Mercedes nodded. “Thanks for your advice.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “I need to think.”
Dustbottom hugged her, as though they had been friends for years, instead of people who’d met only because of a shared acquaintance. Mercedes felt a sudden regret that she hadn’t known the man better. His hug filled her with the warmth of friendship and gave her new strength. “We all do what we have to,” Dustbottom said in her ear. “Now go talk to Brandon. I’ll keep watch over your husband while you’re gone.”
She blinked back more tears. “Brandon said you knew more than any of the doctors here.”
“He always was a smart boy.” He gave her a lazy smile.
“Not always.”
Dustbottom’s brow creased again. “Not about some things, no. But I’m right about this. Now go.”
Mercedes nodded and went to find Geraldine and the boys. As Dustbottom said, she knew what she had to do.
Chapter 21
Diary of Mercedes Walker Johnson
January 16, 1996
Darrel is a month old now. I never knew life could be so wonderful. Darrel is with me constantly, and I can barely stand for Wayne to go away to the fields. I want both my men here every moment. Did Momma feel this kind of love when she had me? Did having me bind her just that much more to Daddy? Why, then, didn’t I feel part of that love? I think it’s because Daddy took and took and never gave back.
Poor Momma. I really feel sorry for her. I don’t feel sad or angry when I think about her anymore, or what she did. I have it easy compared to what she endured. Wayne gives everything back and more, and Darrel won’t ever have to wonder about our love for him. I can sit and watch both him and Wayne for hours—at night while I’m quilting and they are together on the couch snuggling, or at mealtimes when we trade off holding him because we can’t bear to put him down.
I am happy. I am new. I am loved. My wish now is that I can make Wayne feel the same.
“I can’t come for a visit now, Mom,” Brandon said, tilting his head to hold the phone against his shoulder as he opened the window in his room. A bit of breeze signaled the approaching evening. “I’m really busy.”
“But Hannah said you were in Wyoming.”
“I am in Wyoming. I came here to teach at a seminar. You know, giving back to the old alma mater.”
“When Hannah told me she’d been to visit you, I’d hoped that maybe you two would work things out.”
So that’s what the call was about. Well, at least Hannah hadn’t told her about his collapse. “Actually, Hannah came to tell me she’s seeing someone. She’s going to marry him.” How odd to say that. Brandon walked to the window and looked out at the few people strolling by. One of them was a mother pushing a stroller. Would Hannah be a mother soon? She sounded like she was ready.
His mother’s silence dragged on. Finally, she spoke. “I know about him. But I also know that she doesn’t care about him the way she does about you.”
“Did care, Mom. Did being the operative word. Past tense.”
“She still cares. If you’d just make an effort, you might be able to salvage your relationship.”
“We’re divorced.” He ran a finger along the white-painted windowsill.
“I almost divorced your father once.”
His finger stopped. “You did?”
“It was a long time ago.”
He could imagine her shrugging, a sure indication that she wanted no more questions. His mother always glossed over the bad in her life; he was surprised she’d admitted this much.
“The point is that you have to figure out what you want before it’s too late.”
“I know what I want.”
“She went all that way.”
“She had frequent flyer miles. Wyoming’s closer than California.”
“She loves you.”
Brandon stifled a sigh. “Look, Mom, there’s someone else. It’s complicated, and I’m not going into detail just yet, but I promise you’ll be really happy once I can tell you more.” His mother would love having a grandson.
As the thought came, the desire to tell her about his son was overwhelming. But he’d promised Mercedes he’d wait, and he had to keep his word. He’d already said far too much. Keeping Darrel a secret from his parents would be the hardest part of this deception, but he was determined to keep his promise.
He’d been so sure things would change for the better between him and Mercedes after she discovered the truth about the letters, but now she acted as if the very sight of him hurt her. Was that because she honestly hated him? Why should he continue paying for Mercedes’ father’s deception? He deserved a second chance.
Things should have been different. The hopelessness of the situation made him ill with regret.
“Brandon, are you there?”
He forced his mind back to the conversation. “I’m here.”
“I was saying that you could be happy with Hannah if you tried.”
There was a brisk knock on his door, which seemed to verge on the frantic.
“I’m sorry, Mom, but I’ve got to go,” he said with relief. “Someone’s here.”
“Fine. But call me as soon as you can. Your father will want to talk with you as well.”
Brandon figured that, which was why he had made sure to call her when he knew his father would be away brokering yet another multimillion-dollar real estate deal. He wasn’t sure of his ability to keep anything from his father. “I will. Bye, Mom.” He pocketed the phone as he opened the door.
Mercedes stood in the hallway. Her face was rigid and composed, but her dark eyes were wild and full of emotion.
“Mercedes!” He didn’t know what her appearance could mean, but he was unable to stop his smile of triumph. She stepped inside the room, smelling of horse and sweat and something more he couldn’t identify. He reached out to touch her, but she pulled away, her body stiff and unyielding. Why was she here? The more he learned about Mercedes, the less he understood. “Mercedes?” He made it a question, wondering how he should act.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, her shoulders shaking. Tears fell glistening onto her cheeks that were a sickly pale beneath her tan. Abruptly she went limp against him, as if her knees had given way, and he put a supporting arm around her.
“It’s okay,” he murmured into her hair. “We’ll make it okay.”
She was already drawing away, shaking her head. “You don’t understand.” A sob burst from her throat. “I didn’t know what else to do. Dustbottom said you were the only one who could help. I didn’t want to ask, but I have to. I can’t lose him! Please.” She gripped his hand tightly, her face pleading, her hair fanning over her shoulders in disarray.
Fear gripped him. “What happened? Is it Darrel?”
“No. It’s Wayne. He had a heart attack. They say he needs an operation. I don’t understand it all, but he could die. I’m so scared! He just sat at the kitchen table rubbing his chest. I got him to the floor, and then his heart stopped.” Her breath was quick, shallow. She looked close to passing out.
“Come over here. Sit down.” With an arm around her, he led her to a chair next to the small round table. “Easy. Take a deep breath.”
“Like Lucy,” she keened. “Oh, like my little girl!” She sobbed in earnest, and a thousand emotions flooded him. He’d never seen her feelings so completely bare, not even when she had fought with her father years ago or when she was challenging him about Darrel over the past weeks. During their relationship they’d never faced anything remotely like this—except when she became pregnant, and thanks to him she’d endured that alone.
He wanted to comfort her, but how? And what kind of person was he to feel the slightest bit of satisfaction that Wayne might cease to be a concern to their future? Revulsion filled him at the thought, and he knelt by Mercedes’ chair, patting her back ineffectually.
“He’s at the hospital, right?”
She nodded. “They’re doing tests and more test
s.”
“Then he’s in good hands.”
“Dustbottom says you need to look at him.” She bit her lip to stop another sob, and he could see a drop of blood seep from under her teeth. “Please.” Her eyes begged more than the simple word. “Please help him. If there’s anyone who can, you can. Please, Brandon. Please. I know I’ve asked a lot of you lately, but I need you now more than I ever have.”
He knew what she was saying. He’d failed her once with Darrel and then again when her daughter was ill. He owed her.
Before he could answer, she gave a tiny jerk of her head and then swiped her hands firmly over the tears on her cheeks. He felt he was watching her pull down a mask, as though this naked suffering was too private to share with him. “Please, will you help Wayne?” Her voice was more controlled now, but her eyes were still wild, desperate. A strand of her hair caught on the edge of her lip.
He reached for it and then stopped, feeling out of place as reality sank in. She hadn’t come here to tell him she cared. She was here only for Wayne. Of course, he thought bitterly. Wayne. At least she had been honest about her commitment to her husband from the beginning.
He stood up, paced to the wall and back again, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He came to an abrupt stop before her. “I’m the wrong person for this, Mercedes. The wrong person.”
“I know.” Her reply was less than a whisper.
She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched. When she opened them again, the black was washed with new tears, reminding him of black rocks at the seashore. “There’s no one else. If I ever needed you, Brandon, I need you now. Please, don’t let me down. Please. I’ll do anything.”
He paced the room again, whirling on her when he reached the wall. “Anything?”
They stared at each other for a long moment. His eyes challenging, hers shocked and pleading. Then her eyes dropped in defeat. “I’ll tell Darrel,” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. “We’ll work out visits. I promise I’ll be happy about it and supportive. Whatever you want. Just please help us.” Her hands gripped the edge of the table.
He could tell how much it cost her to say the words.
“Please,” she added as he slowly walked toward her.
Guilt rose like bile in his throat. He had loved this woman, and she shouldn’t have to beg him to help her. She shouldn’t feel she needed to sacrifice her son to save her husband. The fact that Brandon should have been her husband meant nothing here. He’d made a terrible decision long ago, and he had to live with the consequences. His foot shot out and kicked the chair as he passed the table. It tumbled across the carpet and slammed into the wall.
Mercedes gasped and leapt to her feet, one hand clutching her purse to her chest, eyes darting between him and the door as though contemplating her chance of escape.
Brandon hated the fear in those black eyes.
“No,” he said, holding up his hands. “Don’t go. I’m sorry. It’s just all so . . .” He shook his head. “Of course I’ll look at him. Come on. I’ll drive you back to the hospital.”
“I have my car.”
“You’re in no condition to drive.”
Her eyes drifted to the chair. “Neither are you.”
“But I’m okay to operate?”
She saw at once how ludicrous it was. Her mouth wavered and then curved in a slight smile. “Okay, you drive.”
On the way to the hospital, he asked her questions about Wayne’s attack and what the doctors had said. He gleaned very little except that stress had caused the attack and caused lasting damage that couldn’t be controlled by medication. This could mean numerous things, from certain death to minor surgery. That Wayne was in the hospital but not in surgery was a good sign—someone obviously thought he could wait for a specialist. Of course, he’d seen too many patients die while doctors or families made decisions. Only by seeing Wayne himself could he determine what kind of danger he was in and whether or not his research into heart valves and arteries would be useful.
What if he was unable to save Wayne? Would Mercedes hate him forever? Or would Wayne’s death free them for the life they should have had all along?
In the waiting room of the hospital, Darrel and the other children were waiting for Mercedes. Darrel came running to them, his dark eyes searching Brandon’s. “Momma says you can fix Daddy’s heart.”
“I hope so. I’ll do my best.”
Darrel’s brow furrowed, his eyes luminous with unshed tears. “I can’t believe this is happening. Just this morning we decided to go fishing after school.” His jaw jutted out as though he was determined not to cave into emotion. He gave his mother a curt nod. “He’s going to be okay, Momma. He has to be.”
Mercedes nodded, trying to smile but failing. The younger boys clung to her, one on each side, their young faces directed toward him hopefully. He looked away at the blatant need in their eyes. If Wayne died, their entire lives would change.
“I guess I’ll go see Wayne,” he said, turning just as a tall man strode into the room. He had short, black, slightly receding hair, dark eyes, and a face that was handsome despite the hard angles. On the left arch of his forehead, a long scar disappeared into his hair. Brandon knew him at once, not for the boy he’d been but for the man who’d been responsible for his finding out about Darrel.
“Uncle Austin!” Darrel ran toward him, hurtling his thin body at the newcomer.
Without a word, Austin Walker gathered the boy into his arms, and Darrel promptly burst into tears. “It’s going to be all right,” Austin murmured. “I promise. No matter what happens, we’re a family, and it’s going to be okay. I’m here.”
“I know,” sobbed Darrel. His face was broken, and his grief was painful for Brandon to see.
Mercedes’ reaction at seeing her brother was similar to Darrel’s, as though she had carried her burden as far as she could and was now giving it to Austin because he was strong enough to take it. “I knew you’d come,” she murmured tearfully as Austin enfolded her with one arm.
“Caught the first flight the minute I heard. Liana’s here, too. She’s parking the rental car.”
Brandon edged toward the door. He wasn’t needed here. Darrel obviously felt his uncle’s presence gave him permission to be a child again instead of the man of the family he was supposed to be in Wayne’s absence. He hadn’t cried or allowed himself that liberty with Brandon, and that told him a lot. No matter how much the child might like him, Brandon wasn’t necessary to Darrel’s happiness. Austin was. Wayne was.
What was Brandon supposed to do with that knowledge? Even with the promise Mercedes had made to him, he couldn’t just walk over and say, “Hey, I’m your real father. Do you want to come and live with me? I’ll take care of you.” Besides, who was to say if he took Darrel away from here that he would even be the same child. Darrel might hate him forever.
Brandon walked blindly down the hall, finding his way more from memory than from sight. At the nurses station, he gave his name and asked to talk to the attending physician. In minutes he was up to his elbows in papers and reports, but he’d barely had time to digest any of it before Dr. Shubacker himself appeared, his round belly sticking out like an expectant woman’s. Brandon knew him from the seminar, and they had passed several hours in conversation about Brandon’s techniques, but he knew little about the man himself. He was younger than many of the veteran doctors, and he still sported a full head of thick brown hair, though his weight aged him considerably. His chubby fingers handed over a new report. “They told me you were here. It doesn’t look good.”
“He’ll need surgery?”
“Come on. You can see for yourself.” Dr. Shubacker led him down the hall into Wayne’s room.
Brandon was surprised at how peaceful Wayne looked and how large his presence, though most patients seemed smaller in their beds. He did appear helpless with the oxygen and heart monitors—far different from the strong farmer with whom he’d worked side by side the previous week. His face was a sickly colo
r, his eyes were closed, and the red hair stood out like blood on the stark sheets.
Dr. Shubacker made a slight adjustment to a knob on a monitor. “Seems to have been caused by a severe spasm in one of the coronary arteries.”
“No plaque blockage?” Brandon thumbed through the papers, mostly to mask his racing thoughts.
“Not big enough to cause something like this. Definitely stress related. Apparently, he’s been having symptoms for a while. At least that’s what he told the ambulance personnel.”
“I’m assuming he’s been medicated to prevent a relapse.”
“The medication has worked well enough for now. Unfortunately, we can’t risk a repeat of another spasm. The damage from the myocardial infarction is serious. Probably fatal.” Dr. Shubacker pulled out the new report from the papers in Brandon’s hands. “These tests are just in. If there were any more complications, I wouldn’t even want to risk surgery.”
Myocardial infarction. The medical name for a heart attack. Not the first stress-related attack Brandon had seen by a long shot, but the first he’d been partly responsible for. He focused on the report. One of the valves was leaking, and the coronary artery was not opening as it should, even with the help of medication. All the tests pointed to damage they couldn’t repair with measures less invasive than surgery.
“He’ll need a bypass.”
Dr. Shubacker nodded vigorously, his jowls wobbling as he moved. “I concur. First thing in the morning.”
Brandon shook his head as he checked the numbers on the charts and the readouts on the machines monitoring Wayne’s vitals. “His heart is under too much stress to wait. He can’t be getting enough flow right now. He’s likely to have another attack before morning.”
“I think he’ll be okay.”
“I’ve seen patients better off than this die because doctors waited too long,” Brandon snapped.
Dr. Shubacker bristled. “I’ve seen patients die because doctors were in a hurry.”
Stifling his irritation, Brandon forced a conciliatory note into his voice. “Look, I know this man, his family, and they’ve asked me to do the surgery, so I feel responsible. I don’t have time to fly my partner in to help me with this. You’re obviously the best heart doctor here, and I’d like your support.” Involuntarily, his eyes went to Dr. Shubacker’s fingers. They were not the fine hands of a surgeon, but he was a conscientious doctor who would make a fine assistant. Better than waiting until morning.
Fields of Home Page 22