Rescue Team

by Candace Calvert

  Posttraumatic stress. He hadn’t even considered it. Baby Doe, Harley, Sunni. It would impact anyone emotionally. He remembered Kate’s expression as she held Baby Doe’s limp body in her hands. Grief-stricken. He’d recognized it even when he knew nothing about her. And then she’d run out of the conference room at the ER debriefing. Because . . . it was personal. Wes saw that now.

  “I guess—” Gabe dropped a piece of yellow kibble on Hershey’s tongue—“if they identify the bones as Sunni’s, there will be another round of counseling at Austin Grace. You said Kate wasn’t on board with the idea last time, but maybe . . .”

  Maybe she won’t even be there anymore.

  “Wes?”

  “I’m leaving,” Wes said, standing. “You have a funeral and I need to go.”

  In ten minutes he’d passed the cemetery and then the Braxton and Tanner ranches, gripping the steering wheel like he had hold of someone dangling from a cliff. In three more minutes he passed the freeway sign showing the distance to Austin. And then—

  Wes hit the brakes and jerked the truck’s wheel, felt the big tires scrabble off the road and crunch against the gravel shoulder as he came to a jolting stop. Dust swirled across the windshield, making his vision as blurry as his thoughts. His mouth was dry, head pounding. He closed his eyes, listening to the whoosh of passing traffic. Then pulled out his cell phone and tapped the contact number. He held his breath.

  “I’m not able to take calls right now,” Kate’s recording said in the voice he’d begun to hear in his dreams. “Leave me a message and I’ll get back to you.”

  Will you? He disconnected before the signal could sound.

  No. I can’t . . . He told himself he was too wrung out to make rational decisions. It was Kate who’d opened the door and asked him to leave. She intended to go away, very likely was gone already. There was nothing he could do about that, the same way there’d been nothing he could do about the pain in her eyes yesterday. Or her obvious suffering when she told him she couldn’t see him anymore, because . . . “I’m Trista. . . . I’m Ava Smith. . . . I’m your mother, Wes.”

  Guilt rose, burning his chest like bile. He should have found a way to comfort her, should have at least tried. Any man with a heart would have. But . . .

  Kate’s words came back as clearly as if she were sitting next to him in the truck: “You said you didn’t understand how a mother could abandon her child. You said it was something you couldn’t forgive.”

  She’d asked him if that was true. He’d hedged, asking her why it mattered.

  But . . . it is true. It does matter. How can I forgive something like that?

  He was the son of a woman who left her child in the woods. Unchangeable as DNA.

  Wes rested his forehead against his arms on the steering wheel. “Help me, God,” he whispered aloud. “You brought Kate into my life when you know who I am. I don’t understand. What do you expect from me now?”

  “I SLEPT OKAY,” KATE FIBBED, looking down at the rumpled sweater and jeans Lauren had pulled from the closet yesterday morning. She nestled the phone against her ear as she reached for a second pair of socks and stuffed them into her travel duffel. “A little hard to get comfortable with the bruised ribs.” And my whole world blown apart.

  “I’m not trying to be a mother hen, sweetie,” Lauren assured her. “But you haven’t answered my texts.”

  “Sorry. Pain pills make me groggy.” Or would, if she took any. Kate rolled a sweater and wedged it into the corner of the bag.

  “Did Wes come by after I left?”

  Kate shut her eyes against a wave of pain no pill could ease.

  “Kate?”

  “Yes.” She set the duffel on her bed, limped in the direction of the living room. “He was here. But not long.”

  “Because of the whole ‘groggy’ thing.”

  “Right.” And because I told him something completely unforgivable.

  “Hey, I saw Judith a few minutes ago—here at the hospital. I’m off today, but I wanted to check on how the staff was doing. Because of the bones. You know.”

  I know. Over the last two days, Kate felt more and more like her own bones had been unearthed and scattered.

  “She brought in food for the entire ER staff,” Lauren continued. “Breakfast tacos, chilaquiles, chorizos, pastries, and this huge mountain of fruit. Beverly was beside herself. No one could believe it.”

  Kate glanced at the untouched coffee and scones on the table in front of the couch. She wasn’t going to say anything. Enough bones had been laid bare.

  “And now Judith’s in the nursery rocking Harley.” Lauren sighed. “I think that’s incredibly brave considering she was accused of being a kidnapper.”

  Kate nodded. Brave and responsible, too. Trying to fix a mistake. While Kate’s could never be made right.

  “I’m sure you know that the Tanners are providing emergency foster care,” Lauren added.

  “I . . .” Kate was unable to stop the image of Wes helping his mother assemble a crib. A family with love to spare. And share. She limped to the couch, eyes brimming. “Mmm . . . yeah. I know.”

  “You sound . . . Are you having a lot of pain? I can finish up here and come over.”

  Kate’s first instinct was to say no. Her bag was nearly packed, the urge to run never so strong. But all at once she wanted to tell Lauren everything. How frightened she’d been that year in Las Vegas. How worthless and lonely she’d felt all these years since.

  “It’ll take me twenty minutes, tops,” Lauren promised.

  The trembling was back. Kate hugged her arms around herself, dared to imagine how it might feel to have Lauren listen to her story. The relief it could bring. Her voice emerged in a hoarse whisper. “Okay.”

  “Is there anything you need me to bring?”

  “Only yourself.” Kate swiped at a tear, almost smiled.

  “You got it. I’m going to run by the ICU and then—Hang on. I’ve got a text popping up.” There was a gasp. “Oh no. I’m putting you on hold.”

  When Lauren spoke again, her voice was breathless. “I’ve got to go to Houston. It was Jess. . . .” Her voice broke. “She tested positive on a random drug test at work; it was a prescription med, but Jess thinks they don’t believe her. She’s scared and—”

  “Go,” Kate interrupted. “You belong there. Not here. Go!”

  She disconnected and sat on the couch for a few moments, rubbing her knee and thinking that it was just as well. In truth, things were exactly as they should be. Despite the circumstances, Lauren would be with a family that loved her. Judith was back at the hospital. The Tanners would have a baby to fill their crib. And Wes . . . he’d finally accepted that Kate was beyond rescue. She’d known that all along. And now she could do what she did best: leave all this behind.

  In twenty minutes Kate had showered, pulled on fresh clothes, and finished packing her duffel. She stopped at the hallway closet to find a jacket but didn’t allow herself to look up at the newspaper-wrapped object on the top shelf. She went through a mental checklist, decided she had everything, and headed toward the front door. Then stopped. She returned to the kitchen and grabbed the daisy mugs, then crossed to the mantel for the framed photo of her mother. Kate tucked them in her duffel and opened the door. She told herself it felt more comfortable to have them with her even though she’d only be gone a week.

  But by the time she pulled out of the driveway, she’d reminded herself that her position at Austin Grace was as an interim employee. Then accepted her initial suspicion that the heavens raining mud had been a sign. She knew without a doubt that her landlord’s beautiful ten-year-old grandson would love to take in a stub-tailed cat.

  When Kate passed Zilker Park, she averted her eyes so she wouldn’t see the barricades, county cars, and news vans. But she couldn’t stop the whisper in her head. Wes’s voice: “You’re running away?”

  It was probably true.

  - + -

  There were flowers planted
around the grave—his stepmother’s quiet, ongoing effort. Sprigs of spent summer alyssum bordered a few stubborn marigolds, but there were new fall plantings too. Wine-colored snapdragons, blue pansies. And those yellow-orange blooms with dark centers called black-eyed Susans. Like in the bouquet he’d sent to Kate. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Wes glanced down at the pink granite headstone. No, this was a lifetime ago.

  He crouched, one knee on the autumn-brown grass. The late-morning sun lit the headstone’s carved epitaph:

  Lee Ann Tanner

  1951–1986

  Devoted wife and mother

  Loving memories last forever

  Wes swallowed against a familiar and confusing mix of feelings. Everything that keeps me from coming here. Guilt, always a part of that mix, nudged. How long had it been? And why had he stopped here today? It was the last place he wanted to be after all that had hap—

  “Hello, Son.” His father’s voice behind him, deep and gentle. “I saw your truck at the gate.”

  “Hi.” Wes stood, dragged a hand through his hair. His father was dressed in his work clothes. “I thought we didn’t have anything on the schedule until tomorrow.”

  “I told the Phillipses I’d take a quick look at that flood damage on my way into town.”

  “Want me to come along?”

  “No need.”

  His father’s gaze dropped toward the headstone for a moment, and Wes realized that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d been here together. Maybe not since Wes reached adulthood.

  He wished he’d had the good sense to drive past those gates today. Lack of sleep had him too ragged to trust his instincts. Or keep his guard up. And . . . Lord, please. I don’t want to remember.

  “Dylan missed you at breakfast this morning. He couldn’t stop talking about that clip of you on the news. His brother, the hero.” His father’s smile crinkled the edges of his eyes, a shade Miranda had dubbed Tanner blue. She’d had Home Depot do a paint match for the guest room. “He wanted to ask you for your autograph.”

  Wes was grateful for the laugh. But he sensed the unspoken question. “I had some thinking to do. It’s been a rough couple of days.”

  “We expected that was the case.” There was concern in his father’s eyes. “Searching for the baby couldn’t have been easy. And we all thought you wouldn’t be involved, since the Amber Alert went out as a kidnapping. But . . .”

  “Right.” Wes expected the usual prod of anger about the reason for the search, but strangely it didn’t come. Instead, something too much like sadness filled his chest. “I saw her on the news last night. The mother. She said she left Harley because she wanted her to be safe.”

  “We heard that too. The mother was an abuse victim.” His father sighed. “Her judgment went haywire for sure. But I want to believe she meant that. About keeping her child safe.”

  Wes stared at his father. “You do?”

  “Yes. Don’t you?”

  “I . . . don’t know.” Wes shook his head. And then it was there: anger, grabbing the earlier sadness by the throat. “What about my mother?” he heard himself ask. “What am I supposed to believe about what she did?”

  His father flinched slightly, drew in a breath.

  “That night . . . ,” Wes continued, suddenly helpless to stop himself from voicing the painful questions he’d never asked aloud. “When she put me in the car, did she know where she was going? Did she realize she was taking a risk? Or . . .”

  Wes’s gaze darted to where it always did. Since the first time he’d come here, holding his father’s hand at the funeral: the empty plot beside his mother’s grave. “Am I alive today because she changed her mind about taking me into that river with her? Was she going to drown us both?” He dropped his head, his stomach churning. Then felt his father’s strong grip on his shoulder.

  “I wish I had the answer, Son. I can’t count the number of times I’ve asked that myself. Though I—” His voice broke, his thumb moving against Wes’s collarbone like he was willing a fracture to heal. “I never had the courage to say it out loud like you just did. But God got tortured earfuls from me for a lot of years. Your stepmother too.”

  Wes raised his head and tried to speak but couldn’t.

  His father’s eyes shone with tears as he continued. “When I scraped bottom for every possible reason she’d left the house that night, I started to beat myself up. I told myself she was unhappy because I wasn’t a good enough husband. That I was too absorbed in the business and overlooked reckless behavior that proved she was having problems. I hated myself for staying in Fort Worth that night. I knew a decent man with any shred of a heart would have stayed close, paid more attention, questioned her ‘blue days.’ Taken her to a doctor. Taken us both to church. A man worth anything at all would have done something.”

  “Dad, I’m sorry,” Wes said, remembering the sound of his father crying in the darkened house all those long months. “I shouldn’t have—”

  “No. You should ask. You have every right to answers. But . . . sometimes it’s not for us to know. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve accepted that. And now I have far more gratitude than questions.” A smile tugged at his lips. “I’m a blessed man. I still have you, Wes. A son who makes me proud every single day of my life. I have a loving wife I don’t half deserve. And because of her big heart, we’ve built a beautiful family—” his smile widened—“that’s about to grow again.”

  Wes watched his father, lifelong respect for him growing even deeper.

  “Yes,” his father went on, “I believe that you were left in the woods that night to keep you safe. Your mother loved you, Wes. Even before you were born. You were everything to her.” He clucked his tongue. “I’ll never forget how proud she was when you played the piano at Amelia Braxton’s spring recital. ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’—you’d have thought it was Mozart. I could hardly keep her off the stage.”

  The ache in Wes’s throat was relentless.

  His father glanced at his watch. “I’ll call Steve Phillips. Tell him I’ll be by tomorrow instead.”

  “No,” Wes told him. “Go on. I’m going to hang around a little longer. Do some of that thinking. I’m fine, Dad.”

  His father studied his face. Then stepped forward and hauled Wes into a bear hug.

  “Okay then,” he said, adding one last thump on his back. “Call your mom later. She’s concerned.”

  “Yes, sir. I will.”

  “You know . . .” His father glanced toward the headstone. “Your grandfather chose that wording. After all those months and finally finding her . . . I couldn’t think. I told him to pick something. I know now that they’re exactly the right words. Good memories are God’s mercy, Son. Remember that.”

  Wes nodded. “I’ll try.”

  “Do that. Because otherwise it’s hard to see the hope. Or find the peace that comes with forgiveness.” He shook his head. “And living that way is the worst kind of lost.”

  “IT’S FRESH.” Dana Connor handed Kate the coffee. “I’m sorry, but the only cup that wasn’t in the dishwasher was my son’s Superman mug. My husband’s new therapy aide started this morning. It’s been a busy day already.” She glanced toward the adjacent room filled with medical equipment. Only a chandelier—shortened to be out of the way—hinted that the space had once been a dining room. There was no table. No chairs except the wheelchair. A man in scrubs squatted beside it. Somewhere down the hallway were the sounds of a TV and childish giggles.

  “Some of the exercises require two helpers,” Dana explained. “So my housework gets pushed aside—like dishwashing.”

  “The coffee smells wonderful,” Kate assured her, noticing a cluster of framed photos on the end table next to the couch. A shot of a young man in football gear, baby portraits, and a candid of Dana in a swimsuit with her husband—tanned, muscled as that superhero—both grinning as they hoisted a canoe overhead. Happier times. Kate recalled her conversation with Dana the day Baby Doe was
found. “I didn’t get a chance to sleep before my shift. . . . I need to work if we’re going to keep the house. . . .”

  Dana’s teeth scraped across her lower lip. “On the phone, you said this wasn’t about the incident with the baby. Then . . . ?”

  Why am I here? Good question. Kate had been asking herself the same thing. One minute she’d been on the freeway barreling toward Dallas; the next she’d turned off and headed back to Austin, found Dana’s number stored in her phone. “I heard that you canceled your shifts at Austin Grace.”

  Dana looked down. “It’s a closer drive, but . . .”

  “You didn’t want a triage assignment,” Kate said gently.

  “No. I can’t do that yet. After . . .” Dana glanced toward the dining room, then lowered her voice. “I keep second-guessing myself. I think about those newspaper letters. I know it sounds crazy, but I feel like everyone’s watching and waiting for me to make another mistake.”

  “It doesn’t sound crazy. But if it helps, I think we’ve seen the last of those letters.” Kate read the skepticism on Dana’s face. “Trust me,” she added, then regretted the choice of words. What had she ever done to earn this woman’s trust? She set her coffee down. “I’m certain we won’t hear any more from Waiting for Compassion. I’m also sure that a big part of the reason you’re leaving Austin Grace has to do with me.”

  Dana looked like she was going to deny it, then lifted her chin instead. “I’ve never been a manager of any kind. I can imagine that it’s hard. But it’s not easy from my side either. Being a temporary employee, having to straddle shift assignments, get used to new routines, different personalities—and being the appointed scapegoat. It happens. It’s even understandable, I suppose. I’m not regular staff; it makes me a safer target. I’m not complaining.” Her eyes held Kate’s. “But I do my best. Every minute. And I am compassionate. To a fault sometimes. Ask my husband how many times I’ve called the hospital in the middle of the night to check on a patient. All the times I’ve cried or how often he’s had to tell me to ‘let go and let God.’ He always reminds me that I can’t fix it all no matter how much I want to.” She glanced toward the dining room again, her voice breaking. “I can’t . . . fix it all.”