Rescue Team

by Candace Calvert

  “I’m okay.” Her dark eyes avoided his. “I really wish you hadn’t come, Wes.”

  “I had to.” He wanted to tell her to deal with it, wanted to grasp her shoulders and make her look at him straight on. He’d rather have her stubborn and prickly like the first day they’d met than like—

  “What is this, Kate? Did I say something wrong? Do something?”

  “No.” She took a step backward, still refusing to meet his gaze. “It’s not you.”

  Wes nearly groaned at the worn-out cliché. “Well then, we’re even, because this isn’t you either, Kate. You’re like a different person since—” A thought struck him; he was an idiot for not considering it before. “It’s the head injury,” he said, taking hold of her hand whether she liked it or not. New concern warred with selfish relief as he attempted to tug her toward the couch. “Let me look at you. Is your headache worse? Vision blurry? Have you vomited?”

  “No. None of that.” She planted her feet, refusing to budge further. Her eyes lifted to his, a hint of the old prickle in her expression. “If you want me to, I’ll recite the neuro checklist: It’s Sunday, November 18. Thursday is Thanksgiving. I ate pancakes for breakfast. With a plastic spoon because there was no fork on my hospital tray. Lauren drove me home.” Kate slid her hand away, crossed her arms again. “My brain CT was normal. I’m fine.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  “I do,” he lied. She was going to shred his heart. He knew it without a doubt now. A frisson of anger rose, protective as his safety gear. “On the phone I asked you what was wrong, and you said ‘us.’ What was that supposed to mean?”

  She swallowed. “I think we need a break—I need a break. From everything. I’m taking a week off. I thought I’d pack up the car. Go somewhere.”

  “Where?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I . . .”

  “What the—? You’re running away?” He stared at her, anger besting confusion. “You are. And you weren’t going to tell me.” He bit back a curse but couldn’t stop the next words. “Why do I suddenly feel like your father here?”

  He saw her flinch and hated himself. God, please. She looks so lost.

  “I’m sorry.” Wes took a step toward her, desperate to take her in his arms. “That was wrong; I shouldn’t have said it. But I don’t understand.” He glanced at the vase of flowers he’d sent, still fresh, still perfect. “We were making plans, and . . .” I think I’m falling in love with you. The thought sent his brain staggering like a punch-drunk boxer.

  Another thought slammed him square in the gut. “Is this about Lyon? Are you and he . . . ?”

  Kate grimaced. “Of course not.”

  “Then what? What’s the reason for shutting me out?” Her expression was as unreadable as a trail after a storm. All he could tell was that . . . She wants me gone. “Look, if you want to jam out of here and leave me behind, I’ll get out of the way. I’ll do that. But I think I deserve the truth first. Can you give me that much?”

  Her shoulders sagged, and when she finally nodded, Wes wasn’t at all sure he wanted to hear what she had to say. He reminded himself of what he believed about searching: better to find something—even a bad outcome—than nothing at all. It didn’t help this time.

  “We’re too different,” she began. “You and I. And that can’t change, Wes. Not by putting me on a horse or making me laugh around a mouthful of cupcake or twirling me on the dance floor. Or telling me I’m beautiful and caring . . .” She closed her eyes, pain on her face. “Or even inviting me to wear a Team Tanner jersey on Thanksgiving—the nicest thing that’s happened to me—” her voice choked—“in so long.”

  “Kate . . .” He moved toward her and she raised her palm. It was shaking.

  “But I don’t belong there at your family table,” she continued. “Not anywhere with someone like you, especially after what you told me last night.”

  “What I told you?”

  “You said your mom was praying for Harley and the Spragues . . . and me. Me.” Kate shook her head as if the idea was somehow ludicrous. Then she hitched her thumb toward the hallway. “Know what’s on the top shelf of that closet?” she asked, her eyes fixed on his. “A cross, Wes. I yanked it off the wall of this house. And I hid it away. I didn’t want to see it here. Couldn’t bear to because—”

  “Wait,” he interrupted, sudden relief nearly choking him. “Is that what this is about? My faith? The ‘mistakes’ you said you made—your doubts about God? Everyone makes mistakes, Kate. We all have doubts. I think I told you that last night. About myself. About—”

  “Forgiveness,” she finished, staring at him hard. “You said you didn’t understand how a mother could abandon her child. You said it was something you couldn’t forgive.” Kate blinked up at him. “You said that, didn’t you?”

  “Why does that matter now?”

  “Because I can’t forgive it either,” she whispered, her whole body trembling. “And I can’t believe God ever will. I put that cross in the closet so it wouldn’t remind me that I’m not beautiful, not caring. I hid it so I could try to forget that I’m exactly like . . . them.”

  “Like who?” He had no idea what she was talking about; he only knew something was very wrong.

  “I’m Trista,” she blurted, eyes riveted to his. “I’m Ava Smith. . . . I’m your mother, Wes.”

  - + -

  Kate was afraid she was going to be sick, scared her legs would give way. More frightened than she’d ever been in her life, even that awful day when—

  “I did the same thing they did,” she told Wes, feeling the words slice like a scalpel into a festering wound. “Eleven years ago, when I ran away. I trusted the wrong person. A man I worked for. He assaulted me.” She dropped her head, sucked in a breath. She was suffocating. If she looked at Wes, she’d never be able to do this. “I got pregnant . . . couldn’t let myself believe it, even after taking a pregnancy test—even when I was in labor. A baby boy . . . this tiny boy.” She clutched at her stomach, moaned. “Before he was fifteen minutes old, I wrapped him in a dirty sweatshirt and I left him in the dark. Dumped him off at a fire station and walked away. I have no idea where my son is today.”

  Kate doubled over, her shoulders convulsing with the struggle to stop tears that had threatened for a decade. If she started to cry, she knew she’d never stop. “Don’t you see? That’s the kind of person I am.”

  “God . . .” Wes’s gasp ended in a groan.

  Kate raised her head, teeth chattering. Wes’s mouth was slack with shock. The blue eyes she’d come to trust . . . She couldn’t make herself look into them, couldn’t risk it. It was there; she knew it: the same revulsion she saw in the mirror. “How can I forgive something like that?”

  Somehow she made it across the room to the door.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he whispered, following her. “Or what . . . I should do. Kate . . .”

  “I don’t expect you to do anything.” She reached for the door, opened it. “Except go. Please.”

  He did . . . and it broke her heart.

  Twenty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Hope wedged Kate’s heart into her throat. Maybe it would be okay; maybe—

  She pulled the door open, then dropped her gaze to the eager face of the young boy on her porch.

  “Hello, ma’am—oops.” He yanked a knit Longhorns cap off his head, his immediate grin revealing dimples. The boy’s dark eyes were fringed by lashes that probably got him teased at school. A few freckles dotted the bridge of his nose. “Grandpa said I should ask if it’s okay. I kicked my soccer ball really high and it went over the fence into your yard. I climbed up. I can see it. I was gonna jump down and get it, but . . .” He shook his head and Kate spotted a lipstick print next to one dimple. A badge of love. “Anyway, Grandpa said to ask you first, ma’am.”

  “Sure,” she told him, the boy’s dutiful manners touching her. “The gate isn’t locked. Help yo
urself.”

  “Cool. Thank you.” He pulled the cap over his unruly hair and started down the steps.

  “Hey, wait,” Kate said in a rush. “How old are you?”

  “Ten.” He stretched taller. “And a half. Almost.”

  Ten.

  Kate closed the door and leaned against it, sank down until she was sitting on the cold floor. Then finally let the flood of tears come.

  “KATE?” Judith held a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand, the scent of Starbucks wafting upward as she tapped on the door. “It’s Judith Doyle, from the hosp—Oh, hello.” She tried not to gasp as morning sun revealed the swollen bruise on Kate’s face. “I hope this is all right. That I’m here. Your address was on the thank-you card you sent after the auxiliary fund-raiser. . . .”

  “Of course it’s fine. I almost didn’t recognize you without your pink uniform. Come in. The place is sort of a mess. I haven’t felt like doing too much since I got home yesterday.”

  And haven’t slept either? There were shadows under Kate’s beautiful eyes. Judith could relate; she’d been awake most of the last two nights herself. Thinking. Then praying, at long last.

  “The way you like it,” she said, lifting Kate’s coffee from the carrier after they settled on the couch. “And there are scones, too—maple oat nut and a blueberry. We never got a chance to meet for coffee last week. And now so many things have happened.” Her throat tightened at Kate’s expression. Her eyes were red like she’d been crying.

  “It must have been awful when they thought you were a kidnapper, Judith.”

  “Yes.” Oddly, it seemed long ago now. And completely insignificant compared to—“I came here to apologize,” she said in a rush. Tears rose; she thought she’d cried them all. God, please help me.

  “Apologize? I don’t understand.”

  “How could you possibly?” Judith made herself smile. “I should have known about Trista,” she explained. “I should have seen all of it. Her father’s abuse and—”

  “Abuse?”

  “You didn’t see the news last night?” Something in Kate’s expression said she hadn’t wanted to. Judith could understand that. “After Trista was more lucid, she reported she’d been abused by her father for years. A broken jaw, a ruptured eardrum another time. None of it reported to authorities. He became more violent after he learned she was pregnant. She wanted an abortion. He was dead set against it, though he beat her so badly once she almost miscarried.” Judith winced. “Trista said she wished she had. She didn’t want a baby then. She doesn’t now.”

  “So she abandoned Harley.”

  Judith nodded. “She said if she’d known about Safe Haven, she’d have turned her over after birth. She wanted to do it now but was afraid Harley was too old. Her father has been going to rehab counseling, but he’s still getting drunk and abusive. Trista was sure it was only a matter of time before he started hurting the baby, too. She doesn’t want her baby, but she doesn’t want her hurt either.”

  “She wanted to keep her safe.” Kate’s face paled. “I heard she’d said that.”

  “I guess Trista figured someone would find Harley in the park and give her a home. It was a safer bet than what she could offer at her father’s house.” Judith’s stomach tensed. “She came to the waiting room once with her face bruised. She told me she tripped over the dog. And then when her father was admitted, all Trista could think of was taking the money from his pocket and buying fast food. It was the only time I ever saw her smile. The only time. Even with that sweet baby. She never held her, never took any pictures. I should have put it all together. I missed it, and that baby could have died.” Tears filled her eyes. “You could have been killed too, Kate. You were out there in the park because of Harley, and she was out there because I made an awful mistake.”

  “Judith, hold it. Wait.” Kate reached for her hand. “You’re taking too much on yourself. Lauren and I saw Trista and Harley too.”

  “A few times. I saw them almost every day. I made it my business to check on them even though they weren’t hospital patients. I should have seen the signs. I could have prevented all of this. I’m sick over it.”

  “You’re a volunteer, Judith. The best volunteer we have—incredibly dedicated. Still, no one would ever expect you to foresee every possible outcome.”

  “I do. I expect that of myself, Kate. Every day, every minute I’m at the hospital. It’s why I’m there. I know the name of every patient who comes into the ER. I make notes on their conditions. I keep track of waiting times and pester the registration staff. I stay up at night to search the Internet and medical books. That’s how I knew to start cardiac compressions on Mr. Beck.” Judith forced herself to say the painful words. “I do all of those things because my husband died at Austin Grace—collapsed in the ER waiting room.”

  Kate’s eyes widened.

  “He had headaches. Tension headaches. A shot always fixed them; I’d drive him home and put him to bed. Simple as that. A small pothole in a wonderful life. The ER was busy that day and the triage nurse apologized for the wait. My husband had his golf magazine, and his pain wasn’t severe. He knew I’d fidget waiting. There was a one-day sale at Macy’s and he insisted that I go. He said he’d be fine.” A tear slid past her nose. “While I was waiting in line to pay for a sofa pillow, my darling husband was bleeding in his brain. Dying. He had a seizure in the waiting room and was in a deep coma by the time I got there. A massive stroke. He never woke up.”

  Kate’s eyes held hers. “And you became a volunteer. To help other patients, other families.”

  “Yes.” Judith sighed, dreading what she had to say next. “And to keep my eye on the staff. I’ve made it my business to keep tabs on inefficiency and lapses in professionalism. And potentially dangerous mistakes. I’ve tried to intervene before a tragedy happens. Again. Like with my husband. He was waiting an hour and a half, got worse, and no one checked on him.”

  “The triage nurse—”

  “Was Sunni Sprague.”

  Kate’s lower lip sagged.

  “They were short staffed that day. Sunni was filling in everywhere. She was kind and polite, a jewel. Except that she let my husband collapse in the waiting room.” Judith shook her head. “I lay awake last night, thinking about it: Sunni, Trista, Harley, and you. And now Sunni again, if those were her bones in that park. A tragic circle. Please believe that I never wished Sunni any harm. I was as distressed as anyone when she went missing. She’s human; she made a mistake. And—” Judith winced at the truth—“I did too when I left my husband’s side. I know that now. But I’ve been so wrapped up in preventing everyone else’s mistakes that I didn’t see it. I realize now how very lost I felt after my husband died. I think the hospitals, Austin Grace especially, became my new family. The nurses, doctors . . .” She sighed again. “Even Beverly at the registration desk with her cheese puffs and her personal calls. I know her. I care about her problems even when she aggravates me. I was riding herd on the staff like a mother would. I only wanted to help everyone do the right thing. But I made my own dreadful mistakes.”

  “I still don’t think you should blame yourself for Trista.”

  Judith cleared her throat. “I did something else, Kate. Something that caused you problems. And probably made Dana Connor quit—maybe staff at other hospitals too. I was self-righteous and judgmental. Such a sad hypocrite.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The newspaper.” She met Kate’s gaze. “Waiting for Compassion. That’s me.”

  - + -

  “Hold it,” Gabe warned. “That’s dog kibble you’re about to eat.”

  “What—?” Wes growled, dropping the crunchy bits back into the bowl. He wiped his fingers on his shirt, then glared across the funeral home’s mahogany desk. “What’s it doing there?”

  “I’m picking the green pieces out.” Gabe scratched his dog’s ear. “Hershey won’t eat ’em. Some kind of omega fatty stuff. And probiotics, whatever that is. Can�
��t blame him. He’s like me; someone ought to make dog food that tastes like chicken-fried steak.” Gabe raised his brows. “But maybe those green things will improve your mood, pal.”

  “Nothing wrong with my mood,” Wes grumbled, glancing toward doors flanked by tall vases of white chrysanthemums. There were strains of classical music somewhere in the distance, no doubt chosen to be comforting and soul-soothing. It wasn’t. The only thing worse would be a mouthful of dog kibble, followed by a chorus of “Brown Eyed Girl.” The painful confusion that had left Wes tossing and sleepless returned with a vengeance. Kate . . .

  He turned his attention back to Gabe. “Is there a funeral today?”

  “Not till four.” Gabe’s eyes filled with questions that he wouldn’t ask outright. And that Wes couldn’t answer. “Jenna’s going over to Zilker Park; she’s hoping to find out something about the bones. We could join up with her.”

  Zilker. Close enough to see Kate’s car drive away . . .

  “What do you say?” Gabe patted his leg, free now from the bulk of bandages. “I’m not ready to hike, but we could hang out and get a feel for how things are going there.”

  “Don’t think so,” Wes said. “They’re not going to reveal anything until the medical examiner gives the word. If it’s Sunni, we’ll know in a few days.” Where would Kate be when that happened? No. It did no good to think about that. Or talk about it either.

  “It must have been awful for Kate. Finding the remains.”

  “Right.” Wes’s throat tightened at the memory of her on the ER gurney, the tremble in her voice when she talked about holding Sunni’s bone in her hands. He glanced down at his own; they’d been holding Harley not long after Kate had done that.

  “Of course, you know more about the effects of that kind of trauma than I do.”

  “Effects?” Wes met Gabe’s gaze, confused. Lack of sleep was making him brain dead.

  “Traumatic stress. I’d think accidentally finding the remains of a fellow nurse would be a fairly emotional sucker punch. But then you’re the expert.”