by Brenda Novak
Max began counting down. When he said, “Go,” they both sank under the water, where Preston opened his eyes to watch the concentration on the boy’s face. Max was determined, Preston had to give him that.
Max’s eyes flew open when he was nearly out of breath. Pretending he couldn’t hold out anymore, either, Preston broke the surface at the same time. “Boy, you’re good,” he said as Max recovered.
“Yeah. I can beat my mom, but not my dad.”
Preston was willing to bet Emma lost on purpose, as he’d just done. But he wasn’t about to give her away. “How did you get to be such a good swimmer?”
“I don’t know.”
Preston hooked his arms on the edge of the pool and leaned his head back, soaking up the sun. “Did you have a pool at home?”
“We still do.” Max accidentally hit Preston in the chest as he let go of the edge and began treading water. Preston almost drew the boy to him. It was instinctive to help a child who was flailing about in the water. But he knew that wouldn’t be a good thing. Holding Max would only remind him of how badly he wanted to hold Dallas.
Max bumped Preston again, but instead of pulling him closer, Preston shoved him over so he could reach the edge. “What was your house like?” he asked.
“Big.”
Big didn’t tell Preston much. How big was big to a kid? “How many rooms did it have?”
Max screwed up his face while he tried to count. “Twenty billion.”
“That’s a pretty big house,” Preston said with a laugh.
“That includes the pool house.”
Preston whistled. Big was probably big even by adult standards if there was a pool house. “What kind of car does your daddy drive?”
“A Hummer. It can go anywhere. Through a jungle and a swamp.”
“Does he take it to Mexico?”
“No.”
“I didn’t know jungles and swamps were a problem in California.”
Max didn’t catch the sarcasm. He was treading water again, but as he tired, he reached for Preston. “Sometimes he drives Mommy’s car.”
Once more, Preston guided him back to safety. “What kind of car does she have?”
“Um…a Cougar.”
“A Cougar? Are you sure? Do you think your mother could drive…” he searched his mind for an expensive car with a cat name “…a Jaguar?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Max said. “A Jaguar.”
Preston remembered Emma’s concern over the price of a motel room and wondered why she didn’t have more money if she and Manuel had been so wealthy. The life she was living right now must come as a shock. Besides what Max had just told him, the size of the diamond studs in her earlobes, the depth of her tan, and the way her toenails were painted with little rhinestones across the top, indicated she probably wasn’t used to roughing it.
A flicker of discomfort passed over Max’s face. “I’m getting hungry,” he said. “Can we eat?”
“We’ll have lunch as soon as your mom comes back, okay?”
Max latched onto Preston’s shoulder so he could talk without sinking into the water. “But I’m not feeling very good.”
“If your mom’s not back in fifteen minutes, we’ll go to the room and try calling her again.” Instead of moving Max back to the edge of the pool as before, Preston tried to tolerate the contact. He managed for a few seconds. But like opening a closet stuffed far too full, he found the memories tumbling out on top of him. Memories of swimming with Dallas in the ocean, of burying him in the sand, of lying down with him at night and reading about dinosaurs and race cars. The memory of Dallas running to him as he walked through the door at the end of a long day filled his mind and weighed heavy on his heart.
Daddy, catch me…. Watch me bat…. Look at that motorcycle…. I’m tired, will you carry me?
Daddy…A lump grew in Preston’s throat, nearly choking him, and he jerked away. “Don’t touch me, okay?”
Max’s eyes widened at the harshness of his tone. “Why not?”
Preston told himself to push those poignant memories back into that closet where they belonged. But the devastation he felt in their wake lingered on.
“Preston?”
The insecurity in Max’s voice brought a sharp pang of guilt. “What?” He still sounded angry. He was angry. Ever since Dallas had died, a dark rage snaked beneath his skin, like an alligator trolling shallow waters.
“Why can’t I touch you?” Max asked.
“I just don’t like it.”
Max’s shoulders slumped. “Okay.”
Preston hated the hurt he saw in Max’s eyes and cursed himself for not being able to forget Dallas, for not being able to swallow the pain and move on, as Christy had.
Climbing out of the pool, he walked to the fence facing Aultman Street. Where was Emma? She should never have left him with her kid. He couldn’t even be kind to the boy.
“Preston?”
“What?” He expected a fresh onslaught of questions or maybe another swimming challenge. But Max didn’t respond right away. When Preston turned, he found him resting his head on his arms and looking…blotchy.
“I don’t feel good. I—I think I’m going to throw up.”
Alarm gripped Preston. The boy’s voice sounded reedy-thin. What was wrong? Certainly what he’d said couldn’t have caused this bad a reaction, could it?
“But you haven’t had anything to eat. You said you were hungry,” Preston reminded him.
The boy’s eyelids fluttered closed.
Preston couldn’t believe it. What the hell was going on? Two minutes ago, Max was acting as normal as could be. They’d been laughing, playing, swimming. And now…“Max?”
No response.
Preston strode to the edge of the pool. “Max! Answer me.”
Max lifted his head as though trying to obey, but Preston could see that it required effort and concentration just to move.
“Get out of the pool,” he said. “We’re going upstairs.”
Again, no answer. And no attempt to get out.
“Did you hear me?”
“I can’t,” he said, sounding breathless. “My legs…and arms won’t…work.”
Max dropped his head again, then slipped off the edge. Preston watched in stunned surprise as he began to sink without a single squeal or protest.
What the hell? With two launching steps, he dived into the pool. The rush of water felt warm after standing in the open air, but he scarcely noticed. He was too busy forcing his legs and arms to propel him forward as quickly as possible.
By the time he encountered Max’s limp body, Preston’s heart was pounding. The reverberation of it seemed to echo through his chest as he managed to maneuver Max to the edge of the pool. He rolled him out onto cement that was probably too hot, but Preston was more interested in keeping him from drowning. Hopping out, he quickly scooped him up and laid him on a lounger.
Normal, healthy individuals didn’t get sick so fast. And Max had seemed the very picture of health. Was this some sort of ploy to gain attention? Some kids held their breath while throwing a tantrum. Did Max stage a fainting spell when his feelings were hurt? He’d been fine five minutes ago. What had changed?
“Max? Max, if this is a game, I don’t like it,” Preston said.
“My name’s…Dominick.”
He could barely talk. “What’s wrong with you?” Preston cried. He tried to bridle the terror in his voice, but a memory from that closet in his mind threatened to intrude: Dallas lying on a hospital bed, as pale as the sheets. Daddy, I don’t feel good, will you hold me?
When Max, or Dominick, didn’t answer, Preston gently shook his shoulders. “Stop it, okay? Open your eyes.”
Max’s eyelids fluttered open and Preston latched on to the hope that small response offered. “What’s wrong with you, Max? Talk to me.”
“I—I think I’m going low.”
Low? What did that mean? The boy sounded disoriented. Maybe he didn’t know what he was
talking about. “What’s low, Max? What does that mean?”
Max couldn’t seem to gather the energy to respond. He continued to lie there, pale and scarcely breathing.
Was he dying? He looked like he was dying….
God, no! A white-hot jagged pain shot through Preston’s chest, nearly incapacitating him as the present mingled with the past. Daddy, I don’t feel so good.
“Don’t you dare, Max,” he said. But he wasn’t commanding, he was pleading. “What can I do to help you, buddy? I’ll do anything. What’s wrong?” Preston was shaking so badly he wasn’t even sure he could support his own weight. He wasn’t the right person to deal with this. He felt raw, helpless, completely bewildered.
“Help me!” Preston called to anyone who might be around. He and Max were the only ones in the pool area, but he knew there should be a few maids not far away. They’d been pushing carts from room to room all morning.
He prayed they could hear him. “This child needs a doctor. Get help. Get a doctor!”
“I’m coming,” a female voice called. A flash of gray told him a maid from the second story was hurrying toward him, but he feared help wouldn’t arrive fast enough. Max was slipping away.
What should he do? He didn’t know anything about CPR or first aid, but he felt he needed to help Max breathe.
Flattening the lounge chair, Preston tilted the boy’s head back, checked his breathing passage and began mouth-to-mouth. He wasn’t sure he was doing it right. He only knew he couldn’t let another boy die. Not on his watch.
“Stay with me, buddy, please,” he murmured between breaths. “Hang on.”
Weakly, Max kept reaching up and pushing at Preston’s face, trying to resist. This wasn’t working. This wasn’t what he needed. But Preston had no idea—
Suddenly he remembered the silver chain Max had pulled off with his T-shirt and thrown on a chair. He hadn’t paid much attention to it before. What if…
Leaving Max on the chaise, he ran around the pool to the boy’s T-shirt. Sure enough, the chain was tucked inside. The metal tag on the end had a medic alert symbol and a single word engraved beneath it: diabetic.
Shit! Max was in insulin shock. His body needed sugar to bring him out of it. Suddenly everything began to make sense. That was what Max had meant by “low.” But Preston couldn’t believe he’d been with this child for two days and had never guessed there was anything wrong with him.
“Juice!” he cried. “Get me some juice!” He hoped the woman hurrying toward him would hear him and turn back. Max needed food. Fast. Now. If he passed out, he wouldn’t be able to eat or drink. Then his life would depend on getting him to a hospital, and Preston had no idea if Ely even had a hospital.
Flip-flops slapped the pavement in a rapid staccato. “I’m coming. What’s the matter?”
Preston hurried back to Max. “Get some orange juice. Right away!”
She ran off, and he willed Max to hang on a while longer.
The seconds that passed felt like hours. Max’s breathing grew shallower. His eyelashes rested on his pale cheeks as his body tried to conserve its sugar to fuel his brain.
Alarm doubled the amount of adrenaline in Preston’s body as he lifted the boy into his arms and cradled him against his chest. “It’s coming, Max. Don’t give up on me, buddy. You’re tough, right? You can beat me in a race across the pool. Can you do this, too?”
Max attempted to nod—and it was such a valiant effort that Preston kissed the top of his head. God, this kid was brave. He was deathly ill and yet he was still trying hard to be a good boy and do what he was told. “That’s the way.” Warm tears rolled down his cheeks. “You’re a stud. Don’t go to sleep, okay? Fight it a little longer.”
The woman finally returned from the front office with a glass of juice. Preston held Max while she lifted his head and helped him drink. More spilled on Preston than went into the boy’s mouth, but at least Max still seemed capable of swallowing.
“How much do we give him?” she asked.
Preston had no idea. He’d never been around a diabetic. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to risk falling short. “Give him the whole glass and go back for more. Then call a damn doctor.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EMMA GOT OUT of Ruby’s car at the entrance to the Starlight Motel and hurried past the office. I’m coming, Max. I’m coming. She’d almost made it to their room when she spotted the little group clustered by the Jacuzzi. Then her heart sank. They were talking low, circling someone on a lounge chair, and she feared she knew who that someone was.
When the maid shifted to one side, Emma could see Preston holding Max, rocking him back and forth, back and forth, and felt her knees go weak.
Dropping her shopping bag, she started running. “Max!” Her hands shook as she fumbled with the latch on the gate. “Max!”
Her son lifted his head from Preston’s shoulder and smiled weakly. “Hi, Mom.”
As young as he was, Max often tried to ease her worry by assuring her he didn’t mind taking shots or testing his blood. She knew that smile was meant to reassure her, but it only made her feel guilty. Somehow she should have thought of another way to get his meds.
He’s okay. I’m back now. Max will be fine, she told herself. But Preston’s face was bathed with tears. And he looked up at her with such unbridled rage and loathing she knew that even if Max was going to be okay, he was not.
Emma broke eye contact with him. She should’ve told him about Max’s condition. But she’d been too afraid of losing his help. And she’d never dreamed he’d take Max swimming. He hardly spoke to the poor kid.
“Come here, sweetheart,” she said to Max. “What happened?”
“I went low.”
“At the pool?”
“Uh-huh.”
He slipped into her arms, and she buried her face in his hair, absorbing the solid, comforting feel of his stocky little body.
“How bad was it?” she asked Preston.
He didn’t answer. Standing up, he stalked off toward their room.
“Lloyd Bannister’s on his way,” the manager said, filling the awkward silence. “He’s a good doctor, been practicing for years. And your boy here seems to be bouncing back already, thank God.”
Emma muttered something polite to thank her and the maid for their help, but her attention wasn’t really on them. It was on her son, her own relief, and the man who’d left them so abruptly.
Preston reappeared only moments later, wearing a clean T-shirt and another pair of jeans. The sight of him, apparently recovered, gave Emma hope that he’d forgive her for what had happened. But that hope died the moment she saw he was carrying his laptop and his duffel bag.
“I need my cell phone,” he said, his voice clipped.
Emma’s hands were shaking as she dug his phone out of her purse and handed it to him. She wanted to apologize, but he turned immediately to the manager.
“I’m ready to check out.”
Emma watched them both walk away. A few minutes later, Preston stepped outside again. When he squinted against the sun, Emma realized she still had his sunglasses and his hat, and hoped he’d come back a second time. But he didn’t bother. He didn’t even glance in the direction of the pool. Slinging his duffel bag over his shoulder, he headed down the street.
EMMA SAT on the motel bed in Preston’s room, staring at nothing while listening to the water drip in the bathroom. Evidently, he’d been in such a hurry he hadn’t even bothered to turn off the faucet properly.
“Mommy?” Max bent down to see beneath the hair that made a curtain around her face. “What’s wrong?”
Too discouraged to even cry, Emma shook her head. “Nothing, honey. Don’t worry.”
“Are you mad?”
She was numb. “No. I’m glad you’re okay, that’s all.”
He climbed into her lap, something he rarely did now that he was getting so big, and let her hold him. She kissed his forehead and hugged him close, taking solace from
the fact that they still had each other. His insulin reaction had been the worst he’d suffered so far. She was grateful Preston had had the presence of mind to figure out what he needed.
But not all aspects of the nightmare she was living had ended. Manuel hadn’t fallen for her decoy. He was still in town, searching high and low, and the scene down at the pool had caused a stir. She wouldn’t be surprised if it made tomorrow’s paper: Man at Hotel Saves Diabetic Boy.
She rubbed Max’s back as she remembered the fiasco that had erupted once the doctor had arrived. As a family practitioner, Dr. Bannister had a few diabetic patients, but they were older, Type II patients who weren’t insulin-dependent. It had taken her nearly an hour to convince him that it wasn’t necessary to take Max to his office for a blood test. An HbA1c would reveal Max’s average glucose levels over the past three months, but Emma didn’t have the time or money for something that wouldn’t, at this point anyway, be of much benefit. They wouldn’t even be around when the results came back from the lab. Max’s unexpected exercise had brought on a severe insulin reaction, but a little orange juice had fixed the problem quickly enough. Heck, now that he’d eaten the lunch the manager had given him, he was already begging Emma to take him swimming again. She was the one who felt she needed to crawl beneath the covers and sleep for a week.
Her son squirmed out of her arms, and she pulled her purse over to count what was left of her money. She’d already spent hundreds, and she’d only been gone three days. At this rate, she’d run out of money long before they reached Iowa or anywhere close to it. But she had to do what she had to do. And that included moving on. Somehow. After the crisis at the pool, she and Max couldn’t stay here. They shouldn’t have hung around this long, but she’d been hoping Preston might reconsider and come back for them.
Why she’d been stupid enough to let herself hope for that, she had no idea. Obviously it wasn’t going to happen.
She’d have to buy the cheapest car she could find. It was her only option.
At least she had Max’s supplies and some clothes. She hadn’t remembered to buy herself any underwear or even a bra. But she couldn’t worry about that. She had to keep looking on the positive side—or she’d be too depressed to do anything at all.