Bags under his eyes and the sides of his face seemed to have slipped down around his jawbone. He, who was so vital, looked faded like a photo left in the sun too long.
“Not right now, all right?”
“But, Nora, if there is a chance the transplant team could harvest some of the organs and help others, surely—”
“Dad,” Christi interrupted. “Charlie is still alive. I know. I can feel him. And if he ca
n hear us, what would he think—harvesting?” Christi’s voice shook.
Nora turned her back on her husband. “That we gave up, that’s what he’d think and then maybe he’d give up.” Hot, flicking flames of rage assailed her stomach. She couldn’t stand to look at him. Always the realist, that’s what Gordon was. How could he accept Charlie’s death so easily, when the monitors indicated otherwise? She stared at the monitors. Heartbeat was slow, within range, but Nora knew it was the ventilator working for him. And yet, if they took him off the ventilator and he died right away, they wouldn’t be able to use any of his organs. And Charlie had said he wanted to be an organ donor. No parent should have to make this choice. Lord God, what am I—what are we—to do?
Gordon cleared his throat. “I called Pastor Luke.”
“Thank you.” Nora stared at her son’s face on the white pillow, hoping, praying for any sign that he heard them. Was he paralyzed? She’d not thought to ask them that. But, surely, one needed a spinal cord injury to be paralyzed. They would have mentioned that if… If only she could shut off her mind. The Bible said, “Be still and know that I am God.” She was still as could be, but He didn’t seem any nearer, if present at all. And there was no way she could keep her mind from chasing rabbit trails faster than Betsy did.
She looked over at Christi, who had her eyes closed. Hopefully, she was getting through to the heavenly throne room better than she was. Lord, please, I’ll do anything, give up anything, just restore my son. What could she possibly give up that neared the value of Charlie’s life? At the moment, nothing else held any meaning whatsoever.
Gordon brought in another chair and set it just behind hers. Why were they letting the family stay all the time like this? Wasn’t the ICU run on a strict “five-minute visit per hour” routine? Somewhere in all her volunteer information she thought she remembered reading that.
The need to use the restroom drove her from her chair. “I’ll be right back.”
“Can I get you anything?” Gordon asked.
“No. Restroom.” She hurried from the room, only stopping on the way to tell the nurse where she was going.
“I’ll watch for you to beep you back in,” the nurse behind the counter assured her.
“Thanks.” Why was it that even the most minuscule act of kindness triggered the tears?
She hurried through her business, then wet a paper towel and laid the cool surface against her cheeks. With a sigh, she turned away and tossed it in the trash. Cold water could not drive the heat away.
Back in her chair, she avoided Gordon’s gaze and laid her hand over Charlie’s again. Christi remained in her chair, unmoving, eyes closed. “Sorry to have to leave, but nature called, you know? Son, if you can hear me, I’m just reminding you that I love you. We all love you and we’re praying God will give you back to us.” Was that right? Technically, God hadn’t taken him away yet. Charlie was still here. Christi had laid her head on the cotton blanket near Charlie’s hand. Was she sleeping? Would be good if someone could. This might be a long vigil.
A nurse came in, checked the lines, asked if there was anything she could get them, and when they said no, she left. Hours, or was it minutes, beeped by as the monitors marked time. Her mind played tricks on her, flipping back to happier days, to the time Christi had been in the hospital with dehydration from the flu. Living in her head was easier than living in an ICU room.
She turned at the sound of street shoes. Gordon rose to greet their pastor and friend of ten years or more. Tall like her husband, Luke’s shoulders were beginning to curve in, as if to protect his heart, which held the grief and cares of so many. His usually merry eyes held shadows.
“Thank you for coming.” The two men shook hands and then Luke drew Gordon into his arms. When they drew apart, Gordon was blinking and fighting the tears.
Luke laid a hand on Nora’s shoulder. “Any word?”
She shook her head. “I think they’ve all given up.” She laid her cheek against his strong hand. “Just tell me that God is going to pull this one off.”
“I wish I could.”
“That’s not the right answer.”
“I know. At times like this, I have no right answers, other than God is in control and He never changes. He loves us all, all the time.”
Nora straightened. “This doesn’t feel much like love.” She tried swallowing the tears, but they overwhelmed her. She sat rigid in the chair, letting them fall, only sniffing when she had to. Gordon handed her his handkerchief and she strangled it before mopping her eyes and cheeks. “They want us to sign the organ donor papers.”
“Charlie can live on that way.”
She kept her voice even with superwoman effort. “I want Charlie with us, not pieces of him scattered all over.” She wanted to scream at him, scream at everyone. How dare they speak like that in front of Charlie?
“I know you do.”
His voice was so gentle, she could feel her face crumble again. Someone yell at me, hit me, do something so I can fight back.
“Would you like me to pray?”
“I hope you have been, like we all have been.” That was rude. What ever happened to grace under pressure? “Forgive me. Of course we want you to pray.” She knew the promise: “Where two or three are gathered in My name, there I will be in the midst of them.” Okay, God, You promised, now it’s time to live up to that promise.
Luke took one of her hands and Gordon the other. Christi rose, blinking, and came around the bed to join them. Nora clutched Charlie’s hand, like plugging in a lifeline.
“Father God, we come to You so broken and hurting that we can hardly speak. We thank You that Your Holy Spirit is praying with and for us with words beyond what we know. You and You alone have the power to restore Charlie to his family, to our greater family. He is a son to be proud of and we rejoice for all the years we have known him. We know that he is Your child, that You are his Lord. We are asking, pleading, that You will show us mercy and restore this young man to us. Heal his injuries, heal his body, soul and mind. We ask also for Your grace to get us through this horrendous trial. You said You would never leave us and we cling to that promise. In Your son’s precious name. Amen.” He squeezed Nora’s hand, but he didn’t let go.
She glanced up to see tears streaming down Gordon’s face as he stared at his son. She handed him back his handkerchief and glanced around to locate a box of tissues, always brought with the bag of supplies. In this room, however, no nightstand stood next to the bed. No plastic bag with a basin, tissues, toothpaste, toothbrush. Her brain froze on the meaning.
Even though Charlie was in the ICU, where patients came to get well, neither the doctors nor the nurses had expected that to happen here. They had decided Charlie was already dead.
She half rose from her chair, then sat back down again. “Pardon me, I’ll be right back.” She strode out to the nurses’ command center and stood. A man in blue scrubs tapping on a computer keyboard looked up.
“How may I help you?”
Nora regarded him silently, her heart beginning to seize, its beating in her ears turning to a rush. She did not know how he could help her. She did not know why she was standing there. Think, think. Oh, yes. She’d fled the room to… to… find someone who would say that her beautiful Charlie was not dead.
“Um.” She began to rock forward and backward, arms clutched around herself. Somebody tell me Charlie is not dead.
“Perhaps some water? Which patient are you here to see?”
“Charlie Peterson. I’m with Charlie Peterson. Charlie Peterson.” If she kept saying his name, she could change this terrible mistake.
“I just came on shift.” He came around the counter, smiling at her. “I’ll check his chart.” He rose and went to a hanging-file form.
The last shift. Shifts changed at seven. Was it morning already? She looked around to find a clock, then remembered her watch. Seven fifteen. The police had come to the house at, what, ten thirty or so? They’d been here over ei
ght hours. Not possible. Nora turned on her heel and returned to Charlie.
A woman in a white coat over khaki pants and a red polo shirt, wearing running shoes, greeted her from Charlie’s bedside. Gordon stepped over to Nora and put his arm around her. She grabbed his hand. Luke tried to smile at her, but it failed.
“I’m Dr. Lennings,” the woman said to Nora. She shook their hands as each of them introduced themselves.
“I’ll be leaving now, if that is all right?” Luke looked from Gordon to Nora. “Or I can wait for you in the waiting room?”
“Or you can stay,” Gordon said simply.
“If you want.”
“I do.”
The two men looked at Nora. She shrugged. Luke stayed.
The doctor studied the monitors, checked Charlie’s eye responses with her flashlight, touched the bottom of his feet with another instrument and listened to his heart and lungs. She turned to them with a slight sigh. “Charlie’s condition remains unchanged.” Another two thumps of Nora’s heart; then the doctor continued. “It’s time to go to another room and talk about our options.”
Charlie’s whole life had been options. “You want to come, Christi?” Nora asked her daughter.
“No, I’ll stay with Charlie.”
The others filed out and followed the doctor to the same room Nora had been in before. When they were seated around the table, the doctor laid her clipboard on the surface and looked each one of them in the face before beginning. “I wish I could be giving you good news, but”—she shook her head—“I can’t.” She laid her hands on the table, palms down, fingers spread. “I’m confirming what you’ve already been told. Charlie has no brain activity. He is continuing to breathe because of the ventilator. That keeps his heart pumping. But, technically, he is dead. The body cannot live for any length of time without the brain, once the machines are turned off. Now we can keep him on the machines, and if there were any hope, I would gladly tell you to do that.” She again searched their eyes. “Do you want that for your son?”
One Perfect Day Page 6