“They’re doing a lot of good things with prosthetics these days, Ted. You’ll be surprised how quickly you’ll be up and walking under your own steam again.”
The boy’s head whipped back, and he glared up at James with a combination of anger and regret. “I’m a soccer player, man. I’m the striker on my team. I’ve scored more goals than anybody ever has at Lincoln High. Soccer players don’t walk. They run!”
James had vaguely recognized the Townsend name, and now he realized he’d read about Ted in the local paper—a star high school athlete with a great future ahead of him.
A future that a single moment of carelessness had suddenly reshaped.
“Maybe you’ll be the first high school soccer player with a prosthesis,” James said in an effort to provide encouragement.
The boy hissed out an expletive. “Get outta here, man. You don’t know anything about me or soccer or anything else.” Awkwardly, he rolled onto his side, presenting James with his back.
Knowing further conversation was useless, James left and went to the lounge where the Townsends were waiting. Sitting together on a love seat holding hands, they looked as forlorn as their son, but less angry.
Mrs. Townsend hopped to her feet. “Can we go back to his room now?”
“In just a minute,” James said. “I imagine his surgeon in Springfield talked to you about the psychological effects some amputees experience.”
“Dr. Lang told us Teddy should make a full recovery,” Mr. Townsend said. “And with modern prosthetics, in time he’ll be almost as good as new.”
James indicated his agreement with the doctor’s prognosis. “Ted isn’t quite buying that yet, which is understandable. He’s grieving for his lost leg and he’ll go through all the stages of grief just as he would if he’d lost a loved one. He’ll be angry at everyone—probably including you, himself and even God—if he’s like most amputees.”
“Oh dear.” Cynthia covered her mouth with her hand and more tears welled in her eyes. “We’ve both prayed so hard since we got the call that Teddy had been injured. We wanted him at Hope Haven to be closer to home.”
Mr. Townsend looped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. “I wish I’d never given him permission to ride that bike. It’s all my fault.”
“Blaming yourselves won’t be productive,” James said gently.
“Hard not to,” Mr. Townsend said.
James nodded that he understood the problem. “As time goes by, Ted may slip into denial. He may attempt things he can no longer do and then hurt himself in the process.”
“Rest assured, I’m not going to let my boy out of my sight ever again,” Cynthia announced.
A smile tugged at James’s lips. Typical mom reaction. “You don’t have to go that far and probably shouldn’t. But it will take time for Ted to adjust to his new situation. You’ll have to be encouraging without promising the impossible and keep him focused on the long road to rehabilitation and recovery.”
“We’ll do our best,” Mr. Townsend promised.
James was sure they would. But it was still going to be a rocky road for the entire family over the next several months, long after Ted was discharged from Hope Haven.
He didn’t envy them the ride.
Before James could take a break for lunch, his cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Because of his wife’s illness and the fear that she might need him, he always carried the phone with him.
Flipping the phone open, he checked the number. Fern. His chest tightened with anxiety. He brought the phone to his ear. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, just a little more tired than usual.” Fern’s voice sounded weak, as though she was speaking to him from a great distance. “I’m just leaving Dr. Chopra’s office. The doctor’s calling in a new prescription for me.” Fern’s breath was audible. Simply talking had become an effort for her. He was glad her mother went with her to appointments. “Could you pick up the prescription on your way home?”
Fern, no doubt trying to protect him, hadn’t even mentioned this morning that she planned to see her neurologist. A skilled doctor originally from India, Amala Chopra specialized in MS cases. Today’s appointment meant Fern’s disease was cycling down again. James felt the sudden press of tears.
He cleared his throat. “Of course I can pick up the new meds. Sure you don’t need it sooner? I can run out on my lunch break.”
“No, she gave me a couple of samples. I’ll be fine ’til evening.”
“Okay, but get some rest this afternoon. Don’t overdo it.”
After telling Fern good-bye, James slipped the cell back into his pocket and closed his eyes.
Please, God, help my wife.
Chapter Two
ON THE FIRST FLOOR OF THE HOSPITAL, CANDACE stood staring at the vending machine outside the cafeteria entrance. She tucked her hand in her pocket and fiddled with her lunch money.
She wanted something to munch on but didn’t know what. Ever since she’d read the memo about the cut in salary, her stomach had been on the verge of rebellion.
A full meal would be more than she could handle.
“Doesn’t matter how long you stare at the machine. The choices aren’t going to get any better.”
She turned at the sound of Heath Carlson’s voice and smiled at the down-to-earth radiology technician. Candace had begun to think of him as a good friend.
“After this morning’s bad news, I didn’t think I could handle a full lunch,” she said.
His blond eyebrows lowered into a concerned frown. “Bad news?”
“Didn’t you see the memo?”
“Oh yeah, that.” The easy smile that creased his cheeks suggested he wasn’t worried about a little detail like money. “I was afraid you’d had some personal bad news.”
“Oh no, just the continuing assault on my bank account.”
“Sorry about that.” He slid his hand into his trouser pocket, bunching up the hem of his white medical jacket in the process. “How ’bout I treat you to an extravagant vending machine lunch?”
“No, you don’t have to do that. I’m not that broke. Not yet, anyway.” She had to admit Heath’s friendship felt increasingly important, but she wasn’t in a position to dwell on any possibility beyond the existing situation. She still thought about her late husband a great deal and was in counseling for her grief. With two young children to care for, her life was too full to add any other relationship.
“The truth is,” she said, “I hate that they’ve gone to healthy food in the vending machine. I know we should encourage it in a hospital, but I mean, really, how can they think a granola bar is a decent substitute for a giant, calorie-laden, dark chocolate bar when a girl is feeling down?”
Heath laughed out loud, a hearty masculine sound that Candace couldn’t help but enjoy.
“My mother claims chocolate is medicinal,” he said with a grin. “Says the Aztec priests were the first to figure that out.”
“Ancient truths are worth remembering.” Feeling lighter in spirit than she had since reading the morning memo in her hospital mailbox, she dropped the necessary coins into the slot and pulled the lever for a granola bar. It dropped down into the tray, where she retrieved it.
“Tell you what,” Heath said. “I’ll start a petition to require Varner to disburse chocolate bars with every bad news memo he sends out. That way employee morale won’t need a crash cart.”
“Good idea.” She smiled and saluted Heath with her granola bar.
Chocolate would be nice, but she knew it wouldn’t solve her precarious financial situation. Not with the substantial pay cut on the horizon.
In ICU, Elena scanned the three active monitors at the nurses’ station for heart rate, oxygen absorption, breathing. Though all the patients’ vital signs were steady, her car-crash victim worried her. She would be happier if he had come out of his coma by now.
From her desk, she could see her patients through the glass partitions. All seemed comforta
ble.
She would have been happier, too, if the hospital CEO hadn’t issued the memo about pay cuts. How could anyone deal with that news nine days before Christmas?
This was supposed to be a joyous time of year.
Now there was a dark cloud hanging over every employee, herself included.
Over the past few years, her special travel savings account for her trip to Spain had grown steadily month by month. But this pay cut would flatline her savings.
She’d been so hopeful and excited about the prospect of seeing—
Elena was startled from her thoughts when the monitor on her coma case beeped a warning. Before the shrill sound ceased, Elena was on her feet.
Immediately Elena saw one of the leads had been pulled off when the patient rolled over. “Easy, Mrs. Cole. You’re all right.” Elena reattached the lead and reset the monitor. The beeping stopped. The lines tracking across the monitor resumed their steady rhythm.
Crisis over, Elena exhaled and returned to the nurses’ station.
By the time James’s shift ended at three o’clock, he felt as though he’d been at a dead run all day while carrying a five-hundred-pound weight on his back.
There’d been three more admissions to his unit: a mastectomy, a perforated ulcer and a compound leg fracture in traction. All of that was in addition to young Ted Townsend, whose mood vacillated between stoic acceptance and anger at the entire world.
Poor kid. James ached for what he and his parents were going through.
Worry about Fern had contributed to the long day, he realized as he walked across the street to the Deerford Medical Services Building, which claimed HHH Pharmacy as one of its tenants. The lobby of the building was decked out with a giant Christmas tree. Swags of plastic garland draped gracefully above the entrance to the pharmacy.
James usually looked forward to the holiday season. With Fern’s MS in a bad spell and a pay cut in the offing, he felt as though a wet blanket had dampened his enthusiasm.
Instead of Harold Hopkins in his usual place behind the pharmacy counter, there was a young Asian woman. Her shiny name tag read Dee Yang, Pharmacist. She had three people waiting in line.
“Picking up a prescription for Fern Bell,” James said when it was his turn. He watched as Dee searched through a pile of filled prescriptions that apparently hadn’t been sorted alphabetically. Finally she found what she’d been looking for.
“Here you go.” She placed the pill bottle on the counter, swiped the bar code and told him the cost.
Mentally wincing at the price, he handed her a credit card. “Where’s Harold?”
She swiped the card. “He had a death in the family and had to go to Chicago for a few days.” She glanced behind James to those who had joined him in line. “Sorry for the wait.”
“No problem.” He signed the receipt she handed him. The young lady appeared inexperienced, and James gave her a smile of encouragement.
Before leaving the counter, he glanced at the label on the bottle. Fern’s name was in bold letters, and he recognized the name of the medication as one his wife hadn’t previously been taking. MS had been dragging Fern down lately, and he hoped the new medication was potent enough to reduce and control her debilitating symptoms.
He walked back to the hospital parking lot. A few minutes later, he wheeled his minivan into the driveway of his two-story brick home. The neighbor’s fifty-foot fir tree cast a long shadow across his yard, much like Fern’s multiple sclerosis touched every part of his family’s life.
James’s job was to make sure plenty of sunshine broke through whatever clouds showed up.
He parked and switched off the ignition, a sense of dread filling his chest.
He couldn’t tell Fern about the upcoming cut in pay. She’d worry and fret. He didn’t want to add to the burdens she already carried because of MS.
There were so many days when he wished he could reach inside her and physically battle her MS into permanent remission.
But that’s not how life—or medicine—worked.
James remained confident God knew what He was doing when He gave Fern the burden of a progressive disease. James just didn’t know why the Lord had picked his sweet wife.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, James drew a deep breath and got out of the van. The day had warmed to well above freezing. No ice skating today for the neighborhood kids.
He let himself into the house. In the living room, he found Fern napping on the beige microfiber couch they’d bought a few years ago. Colorful throw pillows were propped behind her back. Sapphire, their fifteen-pound Maine coon cat, lay curled up beside her in a variegated pile of silver, gray and black fur. The tufts on the tips of the cat’s ears twitched in silent recognition of James’s presence.
Fern’s walker stood next to her. That meant she’d been having a bad day, as James had feared. On good days she could get around with a cane.
She stirred in her sleep, and James was struck once again by how lucky he’d been to find her twenty years ago. Ten years younger than he, and as sweet and kind and funny as an angel, she could have married any guy in the county. But she’d picked him. He’d forever be grateful for that.
Her eyes blinked open. She squinted, trying to bring her vision into focus. “Hi, honey. Is it after three already?” Her words were slightly slurred.
A band of anguish tightened around James’s chest and it hurt to draw a breath. Slurred speech was a sure sign her MS was worsening.
The disease worked in cycles. But each time she hit a low spot, she didn’t bounce back up as far as she had been in the prior cycle.
“Almost three thirty,” he said. “We had four new patients admitted to my unit today, which means lots of paperwork. I picked up your prescription for you.” Crossing the room, he moved her walker out of his way and knelt beside Fern to kiss her. Without makeup, she looked pale; but her lips were warm and welcoming.
“Bad day, Sleeping Beauty?” He placed her pills on the end table next to her unopened laptop. She had an online MS support group, which had been invaluable to her. The fact that she hadn’t opened her computer all day spoke of fatigue and depression.
Her lips shifted into a crooked smile. “The usual, I suppose. I get so tired when I go to the doctor.”
Sapphire stretched and yawned, then hopped down from the couch and made her way toward the kitchen, no doubt in search of an afternoon snack.
“You know Dr. Chopra says you have to listen to your body. If you’re tired, it’s okay to take a rest.”
“I know. But I feel so useless.” She cupped his cheek with her hand. “You work so hard.”
“They, too, serve who sit around looking beautiful all day waiting for the joyous return of the master of the household.”
She sputtered a laugh, and James’s heart lifted at the happy sound.
He brushed another quick kiss to her lips. “The boys aren’t home yet?” He stood and set the walker back in place where she could easily reach it.
“Gideon’s at ROTC drill practice, and Nelson’s helping to build the stage sets for the eighth-grade play.”
“Oh yes, our young thespian.” Nelson’s English teacher, Mrs. Murphy, was a recent college graduate and enthusiastic teacher new to Deerford Middle School. Apparently she decided eighth graders weren’t too young to learn a bit of Shakespeare. The first week of January, the class was going to perform a simplified version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Nelson had landed the part of Puck.
“Nelson’s so excited about the play.” Her quick smile of enthusiasm momentarily overcame her fatigue. “Every day he tells me how cool Shakespeare is. I can hardly wait to see him perform.”
James couldn’t wait to see the show as well.
Glancing up the stairs to the second floor, he said, “I’m going to get cleaned up, and then you can help me start dinner.”
“I doubt if I’ll be much help today.” The spark of energy faded, and Fern sounded as weary and melancholy as when James had
awoken her.
“You help me by simply being here, Fern. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She looked away, and another small piece of James’s heart broke. He was trained to help heal others, yet he couldn’t do a thing to heal his own wife.
“Dad, you’re officially the greatest mac-and-cheese maker in the world.” Gideon helped himself to another heaping serving.
“Everything I know about cooking I learned from your mother.” James smiled at his family sitting around the table in the kitchen. His two boys were a study in contrasting personalities.
Gideon, having recently turned fifteen, a freshman at Lincoln High and a natural athlete, was still growing and would soon top James’s five foot eleven inches. No wonder the kid ate about as much as his entire ROTC unit.
Nelson, at thirteen, was somewhat more academic in nature and had a witty sense of humor, which is why Shakespeare appealed to him. He had recently dropped swim team to focus more on Scouting which gave him an outlet for both physical exercise and challenging problem solving.
Both boys had inherited Fern’s wavy brown hair and James’s blue eyes, a handsome combination which girls had already noticed, based on the amount of text messaging that went on. Although never at dinnertime. That was a family rule.
Reaching across the table, Nelson dragged the bowl of macaroni and cheese toward him. “Mrs. Murphy says I’m a great Puck. I’ve got a really good feel for the part. ‘My fairy lord, this must be done with haste, for night’s swift dragons cut the clouds full fast,’” he quoted.
Gideon snorted a laugh. “That’s because you’ve been a clown all your life.”
“Yeah, and you’ve been a silly jock all your—”
“Boys!” Fern waggled a shaky finger at them.
It took only that small rebuke to silence the boys’ bickering. It seemed that their mother having MS had made them more sensitive and sympathetic than the average kid.
James couldn’t have been more proud of his sons.
“Have you got your lines memorized yet?” Fern asked Nelson.
It took the boy a moment to understand her slurred speech. “Not really, but it’s still three weeks until we do the show. Besides, the third act is a killer. Puck has lots of lines.”
Strength in Numbers Page 2